I never fraternize with my students.
Never touch them.
But when Giada Romano walks into my classroom, my perfect resolve crumbles.
She’s gorgeous.
And bratty as hell.
She’s brilliant.
And woefully disobedient.
I’ll bend her over my desk and teach her the manners her daddy should have taught her.
This girl needs way more than a lesson in grammar.
Please note: Schooled is a newly expanded re-release, previously entitled Professor Daddy.
Geoffrey
I walk toward my office, my mind a million miles away from here. I’m still not entirely sure why I took on this job in the first place. I feel weirdly out of place, and a part of me wonders if I’d have gotten this position if the powers that be knew anything about the last relationship I was in. Yeah, professors keep their private lives to themselves, and it’s not against the faculty rules for me to have a certain… proclivity… for younger women. But still.
How many professors here have girls they tie up or bend over their knees? How many are members of private, exclusive BDSM clubs?
How many like to be called daddy?
Ahead of me, I see a petite girl with chestnut-colored hair that hits right at her chin turn the corner, and for one brief moment, my pulse races. She looks just like… Could it be? But when she turns, I see she’s wearing glasses, and looks nothing like the girl I thought she was.
God, I miss Philippa. But she’s gone, and I am not gonna be one of those creeps who pursues his students.
I haven’t taught a creative writing class in years, but when I saw the job posted online, I decide to take a stab at it. I needed to do something to shake me out of the funk I’d been in since Philippa left. It was the most amicable break-up I’d ever gone through. A mutual agreement. She had to help her mother, and we had the kind of relationship that doesn’t work well long-distance. Still, a part of me longs to have that connection again. And even though I still stay in touch with Philippa, we’ve let ourselves fade to merely friends.
I was Philippa’s dom for six full months. Hell, I was more than her dom. I was her daddy.
We met at Club Verge, the most renowned kink club in all of NYC. I’m a long-term member. Not that I’ve gone back. And until Philippa, I’d only played at the club. Ours was my first relationship that took off outside club doors. The first relationship where I discovered my true self, how I thrived as a dominant giving real rules and accountability to another. Leading her to achieve success fulfilled a need in me.
We had an instant connection. She obeyed my rules, and I gave her structure, and we–
No. I won’t think about that anymore. We’ve moved past that, and now it’s time for me to move on.
So when I saw the little advertisement for a creative writing professor for the summer, I leapt at the opportunity. Hell, I figured maybe I could channel my need to nurture and guide in a more…wholesome way. And I found that I could. That throwing myself into being the best damn professor I could be helped me let go of the past and focus on the present. I might even be a little overboard, pretty married to this job. I do little more than work and hit the gym, and don’t have time for Club Verge anymore. I tell myself I’m too busy for a relationship, and that’s good enough.
I love my job. I have high expectations for my students. I don’t believe in coddling. It never served me well, and it won’t serve my students. I’m not their friend. I expect they come to class on time. I expect they do their work promptly and efficiently. And when they don’t, they answer to me.
I have a reputation for being a major hard-ass, and I like that I do. I don’t have time or patience for bullshit. I like to see my students reach their potential, thriving under my rigorous instruction.
Taking my place at the head of the classroom, I go down my attendance sheet and note the numbers as they come in the room. There are exactly nine people on my list, and exactly eight are here. When the clock strikes the very minute class begins, I lock the door and begin.
Maybe the ninth won’t show up. Or maybe the ninth will come late, and I’ll get a chance to live up to my reputation.
Giada
I glance at my calendar one final time.
Creative Writing Exploration. Professor Geoffrey Slade. Room 721, Dove building.
I inhale deeply, square my shoulders, and sling my bag onto my back. I’m making a major concession coming to school in the summer, the time of beach parties and sunbathing and cruises, but a long time ago, while he was still here… I made my father a promise. And it means something to me that I keep that promise, so here I am.
I purse my lips and open my bag, removing my sunglasses and sliding them on. The sun beats down hot and merciless, and I’m momentarily thankful I chose my tiniest sundress, a handmade beauty I picked up in Rome over Easter break, hunter green with spaghetti straps, a low vee in the front, hitting mid-thigh with delicate edged lace. I smile to myself. The nuns at Saint Augustine’s would have a conniption if they could see me now. But hey, I guess local community colleges have their benefits, and casual dress to class is one of them.
This is my third class I’ve taken here. Summer classes are shorter than standard ones, so the work load is intense. There are a few things I’ve learned: all the professors are old and stodgy, no hot football players take summer classes on campus, and on the plus side, chai latte and scones in the café are surprisingly delicious. I’ll reward myself with one today, after I meet Professor Stodgy number three, toss some words on a page to pass the class, and if I time things right I can be back at the pool at my apartment building by lunchtime.
My heels click-clack on the tile as I make my way to class, deep in thought when I glance at the room number: 721. This is it. I look at the time on my phone, notice I have a text, and quickly shoot off a reply. Eh, I’m fashionably late. I can hear a low buzz of conversation on the other side of the door, and suspect I’ve found the right place. Reaching for the handle of the classroom, I turn it and frown. It’s… stuck or something. I try again, but it doesn’t budge. What the hell? I feel heat creep up my cheeks as I lift my hand and knock sharply on the door.
The noise on the other side of the door stops, and my belly dips as a shadow approaches on the other side, big and hulking through the frosted glass. I swallow at the sound of a click, then watch as the door swings open. My mouth drops, gaping at the man standing in front of me.
He’s… not old.
And most definitely not stodgy.
A man dressed in a pale green polo shirt that does little to hide his broad shoulders and large, muscled arms, stands in front of me. Tall and strong, with a shaved head and stubble edged in silver, he glares at me sternly from beneath furrowed brows, his green eyes glinting like jade. He’s looking at me as if he just caught me shoplifting, and I feel about four feet tall. Strength and power emanate from him, and I suddenly realize I’m staring with my mouth still hanging open. I snap it shut and blink in surprise.
His brows raise impatiently. “Can I help you? Is there a reason you’re disturbing my class?” His voice is a deep baritone I feel right down the back of my neck, and it sends a shiver down my spine.
I clear my throat. “I’m… looking for Creative Writing Exploration with… Professor Slade?” My voice sounds oddly strained and high-pitched. I clear my throat nervously.
He nods, and I’m shocked to find his stern eyes doing a quick once-over so blatantly intimate and sexual it’s as if his hands rove over my body. He lingers on the cleavage at my chest, then snaps his eyes back to mine, narrowed now as if he’s blaming me for his momentary loss of control.
Asshole.
“I’m Professor Slade. And you are?”
“Giada Romano,” I say in one breath.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t allow latecomers to my class, Ms. Romano, and I lock the door when class begins.” There’s silence in the class behind him.
God.
He takes a step toward me, his voice softer so that only I can hear him. “You may enter for today,” he says. “But bear in mind future tardiness will result in consequences.” My stomach clenches in response.
I have to walk right past him to enter, so it’s time to get my shit together. I quickly step in the classroom, ignoring how damn good he smells, all masculine and sexy like whiskey and leather and pipe smoke. I slink into the nearest seat, not looking at my classmates. He shuts the door with a bang, then walks—stalks, really— to the front of the room.
I can’t wrap my brain around this man being my professor. Holy crap. I fumble in my bag and retrieve a notebook and pen, then sit stock-straight in my chair, eyes focused on my new professor. He’s saying something about grades and papers and the proper use of citation, but I’m not hearing a damn thing he says. I’m too focused on the way his mouth moves, the way his biceps bulge when he sits back at his desk and crosses his tanned, corded forearms. I swallow, my body aflame.
“Ms. Romano?” I blink. Shit, he’s calling my name and I didn’t hear a word he said. I was too busy staring at him.
“Yes?”
He frowns at me, waving a stack of papers in his hand. “I asked you to please pass out the course syllabus sheets to your classmates.”
That frown sends a pulse right between my legs.
“Yes, of course,” I mumble, getting to my feet. I never stumble in heels and prefer them because they instantly make any outfit look feminine and chic, but when I’m two steps away from him, one heel wobbles, I lose my balance and lurch forward. My arms flail in front of me, grasping for purchase, but I can’t catch onto anything. I’m going to fall on my ass in front of this god of a man and humiliate myself in front of my entire class.
Then strong, powerful arms grab me about the waist, bracing me before I fall. I’m flush up against him, dazzled by his scent and warmth and strength, so much shorter than he is that my head hits mid-shoulder even in heels. I blink up at him. A current passes through my body, a zing of arousal that shocks the hell out of me. I’ve made out with men who didn’t affect me as much as the chaste, powerful touch of this man. I blink.
“Thank you,” I mutter. I need to push away from him but he’s holding me, his eyes slightly widened in surprise. Why surprise?
“You’re okay?” he asks. I nod dumbly. He lets me go as if I’m hot to the touch, and I nearly stumble again but grasp the table. Cheeks flaming, I take the stack of paper he hands me, then in a daze pass them out to the other ten or so students in the class. I wouldn’t know how many there are. I can hardly bring myself to look at them.
The rest of the class goes by in a blur, and I do my best to focus, but I’m way off my game. My mind is teeming, my body strangely energized, and I make a vow right then and there that I need to stop reading so many damn romance novels. I read one or two a day, fully immersed in the escapism it brings me, and I think they’re getting to my fucking head. I’ve always been a hopeless romantic, but it wasn’t until I hit my senior year in high school I discovered romance. I’ve been a complete addict ever since. But this obsession has not served me well, especially since my particular tastes these days are always the kinky variety involving handcuffs and safewords and dominants.
Everything about this man fits the bill. I could see him with a length of rope or crop in his hand as easily as I could imagine him with a cup of coffee.
I blame the writer in me. My imagination is on overdrive, wondering what this man would do with my body.
My ass.
My mouth.
Jesus, I need to get laid.
I take notes dutifully but have no idea what I wrote, when I realize that everyone is getting up and shuffling out the door. My head whips up to the clock on the wall, and I realize class is over. Fumbling, I grab my notebook and pen, and shove them into my bag, when his stern voice arrests me.
“Ms. Romano.”
I look up at him. He’s over at his desk, straightening things out, but he definitely called my name.
“Yes?” My voice is husky and a little squeaky.
Get your shit together, girl.
“Please remain after class.”
The blood pounds in my ears as the nameless, faceless people I’ve just sat next to for an hour filter out of the class, leaving me alone with Professor Slade. The door shuts with a click behind the last person to leave, and I turn to face my professor. Now that we’re alone, he seems even larger than before, as if his entire presence fills every inch of this classroom. I feel small and helpless, and more than a little curious. I click-click-click my retractable pen nervously when his voice cuts through the quiet like a whip.
“Stop that.”
The pen clatters to the desk. I look up at him, stunned. I swallow, my mouth dry, and take in a deep breath.
He pushes off the desk and stalks over to me, looming over my desk, then he leans against the edge of the desk beside mine. He’s so big, the space between the desks so small, he’s almost brushing up against my desk. Why the hell has he asked me to stay after class?
Those eyes entrance me. God, those eyes.
“You look a little bewildered, Ms. Romano.”
“Giada,” I say without thinking. I have no control over my mind or body, it seems.
A corner of his lips quirks up and he tilts his head to the side. “Giada,” he repeats.
“Yep. That’s right. Giada. It’s the Italian form of the word jade,” I blather on like an idiot. “My mother spent several years in China and had a penchant for the gem, so she decided to name me after it.”
His stern eyes twinkle a bit, but he only nods.
“It’s a hard gem known for its healing properties,” I continue like a wind-up toy on speed, “and it’s a… really pretty green.”
Like your eyes.
I slam my mouth shut and wish for the floor to swallow me up.
He nods sagely, grasping his chin and stroking the stubble on his chin. I’m suddenly wildly jealous of his hand. I want to be his hand. I want to touch him.
I’m certifiable.
“I see. Well, now I know.”
Oh, God, I’m an idiot. I sit and wait for him to continue.
He eyes me quietly for a moment and says nothing. I feel heat creep up my neck and cheeks, I’m so embarrassed by this crazy conversation, so nervous being alone with him like this.
“You seemed distracted in class,” he says, leaning forward and placing one hand on the desk in front of me. “Did you hurt yourself when you stumbled?”
“No, sir,” I mumble. The heat on my cheeks ignites to flaming. I just called him sir. Like in the books. Like he was my dom or something. The rational part of my brain that tells me it’s totally normal to call a professor sir doesn’t even register. I feel like I have a ‘dom me now, sir’ sign plastered on my forehead.
His green eyes focus on mine. “I’d like you to tell me what tonight’s assignment is.”
Oh, shit.
“I…” I’m speechless. I don’t have a damn clue what tonight’s assignment is.
His voice drops to chiding as he lifts a stern brow. “Do you mean to tell me you weren’t paying attention, Giada?”
“Of course I was,” I snap. It isn’t my fault he’s got me all flustered. It’s his.
His eyes narrow in warning. “Watch your tone.”
I reach for my bag, not meeting his eyes, not acknowledging the fact that hearing him call me by name and the stern way he speaks is doing all sorts of crazy things to my body. I want to leave this room. I’m bewitched in here and need to clear my head. I’m Giada Romano, daughter of Leonardo Romano, who left behind him a legacy of the most profitable car sales in the entire country. I’m not here to kowtow to some muscled professor in a little community college.
But God, I want to.
I’m crazy.
I snatch my notebook, flip it open, and look at the words I wrote on the page. I don’t remember any of this, as if I was possessed during class.
“Write a one-page, personal entry on the influence of literature on your imagination,” I parrot, then look up at him. He’s watching me like a predator ready to pounce on its prey, and I’m suddenly aware of how vulnerable I am. We’re alone, in a vacant classroom, and who knows if anyone’s nearby? He outweighs me by at least a hundred pounds and could easily overpower me. Is he safe?
No. No, he isn’t safe. If there’s anything I’ve learned in my twenty-one years on this Earth, it’s that men who look at me the way he is are anything but safe.
“Good girl,” he says.
Oh, my God. Like the doms I read. Good girl.
Say it again, I mentally beg, but I keep my shit together for once.
“Do you have any questions about your assignment?” he asks.
“No, sir,” I say, this time intentionally. This man has an agenda. It’s right then that I make up my mind.
I get to my feet slowly, unfolding my body from the chair like a dancer, silently begging for him to look me over once more, but he doesn’t fall for the bait, his eyes drilling into mine.
I know exactly what I’m going to write. He might be the stronger one physically, but I won’t go down without a fight.
“And when is that due, Giada?”
I blink, stare down at my paper, and realize I don’t have a clue. I look back up at him.
He shakes his head. “Not paying attention to details?” he asks, tsking under his breath. “You really are looking for me to punish you, aren’t you?”
And just like that, my panties dampen.
He knows exactly what the fuck he’s doing.
“You send it to my email listed on the syllabus by this evening,” he says. “It’s a precursor to the work we’ll begin tomorrow.” He drums his fingers on my desk. “Any questions, young lady?” His voice is as seductive as if he just asked me to strip for him. He’s testing me out, seeing how far he can push me.
Two can play at this game.
I take a step toward him and lower my voice to demure. “No, sir. I understand. Is there anything else you need from me?”
“No,” he clips, sharp and acerbic. I bite back a smile. He’s no fool.
He pushes away from the desk and marches back to the front of the room. “You are free to leave,” he says. “But remember what I said, Giada.” Lifting a stack of papers in his hand, he straightens them, eyes coming straight back to me. “Be here on time tomorrow.” He pauses. “Or you’ll answer to me.”
My body clenches of its own accord, and I know right then what I need to do.
USA Today Bestselling author Jane has been writing since her early teens, dabbling in short stories and poetry. When she married and began having children, her pen was laid to rest for several years, until the National Novel Writing Challenge (NaNoWriMo) in 2010 awakened in her the desire to write again. That year, she wrote her first novel, and has been writing ever since. With a houseful of children, she finds time to write in the early hours of the morning, squirreled away with a laptop, blanket, and cup of hot coffee. Years ago, she heard the wise advice, “Write the book you want to read,” and has taken it to heart. She sincerely hopes you also enjoy the books she likes to read.
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