Beauty and the Professor Read online

  Beauty and the Professor

  Skye Warren

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Excerpt from Overture

  More Books by Skye Warren

  About the Author

  Copyright

  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.

  And more than that, she needed to apologize to him.

  Blake Morris had always been decent to her. Always kind.

  He didn’t deserve her ogling him.

  Pacing in the kitchen, she battled her embarrassment at being caught in a compromising position. Or rather, she’d caught him in a compromising position. She’d have to face him, but she couldn’t look for him. Not right then and maybe not ever. She would just have to live here in the kitchen, for ten minutes or ten hours.

  For ten years, if that’s how long it took for him to come downstairs.

  Her hands caught on the stone edge of the countertops then smoothed across the surface. Already clean, as usual. She would run her rags over the shiny granite until it gleamed. That’s what she should have done instead of looking for him. Why did she even think he’d be interested in hearing about her class? Or her thoughts about the book?

  She’d never done anything quite this embarrassing. Watching the man’s private moment? That was low. And even worse, she respected him, so much.

  She liked him, and she might have ruined everything.

  Nervous energy pumped through her veins. She pulled out the cleaning supplies, thinking that at least she could turn her wild energy into something useful.

  Blake bounded down the stairs, wearing sweatpants.

  There was no towel. She couldn’t help but admire him before, the way the thin fabric of his T-shirt hung on his well-built shoulders, loose around his abs, but now all she could see was his naked body in her mind.

  As if she hadn’t already proven herself a coward, she turned away to flee.

  “Erin,” he said in those low tones she felt to the bone. “Wait, please.”

  She paused and turne
d halfway back to him, willing the inappropriate, private, sexy images to subside. A reddened cock. Thick ropes of come. God.

  “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said. “It won’t happen again. I swear it,” he said, as if he was the one who did something wrong. “Don’t quit.”

  She’d never expected to see him like this, practically begging—not for anything, and certainly not for his maid to continue cleaning for him. Did she really vacuum so well?

  No. If nothing else, today had shown that he at least thought about her in another way. Is that why he kept her around, why he increased her cleaning schedule and chatted with her about his work? Should she be offended? But she wasn’t offended.

  Instead she was flattered and confused and aroused as hell.

  She stammered, “I don’t understand. Were you…was I…?”

  He closed his eyes and lowered his head. “There’s no excuse,” he said, swallowing. “But I won’t—” He broke off and looked away. The part of his face turned toward her was the more scarred half. That gesture more than anything showed his distress since he usually took pains to hide it. Who could think less of him, knowing he’d earned those scars in service to his country?

  “What can I do so that you won’t leave?” he asked.

  “I—honestly, I hadn’t even thought of quitting. Mr. Morris, I’m the one who needs to apologize. For intruding on your privacy. For watching you.”

  “Thank you,” he said stiffly, either in acknowledgment of her apology or her agreement she didn’t know. He paused then repeated, “I’m sorry.”

  After a curt nod, he left the room.

  Everything was fixed, wasn’t it? Except she felt bereft, as if something had been lost. Maybe she should have clarified that he hadn’t done anything wrong, after all. But it would be too strange to correct him in his assumption. What could she say? Please, go ahead and use me in your fantasies. I don’t mind. That would hardly make this situation less awkward.

  Besides, she needed time to think, to process what she had seen and her feelings about it. Well, she’d just committed not to quit, whatever came of her thoughts.

  Over the next few hours, she cleaned his house as usual. Blake seemed to stay out of her way, not lingering to chat with her about politics or history or to ask how school was going, as he often did. She left his bedroom for last and resolutely ignored the way her panties grew damp as she made his bed, imagining she could still feel the warmth of his body in the white sheets.

  Blake

  Thank God she hadn’t left.

  What a clusterfuck. As the minutes counted down on the clock, Blake Morris had known she would arrive. He couldn’t seem to deflate his erection. The last thing he wanted to do was leer at her with a goddamn hard-on, so he’d gone to take a cold shower.

  That hadn’t even worked.

  He needed to masturbate to bring it down. It was the only way to get rid of it. Erin couldn’t see his inappropriate desire for her. It would ruin everything.

  What happened was so much worse.

  Of all the ways to lose her, that would’ve been the stupidest. Not that he had her, exactly, but seeing her twice a week and getting to talk with her was more than he deserved, and he was damned grateful for it. He chose not to analyze the pathetic factor of that.

  It was shitty of him to use her work to bring her to his house. He’d never had such a clean house in his life. But he couldn’t bring himself to stop seeing her, either.

  Someone so beautiful and good had no business being around a goddamn coward like himself, but fuck if he wasn’t selfish enough to force her anyways. Lord knew he had no good looks, no charm, and as evidenced by earlier, no intelligence with which to lure her instead.

  In some circles he was known as a great mind in military strategy.

  The great intellectual, thinking with his dick.

  Not that he didn’t excuse himself to a certain extent—God, she was beautiful. Seeing her watching his dick while he’d come had only inflamed his lust for her, her cheeks pink, her lips parted, but it was best not to think about that or he’d get hard all over again.

  It was bad enough to be scarred and ugly, broken in body and spirit, wasn’t it? Surely he didn’t need to add exhibitionist to his faults, flashing unsuspecting maids who didn’t want him.

  Chapter Two

  Erin

  One hour into her next cleaning visit, Erin was getting worried.

  She wished everything could go back to normal, but Blake seemed to be avoiding her. He made a brief appearance to say hello. Hello, as if they were nothing more than employer and maid. As if he hadn’t made her laugh and hope and develop a massive crush on him.

  As if he hadn’t been masturbating with her name on his tongue.

  He didn’t sit on the couch as she folded the clothes or lean against the bookshelves while she dusted. He didn’t tell her about what book he was writing, what article he was researching, didn’t ask about her classes.

  Normally he wore a soft T-shirt and sweatpants, the kind made thin from many washes. He worked from home and preferred to be comfortable.

  Today he wore jeans and a white collared shirt.

  Nothing about this was normal.

  This new formality had to be a reaction to the incident from last week. Perhaps he felt violated or unsafe with her. Can you blame him? She had basically ogled him.

  Guilt serrated her insides.

  It didn’t help that she had explicit dreams about him and his cock two nights in a row. Dreams where he said those same words, but she was there, naked beside him, and she did what he commanded. Masturbating to thoughts of each other was a contagious condition, one she’d apparently now caught. If he could walk in on her touching herself, they’d be even.

  Blake ducked out of the kitchen with a glass of water at the exact same moment she entered from the other side. This couldn’t continue, could it? She wouldn’t make him uncomfortable in his own home.

  “Mr. Morris.”

  He stopped and turned, his unscarred side towards her. “Hey, Erin.”

  She softened her voice, almost pleading. “I want to apologize again for what happened last time, Blake.” If using his first name was the price of his forgiveness, then she would gladly pay it. “I should have left right away when I saw what you were doing…well, I was just surprised.” And more turned on than I’ve been my entire life.

  He cleared his throat. “Apology accepted.”

  Except it didn’t feel accepted, not when he couldn’t look her in the eye. He gave her what she supposed was an encouraging smile but looked more like a grimace. And that made her think of what he looked like when he climaxed. Damn it.

  She really should shut up now, but she couldn’t seem to stop. “I was wondering if you…that is, you were thinking of me, weren’t you? There wasn’t some other Erin?”

  His jaw clenched. Hard. “There’s no other Erin.”

  “Well, it’s only that, I wondered if…if it was just a passing thought or if it was more…”

  He looked alarmed now, and she cursed herself silently. “Erin,” he said, his voice hoarse. “You don’t feel that I was asking you to do any­thing…in­approp­riate, do you? That I would try to make you do something—something you didn’t want? That was never my intention.”

  “No!” she exclaimed in dismay. “Of course not. I just meant that, well, if you were interested in me that way, well, I—” She took a deep breath and rushed out, “I wouldn’t necessarily be opposed to it.”

  “You—” He broke off. She noticed detachedly that his hand was gripping the counter so tight his knuckles were white. He swayed forward as if to approach her but then leaned back. “You’re not opposed to it.”

  Her cheeks burned at a thousand degrees. “I want you to do what you said.”

  “God.” He wasn’t avoiding her eyes anymore. That dark gaze burned into hers. “Are you sure you don’t feel pressured? I would never ever want you to feel that you had to—”

&n
bsp; “No, no. It’s not that, I swear. And the same goes for you, too. If you don’t want to, please don’t feel that you have to, you know, actually do anything with me—”

  “If I don’t want to,” he repeated, sounding dazed.

  His eyes turned unfocused before they pinned her. He circled her, moving to stand behind her. Awareness raised goosebumps on the back of her neck. Her hair rustled where his face leaned into her hair, as if he were scenting her.

  “If I don’t want to,” he said again, almost tasting the words. “How would that work? How would it be possible to not want you? To not dream about you?”

  He trailed a finger lightly from the crown of her head, down her hair, along her shoulder and her arm. It was almost a whisper touch, not overtly sexual, but she found the suggestion more erotic than a firm grasp. The past two days of heightened arousal boiled over until she felt saturated with need, heavy and too hot.

  “Please,” she whimpered, shocked even as she said it.

  Erin had always been too proud, to her detriment. Her circumstances, cleaning houses while her classmates drove their BMWs to class, struggling to pay rent while they used their parents’ black credit cards, ought to bring her down, but she refused to be cowed.

  She never begged, not for anything, money, favor, and certainly not sex. Yet here she was wanting—no, needing him, a feeling foreign but very real.

  And he seemed to need her right back.

  “God, yes,” he breathed against her temple. “I want to touch you.”

  “Like before,” she said, her voice wavery. That had only been a dream—something in his imagination that had come alive in hers. A shared fantasy. This would be real.

  “Come upstairs.” He held out his hand, and it felt like so much more than an afternoon. It felt like he was promising her pleasure and sweetness and everything her heart desired.

  She put her hand in his, her heart squeezing with anticipation and worry.

  They passed the bathroom, where the countertops still gleamed from the last time she was here. Reality intruded in heavy stomps—that’s what I’m here to do, to clean his house, not have sex. What would it make her if she got paid for this hour?