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    Professor Nixon
    Professor Nixon
    Professor Nixon
    Ebook126 pages1 hour

    Professor Nixon

    By Celia Crown

    ()

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    About this ebook

    He's the Human Anatomy professor, and Dahlia is his favorite student.

     

    Young, soft, and obedient.

     

    He wants to learn what makes her smile, where to make her mewl, and how to get her addicted to his touch.

     

    Professor Nixon wants to be a certified expert on his little student.

     

    His desires are wrong, but Nixon is not a man with many regrets—only that he didn't touch her sooner.

     

    Maybe if he was a good man or a better professor, they wouldn't be here. He doesn't feel an ounce of remorse for tainting her innocence, nor does he feel guilty about reeling her in with affection.

     

    He tastes of paradoxical heaven, a continuum of glorified sins and high morals.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherCelia Crown
    Release dateApr 18, 2023
    ISBN9798223170877
    Professor Nixon

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      Book preview

      Professor Nixon - Celia Crown

      PROFESSOR NIXON

      ____________________

      CELIA CROWN

      Copyright © 2021 by Celia Crown.

      All rights reserved.

      This book is a work of fiction.

      The book or any portion of the book may not be reproduced or used under any circumstances, except with the written permission from the author. Public names, movies, televisions, locations, or any references are used for atmospheric purposes. Any similarities and resemblances to alive or dead people, events, brands, and locales are all complete coincidences.

      Contents

      Professor Nixon

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Epilogue

      Afterword

      More Books

      Professor Nixon

      By Celia Crown

      He’s the Human Anatomy professor, and Dahlia is his favorite student.

      Young, soft, and obedient.

      He wants to learn what makes her smile, where to make her mewl, and how to get her addicted to his touch.

      Professor Nixon wants to be a certified expert on his little student.

      His desires are wrong, but Nixon is not a man with many regrets—only that he didn’t touch her sooner.

      Maybe if he was a good man or a better professor, they wouldn’t be here. He doesn’t feel an ounce of remorse for tainting her innocence, nor does he feel guilty about reeling her in with affection.

      He tastes of paradoxical heaven, a continuum of glorified sins and high morals.

      Chapter One

      ___________

      Dahlia

      I’m hallucinating.

      This is like something from a dream.

      A man, one I know, walks out of the bathroom. Haunting ink designs spiral across his broad chest and run down his muscled arms. Grooved abs and the tapering of his waist nearly make me forget about the towel wrapped around his hips. His legs are long and powerful as he stands in the doorway looking at me.

      His chiseled jaw clenches while his obsidian eyes gleam with fierce desire.

      He turns his back to me and treads to the walk-in closet without saying a word. The aloofness he conveys is intimidating, but my silence is a mockery of my position.

      I’m in a bed that’s not mine, wearing clothes that smell suspiciously like him, and my body hurts like I just had a lousy appointment with a chiropractor.

      I’m pushing the elephant in the room to the back of my mind.

      Trying not to freak out, I refuse to think about last night because this man is Professor Nixon. But my head is filled with pictures of his wet body and steamy showers.

      I jump out of the bed as if it’s on fire, panicking as I stumble out of the enormous room. The view of the city below is breathtaking, but mortification hushes the sense of awe in my head.

      My goal is to get out of here without him seeing me again. Although the layout of his apartment isn’t complicated, I am still bumping into the furniture.

      Shoving my feet into my shoes by the door, I scan the walls for a fleeting second and glimpse all his framed diplomas and awards. There is no way I imagined that the deliciously naked man was Professor Nixon, and this proves it.

      What the heck happened last night?

      I shake my head and quietly open the door to sneak out. I tell myself to forget the beautiful sunrise and pretend the musky scent on my collar doesn’t exist.

      I run into the elevator and impatiently push the button for the lobby.

      Looking out the closing elevator doors, I see that his front door has already closed and realize that this is a very secure building. More complicated than it needs to be, though.

      An architect's dream is an engineer's nightmare. That phrase is engraved above the entrance of the engineering building.

      I exit the elevator and rub my arms as an icy breeze skims over my body. I avoid looking at the people in the lobby and rush to the entrance, where the concierge greets me.

      I don’t know where I am, but there are landmarks to guide me. Professor Nixon’s home is relatively close to campus, so it isn’t long before I come across tired students dragging their feet.

      Rough night, Dali?

      My shoulders jolt at the unexpected voice. I spin around to see Clara suggestively wiggling her brows at me. She hurls my backpack into my fumbling arms and hooks her elbow around mine.

      What you’re doing now is the walk of shame, she quips with a laugh.

      I squeak, embarrassed. I’m doing what?

      You went home with Professor Nixon, Clara whines with envy in her tone.

      I’ll kill you, Clara.

      I yank her elbow and hush her while glancing around. I don’t need people to hear this scandalous piece of information.

      Clara rolls her eyes with a scoff. Who’s going to lend you a shoulder that smells like butterscotch to cry on?

      I don’t cry all the time, I mumble.

      She does smell like butterscotch. I had this bizarre paranoia when she first bought the body lotion; I didn’t want to come home and find our apartment filled with ants.

      I know it’s illogical, but my brain is wired that way.

      Just every time a boyfriend breaks up with you, Clara mentions off-handedly. "Fuck Oliver. Well, not fuck him."

      Hearing my ex-boyfriend’s name stabs a dagger in my heart. I inhale loudly and exhale the negativity to clear my mind.

      Heartbreak hurts! I huff, squeezing her arm tighter.

      Clara complains as she pulls me into the building, So do my dark circles the day after.

      It’s not my fault they break up with me, I whisper under my breath.

      I never understand what I did or where things went wrong. I thought I was a decent girlfriend to have because they were the ones who asked me out. But they are also the ones who suggest breaking up.

      Don’t say I’m too good for them, I say, stopping the consoling words that are on her tongue.

      Clara, a blunt woman, snorts. Not always, Michael will inherit his father’s multimillion-dollar company.

      Yeah, I mutter, trailing off as we slip past an arguing couple. Michael didn’t say why he wanted to break up with me.

      Clara notices the arguing couple when the yelling becomes a screaming match. After finding our seats in the massive lecture hall, we can still hear them.

      The boyfriend demands to know why his girlfriend didn’t do anything for his birthday. She wants to know why he’s making a big deal out of it since he said he didn’t want to celebrate his birthday.

      Was I like that with my boyfriends? I whisper to Clara.

      She displays her new nails across her laptop. You never argue with your boyfriends. You hate being yelled at because it scares you.

      Raised voices do scare me, but I chalk it up to my sensitive hearing.

      It’s no big deal, Clara jokes nonchalantly as she leans over to me.

      I back away with a wary lift of my brow. What?

      Sleeping with him, she mumbles, her eyes darting around.

      "We’re talking about him. It’s unethical."

      Not according to the bimbos, she corrects promptly. That’s what they call themselves. You know, the college bunnies.

      My silence has her groaning again. Students and professors? Extra credit? A little roll in the hay to raise their grade?

      I admit it’s embarrassing that I didn’t understand what she meant. I’m still frazzled by the incident this morning. His naked body is burned into my memory, and my knees go weak when I think about it.

      I clear my throat and sniff distractedly. The Board of Education says otherwise.

      Clara states tactfully, If you’re not in any of his classes, there’s no conflict of interest. Therefore, you can fuck that stud again.

      I visibly wince as my cheeks ache. No, please don’t call him that. Or anyone else.

      Her elbow digs into my ribs as she cackles. Was he rough? I bet he was. Just look at those strong arms. I want details.

      I want them too. Not that I want to relive whatever happened last night. I just don’t like having a chunk of missing memories.

      My stubborn side refuses to accept that I slept with Professor Nixon because good students don’t have sex with their professors. I pride myself on being a good girl with a bright future.

      The double door opens. I swear I’m going to faint.

      I expected Doctor Brent, an older woman with the kindest smile that brightens everyone’s day.

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