Propositioning the Professor (Professional Lovers Series Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  About the Author

  Now Available

  An Excerpt fromLuring the Lawyer

  Copyright © 2016 by Fiona Lewis

  Chapter 1

  Ian woke up still dreaming. The last vestiges of a woman, slim hipped with a pretty bottom and a viciously tight pussy, made him cry out. The hoarse, pre-orgasmic shout woke Ian fully from his dream. But he wanted to stay. He pushed his hips into the bed, fighting to keep the sensation of the woman’s wetness around him. Ian pumped against the bed, his dick caught in the silken cotton that, for a few necessary moments, was like the slick, clasping inside of his siren, the woman who often claimed him in sleep. The muscles of his ass bunched and shuddered as he came, gasping, into the pillow.

  Ian’s wife, Zoë, had been dead for over six years now. Some days it seemed like six minutes since he got the news of her car accident. Other days it seemed like sixty years. Today was one of those in-between days when he had a good perspective on things and the blame he shouldered for her accident— an argument that pushed her screaming out into traffic and the path of a drunk driver—weighed him down only a little. He could usually tell right away what kind of day it would be, even before he left his bed. This morning the sign was his explosive orgasm and the almost sound of his dream lover’s name on his lips.

  Ian never had any illusions that this woman was Zoë. She was too voracious in her appetite for sex, and her body was too slight for her to be his dead wife. Ian pushed away from the bed and its sticky sheets, stretching each muscle in his long body as he headed for the bathroom. After a quick brush of teeth, his morning push-ups, and a few rounds with the punching bag, he went for the shower.

  Under the spray, water sluiced down his sculpted body, tracing the muscled arms, chest, and abs he worked hard for. His dick was soft, but with one touch it began to awaken. The unbidden memory of the dream woman slowly brought it to full hardness, and he stroked himself, groaned low from the pleasure of it. Then he pulled his hand away.

  I don’t have time for this.

  One more round and he was going to be late for class. It wasn’t even like he had the excuse of a real woman to be late for. There hadn’t been a real woman in his bed for a long time. Almost a year now. The constant round of disposable bodies had worn him out. The women in Miami were so beautiful and available that, even with the shadow of Zoë’s loss hanging over him, Ian had initially gobbled up the most tempting pieces, but there had been no substance to them. Now it all seemed like a waste of energy. Ian rediscovered that he preferred spice and challenge in his women. He hadn’t found that yet.

  After a full breakfast of wheat pancakes, eggs, and a protein shake, he quickly left his house and drove down the winding, sun-splashed streets to the university. Five years after moving to Miami, he still wasn’t used to it. The campus was a buffet of all things gorgeous and female the Sunshine State had to offer: tall, short, bronzed, brown, and everything in between, all in their prime with juicy breasts, sun-warmed skin, and lush asses on display. It was a smorgasbord of sexual plenty. But Ian’s appetite was never up to it. His mama told him never to shit where he ate.

  “Good morning, Mr. Tate,” one of his students greeted as she walked toward him in the hallway, gravity-defying breasts bouncing in her white tube top.

  “Good morning, Loren.”

  If her jeans rode any lower, she’d be giving the whole campus a guided tour of her Pandora’s box. Her belly button jewel winked at him as she passed, but Ian only spared her a single glance before stepping into his first class of the day.

  The classroom was already full. Over two dozen bodies settling into their chairs and getting computers, notebooks, and tablets out to take notes from his lecture. One girl in the front winked at him and flashed her tongue ring.

  Earlier in the semester, Ian had realized that most of his students were more interested in fucking him than learning about the Harlem Renaissance. He paced in front of the class, the day’s lesson falling from his lips like memorized lines. Some of the students were actually paying attention. Jasmine Hannah sat right in front, with her pen moving steadily across her paper, taking down every pertinent word. There were others, too.

  Vincent Mueller and Craig Johnson were model students, but only because neither wanted to repeat the class again. Ian’s gaze swept over the class, acknowledging the bored, dreamy-eyed, sleepy, interested, and variously pained expressions on the faces of his students. He shrugged inwardly and continued with the lesson, engaging the students when he could, not taking offense when he couldn’t.

  After class, Maddie Lang came up to his desk all pouty and flirtatious in her head to toe Gucci. She and her three girls approached his desk like they were going to war, with all their feminine weapons at the ready.

  “Did you read my essay, Mr. Tate?” she asked, knowing full well that her essay wasn’t so much a commentary on the role of white patronage in the growth of the Harlem Renaissance but a tour of the pornographic fantasies of a very imaginative teenager. Complete with museum quality illustrations.

  Ian gave her his most charming smile. “The artistic part of the assignment was well done, Maddie. But, if you notice, this class is Literature and Life During the Harlem Renaissance, not Art 101.” He pushed her paper across the desk toward her. “I gave you a D. Minus,” he said with a straight face. That wasn’t the D she obviously panted after. “If you’d like to redo the essay on the topic we discussed, then I will consider giving you a higher grade.”

  All four girls gave him a blank look like he’d been the one to fail the assignment. Apparently, that seduction technique of hers had worked before. What did she expect him to say, “See you after class when we can discuss your essay at length,” and then bend her over his desk and fuck her the way they both knew she wanted? Maddie Lang wasn’t worth it.

  Her lips tightened. “Thanks, Mr. Tate.” She took up her essay and pivoted, her girls falling into place like the waving tail feathers of a peacock, and walked out of the classroom. Ian watched them walk away, switching their cute little behinds for all they were worth. A teasing sight, but for all that, they didn’t even make him look twice. He went back to his paperwork.

  The other faculty thought he was gay. They didn’t come out and say so, of course, but after the first few refusals of blind dates and his obvious lack of lust for the sun-toasted Miami coeds, they thought he was a pussy, not that he wanted to fuck one.

  Ian knew he wasn’t the usual kind of straight man. He got focused. Sometimes it was on getting laid, sometimes it wasn’t. After he’d gotten with Zoë, there was no one else for him. He met her in a capoeira class his first year of college, and that was that. He had been seeing a few girls at the time, some glamor girl sorority types who’d been drawn to his clean, upper middle-class look—polo shirt and khakis, cargo shorts and slogan tees even in the middle of winter—and his lean, sleekly muscled swimmer’s body. His ready smile and GQ features only added to the attractive package that most girls were eager to unwrap.

  Ian had to work to get Zoë. In class, she was the one who excelled far above everyone else. She was tricky in her game, her kicks hurt, and her bottom always looked good in those loose dancer’s pants. Flashes of her belly and sweat-soaked sports bra when she turned effortless somersau
lts in the air had him instantly hard. For months everyone in the class thought he was shy and never wanted to play. The truth was that he wanted to play only with her.

  He wanted a close-up view of the sweat dripping down her face and neck that collected in the shirt clinging to her thick breasts and nipples. He watched all the other boys, and some of the girls, get turned down by Zoë time and time again. She played with them, and the rest of the class got to watch. Ian didn’t think he stood any more of a chance than most with her, and that excited him.

  One cold and blustery day, they both came early to class. Ian asked her to play with him, just a warmup. For once, he wasn’t thinking about fucking. He was just frozen and wanted to raise his body temperature. To his surprise she said yes, smiling into his eyes before sweeping off her oversize sweatshirt and dropping it to the side next to her bag. She had on another shirt, tighter and smaller, that was the same burnished copper as her skin. If he looked too fast he could fool himself into thinking that she was topless. Her long, curly hair, which he later found out was her single source of pride, she doubled up and gathered in a club at the back of her neck. Zoë put on the music.

  “Ready?”

  He wasn’t, but he stepped to her anyway. Their play was rough. She bested him several times, reeling up from the floor with powerful kicks and spins when he thought he had her cornered. It was even better than he thought.

  At the end of it, Ian was breathing hard, his breath coming in harsh puffs against the now comfortably cool air of the studio. He felt the sweat coating his naked back and chest, and the heat of his workout glowing under his loose sweatpants. Zoë watched him. She wiped the sweat from her face with the back of her hand and licked her lips. Her chest rose and fell in a quick tempo that pulled Ian’s eyes to her breasts and the hard points of her nipples.

  “Fuck.” He didn’t realize he’d said the word out loud until she looked up at him with something naked and raw in her face. Want. For him.

  “I’m going…” She gestured behind her toward something, but he didn’t understand her. “Bathroom,” she finally got out and backed away.

  Ian didn’t know why, but he followed her. Down the hall, past the other two studios that had classes in session, past the men’s showers and bathrooms. The women’s showers smelled like shampoo and perfume. Zoë slipped through the doors, and he followed still, like a hypnotized cobra, as she backed into an empty shower, a private one with a real door. Her back was to the tile wall, and she licked her lips again. That was all the invitation he needed.

  Zoë tasted of sweat and sweet, an aphrodisiac blend that burned from her hotly spiced mouth. Her hands roved over his chest, pressing him and pinching his flat nipples. He pushed her bra up and out of the way to find what he needed—the feel of her skin, sweat-slick and salty wet under his tongue, and the black cherry nipples he’d only fantasized about, hard and ready in his mouth.

  “Fuck me,” she hissed in his ear.

  Zoë pushed her pants and panties down and off for him to push his dick—oh, sweet heaven!—inside her soaked pussy. She grabbed his ass to pull him deeper. Her deep, urgent noises spurred him on, swelled his dick until he was panting as loudly as she was, slamming into her and then pulling almost all the way out before diving back in. Her ass slapped rhythmic and wet against the tile. She grabbed his shoulders, his back, clawing at him with her ankles locked together below his ass.

  “Fuck me! Fuck me!” she chanted as he pounded into her. Their sweat and sex smells rose up, surrounding him until he was swimming in his desire, hot and rushing, his muscles burning to get them across the finish line of orgasm.

  Her arms reached up to grab the industrial strength shower rod as her hips pistoned against him, fucking him as much as he was fucking her, her lips skinned back and feral, the “Fuck me!” chant still pouring out of her. He squeezed the breasts popping coyly from beneath the rolled up edge of her bra, pinching the nipples between his fingers in time to the push-pull of his dick. She was starting to come. He felt her pussy clench around his dick, one tight squeeze after another. Each time she pushed her back in a more extreme angle off the shower wall, arching into him.

  “Goddamnit!” She came in a hoarse shout, pitching him over the edge with her as she milked his dick of everything it had.

  They shuddered against the tiled wall and each other, sweating and breathing fast. Her skin was hot. Ian pulled back, and she made a small sound, a low grunt when his dick slid wetly out of her. They both looked at each other as they had the same thought. Shit! No rubber.

  But everything had worked out. They both got tested, a little too late but better than not at all, and started to fuck every day, sometimes three or four times, depending on if they had class or not. He stopped seeing the other girls. A year later they were married and making post-graduation plans to leave Atlanta for New York or some other big city in which they could both do well in their respective professions. Two years later, Zoë was dead.

  Chapter 2

  “Everyone knows what they need to get ready for this trip, right?”

  All six students in the pre-conference meeting, four women and two young men, nodded or made some noise of agreement. Ian sat on top of his desk, feeling relaxed at his last campus commitment of the day. He tipped his head toward Jasmine Hannah.

  “I know you’re presenting at that engineering conference next week, so don’t worry too much about this weekend. Just get what you need out of the trip then hand in the story you want me to critique in two weeks.”

  In addition to teaching two literature and creative writing courses, Ian also served as advisor to the school’s self-styled creative writing club. The six students had come to him from a mixture of his classes, having in common only the desire to write and submit their work with Ian as their task master and cheerleader. Going to the writers’ conference was a big deal to them all.

  Jasmine smiled. “I’m not worried, Mr. Tate. I’m just grateful for the chance to go along with the rest of the group. Even though I’m not a Creative Writing major, I still appreciate you making room for me.”

  “I’ll take that as a ‘yet,’ Jasmine. You’re a great writer, but I understand about the engineering thing. You’ve got to eat, after all.”

  “Not all of us are gonna be starving writers, Mr. Tate.” Olivier Richey, who had aspirations of being the next Stephen King, waggled his pencil at Ian. “I plan on making as many connections at this conference as possible.”

  “Good for you, Olivier,” said Natalie, one of the more obviously gorgeous women in the class, and an MFA candidate. “Just don’t mow down any of us on your path to fame and riches.”

  Ian chuckled. “And I think that does it for our last meeting before the conference.” He checked his phone for the time, noticing a missed text. “It’s a little after six. I imagine you all have places to be?”

  “There you go again, always trying to get rid of us. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear you didn’t like being advisor to our little writing club.”

  “And you do know better,” Ian said, smiling back at Samantha Ng. He picked up his briefcase and the folder with papers to grade for the week. “So, everyone, to recap: we’re meeting in front of the Humanities offices on Friday afternoon at three. The van will be parked near my car and unlocked if you want to put your things in it. We leave at three thirty.”

  “Got it, Mr. Tate.” Jasmine gathered her things and, after a quick glance at her own watch, dashed out the door while wishing everyone a good evening.

  “She must have a date or something,” Olivier said with a casual leer. “What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall for that hot piece of business.” Jasmine was gay and rumored to be dating a senior on the girls’ basketball team.

  “Why do men always turn into pigs by the idea of two women together?” Samantha made a noise of irritation as she packed up her own book bag.

  “Because it’s hot,” Natalie said as she too headed out the door. “See you, Mr. Tate.�
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  Samantha looked at Ian and rolled her eyes. “Can you believe her?”

  “No comment.” Ian chuckled again and waved goodbye to his students.

  “Come on, Sam. You need a drink.” The two boys jostled her out of the classroom, teasing as they went.

  Once he was alone, Ian checked his phone again and saw he had a group text from his friends about their weekly basketball game.

  Damn.

  He forgot to tell the guys he was out of town for the weekend. Ian quickly thumbed a reply, letting them know he wasn’t going to make it and apologizing for the short notice.

  I’ll bring the beer next time, he sent.

  He put the phone back in his pocket and got ready to leave. As he went to turn off the lights, a bright orange folder caught his eye. A quick glance through it told him that the folder was Jasmine’s. In it was an essay and notes on some complicated engineering something or other. After a moment’s hesitation, he put it in his briefcase. She might need it for her presentation at the conference. He decided to be a good Samaritan and drop the folder off at her house on his way home from the gym later on.

  Ian rang the doorbell to the small Spanish-style bungalow with Jasmine’s address. As he waited for someone to come to the door, Ian noticed a couple walking their dog on the sidewalk bordering the house. They held hands as they strolled through the quiet neighborhood. The dog, a ghost-gray Weimaraner puppy, leapt and played behind them, sniffing at every bush and rock it passed.

  “Can I help you?” A girl, not Jasmine, stood in the doorway of the house. She nibbled at a crustless peanut butter and jelly sandwich as she waited for Ian to speak.

  “Oh, yes.” He smiled at the pretty, gamine girl. “Sorry. My name is Ian Tate, and I teach at the university—”