Passionate History

by Libby Waterford

  “God,” he said. She wanted nothing more than to feel him in her mouth, but when she moved to kneel down, he stopped her. “I’ll explode.”

  She wanted him to explode, wanted to make him come fast and hard the way he’d made her come. But he held her wrists tightly in one hand, keeping her upright.

  “We’re going to need a condom,” he grunted.

  She slipped one hand out of his grasp and slid two fingers inside her black lace bra, fished out a square of foil, and handed it to him. She was mesmerized by his perfect lips as he took the packet in his teeth and tore it open.

  Even in the dim light, she could see the wild gleam in his eyes, reflecting her own sense of abandon. She trailed her gaze down, over his chest, smooth and strong under the half unbuttoned shirt, to the dark blond curls from which his erection protruded, straight and thick, straining at the latex of the condom. He held himself away from her, his powerful, lean thighs tensed. Bree braced herself against the desk, spreading her legs and raising her skirt up enough to give him access to her wet core. They looked at one another for one long moment before he plunged into her in one bold, terrifying, blissful stroke, filling her up and then some, taking away her breath with another searing kiss.

  He pumped inside her steadily, and she met him with every stroke, heedless of the desk’s edge biting her backside, or of her precarious balance in those silly heels. All she knew was she loved every second of being consumed by passion from the inside out. She let go and reveled in being really and truly fucked by a man who obviously knew what he was doing, and who was so attracted to her he’d break some rules to do it.

  Just as she started to go up and over the edge once more, Professor Worthy stopped and pulled out. She let out a near growl of frustration then an exclamation of surprise as he twisted her around so her torso was bent over the desk and the front of her thighs met the table’s edge. Air cooled her bare ass as he raised her dress up, his palm grazing each cheek. Bree jumped with the erotic sensation of his hand running along the seam between her legs.

  “So wet,” he murmured.

  He flicked his finger against her clit, and she sighed, melting into the table. Her initial surprise gave way to sheer hunger. She widened her stance, giving him a better view and better purchase from which to claim her. He reached one hand around her waist to anchor her, keeping the other on her ass as he drove into her from behind, the fullness of his cock in this position taking her to orgasm almost immediately. She couldn’t help her cries, but she turned her head and bit her shoulder to keep from being too loud. He panted and moaned behind her. He was close. Her orgasm felt endless, spiraling around and around the longer he thrust into her. He released his hold on her waist and ass and reached forward to cup her breasts, protecting them from the hard surface of the desk. He let out a choked cry, squeezed her nipples, and she knew he was coming as tears sprang to her eyes at the sheer ecstasy of feeling him behind her, in front of her, everywhere, in every pore.

  They breathed together, back to front, for a long minute. Bree could have stayed there forever, pinned to the desk by Professor Worthy’s beautiful cock. But after a while, the ache of her shoes made itself known, and she groaned and shifted. He withdrew from her immediately, and she took her time straightening her dress and turning around, while she heard the noises of zipper and belt. It would be easier to face him if they weren’t half naked.

  Bree supposed she should be embarrassed. But she was elated. He’d been amazing. She’d cherish this memory forever—which meant she had to leave now, while she remained in the haze of kisses and body parts and pleasure.

  Professor Worthy looked at her with a half-sheepish, half-shell-shocked expression on his face. He looked, in fact, like the adorably befuddled professor she’d grown to care about over the last months.

  “That was….”

  “Yeah.” She wanted to tell him how incredible he’d made her feel, but words seemed inadequate. Instead, she closed the distance between them, pressed a long, close-mouthed kiss to his lips. She breathed in the scent of their lovemaking on his skin, mixed with his stodgy aftershave. Then she let him go.

  “Thank you,” she said, and hurried out as gracefully as she could on those stilts.

  Chapter Two

  Five years later

  “Fuck! Let me in—” A horn blared as Bree belatedly hit the turn signal, having crossed three lanes of traffic in ten seconds. “Mass-hole!” she called, cheerful after having made her exit.

  She remembered Massachusetts drivers were absolutely insane, but she’d forgotten how fast the exit for Weston University appeared. It didn’t help she was late and the air conditioning in her crappy rental barely made a dent in the unseasonable May heat. Her dress felt sticky against her back, and her naturally wavy hair, already tangled from the five-hour flight from Seattle, was probably frizzy as hell.

  Too bad she didn’t have time to stop somewhere and freshen up. Her decision to attend her five-year college reunion had been made—as so many of her decisions were—last minute and with the minimum of planning. She didn’t actually have lodging lined up; all the hotels near Weston had been booked for reunion and commencement weekend for months, but she was certain one of her obliging classmates would have room on their hotel couch or, worst-case scenario, on the floor of the dorm room they’d booked out of nostalgia. It wouldn’t be the first floor she’d crashed on, but maybe it would be the last.

  Living in the moment had worked well for her for twenty-six years, but lately, having no plans, no roots, and no prospects had gotten old. She was headed back to Weston for step one of her planning-for-the-future project. In order to apply to graduate school in art history, she required letters of recommendation from her undergraduate professors, and combining the task of soliciting them and seeing some old friends and the campus again was kismet. For days, she’d been unreasonably excited at the prospect of seeing one professor in particular.

  If she could only find a parking place within a mile of the art history department. By the time she parked and trudged up Hill Street, where the quaint wood frame house-turned-department-offices sat on the corner, her minimal makeup had completely melted off, and she was dying for a glass of water. Perpendicular to Hill ran High Street, along which sat the familiar row of brownstone buildings that made up the oldest and most picturesque part of campus. It would be fun to walk up and explore later, but first she had to make an appearance at the art history department cocktails. The reception’s name was left over from a merrier generation, but was now an unfortunate misnomer, as the only refreshments were stale cookies and lukewarm tea provided by the inadequate university catering company. Even so, as parched as she was, tepid tea sounded divine.

  A white tent had been erected behind the building, and a dozen or so students milled about, some shepherding family members. A few clustered around the older, professorial types. Bree spotted Professor Woodlawn, the chair of the department, and the teacher who’d inspired her to become an art history major in the first place, surrounded by a suitably large throng of ex-students coming to pay their respects to the dowager-like professor. Bree looked forward to catching up with the woman, whose grandmotherly appearance hid a tongue as sharp as a razor when a student’s answers were uninformed or dull. But first, the bathroom. She could sneak inside the building and freshen up before the reception ended.

  Blessed air conditioning made her feel ten times better the moment she slipped through the back door. She headed for the powder room she remembered was off the downstairs main hall. Startling, how natural it felt to be back in the building she’d spent so much time in, even though half a decade had passed since she’d last stepped foot in it. She’d traveled across the globe, worked a dozen jobs, met an untold number of people both strange and wonderful, but she had never before felt homesick the way she did walking through the cramped, worn hallway of the art history building on her way to the bathroom. The place smelled like books and dust and microwave popcorn. Who knew she was s
o nostalgic?

  She recalled the hours spent arguing over her thesis with her advisor, Professor Bunmi, the senior seminar where she’d thrown herself into Italian Renaissance painting. Her studies weren’t all she’d thrown herself into. The memory of her last encounter with her senior seminar professor made her grin a bit idiotically. She hadn’t thought about that night in a while, but the memory of her tryst with Professor Worthy always got her pulse racing.

  She found the bathroom unoccupied and used her fingers to do what she could to tame her hair. A splash of cold water on the back of her neck made her feel more human. She exited the bathroom and paused outside, glancing across the hallway to a closed office door. The nameplate beside it hadn’t changed. Aidan Worthy, Associate Professor of European Art. He was still here. Just because the last time she’d seen him he’d been inside her didn’t mean it had to be awkward if they met again.

  The door to Professor Worthy’s office opened. Bree had never run from anything in her life, but she had a sudden, irrational urge to flee fast and hard down the hall. She was granted a momentary reprieve when, instead of a tall, ginger-blond-haired man, a willowy brunette carrying a binder emerged. Bree’s feet were stuck to the threadbare Persian carpet runner.

  “Thanks again, Professor Worthy, I really appreciate it,” the young woman said.

  Bree’s feminine hackles rose at the breathiness in her voice.

  “Of course. E-mail me the recommendation information, and I’ll get to it as soon as I can.”

  His voice took her back more than anything had already. The strong, clear baritone with its soft, Scottish burr had no doubt melted more than one heart during his lectures on Titian or Bronzino.

  The brunette flashed Bree a distracted smile as she came out into the hall. Bree must have looked ridiculous standing there, but even though she shouldn’t have wanted this, it seemed necessary to see him. Professor Worthy followed the woman out, and the hallway suddenly became very small.

  She felt his gaze turn on her and found it imperative to meet it. There was recognition in his eyes. His face, looking largely unchanged since she’d last seen him, seemed to flush. Was he blushing? The idea made her instantly more confident, and she smiled.

  “Bree.”

  He sounded surprised, and who could blame him?

  “Hello, Professor Worthy.” She wanted to grin, she wanted to laugh. Seeing him, hearing him say her name, filled her with an indescribable rush of joy. Almost like skydiving, free and giddy. She wasn’t expecting the sensation, but the endorphins pulsing through her body made her feel alive.

  The other woman was still there, looking at them with a puzzled expression. “Well, I’ll see you,” she said, and slowly walked down the hall, leaving them alone.

  Professor Worthy nodded absently, and Bree continued to smile. His dumbstruck response to her appearance gratified her.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked.

  “I’m here for my reunion. Five years. Remember?” She moved her gaze, peering into the office behind him. He still had the ground-floor office, the least desirable one. But though he was no longer the newest addition to the department, she was glad he hadn’t moved. The space was familiar, the overfull bookshelves and general air of messiness, the comfortable armchair and a few splendid original artworks sprinkled here and there.

  “Of course,” he said stiffly.

  Now they were alone, Bree was more conscious of her appearance. A hairbrush would have been nice. Oh well.

  “I’m glad I ran into you,” she said.

  “Are you?” he asked.

  Did she detect a note of wariness in his voice? Would he hold their little rendezvous against her and refuse to write her a recommendation? “Um, yes. I’m planning to apply to some master’s programs, and I wondered if you would write me a letter of recommendation. If it wouldn’t be too much trouble.”

  Professor Worthy’s lips turned down. Maybe she’d made a mistake by leading with business. But how else was she supposed to ask him?

  “Very well. Why don’t you step into my office and we can discuss it?”

  “Now?”

  “No time like the present, Bree.” Something in his attractively accented voice made her shiver. Just the air conditioning on her sweaty skin, she told herself.

  Suggesting they go into his office was a mistake. Aidan realized it as the words came out of his mouth, but where else would they have some privacy? He took up his usual seat on the battered office chair behind his desk. She sat in the only other chair whose seat wasn’t piled high with books. Yes, the desk was his shield. Until he remembered he’d bent her over that very piece of furniture and pumped into her from behind. Aidan’s brain suddenly drained of all coherent thought as he relived the moment in an instant. He shook his head and tried to grab on to something real, something in the present. He saw the date on the calendar on his desk. Almost five years to the day since he’d had sex with one of his students, and here she was, out of thin air, to bring back the memory he both cherished and reviled every time it passed through his consciousness.

  He focused on the girl in front of him. No, she was a woman now. Her face was more angular than it had been at twenty-one, but still utterly ravishing, with the rich auburn hair that had bewitched him for a semester before he’d at last been able to feel it for himself, and long, creamy legs barely covered by her flimsy sundress. She looked rumpled and sticky and utterly fuckable. There he went again—when it came to Bree, his normally well-ordered, disciplined mind headed straight for the gutter.

  He needed to say something, but she’d apparently given up waiting for him. “Professor Worthy, I appreciate your time. I—”

  “Would you please call me Aidan?” Every time she called him professor it made him feel like a hideous pervert.

  “Um, sure.” But he noticed she didn’t actually say his name as she went on. “I recently decided to apply to some graduate programs. Most of the deadlines aren’t until the fall, but I thought I’d kill two birds and get my recs lined up while I’m here for the reunion. I rushed in from Logan, but I wanted to get to the reception. Maybe I should go back out there. I want to see Professor Woodlawn and Professor Bunmi as well.”

  “Sarrah Bunmi is no longer with the department. She got a job at Dartmouth last year. We’re interviewing candidates to replace her.”

  “Oh, how disappointing,” she said, frown lines marring her forehead.

  He hated to see her unhappy. “I’m sure I can find her contact information for you.” His offer was rewarded with a brilliant smile.

  “That would be helpful, thanks.”

  “It’s nothing,” he said, feeling like an inept teen when faced with the homecoming queen asking him for help with her algebra homework. Not that he knew anything about math. Bad analogy.

  “So which programs are you interested in?” he asked, trying to stay on track and forget how soft her skin had felt under his hands.

  “I haven’t done a ton of research yet, but I’m interested in Berkeley and UCLA. And I’m looking at credentialing programs.”

  “Do you want to be a teacher?”

  “I’m not sure,” she said, looking serious again. “I’ve spent the last five years flitting about. The only thing I’m certain of at the moment is I need a goal to work toward. I want a career I can be passionate about. I haven’t ever felt as fulfilled as when I was right back here…studying great art and the people and cultures who engendered it.”

  It would be so easy to read into her words, but she seemed genuinely calm and matter-of-fact about running into him. Of course, she’d known she was coming here; she was prepared to see him. Or perhaps their encounter hadn’t meant much to her at all, so she could come back and play everything cool. Maybe she didn’t even remember what had happened between them.

  He remembered every second of that extraordinary, improbable night.

  Still, a long time had passed since they had last been together. She could be married. Best to kee
p things professional.

  “I’m happy to help with a recommendation. Have you considered Weston’s graduate program? It’s small, but it might offer the learning environment you are seeking.”

  “I haven’t looked at it very closely. Another item on my to-do list while I’m here.”

  Silence fell. Surely that was bad. Bree stood up, startling him out of his reverie. He’d been staring at her legs. Did she own nothing but insubstantial sundresses?

  She walked over to the bookcase, and he had a curious sense of déjà vu. She stopped in front of the little cat idol. Aidan held his breath. But instead of stroking its head, she turned back to him.

  “Well, I better get going. I want to catch Professor Woodlawn. I really appreciate your time. Can I e-mail you?”

  “Of course.” Yes, she’d leave and his world would go back to normal. Ordered and proper and dull. Everything would be fine.

  Chapter Three

  On Saturday, the humidity that made the day sweltering and uncomfortable had turned the night air chilly and damp. Though going on nine o’clock, the lights from campus reflected off low clouds. They covered the sky like a ceiling, encapsulating the campus in a silver-gray bubble.

  The metaphor comforted Bree as she trudged across the north end of campus. She’d had a long day on little sleep, and since most of the seniors and visitors were gathering on the green for the all-school dance, she was alone as she walked between the centuries-old graveyard and the relatively new freshman dorm. Both were dark and silent.

  After leaving Professor Worthy’s—Aidan’s—office the day before, she’d managed to find Professor Woodlawn and pay her respects then tracked down her friend Lena, who’d given her the couch in her cramped hotel room. She’d slept long but poorly, and spent the morning in search of a decent cup of coffee and preparing for a meeting with the admissions officer in charge of graduate students. It had been bracing to hear what she’d need to do in order to apply for the few spots open for the following fall in the art history master’s program. She’d known Weston had one, but Professor Worthy’s reminder had gotten her thinking. The program offered exactly what she was looking for. It would be silly to discount it because she’d been here as an undergraduate. Wasn’t stability what she was seeking these days?