To Professor, With Love (Forbidden Men 2)

A whimper left my lips and I slapped my book closed. The big m-word filled my head.

To help me recover from the trauma of my first sexual encounter, my therapist had suggested self-pleasure so I could learn that sex could also feel good, not just painful, scary, and debilitating. I’d been fifteen and utterly mortified by the entire conversation. Took me three months to look her in the eye again after that and then another three years to even consider the idea.

The few times I’d tried to get off by myself had been awkward and embarrassing. It hadn’t warmed me to the idea of sex in the least. The only thing that had worked had been time and romance novels. But right now, I wouldn’t be going at it cold turkey as I had before. My body was already receptive to the idea. Setting my paperback aside, I decided one more attempt couldn’t hurt anything. So I closed my lashes, and a face with blue eyes and dark windswept hair filled my head.

I’d only seen him once in class since I’d left the bar on Tuesday. And our gazes had clashed twice during that hour. Each time, we’d both glanced away as if even a single stare was too much temptation. It broke my heart not to even be able to look at him because Noel Gamble was art, like God’s apology for all the regular men in the world.

As my fingers found a sweet spot, I moaned and arched my back, upsetting the water along with every nerve ending in my body. While in my mind, I saw him, cheek pressed against my pillow as he lay beside me, whispering about the way I’d affected him the first time he’d seen me.

I came on a gasp, accidentally splashing water out of the side of the tub and snubbing out all the candles as well as drenching my poor book. But it was worth it. Oh my, was it worth it. Okay, nothing was worth damaging a hallowed book, even though at the moment, I was like, “I’ll jus’ buy another one.”

But, seriously. My first orgasm. It felt nice. Amazing. I’d never relaxed enough to allow the two guys who hadn’t forced themselves on me to ring my bell, and I’d always stopped prematurely when trying on myself. But with a little Noel Gamble stimulation and the drenched paperback beside me, life was good.

I should celebrate. With ice cream. Maybe some chocolate. And wine. Ooh, yes. Wine sounded good right now.

Energized instead of relaxed as my lavender candles should’ve made me, I pulled out the drain’s plug with my toes and stood up. Water streamed off me, making me feel raw and sensual. Sexy.

Mmm, I wondered if a good orgasm always made a girl feel beautiful.

Humming to myself, I shook my head to loosen the towel wrapped around my hair, and I used it to dry myself. And for once, I didn’t think of how much I needed to tighten my abdomen, or do something about the jiggle in my thighs. All self-critical thoughts I usually had when I was naked were blissfully silent.

Damn, why the hell had I waited so long to do this?

I laughed aloud. “Thank you, Noel Gamble.”

In answer, the muted sound of my doorbell peeled through the closed partition of my private bath.

“Crap!” I dropped my towel and dove for my clothes, wondering who the heck was at my door. I had ordered some new shoes online, but I swear the tracking information had said they wouldn’t arrive until Monday. But it was the right time for my mail to be delivered. And it wasn’t like I had any casual friends who’d drop by unannounced. Could be a door-to-door salesman or Jehovah’s Witness, but I figured it was probably the postal guy.

Not expecting to receive anyone who would be staying long, I bypassed my bra and tugged on my cotton panties before jerking on the cutoff blue jean shorts and a striped peach and cream long-sleeve I had sitting at the top of my laundry hamper. With my feet bare and hair still wet and uncombed, I flung open the bathroom door and hurried through the house.

I didn’t even think to check the window before receiving my visitor. I just unlocked all the bolts and pulled the entrance open, expecting a deliveryman’s greeting smile. When I saw Noel instead, I yelped out a startled gasp and jumped back, covering my braless chest with both hands.

The afterglow of my orgasm which I’m sure was still staining my cheeks fled to be replaced by horrified embarrassment. But, oh my God, had touching myself while thinking of him somehow drawn him to my house? What the hell kind of voodoo shit had been in those candles? I needed to buy more.

“I...” he started, opening his mouth wide as if ready to deliver some big long explanation of why he was here. But then his gaze shifted down and he left his mouth hanging open. No words came. The appreciation in his gaze as they traveled down my bare legs and back up stirred every organ in my body.

Now that my body knew how liberating and amazing release was, it was ready to experience another. And this time, forget the memory, I’d take the real deal: one Noel Gamble hand-delivered to my front door.

Which was totally, insanely wrong.

“What the hell are you doing here?” I exploded, pulling my arms tighter around myself because my nipples didn’t seem to care that the man in front of me could doom my entire career. Tight and pouted into hard points, all they wanted was to dive into Big O, Number Two. The selfish bit

ches.

“I...” he tried again, not getting much further this time because his gaze froze on my arms, where the skin had started to prickle into goose bumps. “Oh, fuck me sideways. You’re not wearing a bra, are you?” He glanced over my face before paling. “And you just got out of the shower, too.”

Keeping my girls securely covered with one arm, I released the other so I could push wet hair out of my face. “Bubble bath,” I corrected.

He whimpered, literally whimpered. Lifting one hand as if to command me to speak no more, he turned to the side so he wasn’t directly facing me and then covered his mouth with a fisted hand. “Jesus, you’re evil. Now I’m picturing you naked, covered in bubbles and surrounded by all these candles and shit while you’re reading a book.”

Damn, he was good.

“Don’t forget how incredibly wet I was,” I said because, hell, I always said stuff I knew I shouldn’t to this man. Why stop now?

He sliced me an incredulous glance. “You’re trying to kill me, aren’t you?”

Backing away, he sank into the wicker chair on my front porch, exactly where I sat on Sunday mornings and drank my cappuccino while I read. It usually swallowed me whole. But holding Noel’s large frame, it seemed small and ridiculously girly. Making him look even more masculine than usual.