Forbidden (short steamy romance)

Forbidden

V T Turner

Copyright © V T Turner 2013

[email protected]

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 back, 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.