Their kisses deepened. Nate forgot about their conversation, forgot about anything except how good it felt to be with her, their lives stretched out before them, two separate paths suddenly merged. Everything on that path seemed brighter now, full of hope.
“You’re the best woman I know,” he said. “The smartest, bravest, loveliest woman I’ll ever know.”
“I am?”
“And I’m going to show you right now how honored I am that you would choose to be with me. That you would choose to love me.”
Emma gazed at him, her mouth pink and open, her cheeks flushed, her hair tumbling out of its workday bun. She was delectable, and he wanted to worship her.
“How are you going to do that?”
“Like this.” He lifted her up and back down so she straddled him, her silky skirt riding up on her thighs, the warmth of her core meeting his throbbing erection. Kissing her always got him at least half hard, but having her pressed against his body made his cock stand at the ready.
She let out a little cry when instead of kissing her mouth, he started at her ear, kissing his way down the shell of flesh, sucking and nibbling on her tender earlobe, decorated only with a tiny gold stud. He wanted to take his time, to revel in every inch of her. From working with wood, he’d learned the value of self-control, of biding one’s time and building to the moment of glory. It took a lot of small, almost invisible steps to get from a piece of raw wood to a useful, beautiful object.
Emma’s body was like that. He wanted to explore it, to use his sense of touch to feel out her sensitive spots, the knots he could work around or with, to drive her crazy. His hands moved to her shoulders, stroking them lightly, kneading the muscles underneath intermittently. He tried not to be distracted by the way her hands roamed his bare chest and her fingernails ran over the responsive flesh of his nipples then feathered across the hair on his belly to dip beneath the waistband of his jeans.
It was delicious torture, but he forced himself to concentrate. Her body was soft and pliant, and she gave herself to him so readily, it made him want to take her in one big bite. But, no, he pulled back, slid his hands under her top, skimming her waist, caressing, not grabbing, her sinfully supple breasts through her bra. She shuddered when he grazed her nipples lightly then left them to move to her thighs, rubbing the firm flesh there in short strokes. He let himself travel farther toward the wet heat he could smell and practically taste. He barely touched her through her panties, but she stiffened and clutched at his shoulders. The lacy fabric was soaked, and he wondered if she’d be mad if he just ripped them from her body. There would be other opportunities for that. This time was about her, about showing how much he loved her by taking his time and making her feel cherished. He pressed against the nub of flesh at the top of her mound, and she stiffened again. Her mouth was on his ear.
“Nate, I swear if you don’t fuck me soon, I’m going to scream.”
He smiled. It must be working. He was breathing hard, trying to keep from doing exactly what she asked. He leaned back against the stairs, and the molding bit into his kidneys, keeping him determined.
“Soon,” he promised. He kissed her mouth again, intending to keep it slow and steady, but Emma was done letting him lead. She attacked his mouth in return, her tongue spearing nearly into his throat, teeth grazing his lips. Was that a growl emanating from deep within her chest? Or maybe it came from his chest. He couldn’t tell. He was helpless, his planned, careful seduction set aside as the woman astride him took control. He let her have her way, her hands unerringly freeing his cock from his jeans and his boxers. He hadn’t even noticed her unbuckling his tool belt or unbuttoning his pants. She shucked her top and lifted her skirt, still straddling him, so it bunched around her waist and he could see the dark triangle of hair through her sheer lace panties.
“Tear them off,” she said, panting. Nate didn’t have to be told twice. He rent the flimsy fabric in half then gasped as Emma lowered herself onto his cock, impaling herself in one swift move.
“Fuck me.”
Nate groaned and began arching upward into her while she bounced up and down. The combination of both of them careening toward each other with strong thrusts resulted in a satisfying slapping sound of flesh against flesh and the incredible sensation of her slick skin sliding along his steel-hard erection.
He was lost with her on top of him, driving him forward inexorably to a too-soon finish. But he couldn’t stop, and she didn’t seem to want him to. She rose and fell above him, a part of him. His gaze was unashamedly glued to the erotic sight of her breasts bouncing tantalizingly in her bra.
“Emma.” He warned her of his impending orgasm with a strained groan.
“Yes,” she called. “Nate, yes. I love you.”
“I love you,” he said in return, the words pushing him over the edge.
He had the vague notion that she was crying out her orgasm while his ripped through him like an explosion of heat, light, and infinite pleasure. She collapsed onto him, her breathing ragged, her mouth kissing him randomly on his chest, his cheek.
Somehow they were both covered in sawdust, the tiny specks of wood sticking to their sweaty skin. Emma was flushed and grinning, and Nate felt a matching grin cover his own face. He moved them off the step, to the floor, which was at least flat if not particularly clean. When he could move again, in about six hours, he’d carry her up the stairs, and they could take a bath together in her old-fashioned clawfoot tub.
When their breathing slowed, and the dust had literally cleared, Emma spoke, her voice throaty as if on the verge of sleep. “We got interrupted before. Your fees. For the house. How much?”
“My fees are very reasonable. Let’s say a kiss for every nail.”
“That could add up fast.”
“Then you better get started on the down payment.”
So she did.
A Note from Libby
Hello! Thank you for picking up Sweet Imperfection. College reunions can be super stressful or deliriously fun, but they are also opportunities for second chances. That’s what Emma and Nate get when they run into each other at their ten-year college reunion. Even though they were never more than friends in college, neither has forgotten the other in the intervening years. Life has taken them in different directions, but fate has brought them back together, as they not only renew their friendship but rekindle a long-ignored attraction. It remains to be seen whether the nostalgia for their college days will simply lead to a red-hot weekend or something more…perhaps a deeper connection that will keep them together through their next reunion, and beyond.
If this is your first visit to Weston University, welcome! If you’ve read Passionate History, which takes place over the same reunion/commencement weekend at Weston, then I hope you enjoy seeing a new (but sexier than ever) side to campus.
Have you ever gotten a second chance at a great love (or even just great sex)? I want to hear all the juicy details. Email me at [email protected]
Cheers!
Libby
Also from Decadent Publishing
www.decadentpublishing.com
Chapter One
Graduation couldn’t come soon enough for Aidan Worthy. Not his own—years ago now—but in a few hours, several hundred Weston University students would climb the dais and get their diplomas. He was anxious for the campus to quiet down after the hectic last days of finals and senior week. He would finally be able to focus on his book, a new interpretation of the works of Giorgio Vasari, the father of art history. He’d worked incredibly hard to get hired at Weston the year before, but he had to publish to get tenure, and he intended to live out his career teaching and writing about his one and only love, Italian Renaissance art, on the picturesque New England campus.
He had spent most of the semester preparing for a last-minute addition to his teaching schedule. A brand-new associate professor wouldn’t even be teaching a senior seminar—except the department chair, Clarissa Woodlawn, had needed to tak
e an unexpected leave of absence and he’d been the only professor available to cover her class. He looked forward to the two-hour seminar every week. He enjoyed engaging the bright minds of the dozen art history majors, though to be honest, he most enjoyed engaging one mind in particular: that of Bree Ross.
Bree was smart and witty and didn’t hesitate to disagree with her classmates or with the accepted viewpoint on a given topic. Her contrary nature, when it came to the status quo of art history, had spurred his own thinking in new directions, and he loved the intellectual challenge. He looked forward to her thoughtful, sometimes provocative comments. But he also looked forward to her face, her strong features and luxuriant auburn hair, the way she carried herself, the way only a beautiful young person could get away with, lithe as a dancer, un-self-conscious about showing off skin. Show it off she did. As the spring weather grew warmer, Bree seemed to come to class wearing less clothing each week. By May, she’d show up in shorts and a tank top that would have been considered skimpy even if she were doing Bikram yoga. But Weston was a progressive place where people wore all manner of things. He normally didn’t notice his students’ clothing. Only Bree’s. He noticed everything about her.
She was confident, but not cocky. She always had plenty of self-deprecating humor to blunt the forcefulness of her arguments. He liked her. He told himself any hot-blooded man would like her, would notice her. He was definitely hot blooded, and, at twenty-eight, one of the youngest professors on campus. He wasn’t crazy to find her desirable, but it was inconvenient. He would never act on his feelings, so he had to live with the constant thrum of attraction he felt for her. He certainly never entertained the idea she could be interested in him.
That was, until he was working late in his office the night before graduation. The rest of the building had been hushed and still. He’d had a vague idea there might be a dinner or a dance happening somewhere on campus. Most of the students, except for the graduating seniors, had already gone home for the summer. One more day and he would be a free man until September. He’d nursed a finger of Scotch and was installed at his desk, engrossed in an article on Vasari’s early life when a soft knock interrupted him.
He was surprised to see Bree when she’d pushed open the door. He hadn’t thought very hard about the fact he wouldn’t be seeing her again once he’d handed back her final paper with its A grade, and given her his comments on her unusual but impeccably researched thesis. Setting eyes on her now felt like an unexpected gift. Her auburn hair fell over her bare shoulders. She wore something he supposed she’d call a dress, but was barely more than a shirt skimming the tops of her thighs. And heels. He’d never seen her wear heels before. Between the short dress and the heels, her legs looked about a mile long. He’d always had a thing for long, supple legs. He swallowed.
“Hi, Professor Worthy,” she said, her voice low and melodious. “I don’t want to disturb, but I wanted to tell you again how great senior seminar was.”
He smiled. She’d written him a detailed, and glowing, teaching evaluation—with twelve students, he’d easily been able to determine who wrote what—which he’d been touched by.
“Thank you, Bree. It was a pleasure having you in my class,” he said, careful to maintain the formality appropriate between student and teacher.
“I’m on my way to the all-school dance,” she said, fidgeting a little.
Bree never fidgeted. A draft of warm early summer air blew through the open window behind him, ruffling the papers on his desk and twitching the ends of Bree’s tresses. At Weston, it seemed the female students either kept their hair severely short or grew it impossibly long, to make a political or fashion statement. Or both. Bree’s was long and lush.
He cleared his throat, prepared to send her on her way, but she was inside his office now, gazing at the books on his shelf.
“Do you like it at Weston?” she asked. “I know it’s your first year here. But it’s not your first year teaching, right?”
He could only watch as she grazed her fingers along the spine of History of Italian Renaissance Art. He was riveted to the sight of her among his books. She stroked the head of an Egyptian cat icon he used to hold his collection of vintage Italian maps in place. He envied the cat her touch.
“That’s right, I taught for two years at Duke. But I was anxious to find a place at a school like Weston. I might have been born in Edinburgh, but I’m a New Englander at heart.”
“Funny,” she said. “I’ve lived here all my life, and I can’t wait to get away.”
Her inspection of his office took her around to the miniature globe on his desk. It had been a gift from his father when he’d been admitted to Amherst College, so he could always find his way back home, his father had said. Aidan had gone to Amherst as an undergraduate, and he’d never returned to the land of his birth.
“You have lots of time to explore the world,” he said, forcing a note of jovial condescension into his voice. Why was she still here? His self-control started to break down when she spun the globe, perched on the edge of his desk, her ass actually touching the oak surface.
She nodded to the glass of Scotch. “Celebrating the end of the semester?”
“I suppose. It’ll be quiet around here with everyone gone. I’ll be able to get some work done on my book.”
“Won’t you miss your students?” she asked.
He wondered for the first time if she was trying to seduce him. For some reason, his ears grew hot and a buzz of anticipation vibrated low in his belly.
“I’ll miss a few,” he allowed.
“Will you miss me?” she asked, gazing at him guilelessly, as if it were merely an innocent question. Maybe it was. Maybe he was imagining things, imagining she could want him, imagining he could act on his inappropriate feelings for his own student, despite condemning his own father for just such behavior. Imagining he was the type of person who could have sex with someone he wasn’t actually in a relationship with, period.
She didn’t give him a chance to answer the question. “Can I have some?” she asked, indicating the drink.
He hesitated.
“I am twenty-one. And I’m not your student anymore. I graduate tomorrow.”
“I don’t think that would be wise.” There, someone had to be the voice of reason. Didn’t they?
“I haven’t been drinking already, if you’re wondering.”
The thought had crossed his mind. He was nowhere near drunk, but this conversation, this situation was starting to feel like some kind of dream.
He said nothing, and she seemed to take it as an answer.
Bree sighed and hopped off the desk, the action making her breasts bounce deliciously. She stopped at the door, holding it open. “All right. Well, I really did love your class. Good-bye, Professor Worthy.”
She was going to leave, and he would be alone again, with his Scotch and his Vasari.
“Wait.”
She shut the door and leaned against it, a small smile on her lips.
“One drink,” he said quietly.
She flipped the lock on the doorknob. The slight click flooded him with an irrational, insatiable need to touch her. He rose and walked around his desk, holding up the glass of amber liquid, offering her the drink. On some level, he was offering himself to her, as she seemed to be doing the same.
He stood motionless, six inches away from her, as she accepted the glass and took a tiny swallow. He met her gaze, searching her emerald green eyes for some clue of how she felt, of what she wanted. She didn’t seem afraid or confused or needy. She seemed in control, happy almost. If he’d seen anything else in her eyes, he told himself he’d show her the door that very minute. But her eyes were clear and bright, and she was so incredibly beautiful. She handed him back the glass. He dropped it heedlessly on the worn sisal carpet, smelling the last sip as its aroma pervaded the air. After a moment, there was nothing more between them as he wrapped his arms around her waist and crushed her to him. He kissed her with a feve
rish intensity, one still-rational part of his brain hoping she’d shove him away so he’d be saved from this madness, the rest of him intent upon wringing every moment of pleasure from this unexpected encounter. She didn’t shove him away. She kissed him back, opening her mouth to him like the sweetest of gifts. He’d take what she offered, and to hell with regret.
He tasted of Scotch, mellow and oaky, and his kisses were as delightfully controlled yet passionate as his lecture style. Bree hadn’t been lying when she’d told him she loved senior seminar. It had been one of her favorite classes at Weston. But getting in one last compliment wasn’t why she’d detoured past his office the night before graduation on the off chance he’d be there. She was there because Professor Worthy was hot, she hadn’t had sex in two months, and she believed in trying everything once. Even sex with a borderline-unsuitable older man.
He was only seven years older than her. She’d done some minor stalking of him a month or so into the semester, when she realized she looked forward to this particular class with a bit more than her normal enthusiasm because the professor, an adorable man with an equally adorable Scottish accent, turned her on. She’d started working extra hard, doing some of the reading twice to make sure she understood the salient points, crafting her ideas and opinions carefully so she wouldn’t sound dumb in class. Not that she was dumb. But she wanted to make a good impression. Sometimes, she even liked to show off. But as impressed as he might have seemed with her coursework, she’d never ever even gotten a hint he might have noticed her body or had any warm feelings toward her at all. It didn’t matter. She enjoyed fantasizing about him, and she dreamed about him often, about finding herself alone with him, him falling all over himself telling her how much he pined for her, and then they’d make passionate love. She almost always woke up before the payoff.
Regardless, it hadn’t occurred to her to do anything about her little crush. Fantasizing was one thing. In reality, sleeping with a professor was a little creepy. Plus, she’d be mortified if he rejected her and then remembered her as the weird nympho college student who’d thrown herself at him one time.
Sweet Imperfection Page 9
