The Virgin Diaries: The Complete Series Read online

  “Excuse me?” Professor asks, looking up from another test that looks even bloodier than mine, his voice strained with cold fury. “Miss Phillips, if you’d like to protest your grade, feel free to come by my office.” He caps his pen, his green eyes blazing, like he’s daring me.

  From beside me, I hear Sabrina slinking away and realize she’s left me alone as she tries to get out of firing range.

  I muster up a half-smile, feigning apology at my words, even though I’m not sorry. I’m annoyed, at him for the hypercritical grade and at myself for missing the damn details again. But I nod. Damn right, I’m coming by his office. Already planned on it.

  Connor

  Sitting down on the stool behind my desk, I don’t think I’ve ever tried so hard to fight a hard-on. I feel like I’m trying to swim upstream in a raging river because my blood is pumping down to my cock, leaving my brain woefully unprepared. I’m trying to think of the most unsexy things I can to keep from tenting in my jeans. I mentally run through the prime numbers, getting to 3,083 before losing track and starting over again. Even still, I’m at half-mast, and the only relief I have is that my dick’s held captive by the tightness of my jeans.

  Why the fuck did I have to wear these damn jeans on the day when I knew she’d be in class? Should’ve chosen loose slacks or even sweatpants with tight boxer briefs to hide the effect she has on me. It’s not like anyone cares about the professors’ dress code. Hell, Professor Williams teaches in legit pajamas on occasion and nobody bats an eye, simply calling him eccentric. But no, I’m getting choked by my own jeans, pulling my favorite tee down low to hopefully hide my hardening cock.

  It’s because of her.

  Daisy Phillips, sweet brown eyes hidden behind cute plastic frames, raven’s-wing black hair, and curves that my hands want to explore every time I see her.

  At least once a week, she makes my dick so hard it fucking hurts and I have to excuse myself for a quick run to my office to handle matters. It’s more than her looks, although she’s absolutely stunning. It’s that she’s fucking brilliant, but raw and untrained, her skills failing her potential when she rushes ahead for the answers without a care for the process. But I can help break her of that.

  I’ll admit there’s a piece of me that is attracted to her sweet innocence too. If I were a betting man, I’d lay odds in Vegas that Daisy Phillips is a virgin. She doesn’t come across as clueless, but there’s something in the way she behaves, like when she flirts but is then surprised at the words coming out of her mouth. She unconsciously seems to lean forward when I teach, like untouched territory begging me to claim it.

  I know it shouldn’t matter. But still, the prospect of teaching her more than just math, of showing her just what her virgin pussy is capable of, leaves me almost panting for breath.

  The clock ticks away, marking off the seconds of exquisite torture as I yearn for her eyes to come back to me, but she stays dutifully focused on her test. I bury my head in some other work, rereading and double-checking a paper I’m submitting to a big mathematics journal. I don’t mind publishing and the popularity contest it can be, but it’s not my passion. However, I need to publish more if I’m going to get the tenured position I’m looking for. Dean Michaels is a bit of a stickler, and if I want him to consider me seriously, I’ve got to continually publish, not rest on my laurels from the kudos on my last paper. Even though it’s the one that got me hired on as a full-time professor.

  But they don’t hand tenure to a professor who has his cock buried in his student’s pussy, no matter how tight or sweet it might be, I remind myself.

  I hear a squeak of a shoe on tile and the light footsteps as someone approaches my desk, but I can tell without looking up who it is. I’ve come to almost memorize every detail about Daisy, from the luster of her hair in the light of the classroom to the soft, feminine smell that is undeniably her. It’s so unique and intoxicating that I can’t even think of the damn flower the same way any longer. She’s invaded my mind just like the beautiful weed she’s named after, wild and unassuming as she overtakes my every sense.

  Still, I do my best to keep my face impassive as she stands in front of me, pausing for a moment before putting her test paper down. I know my eyes freeze as I take in the lush mounds of her breasts in that daring V-cut top she’s teasing me with today, and I have to struggle to keep my voice sounding bored. “That was quick. Are you sure you’re done?”

  She does her best to seem sweet and innocent when she answers, but I can tell she’s got something else on her mind. The dirty emphasis on the hard, the flush in her cheeks . . . all it makes me think of is bending her over her desk, pulling those undoubtedly good-girl panties aside, and slamming my cock balls-deep in her over and over until I give her pussy its first taste of how it feels to be fucked.

  Dammit. My hot gaze follows her ass as she walks to her desk, turns around, and sits down. Even worse than my doing that is that she catches me, I’m sure of it.

  At her haughty look, a challenge if ever I saw one, my cock surges to full hardness, forcing me to stifle a groan as I squeeze my eyes shut to try and focus before turning my attention to her test.

  As always, her work is damn-near perfect. I have to study her test to find any flaws, for anything she could improve on. Part of me knows I’m being unfair to her and that I’m punishing her for cockteasing me, even if she’s unaware of the consequences of her casual flirting.

  But consciously, I tell myself that I expect perfection. She’s so talented, the sort of mind that, if developed, could do great things. So I push, finding the imperfections in her answers. I could just mark it and not take any points off, but that’s not how you learn. She needs the challenge, the ding to her status-quo easy-A life because she needs to learn.

  Other students pass in papers as the test time wraps up, and I work to get as many graded as I can. Once they’re all on my desk, I hand out the few I’ve finished to the students who chose to stay and see their grades.

  When everyone files out, I sit at my desk, fighting the last vapors of my desire for Daisy and forcing my eyes to the test in front of me, giving each student’s work the attention it deserves. Even so, my ears are trained on Daisy’s soft voice as she complains to another student. I know students bitch about their grades, but I’m surprised to hear her mouthiness, especially while still in my classroom.

  “Excuse me?” I ask, looking up to glare at her. Her eyes are wide, her face flushed at being called out. I want to smack her bratty ass, make her apologize for her insolence on her knees with my cock in her throat. My cock screams at me to make that image a reality. Knowing it’s a dangerous proposition but following protocol anyway, I offer, “Miss Phillips, if you’d like to protest your grade, feel free to come by my office.” It sounds like both a threat and a promise, at least to my dirty mind.

  It’s obvious she’s pissed, but she manages to smile and nod. I get up and motion for her to follow me to my office.

  We make it to my door, and I open it, going in and leaning against the oak desk, for once not caring if she sees that I’m hard as steel in my jeans. I’m too furious at her childish outburst. She’s better than that.

  “You have something you want to say, Daisy?” I growl, crossing my arms over my chest. I’m going to hear her out, but I won’t be a pushover.

  She follows me in, closing the door behind her and plopping into the chair in front of my desk with a sigh. “I’m sorry for what I said in the classroom. I was just frustrated—am frustrated—with my grades. You counted off points even though the answers were correct.” Her voice is tight, the anger audible.

  “Correct, but not perfect. Maybe I am a bit harsh, but in this class, the final answer isn’t the only thing that’s important. The process is equally vital,” I reply, acting as if neither her eruption nor her apology phase me. Her eyes dart down to floor at the reprimand. “May I?” I ask, holding out my hand.

  She pulls the test from her bag and gives it to me, our hands br
ushing for the barest moment. A flash of lightning shoots through me at the touch of her soft skin, and I want more. Skin on skin, her bare body pressed underneath mine.

  Forcing my eyes to the paper, I say, “Like question fifteen. You didn’t give me the full answer I wanted.”

  “It was still the right answer,” she declares, eyes meeting mine and argumentative till the end.

  “Not exactly. I asked for three decimal places. You gave two.” She opens her mouth to interrupt, but I talk over her, giving her a hard look. “I could’ve taken off more points than I did. You have to be able to follow instructions explicitly.”

  I pause, letting my words sink in. I can see she’s beginning to get it, realizing that shortcuts and assumptions don’t pay off. The value is in the tedious repetition of the work, sometimes infinitesimal numbers making all the difference in the world to the result. “You’re trying to move on to the graduate level, right? You need to be better.”

  My words are a simple observation but weighted with expectation. One she can work to live up to or blow off and waste her potential.

  Her eyes widen, her cheeks flush, and I try to sway her decision. “I’m sure you’ve had math teachers fawn all over you in the past, or maybe they overlooked you, trusting that you’d catch on quickly. But they didn’t do you any favors, and now you’re simply being lazy instead of fighting for the education you’re capable of.”

  She’s speechless and not sure how to reply at first. “What if I don’t know what I’m capable of?” she asks quietly, biting her lip. I’m not sure we’re talking about her math test anymore, but I do my damnedest to stay on track, even as my mind races away with thoughts of showing her what her sweet pussy can do.

  I lean down, silently demanding her attention on me. “You are capable of exceptional work, Miss Phillips. This,” I say, laying the test paper in her lap and fighting the urge to brush the back of my hand along her thigh, “is lazy work.”

  She looks down at the paper, then at me, fire in her brown eyes, “Are you this nitpicky with everyone, or do you have a problem with me?”

  I shrug, disappointed that she heard the criticism more than the compliment because I don’t hand those out often. “Everyone knows I’m a cocky son of a bitch and that my class is hard.”

  She glances down at my cock as I mention hard and swallows. “It is . . . hard,” she murmurs, talking to my crotch. I can see her pulse racing in her neck as her chest lifts with her panting breath. Stuttering, she lifts her eyes, blinking away the thrall. “Your class . . . I mean, your class is hard.”

  She’s flustered, but I’m stuck wondering exactly what she’s thinking. I can guess the basic idea. I know when a woman wants me, but I’m desperate to know Daisy’s desires—what little things turn her on, what secret spots she likes kissed, what she sounds like when she comes.

  Not able to stand the pain building in my groin, I adjust myself, intentionally cupping my thick length. My voice is deeper, so gravel-filled it’s almost a groan. “It is hard, but I think you can handle it. Isn’t that right, Daisy? Can you handle my . . . class?”

  She lets out a little squeaky noise then gawks at me, her innocence obvious and her desire apparent. There’s a moment of anticipation where I don’t know what she’s going to do, the seconds ticking by like time has slowed. And then she grabs her bag, flipping her hair and virtually running from my office, her test paper fluttering to the ground.

  Fuck. I pushed too far. Way too fucking far, especially considering she’s my student and so far off limits. I shouldn’t fantasize about her, but I do. Already rock-hard and so close to blowing, I rip open my jeans. It barely takes a brush of my hand, imagining it’s Daisy’s softness, before I’m coming, her test paper crumpled in my hand. I know it’s wrong, but fuck, it feels so right.

  Daisy

  “Hey there, chickee. You want to go to the Alpha Rho party?” Arianna asks, hanging out in our shared dorm common room. She’s already made up her mind, it appears, effortlessly finding that perfect balance between cute and sexy in her short shorts and clingy tank top.

  Any other Friday night, I might be interested. But after my last test and the confrontation Professor Daniels and I had in his office, partying with some frat guys is the last thing on my mind.

  Once my head had cleared a bit from the sexy fog I’d been in, I’d replayed the whole scene over and over in my mind and one thing stuck out. Well, okay, more than one thing, but those things heat my pussy. The thing that warms my heart is that he said I’m capable of exceptional work. And I’m going to prove him right, no matter how much work it takes. “No, thanks. I’m gonna hit the books hard this weekend.”

  “Oh, come on. Are you still worried about that B?” she asks, shaking her head. “You know what you need, don’t you? You’ve got your head so wrapped up about Mr. Daniels and his six-inch red pen, the only cure is Todd Smith and his eight-inch . . .”

  She doesn’t finish, just winks at me and waggles her eyebrows.

  “Who’s Todd Smith?” I ask, rolling my eyes. If she only knew. I’ve been dreaming about a lot more than Connor Daniels’s red pen . . . and I’d swear in court that he’s every bit of eight inches himself. At least.

  “No one. I just made him up. The point is, you need some dick, girl. I’m not saying to go get your cherry popped, but a little action would set you straight. Trust me, I know.”

  “I bet you do,” I reply, chuckling. Actually, I don’t. Ari’s a total mystery when it comes to her sex life. On one hand, she talks like she’s slept her way down fraternity row. On the other . . . I’ve never really seen her with a guy. “But seriously, about the party . . . I’m just not in the mood. Mad at me?”

  “No, chica,” Arianna says, leaning over and patting me on the cheek. “But seriously, don’t hit the books too hard, okay? You’ve been a ball of nerves for days. You need to relax.”

  “Be home by midnight,” I joke as Arianna grabs her purse, heading out the door. “And I’ll try!”

  She gives me a serious look then smiles, closing the door behind her. I go back to studying, but the more I try to focus on equations, the more my mind swirls and the problems on the page simply don’t make sense.

  I’m hours into this, frazzled and questioning myself on even the easiest of steps, something I usually know backward and forward and all around. I’m at that threshold where stupid things start to sound like brilliance. That’s my only excuse for what I do next.

  I log in to the university site on my laptop, clicking around until I get to Professor Daniels’s online help portal. I’m planning to send him an email asking for help, timestamped with the Friday night hour, of course, to show just how dedicated I am. But when I enter the private math area, I can see that Professor Daniels is online too.

  I stare at the little green dot beside his name for several long seconds, debating with myself on whether I should click it and initiate a chat. After our last private conversation, where I basically ran away like the fucking blushing virgin that I embarrassingly am, I don’t know if I trust myself not to come out of this looking like a fool. I’ve replayed that interaction over and over in my mind, looking for any details I might have missed. He definitely busted me looking hungrily at his cock, and though I was horrified at first, I swear he was flirting with me. It wasn’t so much his words, casually commenting about how hard his class was. It was his tone, turning the seemingly innocuous words into something filthy while he adjusted, no, cupped himself. In hindsight, I wish I’d been vixen enough to flirt back, maybe tell him that I could definitely handle his ‘class’, but no, I ran. Literally ran.

  Biting my lip, I resituate my tits in my tank top, making them look their best, admitting to myself that I want to appear sexy for this man, to make him forget my earlier actions, both the bratty whining about my grade and the freakout. And before I can second-guess myself further, I click his name.

  There’s a moment of pause, digital beeps filling the quiet of my dorm room, and my
heart races with anticipation. And then, there he is, his face filling my screen. It looks like he’s at home, in an office, judging by the bookshelves behind him, and he’s wearing a plain blue T-shirt that makes his eyes pop. And he’s smirking big time, arrogant bastard that he is.

  “Miss Phillips. Working hard on a Friday night, I see.” It’s exactly what I wanted him to think, that I’m a diligent, hard-working student willing to do whatever it takes to get the grades I want. It’s true, but still, I want him to know that.

  But suddenly, I feel rather pathetic, like I should be out with friends, and instead, I’m alone with my math book like a nerd. It brings back painful memories from high school, where nerdy girls with glasses who geek out about mathematical knot theory don’t exactly get the hot guys’ attention. I blush but force myself to speak. “Yes, sir. I’m working on the homework from today. I plan to spend the weekend really hitting the books.”

  “I’m glad to hear it, Daisy,” he says softly, nodding.

  Before I can stop the words, they fly from my mouth, “Did you mean it? What you said in your office?”

  His relaxed posture disappears, instantly replaced with tension as he leans forward to the camera. “Did I mean what, exactly?”

  He had said several things to me, so I get his confusion, and while maybe I would’ve asked about his innuendo when I began this call, right now, I ask what I really want to know, needing the reassurance. “Do you think I’m capable of exceptional work?” I ask quietly.

  His lips thin, and I think for a second that he’s disappointed with my answer, but then he speaks. “Daisy, I have had many students over the last few years. Most drudge through my class just to get the credit they need, while others have sparks of intelligence, typically math majors who really enjoy the class, who will likely go on to teach themselves or work in the private sector. Rarely, I see students who have a gift, for whom the numbers and theories come to life and who are able to manipulate the process in such a way that they create new methodologies. I was that type of student.” His grin is all arrogance.