Getting Schooled (Craving #9) Page 19

  I stand and pull her from the settee and bend to sweep her into my arms. She’s as tiny and frail as a wounded bird. Her perfume intoxicates me with its freshness. I must have her.

  She’s told me she’s a virgin, so I move with the pace of a sloth and the precision of a surgeon as I discover, uncover, and bury in kisses every inch of her. She moans with desire. It takes all my willpower not to take her immediately. But that won’t do. Not for my Sara.

  “Take me. Take me. Please. I need you. I love you,” Sara finally pleads, and I do.

  I hold her in my arms the whole night, wanting her to feel my comfort and desire to be with her only. We don’t make love again that night. It’s enough for her first. There will be many more, I know.

  For the next several days, we play hooky from the Artisans Academy unless I’m teaching a workshop. We ride the street cars, lunch in Chinatown, feed seagulls on the bay, walk hand and hand through the park, and experience everything that new love inspires. I feel twenty-five again. Maybe I am falling in love.

  Each night and morning, we consummate our attraction, and Sara learns quickly how to arouse me and allow me to pleasure her. This is how intimacy should be—free, open, experimental, and frequent. Not like my frigid Stephanie at home.

  With every coupling, we try new positions. I want to make her happy, and she does all she can to please me. If this enchanted week would never end, I’d die a happy man.

  But like all fairytales, it comes to an end as our plane lands, and we take separate cars to our home destinations.

  I don’t even dare to hug her as she leans in for a kiss. “Not here,” I say. “Someone might see.”

  “Oh, yes. I’m sorry,” she says and bows her head in shame.

  “Don’t be sorry. It’s been a charmed week. Thank you, Sara, for everything,” I say.

  “Thank you. Should—should I still come to your office?” she asks while twirling a few strands of long hair around her fingers.

  “Of course. This has only just begun for us. I promise.”

  The light in her eyes and the smile on her face as she raises her head to look into my eyes fills me with wonder, joy, and a touch of guilt. What have I done to this sweet innocent?

  Chapter Six

  Sara

  “How was your trip?” my mom asks when I return home.

  “Wonderful! Perfect! San Francisco is gorgeous, teeming with activity, the hotel was the best ever, and the conference was great. Professor Bray said I was very helpful during his workshops. He praised me over and over.”

  “I’d like to meet this Professor Bray. Sounds like my girl may have a bit of a crush on him. No?” Mom asks.

  I know I’m blushing, but I can’t help myself.

  “OMG, Mom, like that’s not going to happen. He’s old enough to be an uncle.”

  “Not a dad?”

  Now I feel like it’s an inquisition.

  “Oh, God no. He’s not that old. He’s young.”

  “Handsome?”

  “Yes,” I say and hesitate before adding, “in a teacher sort of way. What’s with the twenty questions?”

  “Just don’t want my little girl to be hurt is all,” Mom says.

  “No. I’m not getting hurt. I’m getting mentored by a world-renowned artist. It’s what I’ve always dreamed of.”

  “I know, Sara. Just be careful. Okay?”

  “Okay. I will,” I lie.

  “Now, go wash up. Shepherd’s pie in fifteen minutes.”

  “Yum. San Francisco had fabulous food, but your shepherd’s pie is still my favorite.”

  I rush off to wash up and end up facing another question/answer session at dinner. My sisters think it’s fascinating. My dad, not so much. He ends with the same warning to be careful as Mom did.

  That night, I lie awake for hours. My mound is wet with desire for more of Hunter. My heart swells with joy knowing he loves me and wants me to be with him. If only the divorce will be final soon.

  Christmas preparations and festivities keep me occupied throughout the rest of my winter break. All the bustle makes me forget during the daytime hours that I’d love to pick up the phone and call Hunter. I know I can’t. His Stephanie might find out about us. I can’t let that happen. But night times are long and restless. I swear I can still smell his aftershave, taste his lips on mine, feel his tongue exploring deep into my mouth, see his manhood in full form, and explode with him as he climaxes inside of me. Winter break can’t end soon enough for me. Maybe I’ll sleep again once I’m back in Hunter’s arms.

  Before long, I’m packing my now-clean laundry and making the trek back to campus. Hunter calls me from his campus office phone to say he’ll meet me there when I arrive. It seems he’s as eager to see me as I am him. I certainly hope so.

  Rather than stop at my dorm room, I rush straight to Hunter’s office. I tap three times, and rather than waiting behind his desk, he greets me at the door, closes and locks it, and swallows me in a deep kiss, all the while feeling my curves and driving me wild with need.

  He still wants me. I wasn’t his conference fling. Thank God!

  Within seconds, we undress each other, leave clothes tossed in a heap on the floor, and flail around on the loveseat in his office. We can’t get enough. It’s been just two weeks since our return from San Francisco, but it feels like we’ve missed years of time we want to make up for in minutes. His kisses are urgent, rough, and breathtaking. He sits on the loveseat, and I straddle his shaft and rock rhythmically, moving slowly at first, and then faster and faster until we are each satiated. I collapse into his hard chest, trying to catch my breath.

  “I love you,” I murmur.

  He brushes a few strands of hair that sweat has plastered to my face and looks directly at me. “I love you too, Sara. Thank you for being in my life.”

  We sit in silence for a few minutes before Hunter speaks.

  “I’ve asked Stephanie for a divorce, as you know. She’s ‘weighing her options,’” he says, using finger quotes to show the absurdity of her words.

  “What options?” I ask.

  “Basically, she’s speaking to a lawyer to see what she can get from me financially and how little she can ‘allow’ me to see Troy and Trevor.” His finger quotes appear again. His frustration manifests itself in his furrowed brow and deep frown. I hate seeing him this way.

  “What can you do?”

  “Nothing. Just wait to see how it plays out,” he says and shrugs his shoulders.

  My heart bleeds for him, but for myself too. If they stay married, there isn’t much hope for a future for us, the future he promised me as we walked hand-in-hand along Fishermen’s Wharf. I slide off his lap and pull his face toward mine.

  “What does that mean for us?”

  “Sara, I cannot ask you to wait for Stephanie to be reasonable. She could take months or, or years for all I know.”

  “No. You aren’t cutting me out of your life, are you?” I stand up, forgetting I’m stark naked and standing in front of my professor, and land my hands on my hips, daring him to respond.

  “Really. It’s the right thing to do. Honest,” he answers and then hides his eyes from me.

  “The right thing? Are you kidding me? The right thing would have been for this to not have happened at all. You started this. You wrote that note to invite me here; you set up the portrait, you…”

  He reaches for my arm and pulls me back to the seat and places his large hands solidly on my shoulders.

  “Calm down. You’re getting too loud. Someone will hear,” he says and puts his finger to his lips as though I’m a child he has to hush.

  “You’re worried we’ll be caught. You should have thought of that sooner.”

  “Sara, I didn’t say I won’t see you again. I want to. But it’s important that you understand the situation I’m in and that you decide if a private relationship with me is something you really want.”

  “Of course I want it; I love you. I told you, I love you,” I plea
d.

  “Sara, you’re too young to know what love is. I married Stephanie when we were your age. Now, we have nothing. We’re civil for the sake of the boys. That’s it.”

  “That’s you and Stephanie. This is us. You and me, Hunter,” I answer and feel myself tremble all over. It’s not the coolness of the room; it’s the fear that I’ll lose him. I can’t.

  “Come here,” he commands, and I do.

  He wraps me in his muscular, warm arms. I melt into him, and my breathing slows with the tempo of his. He strokes my hair as though soothing a colicky baby, and tears stream down my cheeks and land on his bare chest.

  “I can’t lose you. I can’t,” I say.

  “Shhhh! You won’t. We’ll work around Stephanie. We’ll make this work. As long as that’s what you want, it’ll be what I want too,” he promises.

  An hour later, dressed and sure that things will work smoothly for us after this, I leave Hunter’s office and return to my dorm. Shaylee greets me with her usual bubbly enthusiasm, wanting to know all about what I’d done during break. As we talk into the night, with me never confessing about my San Francisco trip, I feel torn between two worlds. In this one, I’m a single freshman sipping a forbidden beer with my roommate. In the other, I’m a sophisticated adult who knows what she wants more than anything in the world—Hunter Douglas Bray.

  Chapter Seven

  Hunter

  There is something about Sara Quinn that I can’t put my finger on. She’s definitely different from all the rest I’ve had on the side over the years. She’s fresh, smart, talented, stunningly beautiful, which so many others were, but unlike them, who I saw as throwaways, she lights up my heart when she comes near me. Thank God I’m not actually teaching her art history class. I’d never be able to concentrate with her in the front row.

  Sitting at my computer, I scan for every and all conferences, workshops, academies, gallery openings, and book signing opportunities that can, in any way, align with my campus duties, so the administration will allow the time I need away from campus. There are dozens this year alone. I contact the organizers, offer my services as a speaker or workshop provider, and wait to hear back.

  Leaning back in my oversized office chair that I ordered just for the “commander in chief” vibe it affords me, I rewind what just happened.

  Even after returning from time with her parents, she’s here first for me. Despite not being in a fascinating location like San Francisco, she doesn’t seem to have lost any of her lust for me. She came here before checking in with her roommate. She missed me. Hell, I missed her. Two weeks apart from each other while the break frittered away seemed like infinity. I must keep her. If I play my cards right, we’ll be traveling for the next several years while she finishes with her Masters in Textile Art with me as her personal mentor.

  But playing those cards includes Stephanie. I’d so like to get that frosty bitch out of my life but still have the boys in it. By the time Sara graduates, they will both be well into their teens and almost ready for college. Once that happens, neither Stephanie nor I will see much of them. Perhaps then I can divorce her and move on to a warmer, happier life with Sara. No other coed has ever pleased me or touched me this way. Could this be love rather than lust? I think it is.

  After freshman year, Shaylee and Sara split ways. Shaylee suspects what is going on between Sara and me and doesn’t approve. I set Sara up in an off-campus apartment. She tells her parents that the noise in the dorms is too much for her to concentrate on her studies. They agree to foot the bill as long as it costs what on-campus living does. They have no clue, so I make up the difference in her rent.

  It’s our love nest. Sara has a creative flair for decorating, and with items she purchases at Goodwill and antique shops, the place is homey, inviting, not like the startling modern décor Stephanie favors. I purchase a queen-sized bedroom set and some other main pieces of furniture, so the look is complete. We find we enjoy shopping together. It’s not all about the sex, but the sex is so powerful. No longer do I need cold showers at night while Stephanie rests her body as far away from me in our king bed as possible. Sara fulfills me in every way.

  We work together in the textile lab almost daily. She’s going to outdo her mentor with the creations she’s making. By junior year, I have a contact in New York set up a gallery showing of her pieces, and she is well received, as I knew she would be.

  I’m educating Sara, and she’s educating me. Once the freshness of our sex starts to become predictable, Sara starts reading and researching ways to keep one’s sex life vibrant. The ideas she surprises me with are spectacular. We experiment with new positions that would make Stephanie cringe. Our motto is “we’ll try anything once,” and if we like it, we’ll repeat. If we don’t, we’ll move onto the next sensational moves. Sara is spontaneous and comes up with games we can play involving sex, secret desires, and kink. We even play strip poker in bed. One day she arrives at the apartment, where I’m waiting for her, with a book called Red Sex Diaries by Erin Lee. It’s supposed to be a tool for couples wanting to restore passion.

  “Are you trying to tell me something?” I ask, and I can feel the deep furrow of my brow. “Are we losing our passion?”

  She laughs and punches me in the shoulder.

  “No, silly, it’s preemptive. I don’t want our love life and sex life to end up like yours with Stephanie. I’m willing to try anything to keep this alive. Are you?”

  “Come over here,” I order. She does. I wrap her in big hug that, as always, sends quivers down my spine.

  “I love you. I love that you want to keep our spark alive. For me, it will never die, but I’m willing to try any new idea you like.”

  “Thank you, Hunter. I love you too.”

  And she stretches on her tip toes and gives me a kiss that thrills me.

  We travel more in the five years we’re together than I’ve ever traveled before. We’ve even taken trips to Austria and England for extended conferences. I’ve acquired permission from the administration to put my “most talented student ever” into a custom-made program since she is working exclusively with me on the artisan aspects of her degree. Other required courses she takes online, so she doesn’t fall behind. Grades matter to Sara. So I encourage her efforts but know she’ll be a successful artist whether or not she graduates and whether or not she gets a 4.0 or 2.5 GPA. She’s a natural.

  Every few months and more frequently now that graduation with her master’s degree is nearing, Sara pressures me about divorce proceedings. I make up every possible excuse. But I know a time of real reckoning is coming as she orders her cap and gown and master’s stole.

  Chapter Eight

  Sara

  I didn’t bother with the bachelor’s graduation ceremony, but I am so excited for this final step in my formal education. My parents, my sisters, both sets of grandparents, and two of my favorite cousins will join me for the celebration.

  My plan is to introduce them to Hunter as my mentor and invite him to our dinner celebration, so he can finally meet the family that I’ve talked so much about. I’ve gushed to them about “Professor Bray.” Dad is not so impressed.

  “I’ve never heard of any professor who would take a student under his wing like this guy has. Are you sure he’s not after you for sex?”

  I laugh and assure him that our relationship is purely academic. Then I lower my eyes, hating to lie to my dad.

  As the days until graduation rush away, it feels like Hunter and I can’t get enough of each other. Even after these five years, there’s an urgency that hasn’t been there before. The minute we are together, our clothes are off, he lifts me into our bed, and the delight begins. He often takes his slow, sweet time nuzzling, kissing, and licking every part of my body before I have a chance to satisfy him. His touches drive me wild with need; I beg for his manhood to complete me, but he holds me off so long that the final climax, when it comes, is that much stronger, sweeter, and more satisfying. He knows every button to p
ush and pushes them all. Over the years, our love making has changed from my unknowing innocence to me taking the upper hand in experimenting. He once educated me to the ways of the bed, but now I’m educating him. And he loves it. And I love him.

  There’s an opening in the Textiles Department, and I’ve applied for the position without consulting Hunter. He, of course, will make the final decision about the applicants, and I know he’ll choose me, but I want to use the proper channels, like the educated professional that I am.

  My plan is to teach with him as a colleague, to insist on the divorce, so he and I can create a family of our own, and someday to open a gallery with him.

  But I soon learn he has other plans.

  I’m studying for my final exam in Renaissance Art 670 when my cell rings with the happy ring I’ve set for Hunter alone.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Hi, babe. I’m wondering. Could you meet me at my office?”

  “Sure. When?”

  Maybe he’s going to offer me the job and wants it to feel official, not like something he pops on me when we’re naked in bed.

  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I say and hang up.

  On schedule, I do my signature knock, and Hunter tells me to come in. He’s sitting at his desk. All the lights in the room are on, and it feels sterile, different, yet the scent of tobacco fills my nostrils like it did on my first visit. Perhaps this would be the setting for any applicant who is going to be interviewed for a position. That’s what this is.

  “Please, sit,” Hunter says and points to the chair on the other side of the desk.

  “Hunter, what—”

  But he cuts me off.

  “The HR Department just sent me the folder of the applicants for the assistant professorship. You’ve applied.”

  “Well, of course I have. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else,” I say.