Page 54 of Misadventures with a Professor
He rolls his eyes at the word spanky, but a smile tugs at his lips. “And I’ll still be a spanky professor with you.”
I finally allow myself to grin. “Then that’s all I can ask for.”
The tech opens the door, making a coo of surprise when she sees Oliver. “Is this Daddy?” she asks, bustling back to the machine.
“Yes,” Oliver and I say at the same time.
And we manage to sway the tech into showing us a few more minutes of the baby, even though technically she doesn’t need to, and I soak in every moment of Oliver’s reserved expression made open and awed with wonder as he watches his baby’s heart pulse on the screen.
It’s not until we’re leaving the office together, several glossy prints of our baby in hand, when I nudge his arm with my shoulder and say, “You’re Daddy now.”
His gorgeous mouth hooks up at the corner. “Sometimes I’ll be, Miss Lynch. But when we’re alone, I’m still Professor.”
I think I might float away with happiness. “Yes, sir,” I say, and I’m rewarded with a kiss that steals my breath right out of my mouth and promises all sorts of dirty, spanky things to come.
As long as I’m a very, very good girl.
Epilogue
Oliver
One Year Later…
Warm summer air blows through the study windows, ruffling my papers. I mumble a frustrated oath, clapping a hand over the pile and trying to ignore Zandy, who is finishing up her assignment using completely digitized materials and is visibly smug about it. Ever since she decided to go to library school in nearby Sheffield, we’ve been sharing my study, and she’s never stopped fussing about my affinity for paper. Or rather, the way the paper I work with tends to clump into piles and stacks and turn our neatly organized study into a warren of discarded books.
The breeze blows again, toying with her hair and fluttering the edges of her blouse, drawing my eyes down to her chest. The baby and nursing have blown out Zandy’s buxom shape, transforming her girlishly curvy body to something ripe and irresistible. Looking at her now makes me feel distinctly barbarian-like; I can’t catch sight of those lush, milk-heavy breasts or those suggestively wide hips without wanting to throw her over my shoulder and carry her off to some remote tower and mate with her until we both can’t move anymore.
I consider doing that right now—sans tower, of course—when a small squeak draws my attention. I look over to the small cot next to my desk, where two chubby waving fists and slowly kicking legs alert me that my little man is awake.
Zandy starts to stand, but I beat her to him, scooping up the squishy bug in my arms and kissing his thick, silky crown of hair. At three months old, Michael—named for her father—looks almost all my child: his eyes so blue at birth now changing into speckles of green and brown as well, his pointed chin, and even his little frowns and scowls. But the hair is all from his mother, and I find myself so fucking enamored sometimes with the idea that he’s been created uniquely and solely from me and the woman I love.
The woman who’s going to be my wife.
After our conversation and my botched attempt at marrying her the first time, I decided to take no risks with my second approach, and in a very Zandy-ish move, I made a plan. Part of the plan was establishing where we would live and where she would go to school, because I can live anywhere, really, and I knew she’d want to be close to her father. I let her choose every step of the way, reminding her that I’d love her and stay with her
no matter what.
She chose England and the cottage and the river and then began a campaign of emotional warfare to convince her father to find a job here near us. A campaign that was successful. He lives a mere ten minutes away from his grandson now.
The other part of the plan was to simply enjoy the process of having Michael. I didn’t want to rush her or pressure her when she seemed so happy and alight with his impending arrival, so I decided to wait until after his birth to settle this once and for all.
Zandy’s mine.
She’s been mine from the moment I covered my body with hers and slid inside her. Hell, she’s been mine since the moment she stumbled into me on a rainy London night.
And I have no intention of letting her go.
Zandy finishes up her work while I tend to Michael, and by the time she’s finished, he’s ready to nurse. I sit at the edge of my desk and watch as she props her feet up on a pile of books and cradles our son to her breast.
I watch appreciatively, happily, because she’s a vision like this—her hair in tumble-down waves over her shoulders and her beautiful face bent in tender care…and her perfect breast available to view. As if hearing my thoughts, my son puts a flexing hand over her breast as if to lay claim.
I smile, dropping a kiss on his head as I get up to prepare for this afternoon. Message received, little sir, I think with amusement. She’s all yours for now.
But after he nods off into his habitual milk coma and we lay him down in his nursery upstairs, I lead Zandy back to the study, because for the next hour, she’s all mine. And I intend on using that time very well.
The moment I sit back down at my desk and say, “Come here, Miss Lynch,” my cock swells against my trousers in Pavlovian response. And it swells even more as I see the rampant evidence of her desire stamped all over her body—nipples like hard little bullets, cheeks stained pink, and her even, white teeth biting into her lower lip.
“Yes, Professor,” she murmurs, coming toward me with a smile she can’t quite hide.
