Kept by the Professor Read online

  by the

  Professor

  Sasha Gold

  Please note that this is a work of adult fiction and contains graphic descriptions of sexual activity. It is intended for mature readers aged 18 and over.

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  Chapter One

  Lilly

  Less than a month before graduation, I face disaster. My sweet, elderly professor, Dr. Murphy, has left. Sent away, actually.

  He was wandering around downtown, shoeless and drunk. The police brought him home, like they have before, and he slept it off and was having an ordinary Sunday morning, or so I thought, when a woman in a floral dress and two guys in dark suits took him away, to a rehab facility out by the lake. I’m pretty sure of my facts on this one. You see, I’m leasing the carriage house behind his house. I saw everything and heard most of it too.

  I’m sure this really sucks for Dr. Murphy, but I’m two weeks away from graduating, two weeks away from passing the one class that I’ve struggled with for years, the dreaded class that shall not be named, and the one man who can pass me, who was going to pass me, I’m sure, is now a hundred miles away, recovering.

  The school sent out an email, on the same Sunday, no less, that Dr. Murphy had to see to a family matter and that a substitute professor had already been found to finish the semester. A sub. One who doesn’t know me, who doesn’t know how hard I’ve worked, and how I absolutely have to be done with school now. All I can do is sit in my small bedroom, hands wrapped around a hot chocolate, and stare at the back of Dr. Murphy’s house.

  He has a cute house, and it’s an awesome neighborhood. Several of the houses on this street belong to Grenville College. Wealthy folk donate their old, slightly rundown houses to the college for tax write-offs. The school fixes them up and offers the main houses to professors and the smaller carriage houses to students. I’ve been here since August and love my space. Secluded and safe. Close to the action but quiet. Perfect really.

  But a sub? Now?

  The email said the new professor would arrive in time for Wednesday classes. He will live in the main house. I’m waiting, anxiously, hoping and praying the new professor will agree to tutor me and help me understand math as well as Dr. Murphy did.

  Algebra. Who decided math should have letters? Makes no sense, not to me and probably not to the numbers. Can you imagine a number meeting an x? Are you lost? We’re doing math here, go join some other letters and write a story or a love letter or something useful. You don’t belong here!

  Dr. Murphy, the saint, was able to get me past a few barriers. He had endless patience, maybe because I always brought him something yummy like a cinnamon roll or a piece of pecan pie. He gave me some mental tricks for dealing with letters that want to be numbers. It took some time, but I’m getting it well enough now, at least by Dr. Murphy’s standards. By his scoring I have a mid-C.

  My grade should be higher, of course. Especially since this is my third time taking the class. I’m trying not to think about how the new professor could make or break my chance of finishing school. This is my last semester, well, it better be. If I don’t pass effing algebra, I don’t graduate. If I don’t graduate, well… I can’t even go there. I just need to keep that grade till the end of the semester and I’ll get my diploma and prove to myself, my mother and the world that I’m nobody’s fool.

  My mother… let’s just say she’s not the motherly type. All my life, she’s told me I’m not college material. I’m not sure I’m any kind of material, considering how much she criticizes most everything about me. I’m too curvy. I don’t know how to apply make-up and I shop (gasp) at regular department stores instead of boutiques in Milan or Paris or Singapore. It’s been a relief to escape her scrutiny and go to college. Four years ago, when I first started school, it felt like a cloud lifted. I never realized how much I needed a break from her fault-finding.

  Mom’s pretty good at her own kind of math. She’s on husband number four, Raul. He’s a winner, too. A liquor salesman, of some kind. It changes from time to time. Sometimes it’s vodka. Other times it’s brandy or champagne. Not sure what he’s hocking nowadays, but Raul entertains clients from all over the world on a yacht in the Mediterranean. Hotel owners, airline CEOs, casino tycoons. Both he and my mother have been after me to live with them so I can hang out at their endless parties. What they really want is a young girl to dangle in front of the uber-rich clients. Raul’s pretty much made that clear from the way he suggested I’d need to be friendlier and wear tighter dresses. Like my mother, he makes comments about me hitting the gym.

  My mother ignores his squicky comments, saying things about me being too voluptuous and how rich men like model-thin girls. I’m pretty enough to help with parties but not so pretty that I’ll present a threat, or that’s the message I read into her words.

  Each of my mother’s husbands has been richer than the last, but somehow a whole lot slimier. I have no idea what I’ll do when I graduate, but it sure as heck won’t be strolling around on their boat in a tiny bikini, serving drinks while drunk people close deals.

  My main concern, right now, is simply to graduate. To do that, I have to pass this dreaded class.

  I need all the help I can get.

  I’m basically a positive person, optimistic, and I think there’s a good chance the sub will be another sweet, elderly, slightly forgetful gentleman in a corduroy jacket and a comb-over. That’s what I keep telling myself. If not, I’ll have to hunt for a new math tutor, immediately. I can’t imagine how hard that would be now, days before the final. The phone rings as I peer out the window.

  “I need an update,” Gemma demands. “Any professor sightings?”

  The call is from my friend and business partner, Gemma. Our freshman year we started Walking Pawtastrophe, a dog-walking service. In three years, we’ve gone from earning pocket change to making serious money. It helps that we live in the wealthier part of town near school. People around here don’t mind spending money on their fur babies.

  I watch as a yellow van with Grenville Moving Company on the side slows and pulls into the driveway. “Speak of the devil,” I murmur. “The movers just arrived.”

  “Are you going to go be neighborly? Say hello?”

  “I’m going to do more than that. I’m taking over a plate of cookies right after my three o’clock.”

  The van comes to a stop. The doors open and two men get out, big burly movers. Another guy drives up in a pick-up truck with a dirt bike in the bed. Pick-up truck guy gets out and grabs a toolbox from the backseat. The men from the van slide open the van doors and start hauling stuff out, setting it on the terrace.

  “Who’s your three o’clock?” Gemma asks.

  “Dr. Becker’s wire-haired dachshund.”

  “Ugh, that little wiener dog hates me.”

  “She hates everybody.” I scan the driveway and the perimeter of the house. Trees block a lot of my view. “The movers are here but I don’t see anyone professorial. The movers are unloading stuff already. I wonder if the house is open.”

  “Maybe you better stay put. The professor is probably on his way. How about I take the three o’clock?”

  “It’s okay. I’ll run over there, make sure they have a key and leave the cookies.”

  “Take off your glasses. Let your hair down. Show off some of those curves.”

  “Uh-huh, I’ll let you know how it goes. I bet he’ll be here any minute.”

  I end the call. I would have liked to put on a little make-up, and something more dressy than yoga pants and a t-shirt, but there’s no time. I fix my hai
r into a messy bun. Then I arrange and rearrange the cookies on a pretty plate until I have them just right. I don’t know why it matters, but I’m so nervous about the prospect of meeting the new prof, my stomach is in knots. This guy could wreck my chances of graduating. Damn, I hate algebra, I mutter for the thousandth time. I coax air into my lungs as I cover the plate with aluminum foil.

  I cross the lawn, heading to the house, my hands shaking.

  All the stuff they’d left on the terrace is inside. The van is half empty, so I guess they found a key. I glance at the pick-up and note the motorcycle in the back. It’s covered in mud. The truck, on the other hand, is pristine.

  Hopefully the new prof is already here. Maybe he caught an Uber from the airport or something. I knock at the back door which is propped open. There’s no answer, so I just show myself inside like I’ve done before when Dr. Murphy lived here. I hear the movers upstairs. A crash is followed by cursing and laughter.

  I walk into the kitchen and look around. There are boxes and chairs and a big table. The house looks different without all of Dr. Murphy’s stuff.

  “Can I help you, miss?” The skin on the back of my neck tingles. I turn to find the guy who drove the pick-up standing in the hall. He’s tall, powerfully built, dressed in boots, jeans, and a faded t-shirt. He holds a hammer in one powerful hand, and wears a tool belt slung low across his hips. His blue eyes hold me in their gaze. My skin tightens and prickles. I stand there like an idiot, not saying a word as his gaze drifts down my body.

  Suddenly I feel warm and struggle to catch my breath.

  I have my mother’s blonde hair, but not her mile-long legs. I can’t help squirming uncomfortably anytime guys give me a once-over. I’m not sure what they see when they look at me. On one hand, I think I get points for my hair and boobs, but deductions for my ample ass. I probably get more deductions because of the fact I’m only five-foot-two. Let’s not forget the glasses. The glasses are a mix of armor and invisibility shield. I try never to leave home without them.

  Finally, I manage to say something. “I didn’t know if you guys could get into the house.”

  Jeez, that was dumb. Obviously they could get in. I could too.

  “They gave me a key.” His voice is a deep, sexy rumble. He rubs his free hand over his hard jaw and his thickly muscled forearm flexes. “I try to avoid breaking and entering.”

  He slips the hammer into his belt. A glint of amusement sparks his eyes.

  His words send a jolt of shock down my spine. “Is that what you do when you get to a house and don’t have the key? Break and enter?”

  It seems that moving company clients wouldn’t appreciate the movers jimmying locks or busting down a door. Maybe this is moving-guy humor. Or maybe he’s totally serious. Tall, with dark blond hair and a short beard and muscular build, he looks like a Viking. He’d probably be able to tear through the door of a bank vault.

  He laughs, his teeth flashing against his scruff-darkened jaw. With that, I realize he’s joking. He crosses the kitchen. As he draws near, I’m tempted to take a few giant steps back but, for some reason, I can’t move. I stand there, rooted to the spot. He takes the plate from me, flips back the aluminum and grunts appreciatively.

  My mind wanders in a daze. I’m a little overwhelmed by his massive build. If that’s not enough, his scent derails my thoughts even more. I’m staring at his handsome face when it dawns on me that I came here on a mission. To meet the professor, not the mover who’s starting on his second cookie.

  This is a little awkward. I baked them for the new professor. Not his movers. Something about his take-charge demeanor makes it hard for me to speak up. A ripple of awareness tingles down my spine as he eyes the plate and flicks his gaze up to me.

  His lips quirk. “I’m Ryker, by the way.”

  Another crash comes from upstairs. He grimaces.

  “I’m Lilly. I live in the carriage house in the back.”

  “Lilly, like the flower?”

  “Yeah, sort of. I spell my name with two l’s… well, three actually. L-I-L-L-Y.”

  Geez, I feel like such a dork, but I have to finish.

  “The flower, Lily, is spelled L-I-L-Y. So I’m not really like the flower. I have an extra L.”

  “With a name like that, you probably love flowers.”

  “Flowers and poetry,” I say carelessly. I can’t imagine he’d be into either flowers or poetry. Or indulging in a girl’s love of romantic notions. He looks like he snaps his fingers and women come running.

  He eyes me with curiosity, letting his gaze linger for what feels like longer than is polite. I have to look away to escape the intensity of his attention. Part of me wants him to comment on the cookies. People usually rave about my baking. They tell me I should open a bakery. I’d love to, but that won’t be happening anytime soon. I’m a poor college student, not a trust-fund brat like most of the other kids around here.

  An old toolbox lies open by the window. Tools litter the counter. The cabinet under the sink is open with more tools scattered on the floor. It looks like the scene from a house-flipping show. The only thing lacking is a few people swinging sledgehammers. Maybe this guy handles the moving and handyman stuff. I give him a quick, appraising glance and smile inwardly because he certainly looks handy enough.

  “Looks like you’re hard at work.” I cringe a little at my blatantly obvious comment. “I hope there’s not too much to do.” I don’t finish the rest, like how I need the house to be ready so my new prof can (hopefully) help me finish my dreaded math class.

  “Shouldn’t take too long.” He shakes his head with a hint of irritation. “The guy who lived here before must have let things go.”

  The dismissive tone stirs a protective sentiment inside my chest.

  “Dr. Murphy couldn’t help it. He was in his seventies. Recently widowed.” A pang of sadness squeezes my heart as I picture Dr. Murphy shuffling into class, his eyes downcast, his shirt rumpled and tie askew. I wish I’d checked in on him more often. “He was a nice man, but the typical absent-minded professor, I suppose. Plus, the house is pretty old.”

  “It’s going to take a few days to get things shipshape.”

  “You look like you know what you’re doing.”

  “I know exactly what I’m doing.” A flirty glint lights his eyes. “You go to school here?”

  I catch another hint of his scent. It’s masculine and enticing. He’s the worst kind of nice-looking guy, the kind that knows he’s handsome. My mind flashes to the one time I ever crushed on a guy, my senior year in high school. The second he knew I liked him, he and the rest of the stupid football team made my life miserable. When they found out I was a virgin, it got even worse. They had bets running on who’d get to me first.

  “Do you?” he asks, his voice gruff.

  “What?”

  “Go to school here?”

  His tone hints at a tiny bit of disapproval. Some of the townies like to diss the college kids. They don’t like their territory taken over by rich kids. The local guys like to start fights with the frat boys at the town’s three nightclubs on Saturday nights. The Grenville girls will fight too, especially if they think one of the college girls is eyeing their man.

  I’m wondering if he’s going to hold it against me if I admit I’m a student at Grenville.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Just curious.”

  I cross my arms. “I’m a senior.”

  I can tell from his expression he doesn’t care for my response.

  He stiffens and turns away, setting the cookies on the counter. I hear what sounds like a rumble of irritation. I met him two whole minutes ago, gave him cookies that weren’t intended for him and he’s annoyed because I’m a student.

  “What are you studying?” he asks with complete indifference.

  “Art history.”

  He grunts and looks bored. Which makes sense if I think about it. He doesn’t look like the type of man who spends much time in museums.
His oversized physique reminds me of the football players who ruled my high school and made my life hell just a few short years ago. It makes me feel a little better to equate him with those jerks. He probably crushes beer cans against his flawless forehead for amusement. Still, I can’t help admire the way his shirt stretches across his powerful shoulders.

  This is exactly the type of guy Gemma goes for, great big guys. Men who work on cars on Saturday afternoons, and sprawl on the couch on Sundays, yelling at the football game. He crosses his arms and gives me a bland look. I can hardly tear my attention away. His traps flare across the span of his shoulders. I draw a sharp breath, mesmerized by the way his muscles flex and tighten under his shirt.

  Maybe intelligent conversation is overrated.

  He’s the type of guy who prides himself on his skills. My face heats as I try to imagine those skills. I know nothing about skills. I’m too picky. After my first crush turned into a humiliating disaster, I decided to be way more choosy. Anytime I meet a man, I focus on his shortcomings. I think it’s good to have the bar set high. My mother’s married four times because her bar was set low, very low. Basically it all comes down to the man’s net worth.

  She started modeling when she was seventeen, and by modeling, I mean catwalks in New York. By eighteen she was married to husband number one, my father. He promptly ran away with a cover girl. My mother started her career of quick marriages, all of which were followed by long and bitter divorces.

  I’m determined to wait for Mr. Perfect. I’m certain Mr. Perfect would make me feel some sparks. He’d bring me flowers and write me poetry. Ryker’s body has been hewn from a physical and demanding job, and I have to admit he looks pretty fine in his faded jeans. The toolbelt is nice too. For some reason, I can’t stop staring at the way it hangs off his hips. It’s well-worn which makes me think back to his skill set.

  Maybe I should adjust my standards. I’ll graduate in less than two weeks (please God!). Maybe I should have a fling before I leave town and finally know what it’s all about. Just as I indulge in a quick fantasy of Ryker’s work-roughened hands on my naked body, he gives me a look that tells me it’s time for me to leave.