Beauty and the Professor (A Modern Fairy Tale Duet 1)

Chapter One

Erin

Erin Rodriguez jogged up the steps of the farm-style house in good spirits.

She let herself in using her key and called out, “Mr. Morris! It’s Erin.”

Call me Blake, he always said, but for some reason she couldn’t. She wasn’t usually a stickler for propriety, but with him it seemed like a good idea. Maybe his military roots made the formality seem right to her. Or more likely, it was the domesticity of cleaning his home. The barrier of his last name was little defense against her attraction.

It would be so easy to slip, to let him see how she felt about him. Then she’d feel like an idiot—a hopeless little girl dreaming about a man old enough to be her father.

She pulled a book from her bag and went upstairs in search of her boss. The pages were well-worn when he gave it to her. Even more so after she read it. Three times. She could probably put it in his bookcase, always neat and organized so she’d know right where it belonged. In fact, his whole house sparkled from the knotted floorboards to the arched ceilings.

It was partly because he was neat, but also because she came twice a week. It was one of the odd habits that made her reclusive employer so strange, and also endearing.

He never left a mess, but he didn’t want her to come less.

Not that she should complain. She needed the hours.

Well, she could replace the book on her own, but she wouldn’t. The truth was that she wanted an excuse to talk to him. They’d had a lively debate on the merits of the U.N. in her political science class yesterday and she knew he’d appreciate the highlights.

Blake Morris used to be a professor at Tanglewood University, before he went on one last tour in the Middle East. Before he was hit with an IED and burned over thirty percent of his body. Since then he’d lived in seclusion, not teaching, barely ever leaving his house, but she saw the textbooks with his name on them.

She poked her head in his bedroom and found him there.

In a manner of speaking…

Her breath caught in her throat as she took in the sight. He lay spread out on the bed, his skin still damp from a bath, a white towel fallen open around his waist. The tanned skin and flexing muscles. The fist he made. Oh God. She couldn’t focus.

And he was masturbating. Shit!

This was so bad. And strangely beautiful. He was like some Adonis. Old-world artists would have wanted to create a statue out of marble. She ought to leave. This was clearly a private moment. He wouldn’t want her to see this. Not only because of his obvious nakedness, but because of the scars she could see—they continued down the side of his face, his neck, onto his muscled torso, the outside of his thigh.

She really should turn around, walk away and absolutely, positively not watch. Instead she stood there, her eyes riveted to his exposed cock standing up thick from his fisted hand.

“God, baby,” he moaned, his eyes closed. “Suck it, please.”

Her lips parted in surprise, as if she could obey him from across the room. Her sex throbbed to hear his rasping voice say those dirty words, to watch his hand fuck his cock. It was shocking and invasive and so compelling that she wanted to fall to her knees.

“Yes. Yesss. So beautiful. God.” His other hand reached to cup his balls. “That’s right, baby. Lick them. Suck them.”

Her gaze flew to his face, mesmerized by the interplay of shiny, scar tissue and ruddy, healthy skin twisted in a grimace of pleasure. His burns and coarse features might make him intimidating to some people, but when she looked at him she saw only Blake, with his brilliant ideas and gruff kindness, with his harsh sensuality.

“Touch yourself. Yeah, yeah. Take me deep in your mouth and stick your fingers in your cunt. Make yourself feel good, beautiful.”

His eyes were shut, lashes fanning over his masculine cheeks.

Who was he imagining kneeling in front of him?

Her thighs squeezed together where she stood, giving herself what relief she could. If she moved, either her legs or her hands, she’d have to acknowledge that what she was doing, that watching was wrong, so she stayed very still.

Then, shockingly, he moaned her name, “Erin…”

She barely had time to process that, and then he came, spurting into his cupped hand.

Her whole body clenched hard, not quite an orgasm, more like an echo. The suggestions of climax. An involuntary sound escaped her—a whimper, almost.

Heavy lids slid open as he turned to look at her. His eyes widened into a look of shock, even horror. He looked angry, and of course, of course he should be. He should be furious.

Mortified, she turned and ran down the stairs. The sound of her name hurtled down the steps after her, not in passion this time, but she couldn’t go back. She invaded his privacy in the worst way. Maybe finding him had been an accident.

Staying had been unforgivable.

Even knowing that, she couldn’t say she’d act differently.

Part of her wanted to run outside, to climb into her car and drive away. But she needed this job, if there was any hope of keeping it. Her scholarship covered tuition, but not the rent on her small apartment, not the electric bill or textbooks or gas to get to school.