Joy Ride: A Virgin Romance (Let it Ride Book 3)

by Cynthia Rayne

  I saw him for the very first time. The scar on his chest. Van Gogh’s A Starry Night tattoo down the length of his right arm. I wanted to trace the moonlight swirls with my fingertips.

  Yes, I’d barely scratched the surface of this man.

  Even if we were together a hundred years, I doubt I’d ever really know him. He kept me on guard, off-kilter.

  Ian knelt beside me on the bed. His cock was long, thick, and wine-dark. This was the first time I’d seen a dick in real life. I’d seen pictures, of course, and felt one pressed against my hip before.

  “Can I?” I lifted a hand toward him and watched in wonder as his cock lifted toward me of its own accord, as though it longed for my touch.

  “You can stroke me anywhere you like.”

  I wrapped my fingers around him, marveling at how he was so firm, yet the skin felt silky smooth. After I pumped him for a bit, a pearled drop appeared at the top of his shaft.

  “Taste me, pet. I need your mouth.”

  I bent my head and licked it away—he tasted like salted caramel on my tongue. With his encouragement, I lapped the length of him, occasionally taking the tip into my mouth.

  Ian groaned.

  While my technique left a lot to be desired, Ian seemed to appreciate my enthusiasm, if his grunts were any indication. I let the sounds he made guide my movements and did my best to pleasure him.

  “Fuck, I can’t wait anymore.” Ian pushed me back on the bed, placing himself between my spread legs. “Are you ready?” He kissed me, ran his hands down the length of my body, cupping my ass.

  “Yes.”

  “Good.” After he put on a condom, Ian eased the head of his cock into me, leisurely at first, letting me get used to the size of him. Fingers were nothing compared to his size and girth, and I gritted my teeth.

  Sharing my body with another person was a strange feeling, a fullness. I suppose there’s an element of submission in lovemaking, a giving of oneself to another.

  Ian arched, and I cupped his face. He kissed my fingertips, and we smiled at one another. I’d never been more connected to him.

  The sensation changed, the fullness became pressure, and the pressure became resistance. My breath hitched when he thrust forward in a delicious rasping motion, making me arch my back.

  My head lolled to the side, and I closed my eyes because the sensation was so intense. I floated on the verge of an orgasm, so close I could sense it, like a wave on the horizon, ready to roll me beneath the water.

  And I wanted more—so much more.

  “I need you to come for me.” He spoke through gritted teeth. I could tell Ian was on edge, too.

  I slipped a hand between my legs, just above where Ian pumped away, and circled my clit, coaxing myself. In a second, the ripples began, and I moaned in response. With a cry, I let the release take me.

  After Ian came, he collapsed beside me on the bed.

  ***

  Later on, we lounged beneath the covers. We’d made love two more times. I couldn’t get enough of him. He trailed fingertips over the line of my collarbone, down between the swell of my breasts.

  The candles had burned down quite a bit. Coldplay’s “A Sky Full of Stars” played in the background.

  “Well, did it live up to the hype?”

  “Absolutely.” I’d never be the same again.

  “Fair warning—I’m very tactile.”

  I chuckled. “So I see.”

  “Tell me more about you, Darcy.”

  “I don’t know…”

  “Come on, open up to me.”

  I frowned. “I’m not good at letting people in.” My family had high standards—insanely high. “As a kid, I learned to keep my mouth shut, or invite criticism.” And I didn’t let anyone see my insecurity.

  “Try me. I won’t be critical.”

  Over the past few weeks, we’d gotten closer and closer. I suppose it was time to let my guard down.

  “Let’s see. Everyone in my family’s exceptional.” I gave him the rundown of their accomplishments.

  “I think we found the source of your panic attacks.”

  I laughed without much humor. “I can’t keep up with any of them. When I get an A, it should’ve been an A-plus. If I make it into an honor society, I should’ve applied to a couple more. Nothing I do is ever enough. They focus on ways I could improve, and never notice what I do well—it’s a lot of pressure.”

  And that was probably why I imposed high standards on the people around me—my friends, for example.

  He kissed my shoulder. “I never thought to ask, Darcy. Do you actually want to be a professor? Or did your parents push you into it?”

  I hesitated. “It’s a complicated question.”

  “No, it isn’t. At the end of the day, you’re the one who’s going to be teaching classes and grading papers for the rest of your life.”

  “I suppose.” But I didn’t want to discuss my dysfunctional family.

  “Seriously, though. Have you considered other options?”

  “Well, I wrote a book.” I blurted it out before I thought better of telling him.

  “You did? How come you didn’t tell me sooner?”

  “Because I showed it to my father, and he said I have no talent.”

  He snorted. “Maybe your dad’s jealous?”

  “Why? He’s more accomplished.”

  “And apparently insecure.”

  I couldn’t argue with his logic.

  “Let me read it. Please?” he asked.

  Writing was an intensely personal activity— a little bit of myself on every page. Letting someone read my book is a bit like handing over a piece of my heart. In fact, many writers called their manuscripts “book babies” because so much time, effort, and love went into their design. At this point, I hadn’t even let any of the girls read it.

  But I trusted Ian, felt close to him. Maybe because he was an artist, so he understood where I came from.

  “Okay, I’ll email you the manuscript tonight. Word of warning—it’s a full-blown romance.”

  “I’m not surprised. It’s your genre of choice.”

  “And the book’s racy.” While I’d written suggestive scenes in the short stories he’d read, there’d never been more than kissing and some flirtation. There were several full-blown, highly descriptive sex scenes.

  “Now I really want to read it.” His voice dipped lower.

  I hit him with a pillow.

  “Can I ask you something?” Ian rolled over, so we were face to face.

  “Anything.”

  “Would you still fancy me if I weren’t a professor?”

  “What do you mean?” This conversation had taken a sudden, serious turn.

  “The department chair has been hinting around about our relationship.”

  “He’s going to fire you?” I sat up in bed.

  “No, Walter doesn’t have any proof, just innuendo.” He enfolded me in his arms, so my head rested on his chest, and smoothed my hair. “So there’s nothing to worry about—for now, anyway.”

  “And what about tenure? Your plan for the future?”

  “What if I took a sabbatical? Maybe just the summer?”

  “You want to paint again?”

  “I’m thinking about it.”

  “For the record—it’s a fantastic idea.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Why are you so worried about taking up art again?”

  “It can be…liberating. That’s not always a good thing.”

  “You equate freedom with lack of control, don’t you?”

  Ian nodded. “Everything came to a head—I discovered myself as an artist, I had my first manic episode, and then my life went to pot.”

  “It’s only natural you’d be wary.”

  “Perhaps. And what about you?”

  “What about me?”

  “Darcy, you wrote a novel, and it deserves to be published.”

  “You haven’t even read it yet.”

 
“No, but I’m familiar with your work, and I know you have talent.”

  I sighed. “Maybe.”

  “So you never answered my question. Would you still fancy me?”

  “I don’t know. You’d be a handsome artist with a sexy accent.” I frowned, pretending to think about it.

  “Don’t forget—I’d also be a wealthy man of leisure.”

  I snickered. “Sounds like code for a gigolo.”

  “I’ll show you a gigolo!” Ian grabbed me, and I squealed in delight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Ian

  “Class, please turn to Byron’s poem ‘The Corsair.’”

  They paged through their textbooks to the right passage, while I tried to appear composed, but it wasn’t easy.

  Sod it all—I’m hard. Again.

  Over the past few weeks, I’d taught Darcy a little too well, if I did say so myself. I’d had Darcy dozens of times and so many different ways, but it hadn’t cooled my lust. We’d been sneaking around—romantic dinners far away from campus, creeping back to my flat during the day to make love. And in public, we were proper and professional.

  Yes, having a secret affair was exciting but also damned inconvenient.

  Like when I lectured to a classroom full of impressionable students, whilst trapped behind the lectern because I’d gone hard. Even the thought of fucking her got me aching and thick. My cock stood at full attention, pressing against the opening of my tweed trousers. And I was working on a set of blue balls.

  Bloody hell.

  I couldn’t even concentrate. Who knew if my prattle made any sort of sense? I just gawked at her legs, thinking about them wrapped around my waist.

  Women had it easier—they could hide their desire between dimpled thighs, while I tried not to end up as fodder for the campus gossip mill. Or worse—an anecdote in the university police blotter.

  That’s when I realized my students were silent, watching me with interest. Darcy smothered a snicker with the back of her hand.

  I cleared my throat. “Mr. Archibald, please read Canto I aloud.”

  His classmates groaned. Excellent. Archibald was a pillock, and it should take him ages to finish. Since the class’s attention had been sidetracked, I could focus on Darcy.

  I should feel guilty. After all, I’m poor excuse for a professor. I was supposed to be educating the leaders of the future, or whatever twaddle they put on admissions brochures. Teaching should be serious business, one requiring careful consideration.

  Instead of concentrating on my sacred duty, the short skirt Darcy wore mesmerized me—the subtle way the hem slid up her thigh, the teasing glimpse of skin she offered me now and then.

  She sat in the front row, and I felt the weight of her stare—down deep in the marrow of my bones. And everywhere else.

  As a result, I was off my game, unfocused, a little dazed. Scenes from her book keep flooding my thoughts—the twelfth chapter, in particular. I hadn’t missed the symbolism of the pairing—an older man’s love affair with a younger woman.

  At my request, Darcy had added a few pieces to her wardrobe. Darcy didn’t have much in the way of lingerie. She’d said it made her feel silly, not sexy—but she couldn’t be more wrong. But I wanted to see her in an actual uniform. The schoolgirl look was scrummy.

  Quite pervy, really, but there you have it.

  For a moment, I thought of taking her on my desk. I pictured her writhing—skirt tossed up, arse in the air, squirming as I put my bell end into her. Or placing Darcy on her knees, coaxing my cock into her mouth, and holding on to the back of her hair.

  She’d driven me insane. And the little minx knew it, too. Darcy casually sucked the end of her pen, watching me from beneath her lashes.

  I’m in hell, and she’s the devil.

  Somehow, I survived the torture, and class ended. The students filed out, far too slow for my liking. It was all I could do to keep from shouting. I had a reputation for being difficult, but they’d think I was daft if I made a scene.

  “I need to see you for a moment, Ms. James.” Darcy tried to sail out the door with the rest, but I snagged her arm.

  “Of course, Dr. Sterling.”

  Then I locked the door, shut the blinds, and pushed her into the far corner of the room.

  “You’re driving me mad.” I pressed her against the wall, my throbbing cock surged against her soft belly. “I can’t think of anything but you.”

  “Really?”

  “What are you wearing under there?” I slid a hand up her thigh.

  “Why don’t you find out?” She turned a delightful crimson. There was the barest hint of shyness left. How charming.

  “Such a tease.” But I encountered bare skin—nothing else.

  Oh, fuck it all. She isn’t wearing knickers.

  “What a naughty girl you are.” Just as I suspected, she was wet—my fingertips were dewy.

  “I don’t do lingerie, but I thought this would be the next best thing.”

  “No, pet, this is even better.” I slipped two fingers deep inside her. And, oh yes, she dropped for me.

  Darcy moaned.

  “Hush now. Don’t make a sound.” I dragged a student desk closer to us and bent her over it.

  “What are you doing?” Darcy craned her neck to look at me. Her eyes were wide and wary.

  “What do you think, pet?”

  “Here? You can’t be serious.”

  “But I am. The door’s locked; your classmates are long gone. And I can’t take any more teasing.” Truthfully, I knew this could be a mistake. Anyone could hear us, but I couldn’t help myself.

  I flipped her skirt up, squeezing her lovely little bum. I loved the hint of softness. Darcy had a thin build, but she was womanly where it counted.

  Then I unzipped, freeing my cock. In a second, I lunged inside her—pumping. Darcy pushed her hips back against me—we were moving as one. Her sex was humid, drenching me like a warm summer rainstorm—lush and wet and everything I craved. Groaning, Darcy ground her pelvis against me—on the verge of coming.

  With a wail, she let loose, and I came soon after.

  ***

  Much later, when I got back to my office, I found an email from Walter waiting for me. The subject line read: My Office.

  “Well, that can’t be good.”

  Stomach churning, I clicked it. I need to see you before the end of the day.

  Bollocks.

  What the fuck had possessed me earlier? What if someone had seen us? Or heard?

  There was no use in second-guessing myself now. Might as well face Walter and get this over with.

  I marched down the hall and knocked on Walter’s office door.

  “Come in.”

  “Ian, have a seat, I’ll be with you in a moment.” I found him on the computer. His tone had been cool, but not harsh.

  “Maybe I should return at a more convenient time?”

  “You’ll meet with me now.”

  “Fine.” I crossed my arms over my chest and leaned back in the chair, not even bothering to hide my impatience.

  This was a huge waste of time. My time.

  Hadn’t I wasted enough of my time already? I’d spent ten years doing a job I enjoyed but didn’t love. Teaching never filled me with joy, gave me a sense of purpose. Not like painting had.

  As I waited, I thought of all the things I could be doing now—cleaning my brushes, planning a new painting. Making love to Darcy again.

  I needed to paint.

  Every time I close my eyes, I imagined standing in front of a blank canvas, a hint of turpentine in the air, a sleek sable brush gliding through the glossy smears on my palette.

  “Ian, some concerns about your work have come to my attention.”

  “Oh?”

  Once again, I didn’t jump to my own defense. It appeared Walter had been busy conducting a witch-hunt. My academic contract was just about up. He’d have the summer months to recruit and hire a replacement.

  “You
r colleagues mentioned you’ve been distracted. Students said you’ve been late returning their homework.”

  Had Walter dragged them all into his office, searching for performance issues?

  “Well? What do you have to say for yourself?”

  That was it—I’d finally had enough.

  “Bugger off.”

  “How dare you speak to me in such a disrespectful manner? I should fire you on the spot.”

  “Don’t bother—I quit.” I stood.

  “Excuse me?”

  “And we both know firing me is an empty threat. The English department is down one professor due to maternity leave. There are three weeks left in this semester. Hiring someone new takes months—you couldn’t even get the human resources paperwork done in time.”

  He glowered but didn’t contradict me. “Don’t even think of asking me for a reference.”

  “Not a problem, since I never intend to work for a university again.”

  I waltzed to the door with a big grin on my face. Why hadn’t I done this years ago?

  “What are you going to do?”

  “Tonight? I’m going to knock off early, grab a pint, and then spend my second-to-last paycheck at an art supply store.” I fired off a mocking little salute. “Toodle pip, mate.”

  And I left the room a free man.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Darcy

  “So, you’re officially a gigolo?”

  “No, I’m a man of leisure,” Ian corrected me with a smirk. “Although if you’d like to stuff pound notes down my trousers, I’ve no objection. If you like, I’ll front you the dosh.”

  I giggled. “Maybe later.”

  After he quit, Ian had called me. I’d rushed over to his place with a couple bottles of Guinness and some Chinese food to cheer him up. After making short work of the beer and fried rice, we sat on his couch together.

  “I’ll hold you to it.” He kissed my forehead.

  “Sure you’re okay?” For someone who’d just become unemployed, he was in a great mood.

  “Better—I’m chuffed to bits. Today, I took a stand for my art.” He cocked a brow. “Perhaps you should try it.”

  I envied Ian.

  Of course, it’s one thing to contemplate an idea, but putting it into action was the hard part. And getting a book published required a lot of work and rejection along the way. I’d have to write a synopsis, a cover letter, and then send it out to agents, along with the first three chapters. Although I had no guarantee anyone would even read it.