PleasuringtheProfessor (2 page)

Her stunned expression amused him. He was kind of getting
into this.

“It’s freezing,” she finally said.

“Was that a no?”

She shook her head. “I’m not even entertaining the idea.”

“Sure you are. You’re writing your thesis on me. You’ve
probably been idolizing me all term. Poor, tortured artist crap. Got me right
up there with Lord Byron. And like every highly intelligent woman—”

“Gee, thanks,” she cut in with some bite finally.

“You just want to get your brains fucked out by Byron.”

Liam Conner’s smile was really something. Clarie had never
seen a picture of that. She supposed he didn’t smile much anymore. But he was
smiling now, as if this was all a big, funny joke. She knew he was embittered,
but coming from him, this bald proposition really shocked her.

Of course it turned her on too. She felt it right between
her legs. That must be what authors meant when they talked about a “stab of
desire”. In any case, it wasn’t as if she hadn’t had about a hundred one-on-one
sessions with her private parts in which the reclusive, dreamy novelist had
played a starring role. She was sure she could dredge up a student-sleeping-with-the-prof
scenario.

But she should not be so titillated by his
quid-pro-quo
offer, by the way he said “fuck.” She should not.
Bad girl.
But God, he
was even hotter in person than on the back of the faded paperback. He was older
of course, with faint lines around his eyes that she’d hesitate to modify by
the word “laugh” given his apparent disposition. His black hair was longer and
curlier than in the photo, as if he’d been running his fingers through it, and
in person, his dark green eyes were noticeably fringed with ridiculously long
lashes. They would’ve looked almost feminine on any other guy, but on his
strong-boned, weathered face, they looked wildly sexy. Dressed in low-slung
jeans that hugged his slim hips and a plaid shirt across his broad chest, he
clearly wasn’t even trying. But guys like him didn’t have to.

And despite his crack about kismet, wasn’t it kind of like
fate that she’d ended up here? It must mean something more than making sure she
would get her interview and nab another A in her long line of As. It was hard
to cuddle up with a report card—or have hot sex with it, for that matter.

“Thinking it over? What’d you say your name was? Mary?”

“Clarie.”

“Whatever. Do you want a drink?”

It was about the most civil thing he’d said to her since he’d
slammed open the cabin door, and it was undoubtedly only because he wanted to
get laid. This was ridiculous. She’d graduated from Columbia summa cum laude.
She’d have her PHD soon. She didn’t need to hop in bed with a guy to get a good
grade.

She watched as he brought the bottle to his lips a second
time, a slight smile still in his expression.

On the other hand, she could hop into bed with him just
because she wanted to, this being the twenty-first century and all. The thought
gave her a delicious warm sensation. Could she…? She couldn’t.

He put down the whiskey bottle on the counter and closed the
distance between them while she was reminding herself of her impeccable resume
and having him right in front of her, this close, drove her credentials right
out of her head.

“Or do you want to forget about a drink and just get to the
fucking?”

Leaning down, he whispered the words into her ear and she
shivered.

She pulled back to murmur, “So what if I did say yes? What
if I
am
dying to be romanced by Byron?”

“I said fucked,” he muttered, taking her chin between his
thumb and forefinger, his touch surprisingly gentle for all his tough talk, and
tilting her up to him. Then his mouth covered hers, still a little cold from
the outside and tasting of whiskey, but oh so very hot in the only way that
mattered. When he thrust his tongue in, she felt that darned stab of desire
thing again. He cupped the back of her head, holding her to him while he kissed
her. The intensity of it overrode any good girl objections that might have been
lingering in her mind, given she was sure she didn’t have one anymore. A mind,
that is.

He was sticking his tongue practically down her throat and
biting her lips lightly, following his attentions up a second later with
sucking her own tongue. It was so impossibly hot that she arched up against him
and felt him grope for the bottom of her sweater. He broke the kiss for a
second, whipping the wet garment up and over her head almost before she even
registered it. Okay, now that was a little abrupt. Then he yanked her tee-shirt
up and off, throwing it to the side where it went to join her wet sweater on
the floor.

“Hey,” she said ambiguously, placing her hands on his wrists
as he put his own hands on her now-bare waist.

“I get to see what’s under the sweater, remember?” His tone
was low and a little hoarse, and he tugged her closer until she could feel his
erection against her stomach. His lips were at her temple and then the curve of
her neck. Geez…she didn’t know how Byron had stacked up, but it certainly felt as
if Liam Conner came with all the right equipment. She placed her palms on his
chest, trying to slow him down a little, but his hands dipped suddenly around
to the small of her back, caressing the overly sensitized naked skin there with
those big hands of his, and the pleasure of it drove her even closer to him.
Moaning, she brought her hands up to his shoulders, slipping underneath the
flannel of his shirt to clutch the hot, hard flesh beneath.

Her touch on his bare skin seemed to galvanize him and he
reclaimed her mouth, digging his hands even lower down the back of her low-rise
jeans. She felt his hands slip underneath the cotton of her underwear, fondling
one bare cheek in each hand. While his tongue quested further in her mouth, his
hard cock jerked against her bare stomach. She squirmed against him and he
raised his head. “God, you are hot,” he whispered as she thrust her fingers in
his hair now, clinging to him.

Maybe she really was a literary groupie. Here she was,
standing in her bra, letting him kiss her and rub that long hard cock against
her, and it wasn’t five minutes since she’d met him. Well, met him in person
anyway. It seemed as if she’d met Liam Conner a long, long time ago when she’d
first picked up the slim volume comprising his first novel and soaked up the
poetry between its covers.

At the thought that this was really him, Liam Conner, she
ceded any further reservations, kissing him back wildly, leaning up into him,
pulling him down. He thrust one of his jean-clad legs between her own and she
almost felt as if he had thrust his cock up into her, it resonated so acutely,
as she rode his hard thigh.

“Oh, I’m going to fuck you, you hot little…” He muttered the
words, still kissing her, his hands coming swiftly up to deftly unfasten the
clasp of her bra, whipping it off her, baring her breasts to the still-cold air
and then pulling away to look down at her.

She tried to yank him back to her, but he resisted. “Wait a
minute. Let me look.” And he did, those dark lashes dipping down. Then he took
one of her breasts in each of his large hands, feeling them, stroking them, his
thumbs brushing the nipples as she shivered. She gasped. His hands were rough,
and the tactile friction of them against her skin mesmerized her.

“Beautiful.” He bent his head and flicked his tongue across
one nipple.

“Oh, god,” she moaned.

His hands went to the snap at her waist.

“Let’s get you out of these wet jeans.”

Her nipples were pale pink until he flicked his tongue
against one and watched it, felt it, harden into a dusky rose nub. Against the
background of her creamy-white breasts, full and firm, they looked impossibly
erotic. Liam tried to remember the last time he’d had sex and failed. The
urgency of his throbbing cock as he played with this half-naked girl, this gift
of manna from heaven, however, told him it had been quite some time.

He wasn’t sure how they had gotten so far so fast or why she
was letting him. But he didn’t care, each touch taking them further, revving
them higher.

Unsnapping her jeans, he yanked the zipper down, and slid
his hand beneath the elastic of her plain cotton underwear, feeling the smooth,
warm skin of her belly against his palm. Nice, but not enough. Not nearly
enough. He made his way farther down to her soft and fluffy pubic hair and then
his fingers sought out her clit, rubbing a little before venturing into
paradise. With a surge of masculine satisfaction that he had thought long dead,
he registered she was already wet. When he thrust his middle finger up into her
slick pussy, she caught her breath and rotated her hips into it.

He had intended to go slow, to make sure she was okay with
this, but her response rendered him almost incapable of it as she whimpered a
little, her eyes closing, her tits jiggling with the heavy breaths she was
taking. And her pussy. She was clutching his finger so tight, his cock
painfully pounded against his own zipper to get out.

Fuck. He wanted in. Now. Desperately.

He swiftly withdrew his finger, prompting her to open her
eyes with a little murmur of discontent, and he quickly peeled her wet jeans down
her ass, crouching in front of her while she balanced her hands on his
shoulders as he bared her. Normally—from what he could remember, anyway—seeing
a woman’s body for the first time always necessitated a good long look, a swipe
of his hands along each smooth and curved surface as it was revealed, and a
deep inhale of the smell of her cunt.

But frankly he couldn’t take the time right now. Whether it
was the whiskey or his long celibacy or this fresh young girl, he had no idea.
He just knew his eagerness almost overwhelmed him as she stepped out of her
jeans, one leg at a time, taking her panties with them. She started to peel off
her white knee socks and he batted her hands away, standing up and pulling her
straight up with him. He backed her up into the wood of the cabin wall.

“Shouldn’t we…”

Kissing his way up her neck, he fumbled with the belt on his
jeans.

“I mean…isn’t there a bed or…”

He covered her mouth with his own, thrusting his tongue in
half to keep her from talking and half because he could not get enough of
kissing her. He finally got his belt open, wrenched his zipper down and pushed
aside his boxers to free his rock-hard cock. He took it in hand and rubbed the
hot, throbbing head of it against her flat stomach. A drop of moisture leaked
out. Oh, God, that felt so fucking amazing. He was almost home.

But she pulled her mouth away and planted her palms on his
shoulders. “A condom,” she said breathlessly, staring up at him. “Don’t go in
me without a condom.”

He froze. Fuck. How he longed for the bad old days, so long
ago now he’d been barely in his teens. No political correctness. No fucking
condoms. Taking a deep breath, he admitted, “I don’t have one.”

She pushed against him, scrambling out from under his arms,
and he watched helplessly at the erotic picture she made with the curve of her
waist, her bare ass jiggling slightly as she trotted away from him, naked in
those white knee socks. Before he could expire of frustration, he heard her
say, “I’ve got one in my bag.”

Probably about the sweetest words he’d ever heard.

He collapsed back against the wall and quickly unbuttoned
his shirt, flinging it aside, and then shucked his pants and boxers in the
bargain before she had finished rummaging through her bag and come back with
that blessed foil-wrapped package.

“Do you want me to put it on?” she asked, almost shyly, and
he snatched it from her, his urgency in full force.

“No.” He had the condom out and on so quickly he seemed to
startle her when he picked her up, flipping her around so her back was to the
wall again, tipping her just so. “Fuck.” His moan accompanied his thrust into
her, accomplishing the action right as he voiced it. She was wet and hot and
ready and he buried his face in her hair as he grasped her hips and pulled out that
little way to drive back in with everything he had.

She moaned and wrapped her long legs around his waist,
digging those sock-covered heels into his butt as he went at her.

One thing about a condom. For better or worse, it didn’t let
you lie to yourself. You couldn’t pretend you hadn’t meant for it to go so far
or hadn’t meant for it to happen. She wanted it to happen. She wanted for it to
go as far as they could take it. She realized that as she volunteered the
condom.

And of course she had one. Like any modern young lady, she
was always prepared. Not that she’d needed to be much lately. But now,
suddenly, she was in the middle of nowhere with the man whose prose she’d been
admiring and analyzing for as long as she could remember.

Oh, and he was so drop-dead sexy that he was practically
giving her an orgasm just by French kissing her.

Don’t forget that little fact.

Her fingers were in the long silky hair at the nape of his
neck as he drove into her, his cock impossibly big and hard. She wasn’t a
virgin by any means, and she’d even been known to once or twice try bedroom
appliances with names like “Mega Vibe” and “Mr. Big”, but she’d never felt
anything like this, the urgency of Liam Conner’s hard cock thrusting deep
inside her and then back, his hands gripping her ass to tilt him to her. She
moved against him, how he wanted her, how he positioned her, but with his
relentless pounding she found herself matching his urgency with the grip of her
inner muscles against his cock, the helpless tug of her fingers in his hair.

The sound of their panting struck her as impossibly loud and
she moaned, not quite knowing what she was saying. “I can’t take it.”

The hands on her butt cheeks clenched. There would be
bruises there tomorrow she was sure, marks of his possession. He lifted his
head, pausing, glittering green eyes, flushed cheeks, and thrust his cock in
once, hard. “You can take it.”

She tightened her legs around his hips and closed her eyes
against the overwhelming sensations as he pulled out and then thrust back in
again.

With that thrust, she came, pulling him closer with her
heels against his ass, probably ripping some of his hair out by the roots as
she tugged, but he didn’t complain. Panting, they were still and she realized
that though she had climaxed, he was still hard within her. His lips pressed
softly to her shoulder, then her neck and still he didn’t move, rock hard
within her but not moving. She moaned, a funny keening sound that she didn’t
recognize and his cock slid out and then in again. She took a deep breath.

“That’s right, baby. Hold me tight.”

Her arms clenched around his neck, her inner muscles spasmed
around his relentless cock, her legs around his waist. Hold him tight? Christ,
she felt as if they were one.

The thought startled her as he started to move in earnest,
pumping in and out, his harsh breath in her ear. She could feel herself
climbing with him again as he moved to kiss her and then he let go himself, his
hips pinning her to the wall as his powerful cock thrust one more time and he
had his release, shuddering against her lips as she cried out and came again.

When she could breathe again, she realized he still held
her, his face buried in her wet hair. She felt his lips against her neck as she
slid her legs down to the floor. Part of her didn’t want him to raise his head,
didn’t want to come out of the sensual dream she’d somehow tumbled into so
quickly. She felt his fingers move lightly up her back, causing a shiver, which
was ridiculous given how hard she’d just come. Her hands drifted from his hair,
down to his shoulders, wrapping around his neck to hold him to her.

And it was as if her move to keep him drove him away. He
lifted his head and untangled her arms, sliding out of her and stepping back.
His breathing had slowed, and his green eyes were more shuttered. But it wasn’t
hard to read what was in them.

A dismissal.

“Well now, if I was grading you, I’d certainly give you an A-plus
for that performance.”

Liam was surprised sometimes he hadn’t ever actually
resorted to kicking puppies or snatching suckers out of the hands of young
children. He was a mean bastard.

He busied himself with tugging off the condom to avoid the
hurt look in her wide-open blue eyes. What the hell did she expect? Sonnets? He
knotted the end of the condom and went to throw it out in the waste basket in
the kitchen. His back to her, he reclaimed the whiskey bottle and took another
drink.

God, that had been sweet. She had been sweet. Between her
legs, buried so far up her, he couldn’t think, could only feel. Feel the warm,
welcoming clutch of her cunt, the desperate tugs on his hair, the soft moans
and pants as he fucked her. His cock stirred, greedy, ungrateful monster that
it was. But shit, the feeling was better than anything, better than whiskey.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t spend all his time in bed with a starry-eyed grad
student. Being drunk, however, could be perfected into a full-time endeavor. He
took another swig of the whiskey. He should know.

“Why don’t you write anymore?”

The unexpected question softly asked behind him pissed him
off more than he would’ve thought possible given the sated feeling that still
hung over him. He swung around to the sight of her already in her panties,
fastening her bra. “What business is it of yours? I’ve known you like, what,
ten minutes? You think fucking me gives you a right to nose around in my life?”

“The interview.” She slipped her wet tee-shirt over her
head. “Remember. I guess I’m entitled to it now, after all.”

“Oh yeah.” He felt like an ass. “Don’t put those wet clothes
on again. You’ll catch pneumonia.” He went into his bedroom and yanked a shirt
out of the closet. “Put this on.”

Handing her the soft red flannel, he saw she was about to
put it on over her shirt and bra and he pulled it away from her. “Not over the
wet clothes. Take them off.” He punctuated his words with doing it himself,
tugging the tee-shirt over her head and off and unhooking the bra. She took
over, shrugging out of the bra, and he watched, mesmerized like a teen catching
his first glimpse of a girl’s boobs.

When her hands went to her panties, he turned away quickly,
reclaiming his own pants which were dry thanks to the length of the parka, and
pulled them on together with the boxers. The awkwardness he felt was unnerving,
but when he finally looked back at her, the red flannel covered her to the tops
of her thighs, like an old fashioned nightshirt. The knee socks were gone and
she was wringing the water out of her long tail of hair.

“Fine. So let’s get this over with,” he said curtly. “What
do you want to ask me?”

This was so not how she had planned her interview with Liam
Conner to go. She’d had a speech prepared for him of course, for when she
eventually got to meet her, well, her idol, she supposed. But she wasn’t
prepared to deliver it on such short notice and under such strange
circumstances. She had envisioned sharing a long cup of coffee in some trendy
café, as he casually talked about his career and she soaked up all his words of
wisdom. He’d be self-depreciating and witty and she’d be hip and attentive.

Sore between her thighs from the ride he’d given her, her
breasts still heavy and full, and pathetically wanting nothing more than to
snuggle up with him, was not how she had planned it.

Liam Conner. This was Liam Conner. He didn’t want to talk
about his work apparently, but she didn’t really need to. She knew all about
it. About the hope and optimism that had enriched his first books, the prose
that lingered in a reader’s mind long after the book was put away, the love of
words and writing…and then the end of all that. An end caused by an eighteen-wheeler
ramming into the side of his wife’s SUV, their baby son strapped in the back
seat but not safe enough to escape the fragility of the human body against the
force of steel at ninety miles per hour head on. One tortured novel,
envisioning the scene, was all Liam Conner had written since. And even Clarie,
a devoted reader since high school, could barely get through that work. Not
because it wasn’t beautifully written, but because it was. So beautifully written
that the pain and the bitterness its author felt were just…just…too palpable.

And after that, Liam Conner was silent. Silent for seven
years, while he went from one teaching post to another, apparently in an effort
to drink himself to death, until this last one more than a year ago.

She took a deep breath and glanced out the window. She
didn’t have a watch and looking around could not spy a clock, but she figured
it was somewhere around midnight. “Look, it’s the middle of the night. The snow
isn’t letting up and I’m not going anywhere right now. So why don’t we get some
sleep and save the interview for the morning?”

He hesitated, turning back to that goddamn bottle but
thankfully not taking a drink again. With his shirt off, she could see the
defined pecs and flat washboard abs that she’d enjoyed in a more visceral sense
while they were making love. If the amount of drinking he had done since she’d
gotten here was any baseline, it was a wonder he didn’t look more dissipated.
Good genes apparently, or a gym somewhere he wasn’t letting on to with his
“bring on the Kool-Aid” attitude.