A Dance for Him Read online

  I guess he must really like my boobs, ha!

  It’s hard not to feel affection for him when he’s in this mode. Accordingly, I lean forward so that he gets to nuzzle them for a bit, then slowly reach backwards to unhook my bra, teasing him a bit by taking my own sweet time with it, especially since my reaching backwards means that my breasts are pushed out more towards him …

  He smiles at me, looking quite flushed. It seems a bit too poetic to say this about a guy who’s basically getting a lap dance and a faceful of tits, but he has an expression on his face that can only be described as rapturous.

  Of course, I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that he’s utterly gorgeous and has the most beautiful eyes ever!

  Eyes which widen when my bra comes off and I toss it on the floor …

  I can’t help but smile at him as he stares at me. It’s still early in the song, so I don’t want him to get too excited yet, but I can’t resist giving him a taste of nipple before I get off the couch and start gyrating in front of him again.

  He sighs, but doesn’t otherwise protest - instead, he just keeps on gazing at me, in that wistful way that’s never failed to melt my cynical little heart.

  I turn around, perhaps at least partly so I don’t get too sentimental, and bend over, spreading my legs and caressing my ass for his delectation. My g-string’s soaked by now, but I don’t care - I want him to smell my excitement, almost as a sort of challenge to him.

  Of course, since I can’t see his face, I can’t see his reaction, but I can definitely hear a change in the way he’s breathing, especially once I start inching my way out of my little skirt, so that the only piece of clothing left on me is my g-string, which obviously doesn’t cover very much of me up.

  He’s crimson when I turn around, his gaze avid, lustful.

  When I get back onto his lap and begin grinding against his huge erection while supporting myself on the back of the couch, he doesn’t touch me, at least not with his hands, but he leans forward into me and inhales deeply, as though he wanted to take in my scent …

  It goes without saying that I can smell him too.

  I don’t really know how to describe it, but I figure it’s what people refer to as a manly musk, earthy yet clean, with a hint of soap to it.

  It’s quite delicious, really, and I have to restrain myself from burying my face in his shoulder or his hair in order to get a good long sniff …

  Instead I continue rubbing up against him.

  He’s wearing pants today rather than jeans, which he was wearing at the club, and the fabric’s doing even less to hide the raging erection underneath it.

  It’s terribly tempting to unzip his pants. I shift myself back slightly, so that I’m sitting on his thighs, and let my hand wander to his crotch - the first time I’ve directly handled his equipment.

  I look at him, a question in my eyes.

  It’s a question that’s soon answered, even if not quite verbally - he turns red and smiles in wonderment, as though he couldn’t quite believe what I was offering to do.

  When I actually reach down and carefully unzip him, he looks ecstatic, and I swear his package actually twitched underneath my hands - I guess that’s not something that just happens in books!

  I realise why soon enough - he’s not wearing any underwear, my gorgeous perv of a professor, and so his cock springs out at me, all buoyant and cheery, not to mention incredibly inflated.

  Because he is huge. It’s true that this is the first cock I’ve ever handled, but it’s not like I’ve never seen anything on the internet before, and I know that it’s not exactly usual to see one so thick that I can barely get my hand around it …

  He’s looking at me, gauging my response to his cock, and smiles when he sees my amazement.

  Fuck, I know I didn’t want him to be all smug and everything, but I can’t help this, and - more importantly - it’s stopped mattering to me in the same way, because he is huge, and his endowment definitely deserves to be goggled at.

  Not to mention that I’m incredibly turned on. I mean, I’m holding Sebastian Morland’s massive (and massively hard) cock in my hand right now, feeling its strange silkiness, exploring the outline of the veins running through it …

  Talk about a sentence that’s unbelievable in itself on so many levels!

  With a start I realise that I’d almost forgotten I was supposed to be dancing.

  It’s true that the music’s stopped by now, though he doesn’t seem to have noticed.

  Of course, up till now I hadn’t noticed either …

  I make up for it by letting go of his cock and turning round, so that I now have my back to him, and I can feel his magnificent shaft against my naked ass cheeks.

  I can’t help but tremble when it occurs to me that if it weren’t for my g-string, I’d be this close to being impaled on him. It’s an idea I flirt with as I raise my ass slightly so that his cock is practically tickling my clothed entrance …

  “Touch yourself,” I suddenly hear him say, his voice hoarse and urgent in a way that I’ve never heard before. “I want to see you touch yourself.”

  I’m only too happy to oblige, given that I’m maddeningly horny at this point, and I get on my knees, supporting myself with a hand on his thigh.

  A wonderfully muscular thigh …

  It’s incredibly exciting knowing that he has an even better view of my naughtiest parts now, and it seems like the perfect time to pull aside my g-string and slide a finger into myself. I’m so wet it sounds positively obscene - not that the moan that escapes my lips is any less so!

  I play with myself for a bit before I turn round and look at him.

  He’s very flushed, and he’s handling his cock as he’s staring at me and my crotch with a strangely focused expression …

  God, he’s so hot. Even though we’re not touching at the moment I can feel the body heat emanating off him … The sexual tension in the room is palpable.

  The room smells of sex in any case, given that my juices are flowing down my inner thighs, now that my cleft’s no longer covered by that skimpy shred of satin …

  I redouble my efforts as I think about what it would be like if he were to grab me and fuck me senseless, and it doesn’t take me long before I come, in a trembling, wet, pleasurable mess.

  He comes too, as I do, and as I hear him grunt I feel more than one spurt of his seed hit my ass cheeks.

  Sebastian Morland’s seed …

  I turn around and smile at him as I return to his lap.

  “I hope you liked that, Dr. Morland,” I murmur in my sweetest voice - I’m feeling tender, very tender towards him, and given what happened last Saturday I don’t think it’s unreasonable to hope for round two, especially since he’s still semi-hard at the moment.

  For all I know, at the rate we’re going, I might actually lose my virginity tonight …

  But he doesn’t quite respond the way I’d hoped.

  He does smile, but it’s a tight little smile, no longer what it was when he was beaming at me earlier, and there’s a new tension in the air, by which I don’t mean the good, sexual variety.

  “Thank you, Ms. Lytton,” he says, back in polite mode. “That was quite lovely. Would you like a cup of coffee before you go?”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  She’s looking at me, aghast, before she blushes furiously and springs from my lap as though it were scalding her.

  “Thank you, Dr. Morland, that won’t be necessary,” she says, her voice so measured that it’s obvious she’s trying to hide her agitation.

  Fuck.

  “Ms. Lytton - Paige -”

  “Do you mind if I change in your bathroom?” she interpolates, before I can say anything else.

  “Please go ahead,” I reply.

  “Thanks,” she says curtly as she grabs the bag she brought with her and makes off for the bathroom.

  Fuck!

  I’ve clearly offended her. Which I most certainly didn’t mean to.

  I mean
, I could have let her stay, I suppose.

  It’s just that, once I came and my mind cleared, I couldn’t help but feel that I was exploiting her.

  It’s not exactly like I’ve never been aware of that aspect of the offer I made her, but up till now I was always able to rationalise everything. I was going to help her, protect her from the unwanted attentions of Caleb, keep her safe.

  But under it all, this is really all about something quite different, isn’t it?

  It’s about lust and obsession … My lust and obsession.

  Does that make me any better than Caleb?

  Well, I suppose I’m a bit more polite about it, and I do actually care about her a great deal, whereas he clearly doesn’t, but when all is said and done I also want to give her a good, hard fucking, make her scream my name and beg for my cock.

  Is that so different, really?

  I feel like I’m degrading her somehow …

  I mean, it’s one thing to degrade a woman for her pleasure in a BDSM scene, and I’ve certainly never had trouble with that. But this isn’t a scene, it’s a financial transaction.

  I’m basically paying my best student, whom I also illicitly desire, to get me off.

  There’s something about that that just doesn’t seem right …

  Ah, she’s just come out of the bathroom.

  “Ms. Lytton, I-”

  She looks at me, her expression withering in its distance, as is her body language - she’s heading straight for the door, keeping away from me as far as possible.

  “Goodbye, Dr. Morland. See you in class. No, please don’t walk me out, I’m fine, thank you.”

  And just like that, she’s slipped out. My adorable sylph. Fuck. My one ray of sunshine in academia.

  Because I can’t say I ever really wanted particularly to teach. I mean, I get decent reviews, although half of them go on and on about my looks, which is tiresome and embarrassing to say the least …

  That said, I don’t think I’m a bad teacher, quite on the contrary. But teaching was always something I just fell into - or rather was nudged into by dad, who was an academic through and through.

  He was always a bit of an eccentric, more or less gave up his inheritance to do what he loved, which was teaching and writing about English literature - granddad wanted him to take over the family firm, but he wasn’t interested, though he’d have made far more that way.

  I don’t think granddad ever quite forgave him for that, even though they eventually got back on speaking terms - he was bypassed in granddad’s will, though I was taken care of in a separate trust fund.

  But he never cared about that sort of thing. Neither did mom, who was also a professor, albeit in the psychology department.

  And so I grew up in academia, drifted into working on a PhD, during which years I wrote my novel as well.

  Then I did what all of my classmates were doing, went to the MLA conference, sent out resumés, got offers from a couple of places.

  Three days later I got an offer from an agent as well, and that was pretty much it for my writing career.

  I hadn’t thought the book would be that big, and that instantaneous a success, but it was, and after that the creative writing department offered me a joint appointment as well.

  Dad was overjoyed, I think he thought that that somehow legitimised my fiction writing, which I suspect has never seemed entirely respectable to him.

  Such an irony, given his love of literature.

  I suppose anything written after the guys who were big in the 1960s isn’t really literature for him any more, critics be damned … especially if it sells, like my book did, ha!

  But I’ve always thought it says it all that I haven’t written anything substantial, just the occasional short story for the New Yorker, ever since I started teaching.

  At least, not until I met her …

  She was so charming. I have to admit I didn’t notice her the first day of class, except in a generalised way: OK, so Paige Lytton is the little blonde, serious-looking, the only one of the girls who’s not making eyes at me. Excellent.

  Then she started answering questions in class, and it became obvious that unlike most of her peers she actually had a more than adequate grasp of the material, that she was someone who actually had ideas.

  Good ideas, at that.

  I started noticing her, saw how her eyes would shine when she was talking about something she cared about. She wasn’t just taking the class for a requirement, or just to gawk at me, she was actually interested in the books she was studying.

  By the time she turned in her first assignment (so well-written, so original, so witty), I was utterly smitten.

  Around that time she started showing up at office hours a lot, at first I was under the impression she wanted to talk about books with someone who would understand her, until she started returning my gaze with soft, wistful eyes, and not backing away when I moved closer.

  God, the way we used to stare at each other in my office! … On more than one occasion I felt almost dazed when she left.

  Dazed … and horny as hell.

  Not that I expected anything could come of it, but it was great to fantasise about her. I felt a bit bad about it, but after all it’s not like I was actually doing anything.

  And then I saw her in that club …

  I’m definitely not accustomed to having my worlds collide with each other.

  That’s true whether it’s my fantasy life and my real life, or for that matter my kinky preferences and “real life”.

  I used to frequent BDSM clubs way back when I was in graduate school, and was actually quite popular as a dom. I then gave that all up when I started dating a classmate whom I was in love with, but who’d made it very clear from the start that she wasn’t kinky in the least.

  Which I thought was fair enough.

  The irony is, at the time, I think I might have been happy enough with her, even then. On the contrary, she was the one who dumped me for a guy who was more conventional. She felt safer with him, she told me - said that that way she need never worry about him feeling that she was inadequate, because she felt that in the long run I would have ended up resenting her.

  I don’t know if that is necessarily true, but it was probably all for the best. I don’t think I’d now get involved with anyone unless they were on the same page as I was. The annoying thing is, I’ve stopped going to BDSM clubs, since the combination of well-known writer and college professor would make me perfect blackmail fodder. And poor old dad would never live that down, ha!

  It certainly doesn’t help that these days I haven’t been able to think about anyone but the infinitely winsome Ms. Lytton …

  Fuck.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  It’s not till I get home that the entire impact of what happened hits me.

  I’d been numb while I drove home, thinking that I just had to keep going, that I couldn’t feel, didn’t have time to feel, couldn’t afford to feel.

  Then I tore up the stairs, staggered into the apartment, dropped all my stuff on the tatty old second-hand couch, and got myself a cup of coffee.

  And that did it.

  Would you like a cup of coffee before you go? he asked me - I can still remember how he sounded when he said it, in that smooth, cultured baritone of his. So polite and correct as always. Irreproachable. And yet it was obvious he wanted me to leave.

  I feel like I’ve failed, somehow, and that’s not something I’m particularly accustomed to.

  There’s a part of me which keeps thinking: why did we have to run into each other at the club? And why did I have to say yes to this whole stupid idea?

  If we’d just stayed status quo everything would still have been fine. Yes, I wouldn’t have gotten all up close and personal with him, but then I’d never have gotten my hopes up either. He’d still have been good for a bit of fantasising, and that would have been it.

  I don’t even know if he’ll ever go back to being all flirty around me.
/>   Fuck, for the last month and a half that’s been the highlight of my week, getting stared at by Sebastian Morland, causing him to grin roguishly and get all flushed and excited.

  But things always get screwed up when they get too real, don’t they? …

  I wonder if the deal is now off. Not that there’s anything I could do about that, and maybe it would be all for the best. I’ll go back to the club next week, that is all. Ugh, it’s a good thing I didn’t get too excited about Dr. Morland’s offer and quit the club altogether.

  I’d better get those clothes out from my bag and stick them in the laundry hamper …

  As I make my way over to the couch and pick up my bag I find not just the outfit I wore over to Dr. Morland’s but the envelope he’d handed me when I first got there, with “Paige” written on it in his firm, elegant hand.

  Somehow, unbelievably, crazily, I’d managed to forget all about it until now.

  I open it and find six crisp hundred-dollar bills.

  Six hundred dollars, just as he’d promised.

  And though, rationally speaking, this is way more than I usually make in a night at the club, I can’t help but start crying, I don’t even know why.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  It’s Wednesday again, and as always I’m in class. I did briefly consider not showing up, especially since I didn’t hear a peep from him after Saturday, but that would have been weak and silly on my part.

  The last thing I want him to think is that I’m still upset. To be honest, at this point the old status quo is all I want, but if I can’t get that, then I’ll just retreat into indifferent civility for the rest of the term - and after all, half of it’s already done.

  It’ll entirely be his call …

  When I first walked into the classroom and past his desk I ignored him completely - the only thing that could have betrayed me was my brief hesitation while trying to decide if I should sit in my usual seat or a more obscure one.

  That’s if he was looking at all, and I have no idea if he was, because I certainly wasn’t going to check!