Filthy Professor (A Forbidden Student Teacher Romance Novella) Read online

  Copyright

  © 2016 Lila Younger

  All Rights Reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locations is purely coincidental. The characters are all productions of the author’s imagination.

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  Table of Contents

  Copyright Page

  Chapter 1 | Kaitlyn

  Chapter 2 | Ian

  Chapter 3 | Kaitlyn

  Chapter 4 | Ian

  Chapter 5 | Kaitlyn

  Chapter 6 | Ian

  Chapter 7 | Kaitlyn

  Chapter 8 | Ian

  Chapter 9 | Kaitlyn

  Chapter 10 | Ian

  Chapter 11 | Kaitlyn

  Epilogue | Kaitlyn

  Other books by Lila Younger

  I hope you enjoy Chapter One of my book Her Virgin Secret…

  About Lila Younger

  Chapter 1

  Kaitlyn

  “KAITLYNNNNNN! OVER HERE! KAITLYN!”

  I wince at the voice of my roommate Tiffany. Even in a crowded airport, she can manage to stand out. I follow the line of heads that have whipped towards her and… yep, it’s definitely her. Tiffany is tall, like an Amazon, with rioting red curls and crazy curves that makes her look like Jessica Rabbit come to life. The fact that she’s wearing a university sweatshirt with TAU (Taylor Anderson University) and yoga pants does nothing to diminish her looks. Already some of the curious glances are turning into awe mixed with lust, and I don’t blame them. She doesn’t notice them though. I think she’s immune, or too used to it. Instead my roommate barrels forward, arm outstretched for a hug.

  “HEY ROOMIE!” she yells in joy, attracting even more attention. “MERRY LATE CHRISTMAS!”

  “I’m right here Tif,” I say, but really I’m not that mad. How can you be with that much positivity?

  “Sorry, sorry,” she says, then shoves a coffee into my hand. “This one’s yours. I’ve already finished two!”

  She grabs my trolley for me while I take a nice, fortifying sip of coffee. The airplane stuff is weak, plus I try to avoid drinking too much of it so I don’t have to try and squish past two other people to get to the bathroom. That’s the only downside of a window seat. I always feel awkward asking everyone to move. The lack of coffee, paired with the fact that I took the earliest flight I could, has me feeling like death warmed over.

  The two of us head to where my bags are waiting on the carousel, then out of the airport. It’s a gray, dreary day in the Pacific Northwest, and the sun looks like it’s ready to give up and hide behind the rainclouds looming over the sky. Even though I love it here, I’d trade the weather for what we have in California in a heartbeat. A gust of wind blows by, making me shiver.

  “Come on,” Tif says. “I’m parked close and it’s freezing out here. I think someone says it’s the coldest day on record or something?”

  We go around the line of taxis to the glass walkway that leads to the parking garages.

  “So how was your Christmas?” I ask.

  “Good. Boring. You know what it’s like,” she says.

  I do. Tiffany actually lives in Martin, the tiny town where our university is. During the school year, it’s a bustling place, but when the students leave, it’s almost a ghost town. Nearly everyone who lives there full-time is working in some way related to TAU and its students. She says she wishes she could go anywhere else, but the university gives her almost half price tuition because her dad’s part of the maintenance crew.

  “What about you?”

  “I got some clothes,” I shrug. “And the new iPhone. My cousins were here this year too, which meant that Mom was too busy showing up Aunt Patricia to bother me.”

  “I’m sorry,” she says sympathetically. “But hey you’re here now. No more putting up with that crap for another four months.”

  She’s right about that, and it’s the reason why I took the red eye in the first place. My parents are, well, not great parents. They’re not even good parents if I could be completely honest. I’m not sure why they even had me, because it seems like all I am is a huge burden to them. Back in high school, I would hear my mom mutter about how I ruined her perfect pageant body and my dad grumble about the price of private school and wish that I hadn’t been born, but now I realize that they wanted a kid so they could look like the perfect family, not be one. I was like an accessory that they didn’t realize would grow up into an actual person. It wasn’t until Tif became my roommate and I met her family that I realized none of it was my fault.

  “Hey,” Tif says, shaking me out of my mood. “I just remembered something. Rumor has it that there’s a hot new professor in town.”

  “Really?” I ask skeptically.

  Almost all the professors at school are fifty years or older. There’s even one guy in the philosophy department that’s so old he can barely walk to his lectures. I ask Tif if he’s the one who got replaced.

  “Old Man Douglas? No way. I’m pretty sure that guy will be teaching until the day he drops dead. No, it’s someone else. Dad doesn’t know who, but he did say that the new guy looks like a movie star.”

  “I don’t trust your dad’s idea of what a hot movie star looks like.”

  “I don’t either,” she says with a laugh, “but I saw this guy myself yesterday buying groceries and I can testify that he looks good. Like, I’m-two-seconds-away-from-spraying-whipped-cream-and-licking-it-off-you-in-the-checkout-line good.”

  “Did you talk to him then? Get a name? A department? Something?” I ask, twisting in my seat and facing her.

  “No Kaitlyn, I was too busy scraping my mouth off the floor to remember to ask. Plus, the poor guy was running errands. He didn’t need to be bothered by a student. He’ll be getting that soon enough once all the crazy froshies come back.”

  I think for a moment.

  “How do you know that it’s really him and not some hot new neighbor?”

  Tiffany beamed at me.

  “I followed him. Uh huh. Straight to the building where all the professors have their offices.”

  “You didn’t! Forget about the crazy frosh. He’s going to be worried about you,” I gasp. Tif was pretty daring, but even that’s a bit much for her.

  “Relax. He didn’t notice a thing. Just wait until you see him Kaitlyn. He’s dreamy, with these incredible lips and a smoking hot body like a fitness model. And that strong jaw… I’d show up in class every day for him.”

  I raise my eyebrow in disbelief. Tif has never gone to all her classes. If it’s held three times a week, she goes two. If it’s twice a week, she goes once. I have no idea how she’s managed to get this far in university that way, but she has.

  “Teacher’s shouldn’t be allowed to be this sexy,” she insists. “I’ll bet you anything that if there’s ever a chance of a student-teacher sex scandal, this year’s it.”

  And oh, how right her words are. Only I didn’t know it yet.

  ***********

  I want to throw up.

  My alarm is blaring, each beep driving itself into my skull with excruciating pain. I slam down on the snooze button and chug the glass o
f water that past me had the foresight to get before passing out last night. As is our tradition, Tif and I got caught up on each other’s news over a jug of wine and Massimo’s Pizza, the local joint that delivers at any hour of the night (they do especially well on the weekends, no surprise). Because of the weird timing of my flight, I made the mistake of thinking it was Saturday, when really it was Sunday. Tif of course, just went along with everything.

  So here I am with the hangover from hell.

  I screw my eyes shut, but that only makes the pounding worse, so I open them again and slowly push myself up off the bed.

  I need coffee.

  And grease.

  My movements are slow and cautious, because the last thing I need is to upset my headache by getting up too fast or falling over. I don’t think I’m still drunk, although I’ve had that happen to me more than once before. Once I make it into our tiny kitchen, I start up the coffee and lean against the counter as my coffee drips and burbles into the pot. I take a fortifying sip, dump in a bunch of milk, and take a few more gulps down. The caffeine works its magic, pushing the headache back enough that I can focus on what I need to do today.

  Since it’s the first week, I don’t have too much to worry about, but I like to go on the first day anyways so I get off to a good impression with my professors. There’s also the fact that I have to meet with my thesis adviser, Prof. Durand, and tell him how much (or little) I accomplished over winter break. That’s not going to go over well at all. But first, I have to get myself together enough to head to class. So I scrounge around to see what Tif has left over for breakfast. There’s eggs and milk, but no cereal, and the idea of cooking isn’t appealing at all, so leftover pizza it is. I eat it cold, then head into the shower where I indulge in the hot spray of water until Tif bangs on the door.

  By then I’m late, so I have to rush, so I blow-dry my hair, throw on an off the shoulder sweater tunic, leggings and a pair of boots, shove everything into my backpack, button myself up in my wool coat, fill up a tumbler with coffee and book it out the door. Luckily I live only five minutes from campus, so it doesn’t take me too long to get to school. On the way I double check my schedule online, and figure out where my rooms are. Today of course, I’m all the way up on the third floor, and to add insult to injury, the Humanities building is perched on top of a brutal hill that leaves my legs, butt and lungs screaming by the time I get to the top. Who knew that two weeks stuffing my face could undo all that walking from fall semester?

  I get to the door with a minute to spare, the queasiness in my stomach rising again. I’m looking forward to collapsing into a chair and zoning out for half an hour, but there’s a sign taped to the door saying that they’ve moved. Frustratingly enough, it doesn’t say where they’ve moved to, just that class isn’t here. This is ridiculous, I fume, and hurry off again. Was there an email? I thought I checked this morning, but maybe I missed something? I hop on my phone to try and text Jason, my art history buddy, to see if he’s heard anything. Because I’m busy texting, I don’t see the stairwell door opening as I throw my weight against the bar to open it and I fly through, hitting someone square in the chest and spilling my coffee.

  “Hey! Watch where you’re going!” I grumble.

  The coffee didn’t spill on me thankfully, because I have no time today to go home and change. Could this morning get any worse? And of course, the answer from above is always yes. I look up from picking up my tumbler off the ground, and everything in me freezes, including my lungs ability to breathe.

  Super Hot Professor is standing in front of me, wearing a forest green cashmere sweater and a button down shirt that’s perfectly put together with dark jeans. The green brings out the color of his eyes, a pure hazel color that’s ringed with gold. He’s got a bit of scruff, and dark curly hair you could really run your hands through. I don’t think there’s ever been a professor at this school that looks this yummy. In fact, I’m certain of it. He looks like he should be in the movies, not here in a tiny liberal arts college. He’s so sexy I can feel my body responding automatically, my body pulsing heat between my legs. No wonder Tif was talking about whipped cream. I’m so caught up in staring that I almost miss his words.

  “I’m not the one on my phone here,” he points out. Wow. Even his voice is sexy. It’s like dark chocolate, velvety smooth, with an undercurrent of something more promised.

  Then his words sink in. Crap. He’s right. I snap back up and my face turns red from mortification. I promise right here right now never to walk and text ever again. I want to bolt out of there, but even in my embarrassed state I know that would just make me look even crazier. My eyes frantically scan him and luckily I didn’t get any coffee on him either. And then I look back at his face, and he’s got his eyebrows raised, and I realize that he probably thought I was checking him out. My heart is about to jump right out of my chest because I was checking him out, but not just then, and the last thing I want to do is be so blindingly obvious and now there’s this awkward silence between us and Ishouldreallysaysomething!!

  “I wasn’t!” I blurt out.

  Great, now he probably thinks I’m a moron. I wish that I worked a little harder on my flirting and small talk skills. But I’ve never bothered with that sort of thing because well, I figured I’d always have time later. Plus, there hasn’t been anyone who’s grabbed my attention. I see the flaw in my thinking now.

  “I mean, I thought maybe I spilled-I. I’m sorry,” I finish feebly.

  “Apology accepted,” he said with a wry smile. On second thought, maybe he’s used to every woman going gaga in his vicinity. “Have a good day.”

  Super Hot Professor brushes past me smelling deliciously masculine in something woodsy and spiced, leaving me even more light headed. Have I been breathing throughout our encounter? I’m not sure, because I feel like my brains short circuited. I sneak a look at his perfectly toned ass as he walks away down the hall and feel another spurt of heat in my lower half. Tif was totally right about him being gorgeous, I think as I collapse against the wall. I have to tell her. I whip out my phone and shoot off a text, and then I remember that I’m definitely late, and I still have no idea where class is. But man, I need a moment. There’s no way I’ll be able to concentrate on Native American Art when all I’m thinking about is how good it’d feel to wrap my legs around the new teacher. God I hope that he isn’t my teacher.

  And then I hope he is, because he’s got the kind of looks that make a girl want to bump into him every day just for another glance at his face.

  Chapter 2

  Ian

  I resist the urge to look back at the student who bumped into me, no matter how beautiful she is. And believe me, she is gorgeous. Rippling honey hair, a lithe body with just the right amount of curves, smooth pearly skin, and the cutest dimple in her left cheek. I bet she could get away with anything with a smile like that. And the adorable stammer when I caught her checking me out. I wanted to ask her if she liked what she saw, to see if her face could get any rosier, but that would have been too mean. And of course, she was a student. That ginormous backpack gave it away, and as much as I would love to have a bit of fun, I know better than to try anything.

  Too many ears around here, and I’ve got a reputation to uphold. Not many people know that a Taylor of Taylor Anderson University is teaching here this year, but they will soon enough. And then I’ll be under a microscope. As a fourth son, I don’t have the burden of the world on my shoulders like my brother Jeremy does, but that doesn’t mean people won’t talk. If you thought high school was rife with rumors and nosy people, don’t go into academia. It’s a thousand times worse here. If it wasn’t for the fact that I actually enjoyed learning, I’d kick back and enjoy the life lottery I’d won as the son of the man who created Taylor Pharmaceuticals.

  Don’t get me wrong. I did enjoy that life for a while. But while jet setting around the world and partying with supermodels and actresses sounds fantastic, it really isn’t all that differen
t than what a regular twenty something guy would do in a club downtown on a Saturday night. The drinks are just more expensive, and you get to enjoy jetlag with your hangover. This girl though, she’s something different.

  Forget about it Ian, I think as I get to the end of the hall where I’m supposed to be teaching Art History 101. Don’t ask for trouble.

  With that admonishment in mind, I open the door. Thirty or so students look up at me. I introduce myself and pull out my attendance sheet. There are at least fifty names on here. I guess they figured out that some professor’s don’t do much on their first day. Unfortunately, Art History 101 isn’t one of those classes. As a brief look at art throughout the ages, I have thousands of years to get through. I have no idea how they expect me to teach all this in four months, but they do, so there’s a lot to get through today. I hand out the list, introduce myself, and get going on the lecture.

  As I talk, I can’t help but look at my female students and compare them to the one in the hallway. None of them come even close to her. I’m briefly relieved, because at least it isn’t the whole teacher-student dynamic that has me attracted. The more pressing issue of course, is the fact that a part of me wants to see her again. To find her, talk to her… okay, there’s no point in glossing it over for myself. I want to take her home, throw her down on my bed and have my way with her until she screams my name.

  Damn. Now I’m hard.

  I quickly move back to the podium and glance down at my notes. I look up at my students. The guys are staring at the clock, or down in their laps, thinking they’re hiding their phones when they aren’t. The girls aren’t much better, though a few have the rapt, adoring look I know well. One girl’s whispering loudly to her friend in the front row, sure of the fact that I’m one of the Taylors. And there’s goes the rumor mill. I realize I have zero desire to continue this lecture and dismiss the class. The students pause, aware that I’ve stopped practically in the middle of a sentence, then decide it’s their lucky day and scramble to pack up their things before I change my mind.