LETTERS TO AN
ENGLISH PROFESSOR
The Connaghers prequel
Published by
Joely Sue Burkhart
Copyright © 2009-2016 Joely Sue Burkhart
Cover Art by Book Graphics
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in print or electronic form without the express, written permission of the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to any organization, event, or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Adult Reading Material
Keep up to date on future releases by signing up for my newsletter.
Letters to an English Professor
I heard your voice, and I knew. I knew I had to be in your class.
I knew I had to be…
Yours.
As an Accounting student, Rae Jackson has never cared much for poetry, but that all changes when she hears Dr. Connagher’s distinctive voice quoting some dead dude in the hallway. One look at his face, and she falls. Hard.
Piercing blue eyes. Craggy face she could study for hours. And the forearms of a warrior. She can’t sign up for his infamous class fast enough. At least he doesn’t teach Calculus.
But an unknown student can’t hide for long in an upper-graduate English class. He calls her to his office, and all she can think about is that gorgeous cherry desk while his rumbling voice rolls her deeper into her fantasies.
Oh yes, Dr. Connagher. I’ve been a very naughty student indeed.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
The poetry quoted in this novella:
A Note to My Readers
Dear Sir, I’m Yours Excerpt
Other free reads:
Letters to an English Professor
By Joely Sue Burkhart
Chapter One
Dear Dr. Connagher:
You don’t know me. To be honest, I didn’t know you before today. I didn’t even know what classes you taught, but I ran down to the Registrar’s Office and enrolled in your only open class anyway.
Thank God you teach English instead of Calculus, but I’m afraid a senior-level poetry class may make as little sense to me.
It doesn’t matter. I have to be in your class. I want to be in the front row when you begin roll call on Monday. I want you to know my name, and see me, and maybe, just maybe, you might feel it too.
I know this is crazy. I’m crazy. You don’t know me at all, and I’m just a student—an accounting student! But I heard your voice, and I knew. You weren’t even speaking to me, or I might have done something thoroughly embarrassing. The thought of speaking to you, with your full attention focused on me, makes my tongue plaster to the roof of my mouth. My stomach quivers, my hands tremble, and so help me God, every muscle in my body clamps down with longing.
I have to be in your class.
No, I’ll never send this to you. I don’t want you to think I’m just another crazy stalker student offering sexual favors for a good grade, or screeching about improper behavior to blackmail you or get you fired. On the first, I’m not that kind of girl; on the second, I’m ashamed to say that I’d never complain about your improper behavior.
To be perfectly honest, I’d welcome your improper behavior. Wholeheartedly.
I heard your voice, and I knew. I knew I had to be in your class. I knew I had to be…
Yours.
~ Rae Jackson
***
“‘Round the decay/ Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare,/The lone and level sands stretch far away.’”1
The masculine voice froze her in place. Other students bumped into Rae, knocking her aside, impatient in their rush to purchase their books or line up for a coveted class before it filled, but she couldn’t move.
That voice…
She turned and saw two men standing outside the dean’s office, obviously professors by their air of respectability, experience, and age. The man quoting poetry in that incredibly sexy voice couldn’t be more than ten years older than her, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he was a doddering old man with a cane. His voice would have affected her the same way.
He quoted those lovely, haunting words of poetry in a rough, deep rumble that seemed to vibrate on the air with power. Her body thrummed in response, rippling with the subtle resonation.
If that incredible voice wasn’t enough to send her body into overdrive, his dark good looks and rugged face only increased her attraction. He wore faded, soft denim that hugged his thighs and ass, work boots that had definitely seen the outdoors, and a plain baby blue oxford shirt. He’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, and the sight of his corded forearms made her breath hitch in her throat. His hands were large, his forearms lined with muscle and sinew as though he was used to hard physical labor.
What on earth had the professor been doing to earn the forearms of a warrior? She couldn’t help but wonder if his hands would be rough and calloused to match, as powerful and commanding as his voice.
He laughed, but the lines remained on his face, deeply grooving his mouth and between his eyes. He looked grim and fierce, his eyes as blue as his shirt but steely, as though a thunderstorm roiled inside him. Staring at him, she ached to earn the right to smooth those grim lines from his face with her lips and tongue.
Heat seared her face and she jerked her gaze away. She didn’t know this man. If he was a professor, then he was certainly off limits.
Her stupid body didn’t care. Her mouth felt dry, her eyes hot, her muscles tense and eager. Her instincts demanded that she either flee or rush over and fling herself at his feet, warring back and forth between fierce attraction and downright terror. If a man could turn her on with his voice alone, what would it be like to kiss him? To feel those big hands sliding over her skin? Or better yet, to lie helpless beneath that power, bound for his every whim?
Get a grip, Rae.
She’d never had pervythoughts about a professor before, but once her mind wandered into that territory, she couldn’t seem to clear away the idea of the wicked professor tutoring his teacher’s pet. Or punishing her.
“Enough, Mason,” he retorted in a low voice that made her shudder. “You have no idea what I need.”
Her heart stuttered in her chest and she couldn’t catch her breath. Oh, God, but she could all too easily imagine what he might need. What was wrong with her? Why would she suddenly have visions of walking up to this man and begging him to allow her to strip off her clothes for him? She didn’t know anything about him except that voice, and the torturous images he inspired. She didn’t even know—
“Dr. Connagher, the dean will see you now.”
He disappeared into the dean’s office. The door shut and Rae felt as though a rubber band inside her had snapped. She stumbled over to rest her shoulder against the cold concrete wall, closing her eyes and concentrating on breathing.
His name was Dr. Connagher. His friend might not know what he needed, but the darkness in his eyes and the elegant roughness in his voice spoke volumes to her. As soon as she could walk without wavering like she’d just left a frat party, she headed for the Registrar’s Office. She could only hope that Dr. Connagher taught something other than Calculus or Physics, because come Monday morning, she was going to be sitting in the front row of his class.
Chapter Two
Dear Dr. Connagher:
S
o it should have been a clue that if you were quoting poetry… you were probably an English professor. Which didn’t sound too bad, until I found out that your only open class is a senior-level class on the Romantic Period. I admit, I was giddy and relieved, until I actually read the course description.
Then to make matters worse, my suitemates knew somebody who took your class last year. Thank you very much—now I’m terrified that I’ll fail my first class at Drury. Why did your only open class have to be this one, your pet class, the one you use to “break” English majors too foolish to have changed their major to basket weaving already?
What hope do I have of surviving your class? Absolutely none whatsoever. Yet the thought of dropping out before I even meet you makes me want to cry.
You can thank [name redacted to protect the innocent] for warning me that you require all students to contact you in formal letters, which is exactly why I’ve lost my mind enough to write not one but two letters to you already. She also said that you despise the internet, and if anyone even brings up Google, e-mail, or Lord forgive us, cliffnotes.com, then we’d better get a head start for the Registrar’s Office for that withdrawal.
So while all my friends are out partying one last frantic weekend before having to drag themselves to class with a hangover, I’m settled into bed with a foot-thick tome of poetry, a dictionary, and every resource the librarian could suggest for a dolt who knows absolutely nothing about Shelley beyond Frankenstein. Which I now know, thanks to you, wasn’t even written by the poet listed in the course description, but his wife.
I’m trying to concentrate on what I’m reading, but I keep picturing you in the hallway. There were deep grooves about your mouth and your eyes were like dark storm clouds. When I close my eyes, I can see your face, and I press kisses to each one of those lines until they fade away, and the only darkness that remains is in your eyes. That darkness gives me cold chills and sends my heart pounding like a jackhammer, but I can’t look away.
I want your eyes on me. I want your darkness. I want you.
Now, as I read this poem for the hundredth time, I hear your voice reading it, and I’ve never heard anything sexier in my entire life. Just don’t ask me what the poem actually means, please, until I’ve had time to study a whole lot more.
Why isn’t it Monday yet? This is so stupid. I’ve done more work for your class than I’ve ever done in my entire life and the semester hasn’t even started!
Still yours,
~ Rae
P.S. Would it earn me any extra credit if you knew that I’d hunted down that snippet of poetry you quoted in the hall yesterday?
P.S.S. I guess not—I used Google to find out that you were quoting from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Ozymandias.”
***
After preparing all weekend for the big introduction to the professor of her most erotic dreams ever, Rae wanted to scream and throw the ridiculously thick course book out the window. She’d been a nervous wreck last night and couldn’t sleep, so of course, she’d overslept this morning. Whose God-awful idea was it to schedule class at eight o’clock in the morning anyway?
So instead of looking gorgeously and studiously prepared in her coveted front-row seat as soon as Dr. Connagherwalked in the door, she found herself hovering outside the door, frazzled, hair still damp in a frantic braid, and late enough that he’d already begun speaking. The thought of walking into his class, late, with only enough prerequisites by the skin of her teeth—while he spoke in that rumbling purr—made her want to sink into the floor and disappear.
At least there were only a handful of students to witness her shame.
Taking a deep breath, she quietly opened the door. It creaked like a hundred-year-old rusted iron hinge on a haunted house, and every single eye focused on her.
Including two steely blue ones with a deep canyon deep between them.
Ducking her head before those fierce eyes could lock on hers, she mumbled an apology and rushed toward a seat. Front row, but not center. Heart pounding, she yanked out the poetry anthology and stared at it without blinking until her eyes burned. She could feel his attention like a brand searing her flesh.
“Well,” he finally said. “I suppose we beat the dean after all. Miss Jackson, I presume?”
Peeking up at him through her lashes, she nodded.
“We’re very thankful for your late registration. If you hadn’t joined us, I’m afraid this class would’ve been scratched off the schedule. As it is, this is the last year I’ll be teaching the Romantic Period.”
His voice growled with suppressed frustration. Now she knew why he’d been outside the dean’s office on Friday.
“As with so many other niceties from an age gone by, I suppose it was only inevitable that this generation give up on poetry. We’re too busy playing on the computer or watching television to sit down and read any book at all, let alone one that makes us think.”
His voice had gradually neared until she knew he must be standing right in front of her. She could see the toes of his boots, a different, cleaner pair in black leather than the ones he’d worn on Friday, and although he still wore jeans, these were black too.
Imagining him topping it off with a black leather jacket made her shudder.
“However, as grateful as I am for meeting the minimum quota of ten students to hold this class, I think it only fair that I warn you, Miss Jackson.” He paused, waiting for her to meet his gaze.
Heart pounding, she slipped her trembling hands beneath the desk and gripped them so hard she felt her nails digging into her palms. This was it. Would he feel anything at all when he looked at her? Would he see the effect he had on her? Or would he only see a silly college student drooling over her sexy professor?
Hoping she didn’t look like a crazed fangirl, she raised her gaze up to his.
“This is not a class for the faint of heart.”
Beneath that steely blue intensity, her throat tightened but she managed to sound like a normal, intelligent student. Mostly. “I know this is a senior level class and no, I’m not an English major, I’m actually in Accounting, so I’m going to be behind, but I promise I’ll work very hard.”
She shut her mouth and swallowed hard to keep from saying, “for you.”
Long agonizing moments went by, each thud of her heart resounding in her head until it ached. She couldn’t tell what he was thinking, let alone feeling. His eyes had narrowed, deepening the groove between his eyes. Frowning and silent, he stepped closer, forcing her to tilt her head back to keep her gaze on his face.
Sensing that strain on her neck, he bent down, keeping his attention locked on her. He was close enough that she caught a faint scent of his cologne, something spicy and rich, with a hint of old, treasured leather books with gilded edges and swirling embossed titles. He even smelled like libraries and knowledge.
She’d never been a fan of the library before, but damned if her mouth didn’t water at the thought of pressing her face against his neck and breathing in that scent hot off his skin.
“Why are you in my class, Miss Jackson?”
Husky and low, he kept his voice soft, almost as if they were the only two people in the room. Now she heard the hint of a southern drawl in his voice. She knew from his biography on the campus website that he hailed from Texas. He wasn’t married (or she wouldn’t be here). He’d gotten his degree from Southern Methodist. Or was that where he’d gotten his doctorate?
Her mind babbled the facts she’d dug up on him because she couldn’t think about his question. She couldn’t answer him.
Literally, her mind blanked. She couldn’t think of a single plausible excuse other than the truth, which would be too humiliating to admit to him, let alone in front of the rest of the class.
His previous students had whispered wide-eyed about his stringent requirements. He expected formality and immediate, well-thought-out answers, and if she didn’t answer, he’d kick her out of his class so fast her head would spin. Or she could simply
tell him the truth, and later, he’d be laughing while he told his friend all about the crazy student he’d had security escort off campus.
Silence weighed heavy in the room. None of the other students made a peep, as if they dreaded drawing his formidable attention to them instead. Her pulse was so fast and frantic that she could feel the side of her neck thumping away like a subwoofer. She couldn’t sit here and not answer his question. It was like he’d injected her with a truth serum or something, but the thought of blurting out the truth in front of everyone made him swim in her vision.
Your voice makes me hot and when I look at you, every bone in my body melts.
Horrified, she realized her eyes had filled with tears. Abruptly, he returned to the table at the front of the room, picked up an Expo marker, and began writing on the whiteboard. Dutifully, the other students flipped open their notebooks and the busy scratching of pens filled the silence.
Rae sagged in her seat like a piece of wilted lettuce, relieved that he’d relented before she’d done something stupid. Damp and sweaty, her shirt stuck to her back. Her hands shook, but she managed to shove the book back inside her backpack. Now if she could only slink away quietly…
“Miss Jackson,” he said in that wicked voice without turning from the board. “I expect you to stop by my office immediately after class to discuss my concerns.”
Her heart soared at the thought of speaking to him in private, and then plummeted to the depths of hell. She swallowed hard. He wasn’t the sort of man that ever lost a battle, let alone surrendered. In the privacy of his office—his personal domain—he’d want the truth.
Letters to an English Professor (The Connaghers Book 0) Page 1
