Pleasing The Professor (The Professor's Student Series Book 1)

by Janae Keyes

  Pleasing the Professor

  The Professor’s Student Series

  Janae Keyes

  Deliaria Davis

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Our Plea

  Ramsey’s Lasagna Recipe

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author - Janae Keyes

  About the Author - Deliaria Davis

  Pleasing the Professor

  Copyright © 2017, Janae Keyes & Deliaria Davis

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. References to real people, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely fictional and not meant to be considered real.

  First rule of Tentacle Club

  Don’t talk about Tentacle Club

  You know who you are and we love you.

  Chapter One

  Ramsey

  I watched the students settle into their seats. The first day of a new term meant learning all the new faces and where everyone would be sitting. That was the problem with being a teacher here at Oxford. Our terms were busy, and no one seemed to take the same class twice. I teach English Lit, and most students can’t stand it longer than the term credit they need it for. Some couldn’t even make it through the whole class.

  I watched the chattering students wander into the hall, taking their seats until all but one in the first row was filled. Front and center. Whoever was late to class was going to be the main attraction today, and would probably be stuck there for the rest of term.

  Looking down at my planner, I scanned the names, noticing several with ‘S’ or ‘T’ beside them. Ahh, the joys of being a student advisor, but one stood out to me. ST. Scholarship and transfer student, Dorothy Monroe. How … American. I rolled my eyes at the thought of having to deal with another entitled snob from the States. I had begun attendance when the door burst open, and the last frazzled student stumbled through, her school books scattering across the stairs.

  She stared around horrified as the whole room turned to gawk at her. Not a single student stood to help. I pushed up my glasses, sighing when, within a second, the damned things slipped down my nose again. I walked up the stairs to help the girl gather her things.

  It was only the first day of class, and she had already made a name for herself. Everyone would remember her as the klutzy bookworm.

  I bent down, gathering three books from the floor before getting caught in the gaze of her sage colored eyes. The sight of her lips, slightly parted in embarrassment, had my body springing to life in a way it hadn’t done in years. She was calling to me on a primal level.

  I shook my head, attempting to clear the thoughts that were clouding my judgment, handed her the books still clutched in my white-knuckled hands, and returned to the front of the room. I stood behind my podium to hide the erection I was beginning to sport for the new student. I begged my body to calm itself. I still had a class to teach after all.

  She shuffled awkwardly down the stairs, quietly taking the last seat at the front, in the center row. I’d have no choice but to stare at her through the rest of today’s lesson. I prayed next time she would be on time to class, so I wouldn’t be run to distraction staring at her ample breasts. Her pink bra and cleavage were visible through the top of her disheveled shirt. I glanced at the class to see if anyone had noticed, but they were too caught up in their phones to care.

  I found my mind wandering again, questioning if her panties matched the lacy thing staring back at me. When she turned to face me moments later, I cleared my throat and rubbed at my collar, hinting at her to fix her shirt. As much as I enjoyed the view, I didn’t think that the rest of the class needed it.

  I started calling attendance again, hiding my face with my notebook. I would glance up at the class with each female name I called, anxious to see which one would belong to the bedraggled young lady sitting in front of me. Finally, my curiosity was rewarded. Our late, scattered student was also our transfer from abroad, Dorothy. When I called her name, she just looked at me with an embarrassed smile and gave me a small wave. My body reacted to the innocent gesture, revolting against me. What the fuck was wrong with me? I finished attendance and turned toward the board.

  “Welcome to Introduction to English Language and Literature - The American Novel after 1945. Can you tell me why you are taking this class?” I spoke while I wrote my name and the specified course on the board.

  Turning to the auditorium, I waited to see who would be the first smart ass. There was always one. I had learned this in my years as a Teacher’s Assistant. The teacher’s asshole, they had called me. This was my first year as a full professor, and I planned to prove that I could handle it to Dean Smith. I wanted to prove to the rest of the board that I wasn’t handed this position because of my father’s clout.

  “Yea, ‘cause they told me if’n Oi didn’ that’n they’s goin’ to fail my bloody arse and send me back to sec’dary school,” a voice called out from the crowd.

  Sighing, I shook my head. There was one, and I wondered if anyone else was going to join him. Random chuckles had come from the crowd before Dorothy raised her hand.

  I arched an eyebrow, and waved my hand at her, handing her the proverbial floor.

  “Dorothy, is it?”

  “Just Dora, please.” Judging from the tone in her voice, she didn’t like her name much. “I’m taking this class because I want to. I want to be an English teacher back home in San Francisco after I’m finished here.” Her quiet voice floated over me, entangling me deeper into the web she was weaving. There was a loud snort, and someone shouted “Kiss ass!” from the room. I glared at the students, daring them to speak again.

  “Ah, thank you, Dora.” Clapping my hands together, I walked in front of my students. “Everyone is here for different reasons. At least one of us is here because we want to be. Some of us are here because we need the credit. And a few of you,” I looked toward asshole number one, “are here because if you aren’t you will be sent home crying to mummy and daddy.” I smirked a little as I remembered being told the same thing by my professor on my first day.

  “Now, who can tell me what one of the most influential books after World War Two was?” I prayed someone would answer my question. Dorothy - no Dora - raised her hand. She seemed to be the only one here to learn. “Yes, Dora?”

  “I would imagine that Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird would be one of them, Professor,” she said, looking at me through her long eyelashes.

  “Know it all!” The students all burst out laughing. Dora’s face darkened. She was either very shy, the perfect submissive, or both, and she was calling to a dormant side of me. A side I hadn’t let out since … well, since I had left my parents’ house and donated my inheritance to Lumos and other charities. That had pissed off my parents so much that they had cut me off, and written me out of both their
wills.

  I hadn’t wanted to follow in their steps. The family business was repetitive and boring. Not something I was remotely interested in. I loved teaching, and knowing that I was helping at least one student, was already going to make this year better than I thought it would be.

  Smiling, I nodded. “That’s one of them. Yes, for the first part of this term we will be reading To Kill a Mockingbird and writing a compositional, compare and contrast in times between now and then in America and Britain, due in two months. I expect it to be no less than fifteen hundred words, single-spaced, Times New Roman, twelve-point font, and a half inch indent on the paragraphs. It must have a proper title, your name, your class, and your hour. If you are missing any of these components, you will be docked points. Any questions?”

  Not a single hand shot up, and nothing could be heard in the classroom as I waited for their brains to catch up to the assignment. Finally, a boy in the back raised his hand.

  “Yes,” I consulted the seating chart I had filled in as I took attendance. “Charlie?”

  “Are you going to write all that down and hand it to us? Or were we supposed to take notes or something? Because I left all my stuff in my boarding room. I thought this was a fly class.” He smirked at the other students, causing them to laugh with him, as I glared. A smart-assed American kid, probably here on his parent’s dime. He would be one that expected to be handed a grade for work he never completed.

  “Well, Charlie,” I started as the room finished filling with giggles and laughter, “you can write it down, memorize it, have your best friend Jack give it to you later. Tattoo it to your fucking head! I don’t really care Mr. Andrews, as long as when you turn it in, it is to the specifications that I gave you. Got it?” I rose my voice over the din as I spoke, and to make my point to the rest of the class. This was not a laughing matter.

  Apparently, I got my message across because seconds later there was silence except for them scrambling for their phones, tablets, or anything with which they could write down the requirements for the assignment. Feeling rather nice since it was the first day of school, I wrote all the requirements on the board. Only one student wasn’t writing, and her eyes were boring holes into my back.

  I glanced over my shoulder and caught her staring at me. She smiled sweetly and looked around the auditorium again, avoiding my gaze. I had a feeling we would be playing cat and mouse over the next few months if she survived my class. Most didn’t survive English Lit. Was it wrong of me to hope she didn’t, so I could pursue her openly?

  I suppose so. I placed the chalk in its holder. I had to get a grip on myself. She was a student, I, her professor. I had seen the news stories of American professors losing everything after getting involved with a student, and I shouldn’t risk … or should I? She sure tempted me. It wouldn’t hurt to find out more about Dora, and why she decided to come study in Oxford, England, to become a teacher when there were plenty of schools just as good in the United States.

  I would unravel her secrets yet.

  Thankfully, class was finally over, and everyone got up to leave. Dora was having problems gathering all of her books to carry wherever she was going. Walking to the struggling girl, I offered my assistance.

  “I don’t have class for an hour. Let me help you with your books?” I held my arms out in the universal load me up gesture. Dora stared at me for a moment, before piling half of her books into my arms and walking up the stairs.

  “Thanks, Professor. You don’t have to help me. I’ll manage to get back to my room, eventually. I just didn’t have time to get my books and drop them off before class. I got here late, registration took forever, and then they sent me to the wrong place! I haven’t even had a chance to go to my room to do more than drop off my luggage!” Dora all but huffed at me as we climbed the stairs to the outside.

  “I had the same issue my first day. At least they didn’t lose your transcripts. I had to wait three extra days for them to come in from Harvard when I transferred back here a few years ago. Bloody mess that was. And I was born in this wretched country!” I laughed, remembering how flustered Eunice, the poor registrar, had been trying to get my transcripts so I could start when I was supposed to. “What building are you boarding in?”

  “I think it’s Griffiths Building. This is the only class I have away from Linacre. I know it’s a bit from here.”

  She had the most amazing untamed hair I had ever seen, even during my time in the states. Girls in America were so concerned with their hair and makeup being perfect; it was one of the reasons I had transferred back here. It was nice to see an American woman who was so laid back.

  “If you don’t want to walk, we can take my car. It will only take about seven minutes. If you’d rather walk, that’s fine, too. Your choice, Milady.” I tried to bow without toppling her books. I managed a weird half bow, half swan dive as her books flew out of my hands. Goddamn, new books were slippery.

  “Maybe we should take your car. So, my books don’t get more damaged.” Dora picked up the books for the third time that day and handed them to me. I cursed myself for being so klutzy and walked to my car. It’d had a good life so far. I didn’t know how many more miles the poor thing had on it. Opening the door for Dora, I stepped back and let her climb in.

  I hurried around the vehicle, the sooner we got there, the sooner we’d get out of my cramped BMW and I, away from her intoxicating scent. I wanted her, but I wasn’t stupid. Or, maybe I was.

  I pulled onto the road and followed it through the colleges to Linacre and Griffiths Building, the newest edition to the campus. Smiling at Dora, I stopped and hopped out of the car, opening her door and taking my half from the stack of heavy books. I followed Dora to the third floor of rooms, looking around. I hadn’t been here when they had added this building and had never bothered to check it out when I had come back.

  She stopped at the end of the hall, juggling to get the key from her pocket without dropping her books. Moving beside her, I took several more volumes from her, lightly brushing the exposed flesh of her arm. She let out a soft gasp and goosebumps appeared on her flesh as she dug deeper into the pocket of her pants. Finally, pulling the key out with a victory shout, Dora put the key in the lock and opened the door. I dropped her books on the bed.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow in class.”

  Chapter Two

  Dora

  The door to my small room slammed shut, and my heart pounded. I stood alone feeling the intense thumping coming from inside my chest. It had to be the jet lag coupled with the insane amounts of coffee I’d drank to counteract the jetlag. That had to be it, jetlag and too much caffeine, not my professor.

  Glancing down at the pile of books on my bed, I tried to forget the feeling of his arm brushing against mine. I swallowed hard, though my mouth was parched. He’d left so fast; I never got the chance to thank him for his kindness.

  Kindness wasn’t something I’d encountered much, and when I had, it wasn’t out of pure generosity, but spite and ulterior motives. Suddenly, his kind acts frightened me, but something—a voice deep inside—told me there wasn’t anything to be afraid of.

  Maybe that voice was referring to the look in his eyes. The moment my eyes had met his deep blue ones, back in the classroom, when I’d dropped my books like an idiot, there was this intensity. The memory was fresh in my mind as was the intense fire I saw burning in his eyes whenever he looked at me.

  Throughout class, I’d glanced up and saw his eyes resting on me, almost speaking to me. I looked away, feeling the heat build in my cheeks. He was attractive, not in a typical total hottie, jock kind of way. He was hot in a bookish way. His pink lips, intense blue eyes which were coupled with black frame glasses, and dusty brown hair, left my stomach turning flips. He had a sweet smile that would make any girl’s heart thump. His build was lean, and he was tall, at least 6”2’ by my guess.

  He had what turned me on, so much hotter than a jock any day. He had degrees upon degrees. When I’d go
tten accepted and finalized my class schedule, I searched all my professors. Of course, he was the only one without a photo. I’d seen his degree from Harvard, and two from Oxford. Smart men were few and far between and my cup of tea. He had a particular wit about him. I’d caught myself smiling to myself in class at his subtle and albeit dorky jokes. Though this particular smart guy was out of my league and very much off-limits, being my teacher and all.

  I put away my books and began the daunting task of unpacking. I allowed my mind to wander to Professor Kendall. He was much younger than I expected him to be, much younger than I expected any professor.

  “Stop thinking about him!” I grunted aloud to myself. I had other tasks at hand, like making my small student room into a place of my own.

  Unpacking my clothes, I filled my wardrobe with everything I’d managed to bring with me. The few pictures of my family, I placed on my desk and nightstand. I smiled down at the photo of myself with my parents and little brother at my high school graduation. They were so proud of me. I hoped to keep them proud of me, though I’d ran into a few snags at my old school.

  Finally settling down, I picked up the first book on the pile. It was my copy of To Kill a Mockingbird. I’d read it in the seventh grade, and I was oddly excited to read it again, for his class. It wasn’t just because it was for his class. The opportunity to read always excited me, the written word was so powerful and dragged me into a new world.

  Opening the first page, I started to read the classic novel. Instantly, I found myself transported to Maycomb County in Alabama, seeing the life through the eyes of a six-year-old girl. With each flip of the page, I descended deeper into the fictional world.

  When I finally looked up from the book, the sun was beginning to set outside my window, and my stomach let out a fierce growl. The only substance I’d had all day was a stale croissant from the airport and a lot of coffee. I supposed it was time to eat something, finally. I’d been incredibly lucky only to have one class upon arrival.