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

“I’m afraid this isn’t going to work,” he said, damning himself for being an animal. If he’d been able to keep his hands to himself, he could have kept seeing her. “You can’t work here anymore.”

Emotions chased across her face—worry and fear and hurt. “Okay,” she said, sounding calm. But her hands trembled around the broom she held. And when she saw that he’d noticed, she leaned it against the door.

She wasn’t one to show her weakness, and he hated that he’d made her weak.

“You understand, this isn’t any fault of yours. You’ve done a great job. I’ve never had such a clean house. It’s just…well, I’m sure you realize the problem.”

“Right,” she said, her voice hollow. “I understand.”

“It can’t happen again.” He didn’t want to hurt her, but he could see that he had. She needed the money from this job. That much was clear from her threadbare clothes and secondhand textbooks. And maybe she would be a little disappointed. He liked to think they’d had a friendship, but maybe that had been in his head.

Maybe she’d be relieved that she could get away from the lecher without him making a fuss. That would have been bad, but this was far worse.

“I know you rely on this job for college, and I’m not going to let my actions ruin that for you. I can give you some money. The same amount you would have made it if you’d kept working here. So you don’t have to worry about that.”

Her voice broke. “You want to pay me?”

“Well, yes,” he said, confused that she seemed even more distressed. He was the one who fucked up, by having sex with her. He would pay the price in the worst possible way—by not seeing her again. The least he could do was leave her whole, and that meant paying her the wages she would have earned.

Her lower lip trembled. “You can keep your goddamn money.”

“I don’t understand. I thought you needed it.”

“You don’t understand? I’ll explain it to you. I know I’m just some stupid college kid and you don’t really care. I can accept that. I’m just a maid to you, and a girl you can fuck, fine. But I am not a whore. You can’t have sex with me and then pay me to go away.”

Shock left him breathless. “I didn’t mean it like that. Of course you’re not a whore.”

Her face crumpled at the last word. She turned and ran from the room, her dark hair flying behind her. It took him only a second to follow. He caught up to her as she grabbed her purse from the hallway table, fumbling inside for her keys.

He touched her arm. “Erin. Erin, please.”

She couldn’t see what she was doing through her tears, and she dropped the bag in frustration, but she refused to look up at him. His chest ached at her clear distress.

“Erin, I’m sorry,” he said. “I never should have touched you. You deserve so much better than this. Better than me—”

“Oh, don’t give me that,” she cried, finally turning up her tear-stained cheeks to him. “You know I’d give anything to be with you. I’d take it any way you could give it to me, but not if you’re going to pay me for it. I can’t be a prostitute, even for you.”

“Never,” he said, his jaw hard. “That’s not what it would have been. I want you, that’s all. I just can’t have you. You’re so beautiful, so young, and I—”

Her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Shhh,” she said, pressing a finger to his lips, a hitch in her breath. “That’s it. That’s all we need to say to each other. If you meant what you said, if you really want me, then that’s enough for me.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be,” he said, his voice hard. Anger made him meaner than he meant to be, colder than he thought he could. “You should have standards. You should—”

She took a step back and grabbed the hem of her shirt, and he forgot what he was going to say. She should—what? He couldn’t think, especially when she lifted the shirt over her head.

Her bra was something made for working out, a bright purple. He didn’t understand why it was so damned pretty. Straps crisscrossed over her cleavage, emphasiz

ing the pretty curve. The thin, stretchy fabric gave him a clear view of her hard nipples. His mouth went dry with the urge to lick her, to taste her. To bite her until the soft flesh of her breasts trembled against him.

Warning bells clanged in his head. He’d said he wasn’t going to do this, wasn’t going to touch her, that he didn’t get to have her.

Then she pulled off the pretty purple bra, too, and his brain shut off.

With a groan of surrender, of appreciation, he pulled her into his arms for a slow, languorous kiss, his tongue exploring hers with slow, insistent demand. This was happening. Whatever came after would be on his head, but for now he had to taste her, to feel her beneath him, to pretend that he was worthy of a woman like her.

Beautiful, beautiful. He wanted to touch her in all the beautiful places, but that was everywhere. Her full lips, but no, that was for him to explore. And those breasts, plump and tipped with bronze—they were for his mouth.

Lower was the soft, feminine curve of her stomach, all sleek lines and sloping shadows. And even lower, the satiny softness of her sex, but he couldn’t touch all the places. Not at once, and that’s what his mind was consumed with, now.