Page 5 of Damaged Professor

“That’s not a cop out,” I tell her. “He does have amazing works. La Maj Denudation was groundbreaking.”

My lips brush against the back of her head. That soft touch instantly feels too intimate.

Maybe she feels the same way because she takes a moment to finish her wine. Then she turns around, pressing her chest to mine. Her arm snakes around my waist, her hand slipping into the pocket at the back of my jeans. Fingers curl against my ass.

“La Maj Denudation? Really?” Her mouth curls up into a sweet little smile, and her eyes half lidded. “You are smooth.”

“If I was trying to be smooth, I would have compared you to her,” I say, with a little laugh. “I thought that would just get me laughed out of the kitchen.”

Abby hums. “Smart move, it would have.”

“I’m surprised you know the name of it,” I tell her. “Are you planning on studying Art?”

“No,” says Abby. “But Nichole—my friend from the bar—that’s what she’s majoring in. She talks about it all the time, so it’s practically become my major too.”

“My mother used to be the curator at an art museum,” I explain. “Her house is covered in prints like this one. A few real pieces, too, but she’s always been of the mindset that the real ones should stay in the museum. That way, everyone can get a chance to look at them.”

“Not a lot of people look at art in that light,” says Abby, sounding pleased. “You just don’t get the same wonder in reprints.”

“It’s because the texture doesn’t come across,” I explain. It’s something that my mother said countless times over the years. “And the beauty in art is all about the texture.”

While I enjoy our conversation, I just can’t resist the urge to touch her. My free hand slides down the curve of her hip, nails raking lightly over the denim fabric of the shorts. There’s just enough pressure to the action that I know she’s going to feel it, especially as I pass the denim and press her bare skin again. Soon as I do, my hand flattens out, palm against the back of her thigh, groping her skin, and then sliding right back up in the same manner until I reach her top. I slip my hand under the fabric, caressing her back.

Then I lean down and kiss her again, with more force and passion than I did in the car. It’s more tongue and tooth than anything else, and Abby is quick to replace it.

We only split up when the glass nearly slips from my hand. I set both mine and hers aside and pull her close again.

“Won’t you show me the rest of the house?” she asks.

I hum, resting my hand against my chin, pretending to think about it. “I suppose that I could show you the sitting room.”

“Keep cracking jokes,” says Abby, but she’s smiling. Something about the look on her face is so painfully bright, it nearly takes my breath away. “And see if I don’t end up actually taking you up on that.”

“Well, what did you want to see?” I want to hear her say it. Sue me—everyone has their thing. I like it when women say what they want. I like hearing that they want me to take them. And I like hearing how they want me to take them.

And Abby has this soft, almost lilting voice. It makes me feel like I’m about to turn into stardust.

“I thought you could show me the bedroom,” says Abby, her hand sliding down the line of my chest and landing at the top of my jeans. Two fingers hook around the button. There’s something ridiculously erotic about the entire thing.

One of my hands settles on the small of her back, and the other on her ass. I tug her close, so there’s no space between us, and then I tell her, in a low, rough voice, “I think that I can do that.”

Chapter three

Abby

Dylan’srich.

Like, rich-rich.

I had my suspicions when he told me about the driver, and they were confirmed when we pulled up to his house. But it’s even more apparent as we make our way up the stairs, down the painting lined hall, and into the master bedroom.

I try to get a better look at the paintings but I’m way more focused on the fact that we’re kissing and touching the whole way into the bedroom. As soon as we stumble through the open doorway, he starts working my shirt off. The black fabric hits the floor, revealing my breasts.

In a matter of seconds, his mouth is on my chest, my collar bone, my breasts. It’s wet and hot and so, so good. My hands tangle in his hair, tugging at it, threading through his dark locks. He keeps working his way down, kissing over my stomach, and then he hits my shorts. The buttons get popped right off, the denim sliding down my thighs. My panties follow suit. He goes to touch but I shove his hand away. “Come on, I want to see you too.”

“Who am I to say no to that?” Dylan laughs. He starts with his tie, and I move to the bed, spreading my legs open and watching as he strips for me, piece by piece. By the time that he’s totally bare, I’ve got a hand between my legs, fingers sliding over my slit. I’m already wet.

Watching him grab a condom out of the top of his dresser drawer sends a bolt of something hot through me, my mouth starting to water.

---