Graduate student Emily Brooks wishes she were going to a romantic rendezvous with Professor Mark Kendall. Instead, she's heading to his office to salvage her grade-point average, since she was too distracted by his hotness to pass some of his tests. When the professor realizes Emily wants more than a passing grade, he agrees to retest her--while he administers some new, very pleasurable distractions.
When Emily passes, Mark invites her to his house for the weekend and she's thrilled that her romantic dreams are finally coming true. However, once there, she learns he expects her to be his sex slave. His touch is too exquisite to resist and his demands and dominance become more and more exciting as the weekend progresses. But is this all part of a bigger test? And if she passes, will she get the one thing she's wanted for years?
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November 13, 2009
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Excerpt from Instructing Emily by Lyla Sinclair
My heart beat faster as I neared my destination on the second floor.
In the privacy of my apartment, this skimpy attire had seemed like a good idea. Now, in the familiar--and public--halls of Edward J. Kumm University, I was seriously rethinking my wardrobe choices.
This particular afternoon I was on an important mission to Professor Kendall's office. It certainly didn't require the outfit I'd chosen but for once I wanted him to notice me, and not just as one of his grad students. As a woman. This was probably my last chance.
Up ahead I saw Dr. Walden, the president of the university. K.U. was a small college where the students and staff knew each other by name.
"Hi, Dr. Walden," I said as he toddled by me.
"Oh, hello, Chloe," he replied, his ancient eyes sparkling. "You look especially lovely today." He winked.
Okay, so my name isn't Chloe and Dr. Walden is a bit of a dirty old man, but geez, if he'd taken notice of my outfit with his eighty-year-old eyes, maybe I needed to go back and change. Damn, I knew I should have gone with more sophistication and less skin. My career hung in the balance and I was acting like a boy-crazy teenager.
I wondered which way Professor Kendall would prefer me. Sophisticated? Slutty?
I imagined him assessing me with his dark eyes--sometimes a warm brown, other times a piercing black, depending on the lighting. I'd seen them in a wide variety of lighting because I'd seen him in a wide variety of classrooms. But after taking every course I could possibly take from him for the past six years, I still wasn't sure he knew anything other than my last name, which he always used in class.
Professor Hardin passed by and greeted me warmly. She'd been looking especially cheerful lately and I'd noticed her hotness factor had shot up in the past year. There was obviously a man--or men--involved. But more importantly, she hadn't looked twice at my skirt that was so short it seemed to be air-conditioning my ass as it flopped against the backs of my upper thighs, or my red t-shirt that was cut lower than I'd ever worn, except to a bar.
Maybe my mind had just exaggerated the sluttiness of my clothing on the way over. I was always self-conscious anyway. Still, I couldn't believe I was about to take a chance with my future after working so hard to get this far.
The hard work started after my mother informed me during my senior year of high school that she and my stepfather had decided an art history degree was not worth paying for, and I'd have to make my own way through college. When I asked what had happened to that college fund she'd always talked about, she'd told me it wasn't officially a college fund. Then she and my stepfather had embarked on the mother of all vacations.
After the initial shock wore off, I realized a lot of people managed to put themselves through college. However, that wasn't the type of hardship I was prepared for.
I'd learned how to suck it up emotionally after my cosmetic-dentist-to-the-stars dad ran off with a barely legal model, then tried every trick in the book not to pay his kid's child support. And I'd learned how to manage after my mother immediately married a well-off but obnoxious furniture wholesaler who resented having her kid around.
However, I didn't have a clue how to earn money and get financing for a college education. I'd learned fast, though, and I'd worked extremely hard, which is why signing up for semester after semester of Professor Kendall's classes had been just plain nuts, considering what it did to my otherwise pristine grade point average. But he was my addiction and I hadn't found an "obsessed with professor" twelve-step program yet.
The halls cleared as I reached my destination. It was nearly six o'clock and there were no night classes in this building. I stood facing Professor Kendall's door. My heart pounded so hard I had to look down to see if it was evident through the fabric of my shirt. When I was confronted by the mega-cleavage, I tugged the front up a little and hoped I didn't look too desperate.
I took in a deep breath and knocked.
"Enter!" Professor Kendall said pleasantly.
I opened the door and walked into his office.
Ahhhh! There he was in all his glory. His hands were behind his head on that nearly black hair where my hands belonged. He was leaning back in his desk chair as though he'd been deep in thought...or daydreaming.
He took one look at me, blinked several times then sat up. I couldn't identify the expression on his face. I tried to resist the urge to fidget.
"Hi...um, we had an appointment. I'm Emily Brooks."
"Yes, of course, Miss Brooks. Come in. What can I do for you?" he asked.
He didn't offer me a seat, so I remained standing, feeling naked under his gaze.
"Professor, I'm supposed to earn my master's degree this semester. I have a good local job offer. I could work nearby while I earn my doctorate--"
"Oh really? Tell me about the job."
"It's with an art and antiquities dealer. They sell high-end stuff to buyers all over the world."
"Oh. Martin's. They've called me in on consultation. Good opportunity. And you need me for...?"
"My grade in your class this semester. I may not have passed. They expect me to have a master's degree when I start the job, but I...think I failed your class."
This was really embarrassing. He was the last person I wanted to look like an idiot in front of. I'd been in love--or lust or something--with him since that first semester when he was a new professor and they'd pushed Art 101 off on him. Since then, he'd worked his way up to more interesting and advanced classes, so I'd managed to take six from him in six years. The semesters in between, without him, had been miserable, but the ones with him had earned me the only poor grades of my life. It wasn't that I didn't love the subject matter. There were just so many more compelling items of interest in his classes. Like his wide shoulders that tapered down into a slim waist, for instance. Or his biceps that flexed impressively whenever he pulled down the video screen. And when he turned his back to the class to write on the board... Well, let's just say I lived for the days he showed up in snug-fitting jeans instead of slacks.
I was so overtaken by the daydream I nearly forgot what I was there for, just like in his classes.
Professor Kendall typed something into his computer. "Oh yes, I see. You failed by about two points."
Damn, I knew it.
"As I recall, you didn't do especially well in my other classes either."
I was surprised he recalled me at all. At the beginning of each semester, he'd always seemed completely ignorant of our past together, much to my disappointment.
"How is it that you've been accepted as a doctoral candidate?"
"I've made A's in every class I've taken--except yours."
He knitted his brow and tilted his head slightly. His eyes narrowed. "So, you're telling me that you would have been a straight-A student for the past five or six years if not for me?"
"Well...yes. I guess so."
He looked peeved. I was sure he prided himself on being fair and I was putting a major dent in his belief system.
"Why do you think that is?" he asked.
This was the question I'd dreaded. How could I tell him what it was like for me to be in his classes? How full and kissable his lips were? How his smile made my stomach turn over? How adorable his expression was when a student gave a ridiculous response and he pushed his eyebrows together in a comical expression?
And how the sight of his hand on the whiteboard eraser caused my thigh muscles to squeeze until I could almost feel those fingers on my clit?
"I'm not sure," I finally said.
He pursed his lips. I certainly didn't need to make him angry. How would I get what I'd come for now? A passing grade...or a good hard fu--
Focus, Emily. Your life is hanging in the balance.
I realized his eyes were now openly assessing me, from the normally curly brown hair I'd meticulously flat-ironed to my tight red t-shirt to my obviously too-short plaid skirt. "Did you come here to seduce me for a grade?" he asked suddenly.