This is the final snippet of the Dear Sir, I’m Yours prequel (set five years prior) that I’ll post here on the blog.  

The Final Final Exam

Rae stood in Dr. Connagher’s office, her right arm still hot from where his hand had been.  That hint of force had made her tremble again.  Her knees felt watery and her heart pounded so hard that she barely heard him shut the door behind them.

However, the snick of the lock sliding into place nearly made her jump to the ceiling and hang there like a yowling cat straight out of cartoons.

Breathlessly, she waited for him to make his move.  If he picked her up and tossed her on top of his desk, it’d be worth a spanking.

But he didn’t touch her.  Instead, he set his satchel on top of that glossy cherry desk she’d fantasized about all these months and added another stack of blue books into the bag.  “Damn.  I’m going to be grading for days.  How does a week sound to you?”

Her voice cracked.  “A week?”

“Let me finish grading for the semester, and by next Friday, it ought to be safe for us to date more formally.”  He sat in his chair and casually leaned back, his hands behind his head, but he didn’t fool her.  His eyes blazed and his arms were corded tight as though he were holding himself back instead of her for a change.  “If you still care to see me, that is.”

The blinds behind his desk were drawn, letting only slender slants of light cut across his face, leaving canyons and hollows she longed to explore.  Now, at last, she wasn’t his student.  He wasn’t her professor.  They were going to date.  However, despite his earlier threat, he seemed in no hurry to even touch her. 

A week my ass, she snarled.  Two can play his little games.

Lifting her chin, she glided over to the desk and trailed her fingers across its glossy surface as she slowly invaded his space.  On his side of the desk, she hopped up on top and sat before him, hissing a little at the cool surface beneath her nearly bare bottom.  “You know I do.”

Gravely, he merely watched her, his face lined and dark, his mouth a firm slash. 

She couldn’t tell if he was displeased or thrilled at her bravado.  “I’ve had a lot of fantasies about this desk.”

“Like what, darlin’?”

“Oh, nothing.”  She ducked her head a little so she could peep up at him through her lashes.  Deliberately, she licked her lips.  His forehead creased even more and his eyes locked on her mouth.  “Nothing I can admit to you.”

The chair creaked as he leaned forward.  He planted his palms on either side of her hips and fogged up the wood with the heat of his palms, but he still didn’t touch her.  “You will if I tell you to.”

Her heart was beating double time now, that familiar anticipation and the beginning of dread curling through her.  Yes, yes, this was Conn, not Dr. Connagher.  The mask was slipping enough that he scared her, but she loved it.  I love him.

If she pushed him hard enough, maybe he’d yank that mask clean away and take her right now on top of this big desk like she’d dreamed.  “Will I?”

Heavy lidded and dark, his eyes narrowed.  “I’m not in the mood for games, Rae.”

“That’s good,” she whispered, snuggling close enough to brush her mouth against his.  “What sort of mood are you in, then?” 

He made a low ragged sound and snagged her bottom lip in his teeth, gripping hard enough she cried out.  The sharp sting sent a wicked curl of heat through her.  Shuddering, she opened her mouth more, silently begging for his tongue, but he released her immediately.  Undeterred, she slid her palm into the neck of his shirt, relishing the velvet heat of his neck, the crisp hair barely peeking out of the top of his shirt.  She even managed to get one button undone before he shackled her wrists and pulled her hands away. 

“Rae, darlin’, I can’t take your hands on me right now.  It’s been one damned long semester, all this flirting and promising and teasing.  I thought it’d be fun to give you a hot little spanking, but I’m too raw and ragged to pull it off without scaring the hell out of you.  If I touch you right now, we’ll have the dean breaking that door down and hauling me off to prison because I’ll kill anyone who tries to keep me from you.”

“Aw, poor Dr. Connagher.  Have I been a very bad student?”

“Very,” he retorted, squeezing her wrists harder.  “Don’t push my buttons, Rae.  Not today.  You won’t like what you unleash.  Give me a week–”

“No.” 

His eyes flared wide and his mouth fell open with shock.

She couldn’t help it–she laughed out loud.  In fact, she felt downright giddy.  After all these months, she’d finally managed to knock him off balance.  As his student, she hadn’t dared antagonize him.  Now…that will be half the fun.  “Do you really think I slaved all semester in your class only to let you put me off again?”

Lazily, he dragged her wrists behind her, pinning them in the small of her back just as she’d imagined.  She couldn’t help but fight and twist, testing him, ensuring he really could hold her. 

I’m trapped, she realized, and at the same time, she felt a surge of wet heat between her legs.  And more turned on than ever.

“Do you really think you can get away with telling me no, Rae?”

“No,” she purred, wriggling to the very edge of his desk to hug her thighs around him.  “Make me yours, Conn.”

“You don’t have any idea what you’re asking.”

“I don’t care.  I’ll do anything you want, just don’t make me wait another week.”

A growl trickled out of his lips.  Before she could even yelp, he jerked and flipped her around so that she was on her stomach in front of him on top of his desk.  He leaned in, pressing his chest against her buttocks to make sure she stayed put.  Her arms ached, her wrists still clamped in his hand behind her.  “Anything I want, Rae?  Are you sure about that?”

Gasping, she tried to catch her breath, but the edge of the desk dug into her abdomen.  When she didn’t answer quickly enough, he pushed her wrists up incrementally, making her shoulders scream with pressure.  “No!”

“No, you’re not sure?”  He released her wrists but kept his chest pressed against her, bracing his arms on either side of her on top of the desk, making his body a cage.  “Or no to anything I want?  Or maybe now you’ll ask me nicely to let you go home to change this skirt.”

“No.”  She brought her hands up beneath her, ready to scramble out from beneath him even if that meant crawling across his desk.  “I won’t go home, Dr. Connagher.  Not to change.  Not for a week.  Sir.”

Wanna find out how Rae does on this final exam?  Download the rest of the story here (pdf) including one final letter and an “extra credit” poem.  If you enjoyed this free read, I hope you’ll check out Dear Sir, I’m Yours when it releases on June 16th to find out how Conn and Rae can possibly set about “Making it Right.”

This is another snippet of a Dear Sir, I’m Yours prequel (set five years prior). I’ll be writing out several scenes over the next few weeks, alternating with more letters, and when the whole thing is done, I’ll package it all together as a pdf on the Free Reads page. For now, I’m calling this prequel “Letters” since I haven’t come up with another title. I’ll accumulate the links here in reverse chronological order if you need to catch up!
 
Letter Three
Snippet Three – Office Interrogation
Snippet Two – The First Day of Class
Letter Two
Snippet One
Letter One

Snippet Four: Promises, Promises.  Since this one is a bit “rougher” in content and rather long (nearly 3K), it’s behind the cut. 

Continue reading Letters Snippet

This is another snippet of a Dear Sir, I’m Yours prequel (set five years prior). I’ll be writing out several scenes over the next few weeks, alternating with more letters, and when the whole thing is done, I’ll package it all together as a pdf on the Free Reads page. For now, I’m calling this prequel “Letters” since I haven’t come up with another title. I’ll accumulate the links here in reverse chronological order if you need to catch up!
 
Snippet Three – Office Interrogation
Snippet Two – The First Day of Class
Letter Two
Snippet One
Letter One

 Letter Three:

Dear Dr. Connagher:

 

For our first written assignment, you asked us to write you a detailed letter about what we’d like to get out of class.  Are you insane?  Didn’t we already have a little talk in your office about what sort of things were safe to discuss as professor and student?

 

Because what I’d really like to get is closer to you. 

 

You’ve condemned me to a semester of hell.  As we agreed, I’ve been coming to your office each week for “tutoring,” all so painfully proper that I want to scream.  You leave your door wide open.  You call me Miss Jackson and I call you Dr. Connagher and we talk about Shelley and Byron, Blake and Keats, but while you drill me on all the extracurricular reading I’m doing (as you asked), I’m sliding my feet deeper beneath your desk, trying to wrap my legs around yours.  Or I’m wondering what you’d do if I got up and very calmly walked over to your door, locked it, and then started taking off my clothes.

 

Really, what would you do?  Would you send me to the dean’s office?  Would you kick me out of class?  Or would you tell me to come sit in your lap?

 

Please, please, tell me the latter.  Or better yet, maybe we could try out that big desk of yours that you so studiously keep between us.  I’d like to be between it and you for a change, if you know what I mean.

 

I can’t stand it, Conn.  There, I said your name.  I broke your rule.  What are you going to do about it?

 

I want you so badly that I lie awake at night and ache.  This need keeps gnawing away, eating me alive.  I need to know the strength of your hands.  I need to hear your rumbling voice against my ear while you squeeze my ass like you threatened.  I’m doing everything I can to get your attention, to push you over the edge, but you just won’t go, will you? 

 

I know you won’t.  I don’t want you to break, not really.  But I’m breaking inside every single day.  Each time that you call me Miss Jackson and ignore my every attempt to get even a finger of your incredible body on mine, it feels like a physical wound that I’ll carry as a scar for the rest of my life.

 

So tomorrow, I’m going to wait until the very end of the day, and then I’m going to stop by your office right before you leave (yes, I know I’m borderline stalking you because I memorized your entire schedule) to inform you that I’m dropping your class.  If I don’t drop out by Friday, then it’ll be too late.  You’ll have to give me a grade.

 

I don’t want a grade, Conn.  I don’t even want an A.

 

All I want is you.

 

Yours in agony,

 

~ Rae

This is another snippet of a Dear Sir, I’m Yours prequel (set five years prior). I’ll be writing out several scenes over the next few weeks, alternating with more letters, and when the whole thing is done, I’ll package it all together as a pdf on the Free Reads page. For now, I’m calling this prequel “Letters” since I haven’t come up with another title. I’ll accumulate the links here in reverse chronological order if you need to catch up!

Snippet Two – The First Day of Class
Letter Two
Snippet One
Letter One

 Snippet Three:  Office Interrogation

In the privacy of his office with Miss Jackson standing penitent before him, Conn found himself in what his Daddy would have called quite a pickle.

If he didn’t allow this unknown student to stay in his class, he’d be forced to scratch it completely from the schedule, and the dean had refused to reconsider her decision.  The class he’d personally created and taught over the years, his hallmark work at Drury University, would be swallowed by blowing sands.  His life’s passion would be forgotten.  Instead of advanced poetry, he’d teach more remedial composition classes, because students couldn’t figure out how to write a paper in complete sentences without LOL and BFF and whatever other ridiculous abbreviations they texted on a daily basis.

But if he were completely honest with himself, the fate of his favorite class was the least of his concerns.  Deep down, he feared that if he allowed this frankly highly-unqualified student to remain, he’d do something unforgiveable.  He’d never been tempted by a student before, but Miss Jackson spelled Temptation with a capital T and damn it all to hell, this was only the first day of class.

It was her eyes that did him in.  Oh, she had a luscious body, no doubt about that, but he’d never been one to ogle the female students.  In fact, his best friend and fellow Drury professor, Mason Wykes, had resorted to calling him Dr. Perfect.  Conn had never even felt a twinge of interest in one of his students.

Until Miss Rae Jackson walked into his class and turned those soul-deep eyes on him.

Shyly yet earnestly, she gazed at him, her eyes big and solemn and dark with emotion, and he felt his rigidly polite professional veneer crack.  Somehow, she’d managed to pick up on his hidden dominant side.  Some secret signal that he’d unconsciously broadcasted had drawn her like a moth to a flame, and she fluttered toward mortal danger, fully aware he would singe her wings clean off if she got too close, but still hopelessly unable to flee.

As soon as he focused on her, she bit her lip, her breath caught, and it was all he could do not to come around the desk, cup her face in his hands, and ask how far she’d let him go. 

The devil on his shoulder whispered that he should test her.  Give her a few simple, innocent little requests to see if she would obey as sweetly and quickly as he suspected.  He clenched his jaws and flipped the mental bird at the evil bastard.  The last thing he needed to get into was an improper relationship with a student. 

Especially one that stared at him so hopefully, innocently, and naturally submissive.  Did she even have a clue that she was sending off a “please gobble me up whole” vibe in waves–a vibe that was irresistible to a man like him?  Son of a bitch.  Mason would laugh his ass off if he ever found out that Dr. Perfect had met his match and then some. 

Conn softened his voice and tried to begin, “Why don’t you sit down–”

She dropped like a stone into the seat so quickly he couldn’t help but wonder what she would’ve done if there hadn’t been a chair available.  Sitting behind his desk made him vaguely uncomfortable, as if he was abusing his position of authority as her professor, so he did something very rare during office consultation:  he stood, came around to the front of his desk, and casually sat on its edge.  It put him closer to her, making the devil cackle with glee, but hopefully took him out of the authority position.

“I’m not going to bite, Miss Jackson.”

Her eyes flared wider and her gaze dropped to his mouth.  Definitely not an improvement. 

Quickly, before he could dwell on any inappropriate vision of which delicious bite he’d like to sample first, he rushed on.  “That is, I’m not an ogre, despite whatever you may have heard.  I’m truly concerned about your wellbeing” and my sanity “in my class.”

A hint of a smile flickered on her lips.  “They didn’t call you an ogre, Dr. Connagher.”

“Troll?  Demon?  The wicked professor of Pearsons Hall?”

“You are rather famous,” she admitted, smiling wider and beginning to relax.  “Everyone I talked to sincerely enjoys your classes despite your…quirks.”

“And what do they say about my Romantic Period class?”

“It’s the hardest class in the entire English department,” she replied sheepishly.  “Casual English majors won’t take it because they don’t want to risk lowering their overall GPA.”

“And since it’s such a difficult class, non-English majors are too intimidated to sign up.  That’s exactly the argument Dean Strobel presented to me when I protested her decision to cancel this class.”  Sighing, he kept his face and voice equally soft.  “So why were you brave enough to sign up, Miss Jackson, Accounting major with barely enough English requirements for your business degree?”

She ducked her head.  “It was your only open class that I haven’t already taken.”

“It’s very important that you be truthful with me.”  He risked reaching out, slipped his fingers beneath her chin, and gently tilted her face back up to his.  Risk indeed, because he found that once he had her in his grasp, he didn’t want to let her go.  “Why were you looking for my classes in particular?  Do you know me from somewhere that I regretfully don’t remember?”

Uncomfortable, she hesitated, clenching and opening her hands in her lap, torn between fleeing and blurting out the truth.  He waited in silence, his gaze steady.  I’ll have her answers, however long it takes.

“No, sir,” she finally whispered, earning a smile and an encouraging nod to continue with her explanation.

He felt her swallow beneath his fingers and she moistened her lips.  The faint glimpse of her tongue made him suck in a breath.  What the hell was he doing?  These little games might seem innocent, but once he accepted this challenge, he’d find it difficult, if not downright impossible, to back off.

And I need to back off.  She’s my student!

“I heard you, Friday, outside the dean’s office.  You quoted poetry, and your voice…  I wanted to hear more.  Poetry, that is.”

She winced at the rather lame excuse, betraying herself.  She’d definitely wanted to hear more, and it wasn’t because she had a sudden interest in Shelley.  She’d responded to the hard edge of anger in Conn’s voice, the desperate need to keep what was his, and she’d been drawn to seek him out in any way she could.  Naked attraction shimmered in her eyes, darkened by her response to his voice, his presence, and most of all, his very position of control and authority that he could not violate one iota if he valued his career. 

He forced himself to release her.  Too many thoughts crowded his mind.  The small challenges she’d unconsciously set for him to master were adding up alarmingly.  He already knew that no harsh word would be required to earn the truth from her; his unapproving silence and the strength of his will were enough.  He also knew she found it very difficult to prevaricate even slightly.  If she ever thought to lie to him, all he’d have to do was look deeply into her eyes to see every truth laid bare before him.

Now, the fledgling truth he saw burning in her eyes promised that she would be the greatest test of his life.  Mastering himself with and for her would be like earning his doctorate all over again and a hell of a lot more pleasurable than slogging through another four years of graduate school.

Retreating to his chair, he put the desk between them.  Quickly, he ran through his options.  He hadn’t said anything that could be misconstrued later.  She could walk out now, find an easier class, and perhaps they’d accidentally on purpose run into each other about campus.  It would still be frowned upon for a professor to involve himself with a student, even if she wasn’t in his class, but it wasn’t worthy of reprimand.

However, if she remained as his student, she’d not only enable the last semester of his favorite class, but she’d also challenge him to keep that control he valued so much.  He could test her, and she would test him and not even know it.

If I can survive such a challenge to my self control.

He shifted in his chair, already rather uncomfortable.  The longer he looked at her, watching as she tucked an errant strand of chocolate brown hair behind her ear and bit her lip, waiting for his decision, the more he responded in a way that no teacher ever wanted to feel about his student.  Too young, too pretty, too damned sweet and innocent for a man like him.  Every dominant instinct he possessed urged him to wrap his arms around her and set about finding each and every limit she threw up at him until she was utterly and completely his.

Irritated that his libido was running amok on the very first day of class, he muttered, “’The desire of the moth for the star,/ Of the night for the morrow,/ The devotion to something afar/  From the sphere of our sorrow.’”

“Oh.  Okay.  That’s your answer, then?”

He arched a brow at the quavering despair in her voice.  “Do you know what I just quoted?”

She dropped her gaze to her hands and her shoulders slumped with dejection, but she nodded.  “It’s Shelley’s ‘One Word is Too Often Profaned.’”

At least she didn’t see the shock that must be written all over his face.  How on earth had she recognized Shelley, let alone that particular poem?  She was an Accounting major with absolutely no English poetry background, for God’s sake.  If she knew that much poetry, why were they even discussing her right to remain in his class?  “What line in particular did you think was my answer?”

She jerked her gaze up to his, and the fierce determination blazing in her eyes sent a jolt of unexpected delight through him.  Ah, here, too was the rebellion and spirit that he would relish exploring.  

“’I can give not what men call love.’  Or how about the line which gave its title:  ‘One word is too often profaned/ For me to profane it.’  If you’re not interested, Dr. Connagher, all you had to do was say so.  Dropping your class will be a hell of a lot easier than studying nonstop all weekend and reading everything about Percy Bysshe Shelley that I could get my hands on simply because everyone says he’s your favorite poet, all before the stupid semester even started!”

She leaped up out of her chair, whirled, and strode toward the door.  Her braid swung dark and heavy down her back, drawing his gaze to the sweetest ass in tight blue jeans that had ever crossed his desk. 

She wanted a chase.  Good. He gave it.

In a heartbeat, he rounded his desk, planted his palms on either side of her flat against the door, and hovered at her back without touching her.  Inappropriate, yes, but it wasn’t exactly physical contact.  She froze with her hand on the doorknob.

“Rae,” he purred, savoring her name on a low rumble that made her shiver beneath him.  “I never said I wasn’t interested.  I’m cursing my own impossible desire as the moth is drawn to the stars.”

On a low moan, she started to turn to face him.

“No, don’t.  Don’t look at me, not this close, or I’ll likely do something that we’ll both regret.”

“I won’t regret it,” she whispered, her voice ragged.  “I was hoping–”

“You came to me as a student.  My student,” he growled out next to her ear.  “You defined the exam the moment you enrolled in my class.  If you’re my student, then this is as close as we’ll be for the rest of the semester.”

“Then I guess I’ll be dropping your class, Dr. Connagher.”

“Conn,” he whispered, deliberately letting his lips brush her ear.  “Right here, and only right now, I’m Conn.”

“Conn,” she repeated on a low ragged groan.  “Are you sure I can’t turn around?”

“Absolutely sure, and although I know it would be easier for you to drop my class, I hope you don’t.”  He chose his words carefully so she wouldn’t feel as though he were demanding she stay in his class, because he feared very much that she’d comply just because he asked.  “Instead, I hope you come to class and torment me every single day.”

“But…but…don’t you…”

“If you decide to drop my class, leave your number so I can call you as a man and not your professor in a month or two.  But–” he hardened his voice, stilling her immediate eager response, “I think a semester of getting to know each other in a controlled environment would be best for both of us.  You’re testing my control to the breaking point already, darlin’.”

“Sorry.”  She laughed shakily, although he didn’t think she sounded repentant at all.  In fact, she backed that tempting ass so she could rub her back against him like a cat.  “When you say darlin’ in that smooth Texas drawl…”

“Yeah, darlin’?  What does that do to you?”

“It makes me weak in the knees.”

“Good,” he drawled, rewarding the truth with a quick nibble on her ear.  “Now I want you to march that delectable ass out of my office.  I’m going to do some serious thinking about the course syllabus and how we can make this class fun and rewarding for you, for all of us, and who knows, in the end, we may come up with something even the dean will approve so I don’t lose my favorite class.  Wednesday morning, I’m Dr. Connagher and you’re Miss Jackson.  We’ll get to know each other as professor and student.  I won’t say inappropriate things–like how much I want to squeeze your ass and haul you into my lap–and you certainly won’t rub said ass against me.  And that’s the way we’ll behave until you’ve turned in your final and I’ve turned in your grade.”

She blew out her breath on a long, mournful sigh that made him chuckle.  “I never thought I’d actually look forward to finals week.”

“You and me both, darlin’.”

This is another snippet of a Dear Sir, I’m Yours prequel. I’ll be writing out several scenes over the next few weeks, alternating with more letters, and when the whole thing is done, I’ll package it all together as a pdf on the Free Reads page. For now, I’m calling this prequel “Letters” since I haven’t come up with another title. I’ll accumulate the links here in reverse chronological order if you need to catch up!

 
Snippet One
Letter One

Letter Two:
 

Dear Dr. Connagher:

 

So it should have been a clue that if you were quoting poetry…you were probably an English professor.  Which didn’t sound too bad, until I found out that your only open class is a senior-level class on the Romantic Period.  I admit, I was giddy and relieved, until I actually read the course description. 

 

Then to make matters worse, my suitemates knew somebody who took your class last year.  Thank you very much–now I’m terrified that I’ll fail my first class at Drury.  Why did your only open class have to be this one, your pet class, the one you use to “break” English majors too foolish to have changed their major to basket weaving already? 

 

What hope do I have of surviving your class?  Absolutely none whatsoever.  Yet the thought of dropping out before I even meet you makes me want to cry.

 

You can thank [name redacted to protect the innocent] for warning me that you require all students to contact you in formal letters, which is exactly why I’ve lost my mind enough to write not one but two letters to you already.  She also said that you despise the internet, and if anyone even brings up Google, e-mail, or Lord forgive us, cliffnotes.com, then we’d better get a head start for the Registrar’s Office for that withdrawal.

 

So while all my friends are out partying one last frantic weekend before having to drag themselves to class with a hangover, I’m settled into bed with a foot-thick tome of poetry, a dictionary, and every resource the librarian could suggest for a dolt who knows absolutely nothing about Shelley beyond Frankenstein.  Which I now know, thanks to you, wasn’t even written by the poet listed in the course description, but his wife.

 

I’m trying to concentrate on what I’m reading, but I keep picturing you in the hallway.  There were deep grooves about your mouth and your eyes were like dark storm clouds.  When I close my eyes, I can see your face, and I press kisses to each one of those lines until they fade away, and the only darkness that remains is in your eyes.  That darkness gives me cold chills and sends my heart pounding like a jackhammer, but I can’t look away. 

 

I want your eyes on me.  I want your darkness.  I want you.

 

Now, as I read this poem for the hundredth time, I hear your voice reading it, and I’ve never heard anything sexier in my entire life.  Just don’t ask me what the poem actually means, please, until I’ve had time to study a whole lot more.

 

Why isn’t it Monday yet?  This is so stupid.  I’ve done more work for your class than I’ve ever done in my entire life and the semester hasn’t even started!

 

Still yours,

 

~ Rae

 

P.S. Would it earn me any extra credit if you knew that I’d hunted down that snippet of poetry you quoted in the hall yesterday?

 

P.S.S. I guess not–I used Google to find out that you were quoting from Percy Bysshe Shelley’s “Ozymandias.”