Professed

At a secret masked ball at Yale, Naomi Costa is literally swept off her stiletto-blistered feet by a man with a killer jawline, a perfect body, and an even-better kiss. They bust out of an emergency exit and have axis-shaking sex. He pours whiskey in her belly button and after they run out of condoms, they have to get creative. That kind of sex.                                                                                                                                                                     The next day, she learns that he is none other than Dr. Benjamin Beck, a brand new member of the Yale faculty and the hottest thing to happen to academia since… well, ever. She has to take his damned junior seminar to graduate, but it gets worse. He’s also her College Master: her boss, her advisor, her everything. And he’s just moved in, right downstairs.                                                                                                                                                 They can’t stay away from each other. They're either fusion or fission or both. They’re making out in libraries, hiding notes between stones, and sneaking off to nautically themed AirBnbs. Hear that sound? It’s the academic code of ethics going up in flames.                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                                              

   If they're found out, he’ll lose his job and his reputation. She'll lose her scholarship and be forced to return to the life of lobster fishing that she thought she’d escaped.

And they will be found out, yes they will.

So what the hell are they going to do? 

***

To the reader: Things get damned dirty in this book. The characters curse, the sex gets explicit. It’s an erotic love story with fury. Be advised.

Other tasters’ notes: HEA. Sweet. Funny. Dirty. Muddy. Wet. Inspired by a real professor.

 

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ONE: 

I need to drink whiskey from that belly button. Screw every other idea I've ever had. Jack Daniels. Belly button. Naomi. That’s the only fucking philosophical logic I will ever need.

She’s still on the heels of her orgasm, and I want to leave her there just like she is, but I have to take her with me. I have to keep her close. I hook my head under her bound wrists and take her off the bed to bring her with me as we kiss—because I cannot stop kissing her, will not stop kissing her. With my hand behind me, I fling open the minibar and fumble around blind. Chips, nuts, pretzels, what is that, a roll of Mentos?

Jack Daniels, where the hell are you?

Grabbing what feels like the right little bottle, I turn to look down. Gin. I toss it towards the desk. Second try, and bingo. I've got it.

But I’m going to have to let go of her to open this damned bottle. Proof that the world is an unfair and unkind place. It’ll have to be done. I let go of her face, and it makes her moan, but she doesn’t pull away. Instead, she grips onto the back of my neck with my tie and hangs on even tighter through the kiss.

As I crack the lid, her eyes widen, inches from mine. I feel her cheeks rise as she smiles. With one last dip into her mouth, I force myself to break the kiss, ducking down to get my head out from under her bound arms.

We stand there staring at one another for an instant. Her pupils dilate, and that’s when I press her to the bed. “Hope you’re not ticklish.”

Even as she lands with a cushy thunk on the mattress, she’s giving me that all-trouble smile. She scoots back towards the pillows, her long black hair a gorgeous tangle behind her, the same color as my tie. There’s a tan line at her stomach, and it’s killing me.

“So ticklish. But I can take it.”

        I lie down at a right angle to her body, with my cheek to her stomach. I can smell her wetness in the air and on my fingers.

        “Ready?” I ask. I sink my cheek deeper into her skin. God, this skin. God damn, this superfine skin. I tip the bottle towards her stomach.

“Ready,” she says. I feel her whole body quiver. The ticklish before the tickle is the agony of agonies.

When the whiskey hits her, she grips my hair tight. For one second, I resist all temptation: I watch it all unfold. The whiskey shivers, her body shivers, and then the shivers come out as a jagged gasp.

I lick it off, and she squirms and sucks air through her teeth. I suck it from her and growl into her body. Her feet hook around my calves. I move to her nipples, dribble on a few drops and smear them around with my tongue. I move to that perfect little depression at the base of her neck. Straight-up Naomi. Fucking heaven. Her skin, that hair, her sounds, the way her body moves under my mouth? Lemonade, when it’s too hot for anything else? I can still feel my first orgasm deep in my cock, but I’m hard again. She’s not only wrecked all my philosophies. She’s turned me into a goddamned teenager.

        I grab a condom, from my wallet this time, and tear it open. “We’re going to need more of these.”

        But she shakes her head into the pillows. She holds my stare as she slides her hands all over her body, red polish on porcelain. “Put it here. Put it everywhere.”

Christ. It’s official. I've been pussywhipped in record time.

And I don’t even know her last name.

TWO: 

 Dean Osgood’s voice fills the room. He always talks too loud for the space, always. I notice it’s getting hot in here, and a little stuffy. Late August, and all the linen and sports jackets and menopausal hot flashes.
            Everybody’s eyes still off of me, I grab the second puff and jam it in my mouth.
             “Just wanted to say a few words to welcome our new Master,” Osgood says. Compulsory pause. Hand to God, he must practice this stuff in front of a mirror. “So I present to you all, with greatest delight and excitement, Professor Benjamin Beck.”
            I pay no attention. I turn away so nobody sees me chewing while I pretend to gather up napkins from the coffee table. That’s when I hear a voice, his voice, that voice, saying, “Please, Dean, call me Ben.”
            I freeze. Slowly, with little shuffles of my Danskos, I turn around and stop chewing.
            It’s him.
            It’s Ben. He’s in a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.
            It’s Ben. Ben is the Master.
            I fucked the Master.
            No, the Master fucked me.
            Hard.
            Perfectly.     
            Oh shit. Oh shit!

            He hasn’t seen me yet. Oh, sweet Jesus, God above. What if I just ran out the French doors right now, just bolted across the quad and locked myself in my room? Lucy could bring me food. I could say I’m in quarantine. My professors could send me everything by email! I’d never have to face him. He’d never have to know.
            Except I can’t. I can’t take my eyes off him. And there’s nowhere to go. My mouth is full of artichoke cream, I’m in the crush of bodies, pinned next to the curve of the grand piano. I’m stuck, staring. At Ben.
            Just the sight of him makes my whole body tighten, and I can literally feel myself getting wet. Let me feel you, beautiful. Let me feel it.
            Osgood raises his glass and says, “Join me in our traditional Durham toast…”
            At that moment, Ben’s eyes fall right on me.
             His face says, Holy shit. 
             I clutch my cocktail tray. Oh God. What have we done?
            All the fellows echo back, “Welcome, Master Beck!”
            Ohhhhh. No.

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Nicola Rendell writes dirty, funny, erotic romance. She likes a stiff drink and a well-frosted cake. She is at an unnamed Ivy and prefers to remain mostly anonymous for professional reasons. She has a PhD in English and an MFA in Creative Writing from schools that shall not be named here. She loves to cook, sew, and play the piano. She realizes that her hobbies might make her sound like an old lady and she’s totally okay with that. She lives with her husband and her dogs. She is from Taos, New Mexico.

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