New York Times bestselling author Skye Warren, delivers the sizzling first book in a brand new trilogy, The Professor, a forbidden, student/professor, ex-boyfriend’s dad romance.

One night only with a handsome stranger.
Older. Alluring. Savage. Dominant.
No last names or expectations.
Just raw, carnal, filthy pleasure.

I never thought I would see him again.
Until the first day of class. He’s my new professor.
And my ex-boyfriend’s father.

He has a world of secrets in his eyes.
And the weight of the world on his shoulders.
I should stay away from him.
But the more I try, the more consumed he gets.

His possessiveness is rivaled only by his secretive nature.
He knows everything about me, but mystery surrounds him.
Shadows threaten the entire university…and our forbidden love.

Book Type:

Romance

Excerpt: The Professor

In the center of the room sits a large, mahogany desk, its surface cluttered with papers, journals, and a spill of pens. It’s a place where ideas are born, where knowledge is revered, and scholarly traditions are honored.

It’s also the place where I face the man who took my virginity.

Professor Will Stratford stands behind the desk, looking imposing. His expression is more severe than it was in the bar, almost angry. Maybe this is what surprise looks like on him.

God knows I’m shocked. Horrified. Appalled.

How could this have happened?

We drove so far out of Tanglewood proper so we wouldn’t be recognized.

“What were you doing in Cressida City?” I blurt out, not that it really matters. I suppose rich people go out for drinks at expensive hotels. Or maybe he went there to find a woman like me, one he could pay for the night. One he could make crawl on the floor.

It doesn’t matter why he was there, but it’s the only thing I can think of to ask.

I’m not sure whether I really expect him to answer.

I definitely don’t expect him to laugh.

It’s a harsh, bitter sound.

“How much?” he asks.

I flash back to that night. How much for the night? Presumably he doesn’t mean that we’re going to have sex again. In this old-fashioned office. No. “What?”

“How much to keep this quiet?”

I blink. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t play stupid, Ms. Hill. It doesn’t suit you.”

Frustration bubbles inside me, along with an inconvenient sense of pride. He thinks I’m smart. “I have just as much of an interest in keeping this whole thing quiet as you do.”

He gives me a dire expression that unfortunately goes straight to my pussy. “This is my career we’re talking about.”

“This is my college degree we’re talking about, too.”

“It wouldn’t be you they would blame, sweetheart.” The endearment sounds caustic, nothing like the melodic praise he gave me that night. “You weren’t the authority figure in this situation. You’re practically a child.”

My eyes narrow. “I’m twenty years old. An adult.”

“And my student.”

“You didn’t know that at the time.”

“They won’t care. Are you honestly trying to tell me that you didn’t plan this?”

“Why on earth would I have planned this?”

“You spend one night playing a confused little ingenue for your professor. And in return you get…blackmail money. A guaranteed A in the class.”

Shock renders me speechless for long seconds. “Fuck you.”

“You can’t expect me to believe this wasn’t planned.”

“I don’t need to sleep with a teacher to get an A.”

Heat pricks my eyes, but I refuse to let tears fall. I refuse to let him see them. I haven’t cried in years, not over filth or abuse or even losing my virginity.

I’m sure as hell not going to start now.

Confused little ingenue?

Fuck him.

Well, I suppose I already did that.

I turn blindly to leave before I can fall apart. He moves faster than he should be able to, his large palm landing on the door to block my exit. I stare at the back of his hand, the faint dusting of hair. And beneath, light freckles. Those make him look almost human.

Luckily I’ve seen to the heart of him, so I know he’s not.

“Let me leave.”

“So you can run to the dean’s office.”

“How dare you.” I force composure onto my face before I whirl to face him. “If I did go to the dean’s office and tell him what happened that night, it would only be the truth, wouldn’t it? But I’m not going to do that. You know why?”

He doesn’t answer, instead watching me with that same casual mastery he used in class, the one that tempted and taunted us to actually share what we thought.

“Because they always blame the woman. Oh, maybe they would fire you or demote you or whatever the hell they can do to rich as hell professors who like whiskey, but they will whisper about the harlot who tempted you down that path. My name will become legendary in this field, not for what I know but for who I had sex with.”

He studies me, his eyes narrowed. “If people did find out,” he says, more slowly than before, “it would only be the truth. So why risk it if you’re so afraid of that?”

Those tears threaten again. “Because it was the only way to get the money I needed for my economics textbook. And the exam booklets we need, because even though my scholarship is a full ride, it doesn’t cover those. How do they think we’re going to pay for them?”

“Anne—”

“No, you don’t get to call me that. I’m Ms. Hill. And you’re Professor Stratford.”

His expression goes blank, and I almost wish I could take the words back. I’d rather have his anger, even his derision, over the cool implacability of the professor.