"If you're certain, Lia?"
She was.
"Well, drive safely then. I love you."
"I love you, too, little sister. Don't worry a whit about me. Have fun with that sexy French husband of yours and send me a postcard of Golden Gate Park!"
They said their good-byes, and she flipped the phone closed. She stepped back to the door, which had failed to close behind her completely when she rushed to get to her phone. She thought she heard someone outside, but when she pushed the door open, the hallway beyond was completely empty.
She stayed the full hour and a half of her posted hours, leaving campus for home by one o'clock. While her plan had been to leave for Manhattan the next morning, she felt anxious and restless to be on the road immediately for South Carolina, a twenty-hour drive. After only a few minutes of mental wrestling, she threw a few clothes and necessities in a bag and hit the road.
* * * *
Nearly twenty-four hours later, steamy water sluiced over her. She'd driven straight through to her family's summer home on Hilton Head. It was one of the more modest cottages on the waterfront of Forest Beach, its four bedrooms and open, airy living space perfect for the four of them.
Tired and grateful to have arrived, she let the drive flow away with the hot water, her thoughts moving ahead to a long, lazy nap. She'd stopped at the grocery store on the way onto the island. She wouldn't have to leave the house for the whole week if she didn't want to. The thought gave her a thrill of pleasure.
She slid back the door of the shower, reaching for the towel hanging on a hook nearby, then yelped in surprise and fear, her hands jerking awkwardly against her body in an attempt to cover herself.
A man, dressed entirely in black, from the ski mask over his face to the Nikes on his feet, stood across from her, his shoulders angled against the closed door.
Her knees turned to jelly, the surprised fear retreating in the face of icy panic that spread through her at the thought of her helpless, vulnerable position.
He spoke with a raspy whisper, “Don't worry, lady. I'm not gonna hurt you."
"Then what do you want? Why are you here?"
"Step out of the bath."
"No."
He was watching her. Under the mask, his eyes moved over her with predatory appreciation. But she recognized those eyes. She did her own quick assessment, studying the taut, wiry muscles under his black jeans and long-sleeved T-shirt. She knew those shoulders; she knew the small dark mark barely visible at the base of his right thumb and the hint of dark hair curling at the cuff of his shirt.
Her nipples tightened to hard berries at the end of her small breasts and a warm, sexy trickle of desire replaced the icy fear.
Perhaps he could read her mind. Perhaps he responded to the change in her energy or demeanor. Their eyes met and a white hot flash of electricity sparked between them.
"Nick—” His name came out on a whispered sigh. “You know I can't—"
His eyes glowed, a combination of humor and desire. His lips twisted wryly under the ski mask. “I don't know any Nick, lady. But here's the thing—you don't seem to have much choice in the matter. I don't see anyone asking."
A pulsing pause settled between them in the small room, and she wondered if she could be wrong. Was it not Nick? She bit her lip, a wave of uncertainty and anxiety washing over her as she studied him again. But what choice did she have?
"Step out of the bath!” His command startled her. Then, in a low whisper, almost imperceptibly, he added, “Come on, Professor. This is our chance."
She froze, even as a red-hot rush swept over her skin. She felt wet and shaky and couldn't have stepped out of the bath if her life depended on it.
He shook his head impatiently, and she couldn't tell how much of his demeanor was his role and how much his own restlessness. He reached her in two steps, crushing his arms around hers, holding them immobile. He lifted her out of the bath and carried her flush against his hard body to the adjoining bedroom. He tossed her on top of the ice-blue down comforter on the wooden canopy bed.
Apparently he'd been busy while she'd taken a leisurely shower, because he bound her wrists to some smooth cord attached to the simple wrought iron scroll set in the wooden headboard.
Suddenly so excited she could barely breathe, she hardly recognized the voice that asked him, “How did you get in here? How did you know where to find me?"
He didn't answer. Sitting next to her on the bed, he pulled off his shirt, somehow keeping the ski mask on. She might have found it funny, if the sight of honed triceps and perfect abs didn't make her heart beat a million miles a minute and her toes curl. She wrapped her hands around the length of cord above her wrists and dug her heels into the firm mattress.
Clearly, she was in heat.
A small, restless cry escaped her throat. Just watching him made her feel like coming, all the pent up frustration of the last six months burning her like fire from the inside out.
He watched her. Even behind the tiny slits of the mask, she thought she could see through his eyes and into his soul. Never had any man looked at her with such hunger, such devastating, sexual craving. But then, never had she felt such passion for any man.
But the thought, even through the burning haze of desire that seemed to eclipse her ability to think, captured her. This man, this perfect specimen of male form and figure, felt this way about her.
If she'd had any breath left to steal, that would have done it.
After another scorching glance, he slid off the bed and crossed the room. He reached into a black duffel bag she hadn't noticed before and pulled out a black scrap of material before returning to her side. She tensed and bit her lip, both nervous and excited at what that small bit of fabric could represent.
"Don't be scared, baby.” His lips twisted wryly under the mask. “You're just gonna have to trust me."
He placed a gentle hand under her head and lifted, pulling the scrap across her eyes. A blindfold. He'd blindfolded her! It felt odd, though not uncomfortable and, in all honesty, the whole scenario kind of turned her on.
She wondered if it was the situation or the man. Probably a little of both. But she would have taken the man in the backseat of a Toyota if it came to it.
No, you wouldn't. He gave you every opportunity, and you wouldn't. You didn't.
"We can't do this, Nick. You're my student."
She struggled again against her bonds, then fell totally still as his naked chest pressed against hers, his body stretched out over her. He still wore his jeans, but his huge, strong erection prodded against her hip. Evidently he'd discarded his ski mask, because he ran his warm nose up the length of her throat and across her jaw, before he bit gently at the lobe of her left ear.
He levered above her on his elbows, the rasp in his voice having nothing to do with trying to disguise it and everything to do with need. “I told you—” he leaned down over her to nip at her swollen left nipple, “—I don't know any Nick. But if I did, I would tell him to ignore you until he could get you into a position where neither of you can deny this thing that's between you."
He nipped at her right nipple, sinking his teeth into the pebbled rose of the tip, then sucking for the briefest second, a pull she felt in every nerve of her body, before continuing. “He should do whatever it takes—even tie you up if he has to—for the opportunity to drive you nuts, to fuck you ‘til you scream, and believe me, lady, you're gonna scream."
It was her worst nightmare and her greatest fantasy rolled into one. She never believed a man as sexy as this one would really be interested in her. Oh, maybe for a one-night stand or a quick roll in the hay. But this one had taken the time and effort to make sure he got what he wanted—her—and had gone through quite a bit of trouble to get it.
And he was her student. She never would have gotten involved with him; she'd told him often enough, both with her words and her eyes. Each time his sexy, gorgeous green eyes met hers, he'd asked the question, somehow or another.
And each time she'd said, “no."
Today, he wasn't asking.
His hungry cock, straining against his jeans, slammed against her wet, pulsing need. Unable to help herself, she thrust against him, the abrasive scrape of denim on her tender skin strangely gratifying.
But it wasn't enough.
He ground in harder. “You feel that, woman? You feel what you do to me? I'm harder than a damn steel rod, baby. It's gonna feel great when I drive into you. Hard and thick and full. Like nothing you've ever felt before. But we have a ways to go before we get there, honey, so enjoy the fucking ride."
Her whole body thrummed. She wanted to touch him and cursed the cord that denied her that pleasure. She wrapped her legs around his waist, trying to draw him closer, to force his hot prick more strongly against her.
He chuckled, then shoved against her while he clasped his fingers firmly against her aching tits, kneading and squeezing the firm, smooth skin but avoiding the hard, rippled tips. She pressed her teeth into her lower lip to keep from begging him to touch her there.
Still dressed from the waist down—damn those jeans—he skimmed his hands up her legs, his tantalizing touch stopping just short of her knee and pulling her legs from around him. He wrapped long, warm fingers around her ankles and pressed her feet flat against the bed. “Sorry, honey, but I can't have you doing that just yet. I need a bit more mobility."
He moved against her, lower this time, his elbows tucked against the flare of her hips. His fingers framed her back while his thumbs traced a slow, enticing pattern over her ribs.
Amelia's muscles clenched, inside and out, while a small piece of her brain considered the finer points of blindfolds. She'd never tried one before, never let anyone tempt her into relinquishing her control in that way, never mind the potential pleasure. Surprised at her lack of panic and amazed at the increased intensity of his touch, she realized with a jolt—as if she needed another one—that the physical and emotional deluge rested on one thing. She trusted him.
Not wanting to dwell on that thought, or its complicated consequences, she allowed herself to relish the luxury of his touch.
She felt his every move, the tiniest brush of his finger setting off electric reactions down her whole body, ending at her wet, wanting core.
He dipped his head. His teeth grazed each hip, his tongue swirled into the tiny crater of her belly. Amelia squeezed her eyes shut, her hands fisted on the cord, her hips bucked.
"Slow down, baby. I'm not even close to being done with you yet.” His voice spread through her like warm honey, and she felt a sizzling, erotic pull in the invisible triangle from her nipples to her clit. Her head fell back, her breasts thrusting at some phantom touch they sought.
The rough slide of denim on her softest flesh made her dizzy, but it was nothing compared to the rasp of his day old bristles against her thighs, the shock of his warm breath on her already hot skin, or the seismic impact of his lips clamping down on her. His teeth nipped at the aching, swollen ridge of flesh between her legs, firm flesh that seemed to beg for him.
At the contact, a feverish yearning clawed through her. Nothing else was real for her in the sweet dark blindness. Her body arced against him. Her feet left the bed, planting themselves on the backs of his calves just below the knee, desperately seeking purchase to press him more firmly against her.
He licked her hard, his strong tongue lapping her clit with a few fierce strokes, but abandoned the task abruptly. A small, despondent mew of disappointment escaped her lips, and she could hear the amused smile in his voice when he said, “Baby, this isn't going to work."
Her heart stopped as he slid off the bed. He wouldn't! She twisted against her bonds, tugging against the headboard, her breath coming in pants.
"Hush, honey.” He was across the room again. She stilled, listening as he rummaged in what she assumed was the same black bag. The last time he reached in there, he'd pulled out a blindfold. She squirmed, excited anticipation coiling through her at the possibilities. The mattress sank at his weight, and once again she felt that odd jolt when he touched her, this time at her ankle. He talked amiably as he bent her knee, tying another length of satiny smooth cord at each ankle. “So you say this guy ... what was his name, Nick? This Nick is your student?"
There was just enough slack for her to straighten her legs or bend them, but not to wrap them around him. The thought of him eyeing her spread-eagled position sent a flush of heat across her breasts and up her throat, a potent cocktail of naughty passion and embarrassment. She couldn't respond to him, her throat was too dry. She nodded her head.
"College, I guess?"
She nodded again, confused. She knew it was him, certain enough to swear in court. So why was he pretending to be someone else?
"So. A professor. A professor who has the hots for her student, but is too ethical to do anything about it.” He paused, running the flat of his palms up the entire length of her body before straddling her waist with strong thighs. His hands rested just below her breasts. He pressed the tiny, rock hard tip of each swollen nipple with a thumb and scraped gently with his thumbnails.
She gasped, throwing her shoulders back into the mattress and thrusting her breasts forward into the pressure of his stroke.
"I'll bet the guy is mad for you, too, Professor. You don't mind if I call you Professor, do you? And if it makes you feel better, you can call me Nick. You can pretend—” She understood his tack now; the heavy pause was not lost on her, and she shivered as his voice dropped to a husky whisper, “—that your Nick, because he is your Nick, isn't he? You can pretend that your Nick is here with you, doing these things to you. Does that make you feel better, Professor?"
He flicked another nail over her nipples, and she jerked her hips up, resulting in fiery contact with his denim-sheathed, bulging cock. She couldn't wrap her legs around his waist, but she bent her knees to gain some leverage in locking her hips against his. She wanted him with a desperation she'd never felt in her life.
"Please..."
"Please? You do please me, Professor. Can't you feel it?” He pressed against her, hard. “I'll bet your Nick felt it everyday he had to sit in class with you. He's probably a smart kid, your Nick. I'll bet he gets good grades, doesn't he? And it's quite an accomplishment, too, because being in class with you, Professor, is torture for him. When you walk around the classroom, all he can think of is pulling off all of your clothes and tossing you onto the desk so he can fuck the breath out of you.
"And you know what else? I bet you have the same thoughts about him, don't you Professor? That the few times your eyes meet in the classroom, there's shock of awareness between you, right? Like you're both thinking the same thing, and it almost comes alive, a shared, illicit fantasy for one second when the rest of the class just disappears. The rest of the world disappears."
The images, the words, the truth of what he said excited her in a way she'd never imagined. She vibrated at a new frequency, awakened in a way that thrilled and frightened her. Suddenly, the relatively small contact he had with her wasn't enough. She had to feel him everywhere. Every tiny cell wanted him, screamed for him through tiny explosions traveling across her nervous system. Behind her blindfold and within her constraints, she felt a sudden, liberating passion unlike anything she'd ever known.
"Touch me, Nick. Touch me, kiss me, lick me. Do anything you want. I need you. I need to feel you against me and inside me. I've waited too long.” Her voice cracked. She moved restlessly, bucking against him, silently pleading for release.
His teeth captured the tight skin at her hipbone. “A little longer, baby. But I think you'll enjoy the wait.” His fingers grazed across taut skin and over the short trimmed hair on her mound, brushing to the slit of tender skin. The contact elicited a gasp, but it was nothing like the anguished cry wrenched from her lips when his tongue again breached her folds to the hard nub of her clit and dragged across it.
His hot, sexy voice and the erotic pull of th
e situation primed her. After only a few skilled strokes, she came in a series of fierce, overwhelming contractions that left her shaking and breathless.
He rolled off the bed.
"Nick!"
"Hold still, Professor. I'm not going far. I have a surprise for you."
She shivered at the sensual promise in his words and tone. Her ears followed his steps against the hardwood floor as he crossed the house. She thought he'd moved toward the kitchen, a suspicion confirmed when she heard the sweep and hum of the refrigerator door as it opened. What in the world was he up to?
She felt tense and brittle, a result of the combined strain of sexual anticipation, vulnerability, and intense concentration of listening to him rustle around her house. She pulled the cords taut, aware that they matched her emotions, relaxing only slightly when she heard his easy stride returning from the kitchen.
He must have carried in a tray, because he set something on the night stand closest to her and moved what sounded like dishes around on the tray and table.
She heard the swish of fabric and a step, biting her lip as it occurred to her that he'd stepped out of his jeans. The mattress dimpled next to her and his knee nudged her side. He leaned toward the table, then over her, his finger brushing at the seal of her lips, which she parted. The smooth, rich flavor of chocolate sauce dipped into her mouth. She swirled her tongue around his index finger, then sucked.
He groaned, sending a satisfied wave of heat up her spine.
"Damn, baby. I love the way you suck."
She smiled, as close to a naughty smile as she could ever remember, but it was short-lived. Cold, thick liquid drizzled across her sensitive, beaded nipples. She cried out, surprised and stimulated.
"My turn,” his raspy voice responded.
The Professor's Spring Fling Page 2
