Page 60 of Forbidden Heroes

The Professor’s Sweet Virgin

He's totally off-limits but that's where all the fun begins.

We all know the rules. No touching, no kissing, and definitely no f**king the professors. But no ever said I couldn't strip my virgin body for the totally hands off, utterly delicious dean. Right?

During the day we pretend he's nothing more than the dean of my university and me just another honey-eyed brunette student. But when nighttime rolls around I'm the virgin stripper on stage making us both hot and wild for one another.

But it's not all peaches and cream. When financial problems strike and I'm left homeless and no way to pay my tuition, the dominate, always-in-control blue eyed dean step in to help.

But he's no hero and I'm no swooning damsel. What we have is raw, unfiltered and…wrong?

When he walks me through his front door we're both in trouble, because it's only a matter of time before his control snaps and the real fun begins between the dean and his student.

Author's Naughty Note: Leave your panties at the door because you won't be needing them! This hot, deliciously sinful and perfectly forbidden student teacher romance is sugary sweet and oh-so-filthy! Enjoy! As always this is safe with a HEA & NO CHEATING!

One

Amber, Forty-eight hours earlier…

Isigh loudly and slump into the seat of my car. You know you’ve reached a new low in life when a fortune cookie has better advice for your life plan than you do. I stare at the tiny slip of paper until the words blur and a blast of traffic horns tear me out of my daze.

I should have known trouble would come for me in threes. It’s about that time. It started with this one fortune cookie and it all went downhill from there. I consider the oddly-shaped edible a moment longer and then tighten my fingers into a fist, crushing the fried bits of dough into a thousand crumbs.

At the tender age of eight is when it first happened with the sudden death of my mom, which led to my father’s first overdose and then another round in rehab. He promised it would never happen again, but he no more kept that promise than my mother did by promising she would quit hitting the bottle. I guess the decision was taken out of her hands after she went on one binger too many.

That ugly string of events landed me in child protective services for the first time, and at that young age I didn’t truly understand how dark the world could get.

Thank God I’m a fast learner or I might not have made it to the next round of shitty events that struck like a lightning bolt.

Three days after my sixteenth birthday the rule of three came looking for me again and this time said hello with a broken window, a broken arm, and an equally shattered heart.

All in that order in less than twenty-three seconds. If you ever wondered how fast life can change directions, there you have it. That was the fifth time I landed in protective services and I swore to myself it would be the last. I would never again let my parents’ craptastic choices rule my life.

My then teenage boyfriend thought I had a thing for my calculus teacher and believed heaving a hefty rock through my window would settle any misunderstandings between us. That night I learned a few things: Druggie fathers can’t protect their daughters. They’re too busy scoring their next hit. And the second lesson was trust and love is earned, never freely given.

I gave both too easily and I can still feel the bruises when I breathe too deeply.

But I’m a silver linings kind of girl. I’m in school, have a stable job that requires me to be physically fit and I have at least one meal a day. Good, right? I mean I’m healthy and building a brighter future for myself so I keep that at the forefront of my mind on days like today.

I find the nearest trashcan and toss in the remnants of the cookie and its twisted message, dusting off my hands.

For the record, the douchebag quarterback who thought he was all the shit was wrong about me. A fact he didn’t accept until the officer slapped the cuffs on him. Funny how a heavy dose of reality helps reveal the real truth. It also set me on a path. So maybe I should be thanking the bastard for waking me up. Or, I might have traveled down the same path as my piece-of-shit father and the mother who brought me into this world.

And today the cycle started all over again with that damn fortune cookie and its little white slip of paper thanks to my friend. She pressed it into my hand, and the second it touched my palm, I swear it was like an invisible sonic wave triggered something in the cosmos, setting the whole wheel in motion again.

I should have known what was about to happen. The same tingles erupted over my skin today as they did every time before. A skittering nervous feeling that settles in the pit of my stomach and one I have no control over.

But did I read the signs? No. I admit, my focus was on him.

Maddox way-too-old-and-way-too-off-limits Spencer. My one-time professor, the current dean of Blackthorne University, and the sole reason I love hitting the stage six nights a week.

If James Bond ever had an American doppelganger, Maddox fits the bill down to the kissable cleanshaven jaw and the sexy way he fixes his cufflinks when he gives lectures. There are very few details I know about the man, but I do know he’s never so much as whispered a curse word in my presence, is not married—I checked—and favors three-piece suits like a drag queen loves her falsies.

The only thing missing is the accent, but his deep, rumbling baritone makes up for it in spades.

Movie star perfect with eyes the color of the waters off Fiji, dimples in either cheek and wears a dark scruff on the weekends that has me clenching my thighs till Monday. I know because I’ve run into him on Sunday evenings while out and about.

God help me! I’ve never loved scruff more.

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