Forbidden (short steamy romance)

  Forbidden

  V T Turner

  Copyright © V T Turner 2013

  AuthorVTTurner@hotmail.com

  Also by V T Turner

  My Paid Angel

  Sinister Touch

  Good, Bad, Girl

  Betrayed

  Voyeur

  1

  It was her first day of university and she was nervous, surrounded by people she had never met before. College and high school had been different, at least she had lived in the areas, had known a large proportion of the class from her previous school, but she had moved halfway across the country to get to this university. She was a fish out of water, an outcast.

  She was nervous by nature, not really comfortable around others and those feelings -- those anxieties that had pretty much been dampened during her later teenage years when the confidence of youth had taken over -- now came flooding back. She was eighteen, technically an adult but she felt like a child again, like she was the new kid at school, being judged by her classmates.

  Her palms were sweaty as she waited in class. A clamoring of people chatted on the rows of seats behind her. She caught a few glances, a few absent and interested stares, but she didn’t hold their gazes. Not yet, she could make friends later, when she settled in.

  She didn’t know what to do with herself, didn't know where to put her hands or to look, so she settled for playing with her bag, riffling through as if there was something interesting in there, something buried right at the bottom which required all of her concentration to find.

  She heard a loud, confident male voice break through the rabble, silencing everyone in the class. He sounded fairly young, his voice was full of charm and wit. He introduced himself, made a little joke and then called for everyone's attention, including hers.

  When she looked up she was surprised to see that he was staring at her, looking right through her. He had piercing blue eyes that opened wide with a glittering and stimulated appeal. Soft brown hair curled into a fringe on his forehead; lightly tanned skin; a bristle of stubble on his rounded chin. He wore the typical professor apparel: a tweed jacket, patched at the elbows, and formal trousers, but the sleeves were rolled up casually, the shirt underneath was undone at the top, exposing a whisper of skin.

  He was gorgeous. Perfect. When her heart finally started beating again, when her breath returned to her chest, she felt like telling him that, but he spoke before she had the chance to embarrass herself.

  “What’s your name?” he asked her.

  She felt privileged that he was talking to her, she smiled warmly, probably a little too obviously, and then, as coherently as she could, told him: “Elly Waterhouse.”

  He nodded, looked down at the floor, then at his desk, then back at Elly. “Elly Waterhouse,” he was still nodding, as if impressed. “Nice name.”

  “Thanks,” she squeaked it, lost her voice on the first syllable. She coughed, tried to brush it off, no one seemed to have noticed.

  “Find anything interesting in that bag, Elly?”

  She shook her head, still smiling.

  He returned the smile, looked back at the class. “Well then, if Elly’s finished and everyone else is ready, I shall begin.”

  She didn’t feel nervous after that, didn’t try to divert her attention to keep her wandering eyes away from the other pupils. She no longer cared about them, no longer worried that they were looking at her, judging her. Her attention was completely devoted to the man at the front, Professor James -- or Jimmy as he liked to be called -- Kitson. He spoke with a confident air, a slight Scottish accent that revealed itself on certain words; an adorable charm that revealed itself constantly.

  She thought she caught him looking at her a few times, caught his strong blue eyes gazing into hers, but, as much as she longed for him to stare, as much as she adored the idea of him looking at her, admiring her, she knew he was giving the same fleeting glances to each of his pupils.

  After the class she stayed behind, taking her time to pack away her things whilst the others filed out quickly. Another girl, a petit little thing with glorious blonde hair that shimmered in the overhead lights and glittering lipstick that dazzled under the same glow, also stayed behind. Elly watched her, kept an interested and cautious eye on her as she studied Professor Kitson. She watched as the blonde stood and slowly walked down the stairs. She had a body to die for, she was short but she was athletic with pert and bulbous breasts that threatened to pop the buttons on her white blouse. She wore tight shorts that clung to tanned thighs, thighs that even Elly couldn’t help but admire as they descended the stairs and walked up to the professor.

  She watched the blonde play with her hair, watched the professor’s dazzling blue eyes twinkling as he conversed with her. Then she turned and left, one last giggle, one last flick of her hair. Elly waited for the professor to watch her leave, to run his appraising eyes over her behind, but he didn’t, instead he turned to Elly, saw that she was still sitting in the class and smiled to her.

  “Everything okay Elly?”

  She rejoiced inside. He remembered her name, chose to look at her, to talk to her, when he could have been admiring the gorgeous blonde who clearly wanted him.

  “Everything’s perfect,” she told him happily.

  ***

  “Kitson!”

  He turned, looked at the woman shouting his name and hid a sneer behind his charming smile. It was Mrs Coleman, the history teacher. Clarissa, Claire or Cassy, he wasn’t sure which, nor did he care. She was forty-something, had been married and unhappy for years and had been trying to get into his pants from day one. She wasn’t his type, too old, too worn down by life.

  “Good to see you again!” she declared happily. She gave him a kiss on both cheeks, a warm hug, through which he could practically taste her desperation. She wanted him, would probably let him take her right now, fuck her on the floor of the staffroom, watched by half a dozen teachers and professors as he gave her what she had wanted for five years.

  “You too,” he told her. He had been saying the same thing every term, every time they returned to the university. It wasn’t true, none of it was. He wasn’t glad to see her, wasn’t entirely glad to see any of the teachers, but he was happy to be back, happy to see some of the students again.

  There was Susan Morris, the red head he had screwed in the backseat of his car during her second year. She was still hanging around, still giving him hopeful and pleading glances, but she had no chance. Then there was Emily Banks, he had seen her that morning, she was shy, nervous, she didn’t know how to look at him, not after she had sucked him dry in the art department. She was in her mid-twenties now, finishing her time at the university. He wouldn’t like to see her go, he quite liked the memories that flooded back when he saw her, liked to know that behind those shy eyes lay a girl who could fuck like a succubus, something he had found out after taking her out for a curry and then home for something far hotter and spicier.

  The university was his playground, home to ripe young girls who were fully aware of heir sexuality and had grown tired of reckless boys and wanted to move on to distinguished, charming men. It didn’t matter that he charm was all an act, didn't matter that he wasn’t as intelligent or as distinguished as they thought. He lived alone, avoiding a bitch of an ex wife and struggling to cover his rent and his drink and drug problem, but they wouldn’t realize that until a decade from now, when they looked back on their youth and realized that he was just the sort of man they should have tried to avoid.

  He bounded into the classroom, grabbed everyone’s attention and gave them a quick once over. A few cuties on the front row; a couple of older, more experienced, but very attractive women at the b
ack, too old for him; too knowledgable of the sort of man he was. And then there was the brunette, unimposing, nervous. She was fiddling with her bag, her attention purposely diverted from the busy room. He stood and stared, admired her momentarily, waited for her to lift her eyes to look at him.

  He liked Elly Waterhouse but there were far more attractive propositions in the glass. One of them who clearly liked him was a gorgeous blonde, she made his cock hard just looking at her. She had a tight body, something he was desperate to see more of, and an idiot’s smile.

  When the class finished he pretended to be sorting out a few files, looking over and around them to admire the many girls that left. The older ones weren’t too bad, one of them, potentially the best one, was as old as Mrs Coleman but she had a body to match those of the firm twenty-somethings around her. He contemplated her, thought about giving it a go, it had been a long time since he had slept with anyone his own age, but he let it go when he saw that the blonde had waited behind and was descending the stairs to talk to him.

  He watched her walk, watched every move her sumptuous body made, every ripple of her toned and tanned thighs. She strode up to him with the confidence and wide-smile of someone who knew just how stunning they were but didn’t know much else.

  She talked about nothing and everything, giggling away and toying with her hair in between her bullshit. He listened and pretended he was interested, but all the while he was thinking about fucking her. About slipping in between those thick, tight and glorious thighs, pressing inside her warm, moist vagina, fucking her until that high pitched voice screamed a scream to end all screams and then finishing on her tits, blowing his load on those bouncy, glorious beasts that she kept restrained behind that thin blouse.

  He knew the other girl was in the stands, knew she was watching them. He couldn’t stop himself from looking at the blonde when she left, from flashing one last glance at her gorgeous thighs, her tight backside, but he was quick, experienced in watching without being seen. He immediately turned his eyes to the girl in the stands after that. She was the same age as the blonde, just as inexperienced in life and even more so in sex, the blonde had been around the block, that was obvious, but Elly looked naive, inexperienced. She would be easier, cleaner, probably better.

  He smiled at her, gave her exactly what she wanted. In reply he received the confirmation that he needed. She was already obsessed with him, it was going to be easier than he thought.

  2

  On her fourth day, Elly sat in the dining hall eating an egg and cress sandwich and trying to look as inconspicuous as possible, aware that with every bite she took she was risking the chance of getting the little stalky bits of cress stuck in her teeth. She worried that everyone was watching her and judging her but she didn’t look at them to confirm her worries. She kept her eyes on the wall at the front, reading and rereading a series of posters that advertised upcoming events in the university calendar. She was straining to see the small print on a poster about Salsa lessons when she was joined by a man in his mid twenties.

  He sat down opposite, plonking a lunch tray down on the table. She had chosen to bring her own food purely because lunch trays, no matter how upmarket they were -- regardless of the lack of ‘dinner ladies’ and gruel with suspect origins -- reminded her of school.

  “Hello there, Elly right?”

  Elly simply nodded, meeting his gaze and then looking away shyly. He had a stern face, boyish good looks. He looked like an athlete, had the thick shoulders of a tennis player or swimmer, and the chiseled features, gelled hair and flawless skin of someone who took a lot of time over her appearance.

  “I’m Adam,” he said. “You remember me, right?” he asked, grinning at her, flashing a dimple on his right cheek.

  She had seen him around a couple of times, had spoken to him more than once. She thought that he might have a thing for her.

  She nodded and smiled back, nibbling at her sandwich, wanting to look as dainty as possible. She didn’t go for the jock types. ‘Too much energy and not enough patience’ was what her mother used to say about them, and she should know, she married one. Elly’s father was an all-round athlete, he played football, rugby, tennis and track and field. He put a stop to that years before Elly was born, now his only sport was golf which he played half-assed and drunk on a Saturday afternoon.

  Elly liked the intelligent ones, the creative ones. The ones more likely to excel at mathematicians or creative writing than to win any awards. But the man across from her, smiling at her as he tucked into what looked like a dry chicken breast, was cute and he clearly liked her.

  She was about to say something, not entirely sure what, when they were interrupted, potentially saving her from saying something dumb.

  “How’s my favorite student?”

  They both looked up, Elly’s eyes opened wide, a smile split her face in two. James -- Jimmy to his friends and students -- Kitson stood above them with a tray of food in his hands.

  “And Adam as well of course,” he joked, directing his attention to the man opposite.

  The jock smiled meekly at the professor who stood, almost as if in wait, above the table. After a few moments of deliberation the jock stood, took his tray and shifted to another table. The professor took his place, grinning at Elly when he sat down.

  “Becoming acquainted with the university hot shots?” he asked with a grin.

  “Hot shots?”

  He nodded slowly, poked at a pile of vegetables with a plastic fork. “Adam Morris. He’s a regular player on campus, been in more girls’ pants than Tampax.”

  Elly nearly choked on her sandwich. She swallowed with great difficulty, stifled a laugh.

  “I think he likes you,” Kitson said with a wink. “But he may just want another notch for his bed post, although I think there are more notches than bedpost there these days.”

  “He’s not my type anyway,” Elly said.

  “Ah,” Kitson nodded. “May I ask what is your type?”

  Elly giggled softly, wished she hadn’t and tried to hide it with an awkward cough. She shrugged, played nonchalant. “I like them intelligent, educated…”

  “Go on…”

  “Handsome. Of course.”

  “Of course,” he nodded.

  “Older, preferably.”

  “I see,” he nodded, she could see a glint in his eye, wondered if she should continue. She fell confident in the moment, more than she expected she would. He had a way of making her feel like that, of making her feel comfortable in her own skin.

  “Dignified. Charming. Respectable,” she finished, holding eye contact.

  He nodded slowly, looked down at his plate, poked a couple of vegetables in his mouth and chewed slowly. When he finally lifted his eyes towards her again it looked like he had been thinking about something and had come to a conclusion that he wanted to share. “What do you say to a drink tonight?” he asked her slowly. “Just a drink and a chat. To help you get settled, nothing untoward of course. I’m not asking you to a drug party or an orgy or anything.”

  She raised her eyebrows, grinned. If he did ask her to an orgy, despite her tendency towards shyness, she doubted she would find it easy to say no.

  “Just a quiet drink between me and you,” he smiled at her. “Get to know each other, maybe talk about campus life. I noticed you weren’t settling in around the others. I could help you with that.”

  Sh stared at him for a while, let it sink it, let him wonder just what she as going to say. She saw a pleading behind his eyes, a desperation for her to say yes and a worry that she would think he was some sort of creepy pervert and report him immediately.

  “Yes,” she said eventually. “That would be lovely.”

  ***

  He had to deter Adam Morris to get to her. Adam was a former high school star athlete who liked to think he was still in the high school that adored him, despite having half a dozen years between his final glorious day there and his mediocre days at the university. He had
slept with most of the young women at the university, but Kitson knew that when it came to quantity, and quality for that matter, he still trumped the little stud.

  Elly seemed impressed with Adam and it wasn’t the first time he had seen them together. On her second day on campus he had seen them walking briskly down the corridor together, they had turned a corner and he had hurried to catch them, only to find they had disappeared. At the time he had worried that Adam had taken her somewhere, getting to her before he had a chance to, but judging by the way she brushed him off in the food hall, he doubted that was the case.

  Adam was dejected when he brushed him aside, Kitson could see it in his eyes. After that, all it had taken was a joke or two to break the ice, some open and honest conversation and then he asked her out. He could get in trouble for it, he knew that and he knew that she knew it as well, but he’d stopped caring a long time ago. He had been with a lot of students and gotten away with it. He didn’t think he was untouchable, in fact, he liked to think that the reason he got away with it was because he was so touchable; the students loved him, would never report him.