Forbidden Professors Boxed Set: A Forbidden Professor Student Romance Collection

by Penelope Wylde

  Strobe lights work the crowd, signaling it’s my turn as the crowd’s entertainment and my signature tune cranks to the max on Insomnia’s sound system. I step out onto the stage into a cloud of billowing smoke. Whistles and jeers come from men rimming the raised platform, all wanting a piece of me for themselves, but I only have eyes for one man.

  And in that instant my troubles fade to a dull noise in the back of my head.

  Maddox Spencer. Six-three of pure muscle, not a marking on a single inch of his body from what I’ve seen—which isn’t much admittedly. Black silk hair so dark it looks purple when the sun hits and eyes that never miss a shimmy or dip.

  My torturer is at his usual spot three tables back, flirting with the shadows, with a single bourbon neat on the table to his right. Predictable. His crystal blue eyes never leave my body from the second my spiked heel touches the stage.

  I sashay my way to the end of the stage and run the fruity pink tips of my fingers over cool brass like a lover’s caress right before wrapping my fingers around the thick pole. And tonight, like every night, I forget about my troubles for an all-too-brief moment and begin my nightly seduction of my dean.

  Chapter Two

  Amber

  The rest of the night is a whirlwind of dealing with costume issues, dance routines and keeping the creep’s grabby hands from trying to feel me up when they know better than to touch. On a few occasions Sloan has to step in and set a few wild college boys straight, and I was not seeing things when I noticed the dean rise from his seat. To come to my defense? I’d like to think so. I’ve done everything to push that man past his comfort zone, but he has an iron fist around his control. To see any kind of reaction out of him is progress, right? I dunno. I’ve never lusted over a man before the way I have him so it’s all new to me. Maybe I’m not doing something right. Or maybe I should keep my head down, and pay attention to my very real problems.

  Wish it were that easy. My heart and head are always warring over that thought.

  Tonight like every night, I am alone when I leave the club. I’ve spent most of my life fending for myself. Finding food and clothes where I could. Money came with odd jobs through high school.

  A couple of girlfriends back in Los Angeles thought I should auction off my virginity for a handsome sum and then disappear. I guess I could have, but that made me feel dirty, so I never took them up on their offer. Plus, I never was that interested in sex. Not until I laid eyes on Maddox Spencer, that is.

  Things might be bad off for me now, but I’m not that desperate. I still have a few options and I’d like to try those before throwing my V-card on the table.

  Given there’s a private club for the wealthy that caters to such things nearby, the option is on the table. Just not yet.

  By the time I climb the stairs to my apartment I’m barely beating the sun home and am dead on my feet.

  Haunting dreams of brooding blue eyes have me tossing and turning long before it’s time for me to wake, so I’m up with a little over three hours of sleep. Glorious, puffy red eyes greet me in the mirror.

  Ugh. “Real sexy.”

  I check my phone for the time and rush to get dressed while working on a plan of attack for the day. Tips were great last night, but I’m still almost a grand short to pay rent and school tuition. The last week has been slow and well… shit happens. You know the story.

  I tighten my ponytail and slip on a pair of wedges that work with my skinny jeans and casual blouse with a dipping cleavage. Not too low, but sexy. It’s a little cool today so I grab my jacket before heading out the door.

  “Hey, sweet tits, where you off too in such a rush? You didn’t forget about me, did ya?”

  I stop cold, all the energy I had moments ago to tackle all my problems leaches out through the soles of my feet.

  I turn on my heel and plaster the biggest, fakest smile I can muster across my face. After a couple of swallows I soften my voice from the harsh tone so I won’t rile the craptastic douche I know my landlord can be.

  My landlord doesn’t sound as cheery as his words let on, but he does manage to make my skin crawl when his attention lingers longer than usual.

  “Morris. How could I? You blew my phone up all morning. We had a deal, by the way,” I remind him in a deadpan tone I can’t seem to help. “I pay for the heater and stove last week and you discount it from the rent this week.”

  The middle-aged, balding, pot-bellied little shit gives me a grin that is as slimy as his dingy wife-beater shirt and I take a full step back when he gets too close.

  He sticks out his fat bottom lip like he wants to pout, but it only comes off as creepy as fuck. “Not this time, sweet tits. Plus you shoulda gotten that in writing. Didn’t your daddy teach you nothin’? No proof means no deal. I have bills too, ya know.”

  A wash of anger rolls over me. God, I hate this man and that little pet name of his makes me want to throat punch the dirtbag who barely reaches my five-three height when I’m barefoot.

  Morris-the-Douche hooks a thumb toward a battered brown door behind him, and I don’t need it spelled out anymore for me. My new neighbor one door down isn’t exactly the kind of guy you want to borrow a cup of sugar from. Or apparently owe money too from the wide-eyed look Morris is giving me. I’ve never seen fear in the guy’s eyes before but there’s no missing it now.

  I point a finger down the way. “You owe him?” How stupid can he be, I want to ask, but I glue my lips closed and keep my thoughts to myself. In truth, it’s none of my business. Keep it superficial and nice and move along fast is the name of the game here.

  The simple act of stepping out my wafer-thin front door gives me panic attacks and I’m constantly looking over my shoulder. I’d been in a hurry this morning and that mistake might cost me now.

  Stupid me.

  I might have money problems and ant problems but nothing trumps the drunk, druggie bookie—and let’s not forget sleazy— neighbor problems. As soon as my burly neighbor and his trashy friends found out I danced for a living, the infestations of low-lifes knocking on my door and dropping used condoms for me to find in the evenings hasn’t stopped.

  Reason number ten out of a million why I don’t mind working nights. I don’t have to be here when I know it’s most dangerous.

  I want to turn and run but looking weak is the eyes of this shady monster isn’t an option.

  As if on cue, two deep-set black eyes pop into view as my neighbor sticks his head out before ambling over to join our little pow-wow in the middle of the hallway. I’m on the second floor and to my right is a railing with a straight drop to an empty four-foot pool that hasn’t seen a scrub brush in a decade easily. So jumping is out of the question. I mentally calculate the distance between me and the stairs as my next option if things go sour when my neighbor clamps a callused hand on my shoulder.

  He studies me for what feels like a lifetime before his lips peel back in a jagged-toothed grin. Gotta love a meth mouth.

  “We have a problem here, sweet thing?”

  I look from his hand on my shoulder to his face. What is it with creeps and nicknames? I am growing tired of all the pet names and want to drive my knee into the next person who thinks of something else to call me beside my name.

  Slim as my chances are, I might be able to beat my landlord to the stairs given his bulging belly would hold him back from moving fast, but no way I can outrun the new guy. His sausage fingers tighten into the flesh of my shoulder like a viper.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” I bite out and shake his hand off.

  Apparently, that is a wrong move on my part and rejection is a soft spot for him. Or, he just woke up on the wrong side of the bed and I am the first unlucky person to encounter his lack of humor for the day.

  A swift backhand slams into my face, catching me high on the cheekbone and sending a ripple of shock through me that makes me gasp.

  Fight back and lose or bide my time? The answer is a no brainer. The last thing I need is for th
e bear to my right to sling me over his shoulder and haul me into his apartment.

  With shaky fingers, I dig into my purse for my wallet and pull out everything I earned this last night in tips. “I have one-fifty on me. Take it or leave it. That should buy me a week to get the rest.”

  “Just pay me my money and we’re all good.” My landlord holds his hand out like more bills will magically appear.

  “Or I can think of a better way you can pay your debt. What you owe him comes to me anyway.”

  I see. Well, someone didn’t miss a beat, did they?

  Lucky for me, neither did I.

  My neighbor’s hand is back on my shoulder and this time he’s stepping in to wind his arm around my waist.

  Not today, Satan. Or any day.

  Since dying today would suck balls, I swallow the lump of fear in my throat and strike. “You both can fuck off and go use your hand to jack off with, because you’re not getting anywhere near me. EVER!” I might not be strong enough to take two men on even if one resembles a tub of lard, but I won’t be touched. I refuse and will do my best Chuck Norris impersonation and bloody whatever body part I can reach in the process.

  One good elbow in the ribs catches douche number one by surprise, and I make my move before the toad of a man to my left can get his greasy hands on me. I toss the money on the floor, hoping that will trip him up, and hit the stairs running to the sound of cackling. “You come back you better have all my money, sweet tits.”

  I don’t answer. I’m already in my car trying to shove the keys into the ignition, but my trembling fingers don’t want to work. It takes three more tries before I finally manage to get the car going.

  Somehow I make it to the school parking lot without running off the road from all the tears.

  I make a quick stop in the bathroom and splash water on my face and touch up my makeup, giving myself time to catch my breath.

  Puffy-eyed and visually shaken, I know I can’t approach the school tuition board like this, but I don’t have much time. The committee breaks at noon on Fridays and if I don’t hurry, I’ll miss my chance at requesting an extension one more time. Maybe I’ll get lucky this time.

  I shove my disastrous morning into a tight-lidded mental black box to deal with later and take a steadying, deep breath. Then another.

  One problem at a time. Silver linings. Silver linings, I chant. “I can do this,” I tell myself, trying for a handle on my crazy mess of a mind.

  I pull my phone from my purse and shoot a text off to the manager of Insomnia before I push out the bathroom door and head down the hall toward the committee board room, hoping I can convince the secretary to squeeze me in before the cutoff time.

  The halls are oddly empty given the time of day, but hey, maybe that’s a good thing. Less people means the scales will tip in my favor. Maybe there won’t be anyone ahead of me and I can slip in and pitch my case to the board.

  I pause outside the doors that lead to either the dean’s office if I hook a hard left or the admissions committee to the right.

  There’s a reflective vase on a long table at my back, and I take stock of my appearance one more time. I smooth out the wrinkles in my blouse and straighten my hair. It’s pulled over one shoulder in soft, falling waves. Its dark color pairs well with the bright pink lipstick I’ve picked out to match my purse and wedges. A couple of brush strokes worth of mascara and a little powder is all I had time for today. Hopefully it will do. Some of the people behind those doors are as tight and stuck up about appearance as they are about grades and oh yeah, receiving tuition on time. Maybe my soft, SoCal look will help ease my way in this time. I can only hope.

  I push through the doors and instead of finding a smiling receptionist behind the desk to field my concerns, I find nothing. Nada. Not a soul that I can see, but the overheads are on and a lamp in the corner throws a soft glow over the half-empty coffeepot telling me another story.

  The shriek of my “Livin’ On a Prayer” ringtone peels out through the silence and I hit answer just as quickly. Startled by the sudden noise, I swipe before looking. “Ms. Carter, thank you for getting back to me so quickly.”

  “Hey, baby girl, sorry to disappoint—it's me.”

  Expecting my boss’s soft feminine tone and not getting it, I freeze in place when a familiar dry, raspy voice comes through instead. There’s not much that can make my blood turn cold, but the sound of my father’s voice puts ice cubes in my veins.

  “Dad?” I ask, more than just a little bewildered. How the hell did he get my number is the first thing that pops in my head. Then the sudden rush of anger takes hold. I tense at the memories of him abandoning me when I needed him most. Not caring enough to get clean for me.

  “Yeeeeah, it’s me. Man, I missed ya so much. Now listen, don’t hang up.”

  I’m not sure what the hell is going through my head. I mean, normally a line like that serves as the first clue to do just that, but I don’t. Instead I stand there with the phone to my ear mouth hinged open like a first-class idiot for several seconds.

  “There’s a lot I gotta tell ya. But first let me say I’m clean—”

  That did it. Hearing the word clean come out of his mouth is worse than hearing a priest swear. “There’s nothing to say. I don’t want anything to do with you. Why can’t you wrap your brain around that by now?”

  “Aww…you don’t mean that, baby girl.”

  “I do. I really do. I don't have time for this. For you.” I move to hit end but can’t when I hear the desperation in his voice.

  “Don't hang up. Please, ya gotta hear me out, baby girl. I need bail money and you’re my one phone call.”

  One of the several times I left him in rehab, I had to leave my phone number in case of an emergency. Some soft spot in my heart of hearts kept me from ditching the burner. What if he died and I didn’t know? So I kept it and now I’m wishing I hadn’t.

  “You’re kidding me.” My shoulders droop and it’s a struggle to find any silver lining in this day. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m wading through hell right now. “What the hell have you done? You know what, never mind. I don’t care. No,” I say flatly gripping my phone so tight I hear a faint crack. “I’m not going to help you this time. Solve your own damn problems.”

  “You won't help the man that brought you into this world? Who put you through school and put clothes on your back?”

  He sounds so deflated but I can’t muster enough feeling to care enough.

  I tuck my chin close to my chest and lower my voice. Why I don’t know, there’s not a soul around but I still feel embarrassed I have such a pathetic family and a worthless father. “I’ve earned everything ever given to me either by slaving in that house you think was a home but was nothing more than a junkie pit stop for all your friends. Or, working for it myself. So I don’t owe you anything. I won’t ever lift a finger to help you again. How many times did I personally drive you to rehab? And for what? So the answer is no. Not even if it means a free ride into Heaven on a cloud of angel wings.” I’m growling by the time I get to the end of my tirade.

  “You'll regret this. You hear me! I’ll make sure of it.”

  Bastard.

  He speaks softly, but I hear the raw bitterness in his voice drip through the speaker. Unfortunately for him, it stirs no feelings of remorse or regret a daughter should feel for her father.

  I shrug but realize he can’t see my flippant response. “I doubt it. Being in there means you can't get high. So count this as my one last effort to help you after all.”

  I hit end and drop the phone in my bag. There’s a row of chairs to my left, and I slump into one. Maybe I was wrong coming here thinking I could ever get out from under my father’s thumb, build a better life. I’m in over my head that much can’t be argued. All I want right now is a bed, hot shower and to hold off the breakdown I feel coming on like a freight train with warp speed capabilities.

  “Ms. McBride. What are you doing here?”

 
A sinfully rugged, deep voice vibrates along my nerve endings, and I’m on my feet and facing the direction it came from before I get a full breath of air in my lungs.

  Crystal blue eyes and a thatch of black hair catches my eye first but my gaze quickly flutters over taut pecs and the stretched white material of Dean Spencer’s crisp dress shirt as he crosses his arms over his chest. It’s open at the neck and peeled back to reveal a hint of tanned skin and a dusting of hair.

  Sexy as hell. I had no idea that small patch of short chest hair could be so damn mouth-watering, but here I am breathing heavy and lust-drunk in just the few seconds he’s been anywhere near my personal space.

  I watch as he closes a bit more of the distance between us until I catch lingering hints of his cologne. Masculine, rich mixed with leather from his office no doubt. And I think hints of sandalwood.

  Towering over me, his eyes trail along my face and down my body and I’m not imagining the flash of the same hunger in his eyes I see when I’m on stage. It lasts all but a second before it’s gone.

  A sense of nervousness invades me, along with a flood of unwanted heat filling up the empty crevices of my senses as he continues to watch me in silence.

  He’s looking at me through narrowed eyes like there’s no way in hell I belong here. A part of me feels he’s right. I don’t, and my current situation proves it enough to stiffen my spine. I reposition my purse, suddenly tired of our little game.

  “I’m sorry for the intrusion. I should go. I’ll come back later.” He’s turned in a way where his body blocks my exit. I’d have to walk within a whisper of him to leave and I don’t trust myself to be that close and not touch.

  I’m so busy thinking about soft kisses, long pillow talks and the feel of his hands on me I don’t realize he’s stepped in until he has my elbow in hand. My heart is thudding against my ribcage and it takes a couple of seconds for me to manage some kind of control over the warm flush blasting my cheeks.