Skye Warren is kicking off a brand new trilogy this week—a forbidden, age gap, student/professor, ex-boyfriend’s dad romance—and I have a little sneak peek for you from the first book in this sizzling new series.
Excerpt
Professor Stratford prowls close to me, and I realize that somewhere in our conversation I wandered back to the center of the office—in the perfect position for him to back up against the desk once more. Did I do it on purpose? Do I want him so badly that my subconscious is offering me up?
This close I can see the faint blue striations in his eyes. His eyes aren’t black, though they look that way from a distance. This close he’s the expanse of ocean in the dark night. “Do you think Tyler could make you come until you moan, until your whole body shakes?”
“Maybe,” I whisper, even though—no, no, of course not. No one can. Except him.
He lets out a sound that can only be described as a growl. “Perhaps I should give you another one, a reminder of what it feels like, so you can compare when he fumbles around.”
I whimper, unable to say no, unable to beg for him to keep going.
“You don’t want a guaranteed A in my class.” It’s no longer a question. The accusation has disappeared from his voice, leaving a private camaraderie in its place. His tone is musing, instead.
I shake my head, my lips pressed together.
“You don’t want more money.”
Another shake. Even how much I have feels illicit.
“But you do want to come, sweetheart. Don’t try to deny it. I can feel you trembling with how badly you want it.”
It’s a lie. This time when I shake my head, tears spring to my eyes. Frustration tears. Arousal tears. I’m-in-way-over-my-head tears. I force them back. Force them down, down, down, to that Pandora’s box where all my trauma lives.
“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “Pretend you don’t want it.”
His kiss is urgent, unyielding. He forces my mouth open, allowing me to feign resistance. Or at the very least, nonchalance. I let him tilt my head back and run his lips down my neck. It’s a terrible game I’m playing, letting him take the fall for our mutual destruction.
I should at least tell him, confess my own desire, even if he already knows.
It would be the honorable thing to do.
“Will—”
“Ah ah,” he says with a slow shake of his head, with a devastating expression of knowing in his dark eyes. “In this office, you will address me as Professor Stratford.”
My secret muscles clench, and he gives me an almost boyish smile.
“This gets you hot, doesn’t it, Ms. Hill?”
How is this possible? I had a heavy course load of classes my freshman year, with professors of every shape and size. They were smart and interesting, and for the most part, at least somewhat arrogant. Professor Stratford is all those things…and more. He’s simply more. More handsome, more mysterious. More playful as he nips at my lower lip.
“I asked you a direct question, Ms. Hill. Don’t make me punish you.”
My eyes widen. It’s not an entirely fake break in my voice. “What kind of punishment?”
“Let’s see,” he says, tugging my T-shirt off, leaving me in my bra. The starkness is enough to make my cheeks burn. He’s fully clothed while I’m shirtless. “For the first offense, I wouldn’t be too harsh. Then again, we can’t have disruptive students, can we?”
I thought his fist in my hair had been perverse.
That holding me up against the window had been a wild form of desire.
This is far worse.
And far better.
At least my body thinks so, becoming hot and clenched, swollen around nothing, hungry to have him inside me again, thrusting and thrusting the ache away.
“I tried to behave,” I tell him, surrendering to the game. Surrendering to him. “I tried to be a good student. It’s just that you were so…distracting.”
That earns me a dark chuckle. Large, strong hands undress me with calm expediency, as if stacking books or finding the right page. With both care and anticipation.
At this moment I’m the worn pages of an old copy of Romeo and Juliet.
He thumbs through my pages.
“You’d blame your professor for your own lack of focus?”
I gasp at his touch, low and intimate. It’s too much, and I scoot back to get away from him. That only lands me on the edge of his desk, smooth wood cool beneath my bare ass. “Maybe I can make it up to you?”
“Extra credit,” he says, musing. “Perhaps an oral report would suffice.”
“Please,” I whisper.
There’s a cruel edge to his smile.
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