Scandalous: A Filthy Office Romance

by Lola Darling

  I really don’t have time for this, but I sigh and point up the corridor toward my own office. “I can give you five minutes.”

  Harper

  Do the right thing, Harper.

  I stand outside the office of the registrar, my heart torn in two. I really, really wanted to take this class. But there’s no way I can sit through his lectures knowing what happened between us. Especially when he obviously doesn’t realize. That much was clear from the way he gave me a blank look in class.

  I don’t know why that bothers me. It’s better like this. I’ll drop the course, find another class to replace it. It’ll set me back a semester at home, because I was supposed to fulfill my poetry requirement here, but better that than getting myself embroiled in yet another mess.

  This one would be the worst yet. Worse than my TA, worse than the time I accidentally slept with my mother’s new boss (who, in my defense, is a lot younger than she is).

  Hey, you survived those, I tell myself. That gives me the courage to push open the door to the registrar.

  That’s when voices catch my attention. Raised voices, coming from another office a few doors down. One voice that I recognize. “Screw the bloody curriculum.”

  I can’t help it. I creep closer to the open door, one eye on the empty hallway around me. Ignore it. Turn around, go into the registrar. Drop the class. My brain fires all kinds of helpful, sensible, non-stalkerish suggestions at me.

  Naturally, I ignore them all.

  If someone comes by, I’ll leave. But the hallway remains empty, and anyway, Professor Kingston’s next words freeze me to the spot. “Never before seen work. From Eliot himself.”

  No. Freaking. Way.

  The words themselves practically make me nerdgasm on the spot. Another student passes by, shooting me a weird look as she walks around me into the registrar’s office. I completely ignore her, and tiptoe closer to the open office. Dean something-or-other is written on the door. I listen to their whole conversation, my heart beating faster with every word Jack says—and not with lust this time.

  Well, with some lust. But mostly of the holy shit, I need to get that research position variety. This could totally make my undergraduate career. I can already see my faculty advisor back home salivating over the thesis I could write on this.

  So when Jack—Professor Kingston, I mentally correct myself—backs into the hallway, I don’t do the smart thing. I don’t run. I stand there, take a deep breath, and let him nearly run straight into me. He’s taller than me, I now notice. A lot taller. Almost a foot—I know I’m short at 5’5”, but wow.

  Emotions flicker across his even-hotter-close-up face—anger, surprise, recognition—and then he seems to settle into mild annoyance, even after I manage to ask to speak to him.

  Five minutes. I can totally explain this and plead my case within five minutes, right?

  He leads me down the hallway into his office, a cramped but surprisingly homey room, the walls lined with huge, dusty old leather-backed tomes, and a massive mahogany desk commanding my attention the moment I step inside. My traitor imagination immediately notes how the desk is perfectly positioned at waist-height, just begging for someone to be bend over it …

  My face flushes, and I swallow hard. Stop it. This is exactly the kind of thinking I need to cut the hell out.

  It doesn’t help that he’s standing right next to me, close enough that I can feel the heat from his body. I know that if I meet his intense gaze again, I’ll lose all my nerve. So I focus on the desk instead, and try to ignore it when he squeezes past me, and his arm brushes my shoulder. Fire ignites along my whole side, and my breath catches as I remember the way his arms circled me last night, pulling me against him, so firm, completely in control.

  Meanwhile, he’s refusing to meet my eyes too. Does he remember? Does he recognize me somehow?

  I clear my throat. Doesn’t matter. I need to come clean, and somehow convince him to let me into that seminar.

  “Well?” he asks, and we lock eyes finally. Yep. Intimidating as crap to stare into those deep, dark eyes—almost honey from close up, with the sun shining in them through the window. A lock of his dark hair falls across his forehead, and my fingers itch to run through it again.

  All my carefully planned speeches fly straight out of my head.

  “I have a confession to make,” is all I can think to say.

  Apparently it’s enough. His eyebrows shoot skyward, and from the way the color drains from his face, I’m guessing he’s recognized my voice after all. Or my choice of wording.

  “Dear god.”

  “I wasn’t going to say anything,” I babble, my words practically tripping over themselves in my rush to explain. “I was going to just drop the class, because, I mean, obviously that would be the right thing to do, given the, um, the circumstances, but I accidentally overheard you talking to the dean about the Eliot thing and I’m planning to write my thesis on him next year; I would do anything to help you with those papers, please, I really need this.” By the time I reach the end of that little meltdown, I’m out of breath.

  On the bright side, color returned to his face while I was talking. On the down side, now he’s just straight up scowling at me, his jaw clenched.

  “You told me you were just visiting for the day,” he says, after a pause so long I nearly sweat through my shirt.

  “I know. I didn’t know who you were or I swear I would never have … I mean … ” His glare makes the words die on my tongue. I clear my throat to force the block out of it. “It will never happen again, professor.”

  “Damn right, it won’t. And if you think I’m going to give you favors because of what happened—”

  “No, of course not, I’m not asking for favors, I—”

  “You just told me you lied to get into my pants last night, and now you’re asking me to let you work on a project that you only know exists because you eavesdropped on a private conversation, and you don’t see the conflict of interest there?”

  I grimace. This all sounded a lot more convincing in my head. “Just consider me. Please. I’ll do anything.” I pause, realizing how that sounds. “No, I mean, not like that, I … ”

  He heaves a sigh, and for a second the angry facade drops. I catch a glimpse of the guy I met last night underneath. Overworked, frustrated. Passionate, in desperate need of a release. His eyes catch mine, bore straight into me, and I forget to breathe. He can pin me in place without even touching me. “I’ll consider you in the same way I plan to consider every student in your class. No more, no less. Impress me with the Heaney essay due this week, and then maybe—maybe—we’ll talk about Eliot.”

  Hope and fear war in my chest. Our lecture has about fifty students in it. Most of whom will want this research gig as bad as I do.

  But as bad as I am at managing my love life, I’m stellar at academia. Poetry is what I write, live, breathe. I can do this. I raise my chin and smile at him, our eyes still locked, my face hot from the sensation of his eyes on me.

  “I won’t let you down,” I say. Right before I turn around and flee the office. Best get out of here before he can think better of this second chance.

  Besides, I’ve got a paper to knock out of the park.

  To be continued…

  Harper and Jack’s sexy story is just getting started. TEACHER’S PET is available now!

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  I’ve never fucked a woman who didn’t lie.

  Not to me. When I’m grinding eight inches deep up against your G-spot, you can bet you won’t have the mind to remember your own name. No, I’m talking about the next guy. And everyone who’s unlucky enough to come after me.

  “That’s right, baby. You’re the best.”

  “Nobody’s ever gone so deep.”<
br />
  And this one, the classic. The biggest fucking whopper to ever cross a woman’s lips:

  “Size doesn’t matter. It’s what you do with it that counts.”

  Right, love. Say that again with a straight face once I’ve stretched you so wide, you’re begging me to stop and screaming for more, all in the same goddamn breath.

  Go on, I dare you.

  We’ve all got our secrets, but it just happens to be my job to figure yours out. I’m the best in the business, and I never back down.

  But this case is different. This girl is different.

  I don’t just want her secrets. I want everything.

  1

  Jase

  I’ve never fucked a woman who didn’t lie.

  Not to me. When I’m grinding eight inches deep up against your G-spot, you can bet you won’t have the mind to remember your own name. No, I’m talking about the next guy. And everyone who’s unlucky enough to come after me.

  “That’s right, baby. You’re the best.”

  “Nobody’s ever gone so deep.”

  And this one, the classic. The biggest fucking whopper to ever cross a woman’s lips:

  “It’s OK. Size doesn’t matter. It’s what you do with it that counts.”

  Right, love. Say that again with a straight face once I’ve stretched you so wide, you’re begging me to stop and screaming for more, all in the same goddamn breath.

  Go on, I dare you.

  So yeah, all women lie. I don’t hold it against you, because men do it, too. We’ve all got our secrets, but it just happens to be my job to figure yours out.

  Like this girl. I met her at the bar ten minutes ago, licking martini olives like she wanted me imagining her wet mouth wrapped around my cock.

  Mission accomplished.

  Now she’s braced against the wall in the alley outside with her skirt shoved up around her waist and my cock pounding into her hard from behind.

  “Don’t stop. Oh God, please don’t stop!” She’s grinding back against me, out of control with my hand rubbing her clit just right and the other gripping one of those juicy tits to keep the pace.

  “Harder,” the girl begs, her face crushed against the wall. “Fuck me hard!”

  With pleasure.

  I pound relentlessly, sending her body crashing into the wall with the impact of my thrusts. But she just moans and begs for more. I knew from the minute I laid eyes on her she needed it rough and dirty. It’s why I took that seat beside her, over every other hot, willing woman in the bar. Sure, I could have had any one of them on their knees in a heartbeat, sucking me off like their life depended on it. Or maybe two of them back at my place, for a little three-way action. Double the pussy, double the fun.

  But one look at this girl, and I knew all her deepest, darkest secrets.

  She wants to feel it, every last thrust.

  And lucky for her, I’m in the mood to fuck.

  “You like that, baby?” I fist her hair and yank hard, arching her body back to meet me. All she can do is whimper, but she doesn’t need to say a word. Her clenching cunt is all the answer I need.

  Besides, that sweet mouth has done nothing but lie since the moment we met.

  She said she was a student at the college nearby, just having a fun night out with friends. She thinks I didn’t notice the pale band of skin on her wedding finger, or that happy couple background pic on her phone.

  She’s wrong.

  I notice everything. I see right through you. It’s what I do.

  Like how she spread her legs for me right here where anyone could see, because she wouldn’t dare take me home. How her body is grinding, desperate, because whatever flaccid little prick he’s been prodding her with for God knows how long doesn’t do it right. Not even close. And this—yeah, this, fuck—the way she’s convulsing around my cock like she’s having some kind of seizure? This tells me she’ll never have it this good again.

  Every other climax, every other cock for the rest of her life, she’ll be picturing me right now, and how I tore her goddamn pussy apart.

  “Yes! OHMYGOD. YES!”

  She comes, screaming so loud someone’s going to call the cops, but I don’t care. I slam into her faster, my balls tight and ready, so fucking ready. I’m gripping her hips so hard, she’ll need to explain those bruises in the morning, but that isn’t my problem. Nothing is, except the friction of her tight pussy and the slide of her wetness and fuck, yeah, that clenching, vice-like grip of her climax, milking me out. I’m close now, right on the fucking edge—

  One more thrust and then I suddenly pull away. I spin her around and push her to her knees, burying all eight throbbing inches into that wet, open mouth.

  Fuck yeah.

  She chokes around me in surprise, but now she’s got the message. Sucking me hard. Taking me deep. That tight friction of her throat is all I need: I come like a fucking tsunami, unleashing a torrent of hot cum gushing right down her throat.

  Goddamn.

  I growl with the release, feeling it crash over me. And bless her lying, cheating heart, but this girl swallows down every last drop, her eyes glazed with shock and lust and oh yeah, the best goddamn orgasm she’ll ever know.

  That’s how you do it, darlin’.

  That’s what you’ll never get from him.

  And that’s why one of these days, he’s going to be walking through the doors of my PI agency, hiring me to figure out why his sweet young wife is sneaking around on him.

  I can’t hold it against her. All women lie.

  They just lie better on their backs.

  2

  Chloe

  I learned a long time ago that honesty’s the best policy.

  Even if you think a little white lie isn’t going to hurt anyone, think again. Before you know it, that tiny fib has spiraled out of control, and you’re in way deeper than if you’d just been up front to begin with.

  I like things simple and clear-cut—which is why I never expected to wind up working in real estate. I mean, realtors? We’re one step above used-car salesmen when it comes to bending the truth. At least, that’s the way my boss likes to play it …

  “It’s such a quiet building, no street noise at all.” Marcie smiles brightly, even as a garbage truck rolls past, honking and beeping so loud, you can hardly hear a word. “And the Boston school district is excellent. You can’t think about these things too soon!”

  The happy couple at our big open house seems unsure. We’re in a warehouse district with nothing but old buildings and storage units around. “Is it a safe neighborhood?” they ask me, looking concerned.

  I pause, reluctant. “Well …”

  Marcie jumps in. “Absolutely! Super-safe, and tons of things in walking distance.”

  Still, the woman isn’t convinced. “What do you think, Chloe?” she asks me again. “You’ve been helping us look for a while now. I know this isn’t what we asked for, but maybe we need to think outside the box?”

  I gulp. Marcie’s standing right there, and she’s told me flat out we need this apartment to sell ASAP, but I can’t exactly pretend that a massive industrial loft space is the family home of their dreams. “I say trust your gut,” I finally tell them. “Buying a place is a huge decision. If you’re not one hundred percent in love with it, then keep looking.”

  The couple relaxes. “OK, then this one isn’t for us,” the husband says. He hands the brochure back to Marcie. “Let us know if anything else comes up.”

  “Sure!” Marcie ushers them out, all smiles, but the minute they’re out of the door, she turns on me with a scowl. “What the hell was that? You’re supposed to be helping sell this place, not undermining everything I say!”

  “I didn’t!” I protest. “You’re always telling clients to trust their gut.”

  “Only when I know they really want to buy!” Marcie rolls her eyes. “Or if it’s out of their price range, and I need them to throw out the budget! Honestly, Chloe, you need to learn if you’re going t
o move up in this business.”

  “But I don’t want to lie to them.”

  Marcie laughs, like I just made a joke. “It’s not lying, we’re just … massaging the truth. Highlighting the good points. A neighborhood isn’t noisy, it’s vibrant. A house isn’t rundown, it’s got potential.” She sees a new group of people arrive, and brightens again. “Go make sure everyone signs in. And get another batch of cookies in the oven!”

  I head over to the front table and make sure to greet everyone cheerfully before heading to the kitchen area. I’ve been working for Fortune & Adler for two years now, a small family agency here in Boston. It was a lucky break to get a job at all: nobody’s exactly lining up to hire a failed ex-ballerina. Without a college degree, it was hard enough just getting through the door for an assistant gig answering phones and fetching Marcie’s lunch. But I worked around the clock for her, then bust my butt studying to get my real estate license. Now, finally, I’m a junior agent—although most days it doesn’t seem all that different, still running at Marcie’s beck and call.

  “A beautiful woman who bakes, it’s my lucky day.”

  I look up and almost drop the sheet of cookies I’m pulling from the oven. There’s a guy standing just inches away from me.

  A hot, drop-dead sexy vision of a man.

  He’s got blue eyes and close-cropped dark hair, towering over me with a muscular boxer’s build even though I stand almost six feet in my heels. His face isn’t classically handsome, it’s almost brutish with the angle of an old broken nose, but there’s an animal physicality radiating from his body that makes me blink a moment, lost for words.

  Wow.

  “Hi,” I finally say, feeling guilty for even thinking it. “Are you, umm, here for the open house?”

  “That’s right, love.” If the eyes and the body and that sexy grin weren’t enough, he’s got a British accent, too. Rough around the edges, not crisp and upper-crust.

  “Jase Banner. Pleasure to meet you.” He leans in closer and gives me a wink. “And if I play my cards right, it’ll be your pleasure, too.”