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About the author:
Maisy March writes short spicy stories. Stay tuned for more stories in the Punished by Professor series, following Alex and Ruby.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Chairs squeak and shoes scuffle around me. I feel my fellow students brushing past, making their way out the door. When I finally come to my senses, I realize there’s only a handful of us left in the room. I stuff my exam into my backpack and stand. I walk slowly up the aisle of desks, and when I reach the front of the room, Professor Henson’s gaze meets mine.
“Ruby?” he asks, slight concern lingering on his face. “You alright?”
I nod, hearing the last remaining students exit through the door behind me. “Yeah,” I lie. “I just …” I trail off. “I need to pass this class,” I admit. I stare down at my exam in defeat.
He purses his lips. “I wish I could have given you a better grade.” He looks like he means it. Which means I probably did worse than I think.
He comes around from behind his desk, passes in front of me—his shirt sleeve brushing my arm—and sits casually against the front of his desk. He’s a mere foot from me. The closest we’ve ever been to each other. And even though he’s technically sitting, he still towers over me.
“There are tutoring opportunities through the college,” Professor Henson offers. He must interpret the look on my face, because it starts to mirror mine. Not that I’d mind tutoring terribly, but this late in the semester, would it help? There’s only a few more exams left, and this last one was a big one. It counts for a surprisingly large part of my grade.
He reaches out to hold my forearm comfortingly, and I’m startled by the touch. Electricity courses through me.
“It’ll be okay,” he says reassuringly. I think he’s going to remove his hand after his comment, but surprisingly he doesn’t. It lingers, his thumb beginning to caress the bare skin on my wrist. I stare down at it, mesmerized.
When I glance back up to meet his gaze, there’s an intensity there I haven’t seen before. His eyes seem darker, somehow. After seconds of looking into those deep eyes, I forget how to breathe.
All of a sudden he stands, and I think he’s going to retreat to the safety behind his desk, but he doesn’t. Instead, he takes a step impossibly closer to me, then moves so he’s standing behind me.
He’s standing so close that I can feel his breath on my neck. And just as I’m trying to chase away the thoughts of impropriety—that he’s not actually coming on to me, that he’s not actually into me—his hands brush my waist.
“There might be another way to make up your grade,” he says softly.
My breath catches in my throat as he pulls me back against him, and I’m surprised that I can feel how excited he is that I’m here. Holy shit. Is this really happening?
His hands travel slowly up my stomach, above my clothes, over my breasts. His thumb lingers, caressing its way across the tip of my breast—and suddenly he pinches my nipple through the fabric.
I let out a small squeal of surprise.
“That hurt?” he asks me, his lips caressing my ear.
“A little,” I admit.
“Good,” he says, then pinches the other nipple, sending another startled breath from my lips. “Because you’ve been a bad student. A bad girl.”