Free Forbidden (short steamy romance) by V T Turner
Authors: V T Turner
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
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
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