The Professor's Pet (A BDSM Romance Novel) (13 page)

“Touch yourself,” he growled at me. “Make yourself come.”

I hadn’t begged, I hadn’t cried and asked him to let me come; I’d waited for permission, and his eyes were appreciative of my compliance. My fingers slid into my mouth, and then down to my clitoris and I saw the fire blaze in his eyes as he watched me suck on my fingers. I was past any sense of embarrassment about his scrutiny; my need ruthlessly burying any residual shyness. I started moving my fingers slowly in a rhythm that only I knew, and his eyes were intent, as I started climbing higher and higher towards that shattering orgasm that had been denied for so long.

I was almost there, and his hand stopped me. I almost
fought his hand, but I strove for grace, and looked at him. I didn’t hide the need in my eyes; my gaze was pleading, but I kept silent. He smiled, the sweetest of smiles, and lifted my fingers to his mouth, sucking on my juices with shocking lust, and then he let go, and inclined his head. Continue. The unspoken command.

My fingers started over, as his cock pounded into me. Everything was pain; everything was pleasure, and my fingers moved faster and faster on my clitoris, rubbing, pulling, pressing down on that throbbing piece of flesh in a way that was almost desperation, and then, I was there, at that peak, and falling, every muscle in my pussy clenching as my orgasm ripped through me.

I heard Jake groan; his grip on my ass tightened almost cruelly, and then he was coming as well, growling as he found his release.

When I had the capability of forming words again, I looked at him lying next to me. “Wow, Professor Ballard,” I
said softly. His lips twitched, but he didn’t respond.

***

My body was a mass of aches and bruises when I woke up the next day. My breasts were mottled with bits of red and purple. I looked at my ass in the mirror, and I could see the bruises from the grip of his hands as we’d fucked. My pussy was painfully sore.

I winced as I headed into the shower. It was nine in the morning,
much later than I would normally wake, but we hadn’t gone to bed until four. Jake wasn’t in the room; he’d left a note by the pillow about going for a run. I had no idea where he found the energy.

My shoulders slumped as I stood under the steaming water, and let it course down my body.
My mind was empty, the hot water felt wonderful and I closed my eyes and just stood under the shower.

“Ahem.” My eyes flew open, met Jake’s amused eyes. Watched the look turned to shock as he surveyed my bruised body. He shut his eyes for a second, then opened them. “I’m so sorry,” he said. There was unhappiness in his voice.

“Why?” I asked. “You didn’t force me to do anything, I was there every step of the way.”

“I should have been more responsible,” he insisted. I rolled my eyes; I’d begged for every bit of what he gave me last night, and I wasn’t going to let him diminish that. I told him
so.

His lips twitched at the obvious irritation in my tone. “
Okay, Emily,” he finally said mildly. “Now, can I join you in the shower?”

I grinned wide. “Yes, Professor Ballard,” I said, moving aside.

***

“Here, hand me the shampoo,” he said. He poured some into his hand, massaged it into my scalp. I
winced; I had no ability to resist tender Jake.

“What hurts?” he asked, mistaking my wince for pain.

I shook my head. “I’m fine,” I insisted. “I’m sore, but it’ll pass.” I rinsed off the shampoo, he massaged conditioner into my hair, and soaped my body. I bit my lip; this was really, really nice. I could get spoiled being treated this way.

“How is this appropriate behaviour for a Dom?” I asked.

He laughed. “Well,” he drawled. “You could say I have an ulterior motive wanting you healed quickly,” he said.

A pang shot through my heart. “
Do you?”

He just winked at me.

***

“Emily,” he said
, when we had both dressed. “I’m sorry, I have a golf date with Sanjay and a couple of other people. And you are in no condition to play today, in any case.”

“No worries,” I said, trying to keep my voice level. I was hoping to have Jake to myself for a little longer, but he wa
s always fiendishly busy.

He looked at me. “Can we have dinner tonight though? Before I fly out?”

“Sure,” I said. I should have maybe told him that I had other plans, but I had only six weeks left, and I wanted to grab every bit of time Jake had to give me. It was pathetic and I knew it, but I had no ability to lie to myself and pretend otherwise.

“Why don’t you come to dinner at my place?” I asked, trying not to reveal any of what I was feeling in my voice. “I’ll cook. Anything you don’t eat?”

“That sounds lovely. No seafood, please,” he said.

I raised an eyebrow. He was from Maine, wasn’t it against the law to hate seafood?

He gave me a ride home.

***

I tried not to think of Jake when I got to my apartment. In the cold, clear light of day, it was hard not to draw the parallel between the ache in my body, and the oncoming ache in my heart.

Magic 8-ball,
I whispered.
Is it too late for me to walk away?

It is certain,
the answer came back.

***

Instead of drowning in my misery, dwelling on the heartbreak that was certain to result in six weeks, I cleaned my apartment and went grocery shopping. I was competent in the kitchen, but not an expert, and I was a little intimidated cooking for Jake.

I kept the menu simple, pasta in a cream and mushroom sauce, a spinach salad with feta cheese, oranges a
nd walnuts, crusty dinner rolls from a bakery near my house. For dessert, I bought an apple pie from the same bakery; I’d planned to serve it with ice-cream from my freezer.

Once I was done cooking, I changed. So far, Jake had seen me in jeans more than anything else. I wanted to wear something sexier; I looked
for a dress in my closet, and found the red dress I’d worn so many months ago when I’d gone over to Jake’s place.

At six-thirty, my buzzer sounded.
Jake. I buzzed let him in, and went towards the door, opened it.

He
had changed as well, he was wearing dress pants and a collared shirt. He held out a bottle of wine towards me with a smile. “Thanks for inviting me to dinner,” he said, as he walked in.

I smiled. I was oddly nervous; it was an intimate and personal thing,
inviting Jake over for dinner. He had been in my thoughts as I’d cooked; I’d chosen my menu with the desire to please him. The sex was spilling over into real life; I had wanted to give him pleasure through my cooking as well as my compliance. It was a terrifying feeling.

Deep breath.
I had never cooked dinner for a guy before. My prior relationships with men were casual; I liked them, and I enjoyed the sex. But I’d never felt this need to please; this uncertainty that came with letting someone become important to me. I’d never shared anything of myself before; but I had poured something of myself as I cooked; had thought of him and the look in his eyes as I had showered after and dressed; had felt my insides clench as I spread lotion over my body, imagining his hands doing that task for me instead.

My eyes were lowered as he walked into the apartment. I felt dangerously unsettled; uneasy in my own skin.

“How was your golf game?” I asked, in an effort to break the silence that had fallen.

He shrugged. “I’m a terrible golfer,” he said. “But the golf was a pretext for a business meeting, and so I went.”

“Pitching the next project?” I asked. Would it be possible that his project would get extended past the eight week period? Could I have a little more of Jake, and was that even healthy for me?

“Not
quite,” he said. “Can I do anything to help?” he asked me, following me into the kitchen.

“Pour the wine,
please?” I asked him, gesturing to the drawer that housed the corkscrew. “I always have trouble opening wine bottles,” I confessed.

He
nodded easily, opened the bottle, found a couple of clean glasses in my dish rack and poured. “Here,” he said, handing me a glass.

I put the apple pie into the oven to warm, and then led the way to my couch.

“How come you don’t like seafood?” I asked with curiosity as we both sat on the couch and sipped the wine.

“I love seafood,” he replied promptly. “My dad’s a fisherman. I’m just very picky about my seafood, that’s all.”

“You aren’t as picky about pussy, evidently,” I muttered, before I could stop myself. Then I winced. It had been an attempt at a joke about fish and pussy, but it had made me sound jealous and unbalanced instead.

He looked startled for a second, and then his lips twitched. “How would you know?” he asked me directly.

I didn’t know; I didn’t know anything about him. All I knew was his stated intention to keep sleeping with other women.

“I don’t,” I muttered. He shook his head at me, took another sip. His phone rang at that moment, cutting off any further conversation. He took a quick look at the display, and looked at me. “I’m sorry, I have to get this,” he said, as he got off the couch, went to stand by the window.

“Gracie,” he greeted the caller. I heard the affection in his voice, and I blinked back the sudden tears.
What the fuck, Emily,
I thought to myself. I didn’t think he would throw the women he was sleeping with in my face though. Not when he was in my apartment, and I’d spent the last few hours cooking dinner for him.

I couldn’t listen anymore. I pushed myself off the couch; slid my balcony door
open and went outside. The air was cold; it was mid-November. I hugged myself tight and strove for composure. I was being ridiculous, and I knew it. I didn’t even know who Gracie was, I was automatically assuming it was a sexual partner, but for all I knew, it could be one of his students or something. I sighed. This was a new thing for me; I was the one who held myself apart in relationships; I’d never felt this kind of yearning before, and I didn’t very much like how exposed I felt. My eyes gazed unseeingly into the San Francisco skyline.

I heard the balcony door slide open, and then Jake placed the throw from my couch over my shoulders, and drew me into his chest. “What’s the matter, Emily?” he asked me quietly.

I shook my head. “Nothing,” I mumbled. “Let’s go back in, I just wanted to give you a bit of privacy for your phone call.” I disengaged myself from his body, and went back into the living room, curled up on the couch again. I was fighting for composure, every emotion was too close to the surface; too heightened.

He followed me in. “Sorry about the phone call,” he said, his eyes on me. “But Grace is calling from Congo, and she’s hard to get
a hold off.” He was watching me carefully as he spoke.

I didn’t meet his eyes. “Who is she?” I asked him. He wasn’t a fool; he knew exactly what was going on; why I’d left to go on the balcony.

“My sister,” he responded. “She works for Doctors without Borders; she’s doing a stint in the DRC. She’s flying in for Thanksgiving; I’ll pick her up at Boston, and we’ll drive up to Maine.”

“Oh,” I said.

“So, are you going to tell me what the matter is?” he asked me.

My fingers tightened on the wine glass; I gazed into its depths, hoping for insight. Finally, I just sighed and told him. “It bothers me that you are sleeping with someone in Boston,” I said. “I thought that’s who was on the phone.”

“Why do you think I’m sleeping with someone else?” he asked me carefully.

“Because…” I gestured, an expansive hand-wave in his direction. “You are gorgeous; you are single. You made no guarantees about monogamy. I’m assuming sex is easily available.”

His lips twitched. “I think you just called me a slut,” he said. He took a sip of wine from his glass. He looked at me, and this time, his gaze was even. “I’m making no guarantees about monogamy,” he said, and there was an edge to his voice. I remembered that he had said he was unfaithful once, and I wondered what can of worms I’d opened with my comments. “But I’m not sleeping with anyone other than you at the moment.”

“Oh,” I said. I didn’t know what to say. 
I desperately needed a neutral topic. “How many siblings do you have?”

He eyed me, and I prayed he would allow the change in topic. “Two,” he answered finally. “I’m the middle one – Eli’s the oldest, he’s a fisherman, like my dad. Lives in Maine, two doors down from the house we grew up in. Grace, the baby, is a doctor. She’s a bit of a nomad. You? Any siblings?”

I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I’m an only child. My parents are retired teachers; they live in Santa Fe now, my mom has taken up pottery and my dad has taken up painting, and they are as happy as clams.”

He grinned at my description of my parents; the tension noticeably lessened. We drank our wine, and ate our food, the conversation flowing easily between us. Finally, he pushed his plate back with a satisfied groan. “Emily, that was delicious,” he said. “Thank you.”

I smiled at him. “Not a complete prick then,” I commented. He burst out laughing at that comment.