~riz^011912
Instructing Emily
Lyla Sinclair
Graduate student Emily Brooks wishes she were going to a romantic rendezvous with Professor Mark Kendall. Instead, she’s heading to his office to salvage her grade-point average, since she was too distracted by his hotness to pass some of his tests.
When the professor realizes Emily wants more than a passing grade, he agrees to retest her—while he administers some new, very pleasurable distractions.
When Emily passes, Mark invites her to his house for the weekend and she’s thrilled that her romantic dreams are finally coming true. However, once there, she learns he expects her to be his sex slave. His touch is too exquisite to resist and his demands and dominance become more and more exciting as the weekend progresses.
But is this all part of a bigger test? And if she passes, will she get the one thing she’s wanted for years?
Note: Graduate at the head of the class by studying the rest of the kinky curriculum at E.J.
Kumm University in Hard on Miss Hardin and Checking Out Audrey, also by Lyla Sinclair.
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
ISBN 9781419928338
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
Instructing Emily Copyright © 2010 Lyla Sinclair Edited by Kelli Collins
Cover art by Syneca
Electronic book publication May 2010
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded or distributed via the Internet or any other means, electronic or print, without the publisher’s permission. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/). Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted material. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Jacuzzi: Jacuzzi Inc. Corporation
Chapter One
My heart beat faster as I neared my destination on the second floor.
In the privacy of my apartment, this skimpy attire had seemed like a good idea.
Now, in the familiar—and public—halls of Edward J. Kumm University, I was seriously rethinking my wardrobe choices.
This particular afternoon I was on an important mission to Professor Kendall’s office. It certainly didn’t require the outfit I’d chosen but for once I wanted him to notice me, and not just as one of his grad students. As a woman. This was probably my last chance.
Up ahead I saw Dr. Walden, the president of the university. K.U. was a small college where the students and staff knew each other by name.
“Hi, Dr. Walden,” I said as he toddled by me.
“Oh, hello, Chloe,” he replied, his ancient eyes sparkling. “You look especially lovely today.” He winked.
Okay, so my name isn’t Chloe and Dr. Walden is a bit of a dirty old man, but geez, if he’d taken notice of my outfit with his eighty-year-old eyes, maybe I needed to go back and change. Damn, I knew I should have gone with more sophistication and less skin. My career hung in the balance and I was acting like a boy-crazy teenager.
I wondered which way Professor Kendall would prefer me. Sophisticated? Slutty?
I imagined him assessing me with his dark eyes—sometimes a warm brown, other times a piercing black, depending on the lighting. I’d seen them in a wide variety of lighting because I’d seen him in a wide variety of classrooms. But after taking every course I could possibly take from him for the past six years, I still wasn’t sure he knew anything other than my last name, which he always used in class.
Professor Hardin passed by and greeted me warmly. She’d been looking especially cheerful lately and I’d noticed her hotness factor had shot up in the past year. There was obviously a man—or men—involved. But more importantly, she hadn’t looked twice at my skirt that was so short it seemed to be air-conditioning my ass as it flopped against the backs of my upper thighs, or my red t-shirt that was cut lower than I’d ever worn, except to a bar.
Maybe my mind had just exaggerated the sluttiness of my clothing on the way over.
I was always self-conscious anyway. Still, I couldn’t believe I was about to take a chance with my future after working so hard to get this far.
The hard work started after my mother informed me during my senior year of high school that she and my stepfather had decided an art history degree was not worth paying for, and I’d have to make my own way through college. When I asked what had happened to that college fund she’d always talked about, she’d told me it wasn’t officially a college fund. Then she and my stepfather had embarked on the mother of all vacations.
After the initial shock wore off, I realized a lot of people managed to put themselves through college. However, that wasn’t the type of hardship I was prepared for.
I’d learned how to suck it up emotionally after my cosmetic-dentist-to-the-stars dad ran off with a barely legal model, then tried every trick in the book not to pay his kid’s child support. And I’d learned how to manage after my mother immediately married a well-off but obnoxious furniture wholesaler who resented having her kid around.
However, I didn’t have a clue how to earn money and get financing for a college education. I’d learned fast, though, and I’d worked extremely hard, which is why signing up for semester after semester of Professor Kendall’s classes had been just plain nuts, considering what it did to my otherwise pristine grade point average. But he was my addiction and I hadn’t found an “obsessed with professor” twelve-step program yet.
The halls cleared as I reached my destination. It was nearly six o’clock and there were no night classes in this building. I stood facing Professor Kendall’s door. My heart pounded so hard I had to look down to see if it was evident through the fabric of my shirt. When I was confronted by the mega-cleavage, I tugged the front up a little and hoped I didn’t look too desperate.
I took in a deep breath and knocked.
“Enter!” Professor Kendall said pleasantly.
I opened the door and walked into his office.
Ahhhh! There he was in all his glory. His hands were behind his head on that nearly black hair where my hands belonged. He was leaning back in his desk chair as though he’d been deep in thought…or daydreaming.
He took one look at me, blinked several times then sat up. I couldn’t identify the expression on his face. I tried to resist the urge to fidget.
“Hi…um, we had an appointment. I’m Emily Brooks.”
“Yes, of course, Miss Brooks. Come in. What can I do for you?” he asked.
He didn’t offer me a seat, so I remained standing, feeling naked under his gaze.
“Professor, I’m supposed to earn my master’s degree this semester. I have a good local job offer. I could work nearby while I earn my doctorate—”
“Oh really? Tell me about the job.”
“It’s with an art and antiquities dealer. They sell high-end stuff to buyers all over the world.”
“Oh. Martin’s. They’ve called me in on consultation. Good opportunity. And you need me for…?”
“My grade in your class this semester. I may not have passed. They expect me to have a master’s degree when I start the job, but I… think I failed your class.” This was really embarrassing. He was the last person I wanted to look like an idiot in front of. I’d been in love—or lust or something—with him since that first semester
when he was a new professor and they’d pushed Art 1 off on him. Since then, he’d worked his way up to more interesting and advanced classes, so I’d managed to take six from him in six years. The semesters in between, without him, had been miserable, but the ones with him had earned me the only poor grades of my life. It wasn’t that I didn’t love the subject matter. There were just so many more compelling items of interest in his classes. Like his wide shoulders that tapered down into a slim waist, for instance. Or his biceps that flexed impressively whenever he pulled down the video screen. And when he turned his back to the class to write on the board… Well, let’s just say I lived for the days he showed up in snug-fitting jeans instead of slacks.
I was so overtaken by the daydream I nearly forgot what I was there for, just like in his classes.
Professor Kendall typed something into his computer. “Oh yes, I see. You failed by about two points.”
Damn, I knew it.
“As I recall, you didn’t do especially well in my other classes either.” I was surprised he recalled me at all. At the beginning of each semester, he’d always seemed completely ignorant of our past together, much to my disappointment.
“No…I didn’t.”
“How is it that you’ve been accepted as a doctoral candidate?”
“I’ve made A’s in every class I’ve taken—except yours.” He knitted his brow and tilted his head slightly. His eyes narrowed. “So, you’re telling me that you would have been a straight-A student for the past five or six years if not for me?”
“Well…yes. I guess so.”
He looked peeved. I was sure he prided himself on being fair and I was putting a major dent in his belief system.
“Why do you think that is?” he asked.
This was the question I’d dreaded. How could I tell him what it was like for me to be in his classes? How full and kissable his lips were? How his smile made my stomach turn over? How adorable his expression was when a student gave a ridiculous response and he pushed his eyebrows together in a comical expression?
And how the sight of his hand on the whiteboard eraser caused my thigh muscles to squeeze until I could almost feel those fingers on my clit?
“I’m not sure,” I finally said.
He pursed his lips. I certainly didn’t need to make him angry. How would I get what I’d come for now? A passing grade…or a good hard fu—
Focus, Emily. Your life is hanging in the balance.
I realized his eyes were now openly assessing me, from the normally curly brown hair I’d meticulously flat-ironed to my tight red t-shirt to my obviously too-short plaid skirt. “Did you come here to seduce me for a grade?” he asked suddenly.
“Oh…no!” I said. Not specifically for a grade.
“I don’t know what to think, Miss Brooks. First you imply that I’m not the reasonable, fair professor I’d thought I was, since an otherwise straight-A student has gotten mediocre to failing grades in my classes. And now you seem to expect to be able to buy your grade with your body.”
“No…I’d never think you’d exchange—”
“I assume you’ll have no further classes with me?”
“Huh?” Was he throwing me out? I got that same awful feeling I’d had when my high-school boyfriend told me he was taking the Russian exchange student to the prom instead of me.
“You have no further reason to take classes from me in the future. Correct?”
“No…well, unless I fail this one, because you’re the only professor teaching it this summer.”
He blew out an exasperated sigh. “We certainly wouldn’t want you to suffer through that hardship again. But it wouldn’t be fair to simply assign you a grade you didn’t earn.” He started tapping away on his computer. “I’ll email you a list of websites to study for new tests. These will be oral, and if you pass them, you’ll pass the class.
Come back tomorrow evening at eight for your first test.”
“Okay,” I said, grateful for the second chance but disappointed he seemed so annoyed with me. I turned to go.
“And Emily…” That was the first time I’d heard him say my first name. I turned back toward him. “I can’t be seduced for a grade…but I can be seduced. A woman might accomplish that by leaving her hair the way it normally is and wearing…say…high heels and her turquoise trench coat with nothing underneath.” A tremor went through me. I’d dreamed of no one but Professor Kendall for six years. And he actually liked my real hair and knew the unusual color of my trench coat, which I’d bought specifically to get his attention since I’d observed he had a great appreciation for vivid color in paintings. I’d been sure he’d never noticed.
The butterflies in my stomach were getting the best of me. I didn’t know what to say. Then I realized it was nearly the end of May and coats were no longer in season unless it rained. “What if it’s not raining?” I suddenly blurted out.
An unexpected chuckle burst forth from him and continued for several seconds. As he shook his head, the most disarming smile spread across his face.
That’s when I knew that, regardless of the weather the next night, by the time I got to his office, I would be wet.
*
So there I was the next evening, hobbling across the quad in the one pair of high heels I owned because I’d been a serious college student for the past six years and had little need of them. Luckily it had rained earlier, so my trench coat didn’t seem completely out of place.
However, I couldn’t shake the feeling that everyone I passed had suddenly developed x-ray vision and could see through my coat to my naked body underneath.
In fact, I felt more naked now than I ever did in my apartment shower.
Several times since the day before, I’d told myself I wasn’t going to do this. I still needed to finish school in this town, and I had a pretty good start on my career with my new job. Kendall knew them. What if he mentioned me in some inappropriate way?
This time, when I entered Constance D. Kumm Hall—named after Edward J.’s wife—it was completely emptied of humanity and all I could hear were my shoes click-click-clicking on the shiny floor.
A sudden wave of panic overtook me. What if Professor Kendall had been joking about the seducing and the trench coat? He loved to joke around in class. He was definitely the type for good-natured ribbing, but what about a practical joke? What if he was punishing me for my bad grades in his class by humiliating me like this? Men had always screwed me over and I’d always been so damn gullible…
My stomach did a nervous flip and I stepped into the nearest bathroom to pull myself together. If I went to see him, I could be completely humiliated. If I didn’t, I would get no makeup tests and would have no chance of passing the course. But worse, I’d have no chance of ever feeling the ecstasy of Professor Kendall’s body on mine.
I checked myself in the mirror and realized my hair had gotten windblown on the walk. I ran my fingers through it, wondering if I should have gotten some sort of highlights. At least it was long. Men liked that, didn’t they? And he seemed fond of the curls that had annoyed me since junior high when all the popular girls had straight, silky hair.
I unbuttoned my coat, pulled it open and did a quick appraisal of my body. I didn’t see anything particularly outstanding about it. Everything was in more or less the right place and when I’d started packing on those college pounds a few years ago, I’d gotten into the habit of working out a couple times a we
ek. But Professor Kendall was unequivocally hot. Was I hot enough for him?
I left the bathroom still unsure, sucking up as much courage—along with fumes from the lemon-scented floor wax—as I could on the way to his office. After knocking and receiving an answer, I found myself in the same position as the day before, standing in front of his desk, yet feeling a thousand times more vulnerable.
As his eyes traveled down my trench coat to my high-heeled feet, I was sure I noted an upturn in the corners of his mouth and a quickening of his breathing. When he looked into my eyes, there was a new glow in his.
“Sit down, Emily. Would you like to take off your coat?” He smiled at me mischievously.
“No,” I said quickly. “I’m fine.” I sat down in the chair across the desk from him.
“There’s something still bothering me that I want to clear up,” he began. “I pulled your records and I see that you are, indeed, an A student. In fact, your high-school transcript also showed straight A’s.”
“Yes,” I said, desperately wishing we didn’t have to get into this again.
“But not in my classes.”
“No.”
“Then, imagine my surprise when I saw you’d had Professor Jerome for Comparative Literature. The man who bragged during my first semester here that he hadn’t given an A in five years…but apparently, the very next year, you broke his streak.”
“I didn’t know about the stre—”
“Was my subject matter more difficult for you?”
“No.” I really wished I wasn’t sitting there naked under that coat.
“Were my lectures uninteresting?”
“No. They were the most interesting I’ve ever—”
“Were my tests unfair, unclear in some way?”
“No.”
“Then why?”
I tried to take in a deep breath but my lungs refused. “Because,” my voice came out hoarse, “you were very…” I cleared my throat. “Distracting.”
“In a classroom you’re supposed to pay attention to the instructor, so typically the distractions come from elsewhere.”
“Yes, but in this case, you were the distraction.” He paused for a moment as I struggled in my embarrassment to retain eye contact.
Instructing Emily Page 1