Professor with Benefits

by Mickey Miller

  Professor with Benefits

  Mickey Miller

  Copyright © 2017 by Mickey Miller

  Edited by Danielle Beckett

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Contents

  Also by Mickey Miller

  Blackwell After Dark

  1. Chapter One - Cole

  2. Chapter Two - Rose

  3. Chapter Three - Rose

  4. Chapter Four - Cole

  5. Chapter Five - Rose

  6. Chapter Six - Cole

  7. Chapter Seven - Rose

  8. Chapter Eight - Cole

  9. Chapter Nine - Rose

  10. Chapter Ten - Cole

  11. Chapter Eleven - Rose

  12. Chapter Twelve - Rose

  13. Chapter Thirteen - Rose

  14. Chapter Fourteen - Cole

  15. Chapter Fifteen - Rose

  16. Chapter Sixteen - Cole

  17. Chapter Seventeen - Rose

  18. Chapter Eighteen - Cole

  19. Chapter Nineteen - Cole

  20. Chapter Twenty - Rose

  21. Chapter Twenty One - Cole

  22. Chapter Twenty-Two - Rose

  10 Months Later - Cole Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Also by Mickey Miller

  Also by Mickey Miller

  Sports Romances Series - Ballers

  Playing Dirty

  The Casanova Experience

  Mickey Miller books cowritten with Holly Dodd:

  Dirty CEO

  Hotblooded Prizefighter

  Blackwell After Dark

  Welcome to the kinkiest small town in America: Blackwell.

  This is book one of a four book series. All of the stories make birth in a town called Blackwell hidden somewhere in the USA.

  Books two and three are coming in July and August. Dates are TBA.

  This book is dedicated to anyone who has ever lived in a small town, however long or short that time. I’ve lived in a couple of them myself, and there is something damn special about a small town. Especially the romances that happen in a small town…

  Enjoy reading Romance’s first “Dom-Com,” a romantic comedy about a dominant man and his submissive.

  A professor and a student. Because sometimes that forbidden fruit tastes oh so delicious.

  Now, on with the show…

  Chapter One - Cole

  Never sleep with a student. Shit, I could have told you that. I went to Harvard. I don’t need to go to a damn seminar to know it’s a bad idea to mix with the ones you are teaching.

  Nevertheless, on the morning before summer school begins, I pile in with all of the other Blackwell University professors into the auditorium for the mandatory seminar on sexual harassment.

  The voices of the crowd are a low rumble as we wait for the Dean to step up to the microphone and address us. As a newcomer to Blackwell University, I ease back in my seat and take in the sight of my brand new colleagues, assessing the situation.

  Dean Meryl Allison sits center stage in front of the podium, waiting a few more minutes for the last of the faculty to arrive. I estimate her to be in her early fifties, and she looks good, if I might add.

  She smiles out at the crowd, her posture exaggeratedly straight. Her skirt is hiked up to her mid thighs, and her legs are tanned and attractive. I also note that for a seminar on sexual harassment, the cleavage of her breasts is shockingly visible, an irony probably only I find funny.

  Hell, she’s a solid two decades older than me, but I’m man enough to admit she is what my buddies and I would refer to collectively as a MILF.

  Her husband, also a tenured professor at the school, sits next to her. He is a short, bald man with glasses, wearing khaki shorts, a hawaiian shirt, and gym shoes with white socks.

  The contrast between their two appearances is striking. I immediately wonder what this guy has to be married to a woman like this. Is his family rich? Did he used to have a killer head of hair back in the day? Is he secretly packing? I wonder what their sex life is like.

  I chuckle softly. I’m only five hours into my two year contract at Blackwell, and I’m already cracking dirty jokes to myself.

  Dean Allison gets up off her stool, moves up to the microphone and speaks. “Thank you all for coming. We are here today, as you all know, to talk about how to prevent sexual harassment on campus. Attraction is not okay,” she says, emphasizing the not. “For those of us who have been here for a while, it’s obviously nothing new that it's prohibited to be attracted to students, and it’s also highly discouraged to be attracted to other faculty members.”

  “Unless it’s true love!” Some joker shouts out from the front row. The Dean’s expression doesn’t change, but her husband’s face turns red. I shift in my seat.

  She tips her chin up and continues, ignoring him. “We are a civil society, and that of course means no relationships between our own kind. Because when there are relationships between us…”

  “There is no screen between us,” the crowd chants in unison, and my eyes go wide.

  Am I crazy; or do these people sound like a damn cult, repeating what their leader says? Are we in first grade, where all we do is repeat after the teacher?

  Dean Allison nods slowly and deliberately, apparently satisfied that the group is repeating her words. I scratch my head as I sit in my chair in the back row. The guy next to me nods a little too vigorously, as if he’s just heard the best gospel sermon of his life. I scrunch my face in confusion. I mean, I get it. Even though I’m on the younger end of the faculty, fucking around with a student isn’t something I’d ever consider. It’s not worth running the risk. There are plenty of fish in the sea, so why not find one of the millions of women in the world who aren’t students at the school where you teach?

  Still, I’m teaching a class on sexual psychology this semester, and I know attraction isn’t something you can legislate. Attraction is not a choice, though acting on it is. I can’t control what gets me hard and what doesn’t. But I can choose what to do with that information.

  I zone back into the Dean’s talk. She’s been droning on about this shit for several minutes. “So there is absolutely no showing interest in members of the opposite sex unless you know they are interested in you. This goes for professors with professors, students with students, and it should be a rule of thumb for the whole world, really.” The crowd laughs again, but I don’t. I don’t find this funny at all. Am I taking crazy pills, or has this whole room of professors gone completely overboard with their group think? She continues. “If someone shows interest in another person--an inappropriate touch, or a smile for example--and that interest is not wanted, well, that is the definition of sexual harassment. And we don’t want to get fired now, do we?”

  “No,” the crowd murmurs back, and I feel even more like I’m in the middle of a George fucking Orwell dystopian novel. The guy next to me has his eyes closed and shakes his head ‘no’ like a scared, wet dog.

  Fuck this. Even if I’m not hooking up with a student, I’m not about to let the Dean get off scot free without any intellectual challenge. This is a University. A bastion of intellectual debate. And I intend to exercise my right to free speech.

  I raise my hand and clear my throat noisily.

  A literal gasp goes up from the crowd as I do. Apparently members of the faculty aren’t used to people questioning Dean Allison’s authority. Her eyes grow wide.

  “Uh, this isn’t really time for questions,” she scoffs.
/>
  “I’ll be brief,” I say firmly as I stand up. I project my voice and speak clearly, a skill that I’m pretty sure most of these armchair academics have forgotten. The room is so tense I can feel the nervousness emanating from my colleagues. “I get the whole point of this thing. Don’t have affairs with students. Of course. But professors and professors? Look, if we can’t show interest in the other party, how does anyone have romantic success around here? The nature of romance is the occasional failure. You ask a girl out to see if she’s interested. She says no sometimes.” I shrug and smirk. I haven’t had a girl turn me down for a date in ages, but that’s not the point. Logic is the point. “That’s how the game is played. You’re saying that’s sexual harassment? Or did I miss something?”

  She coughs. I sit back down, satisfied I got my thoughts off my chest. “Attraction, Mr. ah, what’s your name?”

  “Cole Hanks.”

  “Ah, Professor Hanks from Harvard.”

  “That’s me.” I reply with a toothy grin.

  “Well Professor Hanks. It sounds like you need a more in detail explanation of what it is I’m talking about when I refer to sexual harassment.” Her lips curve upward in a smile that radiates evil. “Why don’t you come up to the stage and see me after the seminar?”

  That one gets an even better chuckle from the crowd. Satisfied that she’s defeated me, she changes topics.

  After the seminar, I’m out in the hallway schmoozing with my department head and new boss when she walks by. She sees me, puts a hand on my shoulder, and whispers in my ear. “You didn’t stay after inside the auditorium like I asked. You really are the bad boy of Blackwell University, aren’t you?”

  I freeze. Did she just call me a bad boy? My ears are deceiving me. I have gone fucking nuts. I need to ask the barista what the hell he put in my coffee this morning.

  “Why don’t you come to my place later for the annual school kickoff party at my husband’s and my house this Saturday?” she adds.

  I drop my jaw. “Sorry, I have plans this weekend,” I lie.

  “Dear, the whole school goes.” She says in a louder voice, her hand still on my shoulder. Her husband is two feet away. The fact that she is essentially hitting on me right after the sexual harassment seminar is not lost on me.

  “Though I wouldn’t mind having a drink with just you.” She gives me a once over, making me feel like a piece of damn meat on a platter.

  Dean Allison smiles, turns, then struts away.

  It’s barely ten in the morning, and this is already the strangest day of my life.

  Chapter Two - Rose

  Everyone has a goal in life.

  Some of my classmates want to be doctors. Lawyers. Teachers.

  The “respectable professions,” as I like to call them.

  Mine, on the other hand, is to be the best sex therapist of all time. There isn’t exactly a ‘major’ for that. I just take a lot of psychology classes and hope my grad school degree will get me there.

  In order to hit my goal, every day I ask myself another question and test it out. Biting on my pen, I stare at the question scribbled at the top of my journal.

  How do guys respond to tomboys?

  I like experiments, and I’m a person of action. Ipso facto, I do a lot of strange things. Like the experiment I’m doing right now, for example. It’s proving my hypothesis to a T.

  As my classmates file into our nine a.m. class, I sit in the back row with my hair up in a pony tail. I’m wearing my baggy jeans, black-framed glasses, and my Blackwell University hoodie. My attire is the opposite of flashy, just as I intend. My feminine assets are well hidden underneath a sea of cloth.

  It’s unseasonably cool today, which has given me this golden opportunity to get to the bottom of my question. I think I know the answer, but I want to observe it in action.

  Underneath my core question, I scribble another: Does a man respond differently to me when I’ve got my boobs stealthily hidden, no makeup on, and big glasses?

  Every guy who walks into class proves my theory right. Each one enters, glances at me, sizes me up, and then joins one of the waify blonde girls in one of the middle rows. Soon all four of the guys who entered are chatting it up and flirting with those girls.

  I scribble down the observation in my journal.

  My roommate Liz files in, sees me and joins me in the back row.

  “Hey there stranger. You left early today,” she says, tossing her hair as she puts her backpack down.

  I turn toward her. “I know. I’m running another experiment today.”

  She rolls her eyes playfully. “And what did you find out? Guys don’t stare at you as much when you don’t have your tits out? Shocking.”

  “Shhh,” I whisper. “We can’t talk about that here.”

  “Why not? Isn’t this Psychology of Sexuality senior capstone course? Taught by Professor Kaela Yeager. She’s like, the most liberal of all the teachers here.”

  “Liberal?”

  “Yeah, she just hands out A’s like they are candy.”

  I sigh. “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Uh, yeah. Senior year is for partying. I don’t need to be weighed down with actual work. Duh.”

  I give her a mean squint. I love Liz, but sometimes she makes me feel like all my hard work is for nothing. She’s a pretty blonde who has coasted by for most of her college career--she even slept with a professor.

  A female professor. It was exploratory, she said.

  Still, she’s been my roommate since freshman year and I love her through thick and thin. I’ve always been a little jealous of the attention she gets from guys. She’s the one they take to the dances. I’m the one guys call up at two a.m. for a try at a drunk hookup. I still haven’t said yes to anyone though.

  “What about you?” Liz quips. “Are you going to, you know, have actual sex at some point this year?”

  “Hey! Not fair. I’ve had actual sex. Or close.”

  She exhales loudly. “Giving head to Brandon Morrissey does not constitute…”

  Her voice trails off and she looks toward the front of the room.

  “Hello! Earth to Liz! Finish telling me whatever insult you were about to give me,” I say.

  She’s right. I haven’t had sex--technically speaking. I just haven’t found a guy worth my time. Then suddenly I’m in my senior year, and I still haven’t done it, it’s like the pressure is mounting. I don’t need the perfect man, but I don’t want to do it with just any old guy.

  And definitely not Brandon Morrissey. I shudder a little about that whole mistake.

  I scribble down another note in my journal. Have sex soon.

  Because if I don’t have it this year, who knows when it will happen. How am I supposed to be the best sex therapist of all time if I haven’t even had sex myself?

  Liz stares at the front of the room. She still hasn’t said anything since she trailed off. I’m an overly polite type of person, but even I have my limits. “Cat got your tongue? What the hell are you staring at?”

  Her lips are parted as she stares ahead, gawking at the front of the room. “Professor McHottie,” she says, pointing.

  I scrunch my brow and glance at him.

  When I do, I nearly lose my shit.

  A man stands at the front of the room wearing black rimmed glasses like mine. Through them I can clearly see his sea-blue eyes and long eyelashes. He wears a collared black shirt tucked into jeans and stylish black boots. The first few buttons of his shirt hang open. It’s not that the shirt is tight, it’s that this man is ripped. My mouth hangs open and I lose myself in the same daze that Liz had fallen into.

  My heart pounds as I examine the man up and down. He squints, focusing his eyes out into the twenty or so students in the class. His gaze is so hard it give me butterflies. His jaw is strong and his chin sharp.

  I swallow.

  “Where the hell is Professor Yeager?” I whisper to Liz.

  “Maybe we have a substitute.” she
answers.

  I work my eyes down his jeans and I find myself staring firmly at the exact place I shouldn’t be staring at on a teacher--his crotch. I can see the bulge, even from all the way in the back of the classroom. No way that thing’s real. He must be stuffed with socks or something.

  He clears his throat. “Thanks for being here today everyone. It’s five minutes past nine already, I’ve given the stragglers a few minutes to arrive, so I’m going to go ahead and get started. Welcome to the Psychology of Sexuality. I’m Professor Hanks. I did my undergraduate studies at Blackwell before getting my Ph.D. at Harvard. Today is syllabus day, so we’ll make it quick.”

  I lick my lips. Liz feels it. Every girl in my class feels it. We are in a sea of boys, and there is a man standing in front of the class.

  I scribble in my journal. I have no idea what he’s saying for the next thirty minutes. He sounds like the Charlie Brown guy mumbling under his blanket. I watch his mouth move, but I don’t hear a word he’s saying.

  He strolls up and down the aisles leisurely. I think he tells us to write something down, but I’m not listening. He stops his stroll right in front of my desk. I can see his shadow over me, blocking out some of the fluorescent light.

  My breath catches, I start to feel like I can’t breathe. I glance to my right slightly, and when I do I notice something. For the love of Christ, the outline of his cock is at my eye level right now, and my God, that is a huge fucking bulge.

  He crosses his arms.

  “Blank page?” he says, staring down at my notebook.