by Katy Winters
Instalove at Christmas
An OTT Romance with Instalove Possessive Alpha Male
A Very Curvy Christmas Book 1
Katy Winters
Copyright © 2019 Katy Winters. 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 permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.
This publication contains sexually explicit material. All characters are 18 years or older and all sex is consensual.
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Contents
Title Page
Free Book Invitation
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Epilogue
About the Author
More Books from A Very Curvy Christmas Collection
Free Book Invitation
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Chapter One
Elizabeth
I am not a fan of international travel. I feel floaty and giggly, like I’ve had too much champagne. I’m nervous about going to class today. After flying across the Atlantic, it’s morning in Ireland and the professors from my CUNY school in New York told us that the best way to beat jetlag is to pretend it doesn’t exist.
The twenty-year-olds ahead of me on the bus to our university don’t help my giggly mood. At twenty-five I’m old enough to know better, but too tired to care as we scream along with some pop song no one seems to know.
I can’t believe I’m in Ireland. I’ve always dreamed of moving here—giving up my life in America for the hills and valleys. As the bus rolls along, the land outside my window is exactly as green as I always dreamed it would be. The little fluorescent squares of sheep dot the picturesque landscape. It makes me laugh. I wonder, do they glow in the dark?
We stumble off the bus to the dorm. It’s empty over Christmas break, and we’re only here for the month. I drop off my suitcase and follow the rest of my fellow social workers to-be back to the sidewalk. I’m glad we have our own rooms, even if we share a common room and a bathroom. I don’t even know where we’re going; I hope the students at the front of the line know what they’re doing.
The trees open up to a large stone building with a Celtic cross marking the top. I can hear the woman from our bus explaining how every brick was hand-carved and placed, but my attention shifts to the stained glass that adorn each thin, tall window. It’s beautiful and calming. It’s neat to know that I’m in a place that has at least a thousand years of history, all written in stone. I don’t know anywhere in New York that has a history quite like this.
As we file into the large main hall to get our student IDs and passwords, I examine the professors that are getting ready for the assembly. There were five, according to the itinerary; I guessed the older lady in the green flowered dress was for the history of social justice in Ireland; the man with the pouchy belly and jovial blue eyes would be for the criminal justice system. The younger woman next to him with the taffeta-covered hat might be for customs and culture, and the next…
The next man, older than I am but surely not that old, stands quietly behind his chair, and converses with an old man that looks like a leprechaun. The older man has neat auburn hair tied back in a ponytail, and I can see his intense blue eyes. I feel a shock of recognition as his eyes meet mine briefly, and I blink slowly, frowning. It’s not like I’ve ever met an Irish professor before, but this one was hot!
I watch his muscles rippling beneath his shirt as he gestures and speaks, the deep black accentuating every inch of his biceps and chest. I forget how to breathe for a moment until the guy behind me taps me on the shoulder, bringing me back to reality.
Taking my seat in the tiny hall, I forget about the rest of the professors and concentrate on Mr. Hottie. When he introduces himself, I learn that he’s Mr. Ian Byrne, and he’s going to be teaching customs and culture, much to my surprise. His accent is thick, his rrr’s roll with every flip of his tongue, and I wonder what his tongue would feel like against mine.
Okay, that’s enough Elizabeth, I think to myself. It’s bad enough to have the hots for your professor; it’s even worse to fantasize about him! I lean back in my chair and try to focus on what the leprechaun—er, professor—has to say. I’m glad that Mr. Byrne is the only one I’m fantasizing about; otherwise this is going to be an awfully long semester.
We all regroup in the small cafeteria for brunch (tea and some kind of strange pot pie) then climb old stone steps up to the classrooms. It’s so fascinating to have classes in a place that looks like it could have been a church or a castle (and it probably had been!). I sit down in the corner near the front, pulling my notebook and a pen out of my backpack, and Mr. Byrne walks straight into the classroom, commanding our attention with his presence.
I swallow hard. This is going to be fun. I can feel his presence in the room quite clearly; he dominates the classroom, and all of our eyes are on him as his soft, strong voice echoes lightly.
“Good afternoon,” he says calmly. “My name is Ian Byrne. We’re going to discuss the cultures and customs of Ireland.”
I could listen to him saying the word “Ireland” all damn day. “The history of Ireland began between 8,000 and 7,000 BC,” he begins; and I’m entranced.
Ian
I frown slightly, examining the classroom slowly. Sure, there were a few cliques, but most of the students were talking all over each other, bringing up this or that point—it was one large group, except for one: a lone girl sitting in the corner, half-watching the whispered conversation of her peers. Half-watching me.
She looks slightly older than the rest of them, perhaps in her mid-twenties. She has brunette hair twined into a thick braid. Her chocolate-coated eyes dance between them and me, and I glance at her sideways, wondering what she’s all about. She’s curvy, the way we don’t often see in Ireland, and I sigh, closing my eyes briefly. It’s too bad she’s so much younger than me; she’s so pretty, sitting there in a light pink dress with lace around the sweetheart neckline. She looks tired.
I watch her as we discuss Celtic polytheism. She takes eager notes, filling her pages with a tight script. She’s not whispering with them—she looks genuinely interested in druids and their disappearance in written literature. My attention keeps drifting as I lecture, wondering who she is and what brought her here.
I haven’t been this fixated on a woman in years. She’s rolling her foot, making her thigh swing back and forth, fidgeting against her chair. I suppress the urge to tell her to sit like a lady so that I don’t have to think about her thighs. I’ve been anticipating a winter break full of whiskey and my pile of to-be-read books, but something about her makes me think of Christmas. I haven’t celebrated Christmas since my mother passed—but looking at her, I think of mistletoe.
Hearing laughter, my atte
ntion pulls back to the class, away from her above-the-knee skirt. I flush. I’ve been caught staring, and she was watching me with wide eyes. Ah, hell. She’s bouncing her leg impatiently, and I catch a glimpse of her thigh beneath her skirt.
One of the students saves me with a question about the Vikings, and I sigh inwardly. I can’t let unintentionally flirty student distract me. There’s no reason to be think about the lace against her skin. I can’t let myself get distracted like this. These KIDS, I emphasize to myself, are only here until New Year’s; I have a lot to teach before then.
Mystery girl begins to chew on the tip of her pen, wrapping her lips around the tip. I meet her eyes over the writing utensil, and she smiles. I pretend not to notice—but I can’t help but think that she’s doing this on purpose.
There’s something about her that calls to me, that makes me want to know her. The dark circles under her eyes worry me; should jetlag make her that tired? And why am I wavering between a horny teenager as well as terribly concerned for her wellbeing? I was giving myself whiplash.
The hell with this, I think. I barely know her. Actually, I don’t know her at all. It’s not the first time I’ve thought a student was attractive, although the pull of her attention is somewhat intoxicating. No, it’s nothing to worry about. But still…I shake my head and concentrate on my lecture. Discussing Vikings is saving me from thinking about her, but only until the final question is answered. I watch the students leaving the room slowly, a few sitting back and chatting—and my girl is sitting in her chair, watching me.
I don’t know what I’m doing, but I find myself walking over and sitting on her desk. “You look exhausted,” I say bluntly. I’ve never been particularly charming.
“Thanks?” she answers slowly, raising a brow. She sits up straighter, pulling the pen out of her mouth with a distinct “pop.” She smooths a line on her skirt. “Your lecture was amazing. It’s nice to learn something other than the same 200 years of history over and over again.”
I nod in thanks, wondering why I made my way over here. It feels as if I’ve known her all my life, like I recognize her on some primal level. Every time she meets my eyes it’s like static electricity. I look at her critically, from her high pink pumps to her ample breasts to her tired smile. I hesitate, trying to figure out the right way to make an ass out of myself. “You should rest after classes,” I say, making an effort for “gently.”
Her eyes narrow. “We’re all meeting at a pub around the corner after the last class,” she says, gesturing out the door. Her fellow students are filing out, off to their next adventure. For some reason I don’t want to let her out of my sight. She’s obviously not going to take care of herself, and someone has to.
I open my mouth, but she cuts me off. “I think I’ve got this,” she says firmly, and gathers her books beneath her breasts. She hesitates, though, her eyes flitting from the floor to meeting my gaze and back again. “Thanks, though,” she adds with a quiet smile.
I groan as I watch her walk away. Well, I indeed made an ass of myself, I think. I don’t know what came over me. The thought of this girl alone in a foreign country makes me nervous, and I can’t put my finger on why. I close my eyes briefly as she saunters from the room, and I wait for my next class to come. The end of the day can’t come soon enough. I’m going to have to find a pub myself.
Chapter Two
Elizabeth
Hot professor’s a little weird, I think. A bit overbearing and used to getting his way. I can tell. And while I don’t need a man to tell me what to do, a little possessiveness IS a bit hot. I run a brush through my hair and frown, trying to figure out what an appropriate “pub look” is. A little lipstick, maybe? No eyeshadow. A belt to complete the look and we’re good!
I walk down the hill with some of the girls, listening to them gossip about our classmates and Ireland in general. I sigh. I tend to feel left out when we gather up like this. Everyone seems to know each other already, and they’re instantly comfortable in a way that I don’t understand. I never know what to do except sit at the outside, older and maybe slightly less likely to make an idiot of myself.
Well. Maybe it’s time to find myself in the inner circle and let my idiot flag fly. After all, we’ll be gone in a month, so who’s going to care? And I’m so damned tired that a pint of Guinness or two might help me sleep tonight when my body insists that it’s not bedtime.
The pub is cluttered with Polaroids, posters and carvings on the walls. It’s not wall-to-wall people like a night club, but it’s definitely a spot to be in. I spy some of the administrators from our program at the bar and take a seat at one of the only open tables, following one of the chattier girls—Kathy, one of my roommates—and her friends. They don’t bat an eye as I sit with them. I smile and enjoy feeling included.
I think about class earlier. Professor Byrne—Ian—had almost stopped talking during his lecture as I pretended to flirt with him. Had he noticed? Would he get mad about it? I realized that I might be more of an idiot than I’d thought. Innocent, maybe, but we really did still have a month to be there. Maybe I should’ve started this weird little campaign at the end of the month.
One of the boys that had sat in the back of the classroom sits down next to me. He’s cute, with light, cropped brown hair. He wears a soccer jersey and smells like Guinness—a lot of Guinness.
“Hey,” I smile. Maybe I can get my flirt on with slightly-less-hot soccer dude instead.
“Hey,” he replies, grinning. “I saw you in class today. Your dress is pretty sweet.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say back. That’s a little awkward, I think. But maybe he just doesn’t know what he’s doing. He is younger than me, I remember.
“I mean, you’re pretty fine,” he says, slurring his words.
He’s actually leering. Full-on looking down my dress and leering. The girls across from me are busy chatting about nothing, and I fidget with my hands under the table, looking away. My drink comes around and I sip it eagerly, glad to have something to talk about.
“Isn’t it cool that we get to have real Guinness in Ireland?” I say brightly, hoping to distract him. It sounds just as dumb out loud as it did in my head.
With my eyes averted, I glance at the bar, and frown. Professor Byrne is sitting near the wall, holding up the bar with a glass of whiskey, sucking on a lemon. He meets my gaze easily, and I wonder what the lemon would taste like on his lips.
I jump as a hand lands on my upper thigh. “Excuse me?” I say incredulously. “We just got off the bus from an international flight this morning, we’ve had a full day of classes, everyone’s trying to relax with a nice pint, and you’re not only hitting on me but TOUCHING me?” My voice rises with every word until I’m nice and loud, not even embarrassed as the girls at the table stare at me. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”
“Nothing,” he says, loudly. “Why can’t you just calm down? Nobody’s gonna know. We’ll never see each other again after this semester.”
“We’re never going to see each other again after this conversation!” I reply, and his hand grips my thigh more firmly.
“I highly suggest you listen to the woman,” a man’s voice says suddenly. I whip my head around, only to find that it’s Ian behind me. His eyes are glittering with anger, and I want to shiver at the growl in his tone. “While I recognize that she could probably trash your arse without messing her makeup, I’ll get to you first.”
“Listen, man—”
“Professor, to you.” Ian reaches between us and takes soccer dude’s hand off of my thigh. I see the boy’s tendons straining, and I can tell that Ian’s grip is steel. He turns over the boy’s hand and looks down, almost idly. “Do you believe in palm reading? I think I see a hasty exit in your future,” he muses calmly.
Soccer boy yanks his hand away and leaves muttering to himself. Ian turns to me and bows politely. “I believe I told him so,” he mentions. “Didn’t I tell you to rest after class?” He takes my hand gently and I
jump again, this time feeling a spark shivering through my skin. I blink slowly, looking up at him. I can tell that he felt it, too.
“I felt like a drink to wind down,” I say softly. “It’s been such a long day that I don’t know heads or tails if I should be awake or asleep.”
He’s rubbing the palm of my hand with his thumb. Every caress brings that jolting feeling again, and I can feel my nipples harden beneath my dress. I flush, and glance away hoping he doesn’t notice.
“I see,” he says. He looks at the table, my glass of Guinness, and the startled girls—I still don’t know any of their names besides Kathy—that sit across from me. “Good evening, ladies. If you don’t mind, I’m going to steal away your friend here, is that all right?”
Kathy makes a shooing motion with her hands, her jaw dropping slightly. “By all means, yes, go!” She mouths something in my direction, and it takes me a minute to read that “He’s fucking hot!”
I look at the curls of his auburn hair and the intensity of his blue eyes. As he rubs my hand, I can see a Celtic cross on his forearm in thick, black ink. I can almost see his pulse threading underneath his pale skin, and I take a deep breath. “Where are we going?
Ian
It’s all I can do to contain my anger. I’m almost visibly shaking as I storm over to the boy that’s grabbing Elizabeth by the thigh. This horny teenager is not going to lay hands on my girl.
I pause, replaying the thought. My girl. It’s almost as if I’ve already claimed her, and she just doesn’t know it yet. I’ve had girlfriends, of course, but nothing serious—and I haven’t wanted anything serious until now. There’s something about this girl that urges me to get to know her, to protect her—and protect her I will.
