Forbidden Fruit (3 page)

Get Mia Rose in here. Get her naked and wet.

He wrapped his fingers around his cock and stroked, then turned so the showerhead sprayed right onto him, hot and needle-sharp.

Oh yeah.

He stroked faster, letting the water do its work on him, his body heating up, buzzing with lust, with pleasure. And in his head he saw Mia Rose there with him, imagined what her bare breasts would look like with the hot water cascading over them. He would go down on his knees, worship her wet body.

Spread her thighs…

He groaned, his cock hardening even more.

What would she taste like?

He thrust his hips, pumping his cock into his hand.

Had to have her, had to have her…

He
would
have her.

His climax came down on him hard and fast, shaking him to the core. Pleasure coursed through his cock, his body, his limbs. And all he saw was
her.

Mia Rose.

Yes, he would have her. Had to find a way. He’d do whatever he had to. Because this woman he’d seen only a few times was already becoming an obsession.

He would have her, get her out of his system, then move on. Hadn’t he spent this last year learning how to do exactly that?

He leaned into the coolltiles behind him, letting the water wash away his seed. It would take more than stroking himself to climax in the shower to get her out of his mind. He knew that. He’d have to find a way to get past that coollreserve of hers. To get beyond the restrictions of a student-teacher relationship.

Fuck it. He’d figure it out. Had to.

Had to.

Because he was pretty damn sure he’d lose his mind if he didn’t.

MONDAY AFTERNOON AND MIA’S CLASSROOM

WAS STIFLING. It was one of those rare warm days in San Francisco that always came at the oddest times of year, and whoever had used the room last had turned off the air. She flipped the thermostat as she passed it, moving to the front of the classroom.

She took her light sweater off, laying it over the back of the chair behind her desk, then pulled some papers from her briefcase and set them on the podium.

Monday had come all too quickly. She’d spent the weekend doing what she always did: gardening, firming up the coming week’s lesson plans, drinking a steaming latte from the espresso cart as she wandered the locallfarmers’ market Sunday morning, admiring the rows of gorgeously colored produce. On Sunday night she went home and made herself a fairly superb ratatouille, took a good book to bed, then quickly tossed it aside to watch the Food Network while she brought herself to orgasm over and over. With her pink vibrator, with her hands, driven by the scent of her dinner in the air.

Jagger James’ face hadn’t left her mind for one moment.

The first day of a new week. It had passed slowly.

She had spent the day agonizing over seeing him in class. God, she was behaving like some twelve-year-old with her first crush.

But she had to admit, Jagger was the first man she’d felt any sparks for in a very long time. Too long.

Although Mia had always prided herself on being a sexuallsophisticate of sorts—she did teach the subject, after all, and had experimented with a number of things—it had been half a year since she’d had sex with anyone. Her little pink vibrator had become her best friend, and she hadn’t minded at all.

Untillnow.

She wanted him. Wanted him so desperately her breath caught simply imagining his face. Those amazing eyes, like two pieces of clear gray quartz, set off by his smooth coffee-with-cream skin. He was almost too beautifullfor a man, too exotic. Except that he was so tall, so intrinsically masculine, carried himself with such utter confidence.

Students began to file in and take their seats. Mia pretended to read from a piece of paper, but she really had no idea what was on it. She was keeping an eye out for Jagger, her pulse thrumming with anticipation.

Stop it!

But that was impossible. She wanted to see him too badly.

It really was too damn hot in the room.

Even hotter when Jagger walked in. His long-legged stride was loose, relaxed, as he moved down the aisle and took a seat at the front of the room, only a few feet from her.

Her body surged with lust.

God.

How was she ever going to get through this class?

This semester? Pure torture.

She began the lecture, doing her best to make eye contact with the other students, her gaze passing over him. She did manage eventually to find her rhythm in the familiar lecture, but only as long as she didn’t look at him, just kept talking.

“Freud tells us that the unconscious mind is the source of our motivations, the desires for sex, food, the inspiration for an artist or a scientist. From his perspective, anything you yearn for is naturalland not something over which you have any control. You can only choose how—or if—to act on these urges.

Freud used the German word
‘trieb,’
which translates to ‘instincts,’ or ‘drives,’ for these motivationallforces. He also called them ‘wishes.’”

Jagger raised his hand and she nodded, her cheeks warming before he even spoke.

“I’ve read that when you ignore the urges, they can become even more powerful. Freud said it’s the wish breaking from the unconscious into consciousness. So does that mean it’s unhealthy to suppress these urges, Professor Curry?”

Her pulse stuttered and she had one brief moment of self-doubt about the fact that she had long ignored her own desires, her own secret “wishes.”

“That depends on what your drives are. If you feelldriven to molest young children, then I’d have to say suppressing the urge is healthy.”

“What if it’s something less…deviant?”

Yes, another course for this discussion. Anything to make her stop thinking about her evening spent with her vibrator and the Food Network, and Jagger’s image in her mind. “Ah, perhaps we should discuss the definition of deviant. Who would like to give me their take on it?”

Another student, an attractive young woman, spoke up. “Deviant behavior is repulsive, abhorrent.”

Jagger turned around in his seat. “You seem pretty certain of that, Lora.”

She shrugged. “You’re the one who used the word, Jagger. The professor asked us to define it. I did.”

Mia ignored the tiny part of herself that was disturbed by the fact that Jagger obviously knew this young woman, knew her name. “Abhorrent is a strong term. The Latin root of ‘abhor’ means to detest, to shrink back in horror.”

The girllshrugged once more. “That’s what I think of deviant behavior.”

Jagger was facing Mia again. “I think there are more positive connotations to the word.”

Mia nodded, trying to ignore the unmistakable sultry undertone in his voice. “Why don’t you tell us what you mean?”

“You must admit there’s a certain mystery to the idea of deviant behavior. Something intriguing. And I’m not talking about things like molesting children. I’m talking about consenting behavior between adults.

What one person might define as deviant could be nothing more than healthy sexuallexploration for someone else. Don’t you agree, Professor?”

She knew her skin was heating up. She couldn’t do a thing about it. “Since I teach this class, I imagine you all already know the answer to that. It’s all a matter of perspective, in most cases, again discounting such things as child molestation.”

“So, where would you draw the line, then?”

Why did it seem as though it was just the two of them having a private conversation? But as soon as that thought crossed her mind, she became acutely aware of the other students, watching her, listening.

“I draw the line at consent. Children, animals, are unable to speak for themselves. And there are other practices I personally consider repugnant and perhaps not physically healthy, such as scat play, blood play.”

Jagger nodded. “But other than that? You feellit’s allfair game?”

“From an intellectuallstandpoint, yes.”

What about those more personallperversions,
Mia?

She had to grip the edge of the podium to prevent herself from shaking.

Focus.

Jagger was smiling at her, as though he’d won some point. Maybe he had.

“Why don’t we move on and discuss what you read in chapter eight?”

Class seemed to last forever, although it was the usualltwo hours. Far too long. Maybe next time she’d show a film.

Yes, to be close to him in a darkened room, the
flickering glow of the film on the wall…

Stuffing her papers into her briefcase, she grabbed her sweater and was about to follow her students out when he approached her desk. God, he smelled good. That bohemian edge of patchouli, mixed with something dark and smoky. As exotic as he was.

Before she could help herself, she pulled in a long breath.

“Interesting lecture tonight, Professor.”

“Thank you.”

“But I didn’t want to talk about that.”

“No?” She looked up at him. He really was something up close. She shivered, commanded herself to hold still. Before she did something completely foolish, like pull his head toward hers and kiss him.

Don’t be an idiot, Mia.

“No.” He stepped closer. “I’m going to ask you again to have coffee with me.”

“And I’ll have to say no again.”

“Do you really have to?”

She stared at him, her gaze meeting his. “Yes, I really have to. It’s not…appropriate.”

“Coffee isn’t appropriate?”

“Not the coffee…the…look, it’s not appropriate for a professor to spend time with a student outside of the academic setting.”

No matter how badly you want to.

She had sudden visions of him pushing her down on the desk, pulling her skirt up, driving into her in one shuddering thrust…

Stop it!

“Even if we’re discussing the class?” he asked her.

“You don’t give up easily, do you?” She picked up her briefcase and slung the strap over her shoulder, trying to catch her breath.

“I don’t give up at all.” He smiled then, a smile that reached his eyes. Such a sweet smile on a face she wanted to do very dirty things to.

He took another step closer and she caught his scent again, dark and sexy. Her body went a little weak. It started in her stomach, then spread outward, down her legs, into her arms, through her breasts.

“Come on, Mia Rose. People do it all the time. I see them in the cafés all over this neighborhood. I’m sure you’ve seen it, too. And it’s just coffee. Or maybe some dessert to go with it. Do you have a sweet tooth?”

She nodded, swallowed.

“There’s this place only a few blocks from here. They make this beautifullfruit torte.” His voice lowered and he leaned in a bit, just enough for his scent to carry to her on the air once more. “Now I know women usually go for the chocolate, but I’m telling you, this stuff is not to be missed.”

Why did he have to talk food? She tried to shake her head, to refuse, but she couldn’t make herself do it.

“Come with me, Mia Rose.”

How much could it really hurt? Just a simple conversation, some coffee, dessert. They would be in a public place, with a table between them.

Don’t do it, Mia.

“Alright. I’ll go with you. Just…just for the torte.”

“Great. I have my car, or we can walk.”

“Let’s walk.”

Not safe to be alone in a car with him. Too dark, too close. Too much like a couple of high schoollkids going to park somewhere and make out.

God, what had made her think that? She really had to get herself under control. But she was going with him.

He smiled, dazzling her once more, then he waited while she turned the lights off, locked the room.

They walked through the dark campus, weaving between the buildings, passing other students and faculty on their way out, Mia keeping a safe distance from him.

“So, Mia Rose, how long have you been teaching here at San Francisco State?”

Small talk. She could deallwith that. Even if the fact that he kept calling her by her full name was making her legs shake for some inexplicable reason. “I’ve been here my whole career. I like it. I didn’t really want to move away from San Francisco.”

“Ah, so this city is home for you?”

“Yes. It’s the only home I’ve ever known, really. What about you?”

“It’s home now. I have a converted loft downtown. But I grew up between Berkeley and New Orleans.”

“New Orleans?”

“My dad lives there. He’s a jazz musician. Plays a mean sax, among other things.”

They left the university grounds and passed onto the sidewalk. A small breeze blew the scent of the ocean past them, cooling the muggy air.

She pushed her hair from her face. “I’ve always wanted to see New Orleans.”

“You should. It’s different from any other city in the world. Great music. And it’s a reallfood town, if that’s what you’re into.”

If he only knew…

But all she said was, “I love good food.”

“Do you, now?”

She turned to look at him, the streetlights illuminating his face. He really was gorgeous. “Yes. I like to think of myself as something of a gourmet. Not that I can cook nearly that well myself, but I appreciate anyone who can. Why?”

“I was a chef. Before I decided to go back to school.

I could cook for you sometime.”

He is too perfect.

Except that he was completely off-limits.

“I don’t know about that…”

“We can talk about it another time. Look, this is the place.”

A warm hand at the small of her back and he ushered her through the door of a café she’d passed before but had never tried. It was called simply Java.

Inside, the rich scent of coffee filled the air, which was a little warm and close. The place was all muted colors and overstuffed furniture. No tables to provide a safe barrier between them. But it was too late to turn back.

“I’ll order the torte. What would you like to drink, Mia Rose?”

“Oh, I can get it.” She was flustered again. Or still, maybe.

“I wouldn’t think of it.”

He was all old-world manners, this guy. Something she secretly loved, even in this age of feminism. And it was only coffee. “Alright, thanks. I usually have a latte.”

“Coming right up. Why don’t you find a place to sit?”

Mia looked around, hoping for a single chair, but the only free spots were on the sofas. She found an empty one and sat, dropping her purse and her briefcase on the floor, and watched Jagger order for them, saw the ease with which he held himself.

Something sexy as hell about that sort of utter confidence, that totalllack of selfconsciousness. Her hands were sweating. She wiped them on the front of her slacks.

He carried two oversize ceramic mugs and set them down on the long table in front of the couch, sat down next to her. Half a foot away, but too close by far.

“He’ll bring the torte in a minute.”

“Thanks. For the coffee.”

“You’re welcome.”

The young, gangly server came out from behind the counter and set a small plate with a lovely slice of fruit torte on the table before them. Sliced strawberries, blueberries, and kiwi glistened beneath a shining sugar glaze, piled on top of a layer of custard and a flaky crust. Her mouth watered. Just looking at this gorgeous concoction with Jagger sitting next to her was doing things to her head, to her body.

You are on very dangerous ground.

Yes, but right now she didn’t want to be anywhere else.

“You have to taste this.” He picked up a fork, and she noticed then how large his hands were, how smooth the brown skin on the back of them. He had long fingers. The hands of a musician, like his father.

But he was a chef instead. Too good.

He cut into the torte, held the fork to her lips. She was flustered, with him trying to feed her. She looked at him, and he locked his gaze with hers. There was humor in his sultry gray eyes. And something that was totally about sex.