Her Dirty Professor Series (21+)

As I turned from little girl to young woman, my fear became awe. He came back for only a short time after prison, but it was enough to cement within me a belly-twisting crush that paraded through my dreams ever since.

He had the kind of face that told you life had not been easy. But for all the fraught furrows of his brow and darkness in his eyes, he was beautiful in his mysterious and brooding way.

He went away for many years, paying some price-for what, I do not know. I am not naive about the business of the Sabato family. Drugs, guns, gambling, and loan sharks and who knows what else.

It is what took him away to the walls of prison, then drove him north to never return even as our family flailed and faltered, needing his strength and guidance. The business is also what killed my mother and my stepfather, and I will never follow in the footsteps of those Sabatos who came before me.

Thankfully, my grandfather did his time and changed his ways. That is why he retreated here to the north, staying far away from the life of crime that sent him into exile. He learned his lesson and for that, I love him even more.

I do miss Chicago. The art, the shopping, having friends, being around civilization. But there are perks here as well. I love our reindeer.

The slower pace of life.

Time to read as many books as I want and a library that rivals the one from Beauty and the Beast.

Then, there’s the zero-crime rate even in Carriage Town, the biggest city within a thousand miles. It’s quaint and lost in time with its clock tower and horse-drawn sleigh rides.

And then there’s being with Papa. Every. Single. Day.

His hair has drifted toward silver these last years from the dark sky and silver moon colors of my childhood, but the contrast with the deeper lines on his face and the magnificence of his icy blue eyes only makes him more appealing.

Why is it that men grow sexier and more attractive as they age? It’s unfair, but none of that seems to matter to my feminine places. They all react to him with heaving breaths and tightening strings that feel ready to snap at the slightest pressure.

How many times have I imagined the weight of his hard-muscled body bearing down on me? Forcing itself between my thighs as his manhood invades my untouched wetness?

As frustrated tears mix with the hot water, I work my fingers between my folds, begging for relief but to no avail.

I finish rinsing my hair, then squirt the conditioner Papa orders special for us into my palm and work it through before turning the streaming water to the coldest setting. I take the shocking pain down into my core, hoping it will freeze away all the wrong inside me and leave me weary enough to dampen my desires for at least a few hours.

Once I’m rinsed and chilled down to my marrow, I twist the chrome handle until the water stops, letting it drip from my goosebump-covered body. I run my hands down the ripples of my ribs, resting them on the points of my hips, which are more accentuated in the last months as I struggle with every bite of food, the ever-present voice in my head telling me every great dancer must be flawless.

Not just thin, but impeccable. Every instructor and dance teacher since I started ballet at five years old has shamed me for my love of food; and somewhere along the line, I turned every morsel into an enemy. Food became my nemesis and a function only to keep me fueled enough to push through another practice. Another day.

I reach for the fluffy white towel sitting on the antique table with the Carrera marble top that matches the counters, floor and shower walls and swipe it down my chest and arms, then squeeze the water from my hair. My skin warms, anticipating the reaction my body will have when Lucy and I enter the dining room for lunch where Grandpa will inevitably be poised in his place at the head of the table. More than likely dressed in a white T-shirt and jeans, or a black suit, white shirt and red tie.

He’s a contrast in his sharpness and flickers of softness. He’s pulled away from me more and more this last year, almost in diametric opposition to my growing attraction to him.

“Carina!” Lucy’s voice cuts through the remaining steam in the mammoth en-suite bathroom as I wrap the white terrycloth towel around my body, then flip my wet hair over my head and spin another towel around, securing it in place. “You have five minutes to get dressed or we will be late to lunch. Grandpa does not take kindly to lateness.”

She pokes her head through the opening in the heavy wooden door.Text © by N0ve/lDrama.Org.

“For fuck sake!” I hunch up, imagining her walking in here when I was touching myself. “Privacy? Heard of it?”

She shrugs. “I’ve heard of Santa Claus and flying reindeer too. Doesn’t mean they exist.”

I roll my eyes. She’s almost as impatient as Leonardo, my pet reindeer when it’s dinner time.

I grab the lotion from the counter and start rubbing it down my arms as I think of the first night we were here after our parents were gunned down by a rival family over a disputed delivery of God only knows what. I was immediately obsessed with the giant red barn and the enormous fuzzy animals that occupied the pastures around it.

Grandpa gave us both rules when we arrived and one of them was never to go to the barn alone and never into the reindeer pens or pastures. He said they were dangerous and unpredictable. They were wild animals and needed an experienced adult to handle them.

But, I was a sad young woman and my curiosity drew me out into the starlight of that July night toward the mysterious creatures with the giant antlers that surely helped Santa deliver all the gifts I had received under the tree.

I stole away with some carrots from the kitchen in my night dress and bare feet. Even in July, the night air was cool and the wet grass soon turned my toes frosty.

As I worked to unlatch the gate, the herd turned my way, snorts and stomping of hooves wrapped around the quiet of the night as stepped into the paddock holding out my hand with the orange offerings, mud squishing between my toes. “Hi, my name is-”

I didn’t get my name out before the herd spun, twisting and darting this way and that, coming closer, closer, sniffing and pawing at the ground until they were whipping around me as I hugged myself. The damp scent of fur and dirt spun in the air. I wondered if Lucy would find me the next morning trampled into the dirt on my first night in my strange new home with my grandfather that made my belly feel funny.

I fell to the ground, cowering with a sob when a warmth came over me. The noise around me became muffled. Coarse fur brushed my forehead then a stern snort from above forced my eyes open.

Looking up with all the bravery I could muster, there I saw the biggest of the reindeer standing like a bridge over me. Two thick front legs caged my shoulders, his head bowed with steam snorting from his flaring nostrils, driving the rest of the herd back into the far reaches of the paddock.

That reindeer stood guard over me until Papa came looking hours later, the sun just peeking over the horizon.

“That’s Leonardo. He’s the herd leader. And your protector from the looks of it.”

Papa had given me a stern talking to that night, along with a cup of hot chocolate before tucking me into bed and muttering something about upgrading the security system.

From that day forward, Leonardo has been my best friend. Outside of Lucy, of course.

“Carinaaaaa,” Lucy sings my name, still looking at me impatiently while I stand in front of her in towels.

“God damn,” I say with a grimace, “I’m coming. I’ll just throw on my jeans and be right there. Fuck.”

“Stop swearing, trash mouth. No shirt?” She gives me a considering squint. “Gonna be a lively lunch. Let’sgo!” She claps twice, then disappears back into my bedroom as I drop the towel and struggle to stuff my damp legs into the denim, not bothering with underwear. “What do you want for Christmas this year, the girl with an unlimited Black Amex asked of her sister with the same?”

“Donuts and flying lessons,” I call toward the open door. “Same as last year.”

“Grandpa will buy you all the donuts in Canada if you just ask him. But, are you going to eat them?”

“Maybe. If I get a tapeworm.”

She chuckles, but it’s not funny and we both know it.

“Well, the flying lessons you know are a no-go. He would never let you go that far away from here and flying is dangerous. You’ve been asking for flying lessons every year since we got here and it’s a big ole nope from Papa.”

I sigh and a lump lodges in my throat as I tug on my white thermal shirt dotted with red snowflakes. I gave up bras six months ago. My chest is barely there, but still, as I think of the stoic man that will be sitting at the head of the table, my nipples tighten, pushing through the fabric.

My sister is right on both counts as far as the donuts and flying lessons.

The donuts, I’d never eat, but I wish I could.

And the flying, that’s been my stretch life goal since we flew here three years ago over the icy mountains and landed with a bump and a splash as Lucy covered her eyes and I watched out the tiny airplane window with wide eyed wonder.

When we switched from the big commercial jet to the little bush plane, it was a woman who took the seat behind the wheel, looking like a female version of Indiana Jones in her worn bomber jacket and faded jeans. She landed that buzzy little plane on the mirror surface of Lake Harpon, the lake which is encircled by my grandfather’s property; and from that moment forward, I wanted to be like her.

Papa has since built a landing strip on the other side of the lake in case we need emergency flight service for sickness or whatever. At least that’s what he said.

I tug at the hem of my shirt, pulling my shoulders back. I have the chest of a twelve-year-old girl, which is great for ballet, but not great for dangling my forbidden fruit in front of my grandfather in an attempt to garner a lusty second glance.

Not that I would know what to do if he did. I mean, in theory I do, I’ve read enough smut to turn my brain as sooty as a chimney.

It’s more a game of sorts. There’s no possibility in this world or any other that he would desire me the way I do him, but it hasn’t stopped me from a dangerous game of teasing and toying with the man who saved my sister and me from the life of madness and crime that is at the very core of our family legacy.

That legacy took my mother from me, and my stepfather, such as they were. They were loving toward us in their way, but not to each other. They were distant and engulfed in the power struggle of an all-consuming life of violence and chasing down dirty fortunes.

“Comeon,” Lucy calls while I curl my toes on the cool marble floor, swiping the heel of my palm over the steamy mirror, taking in my blushed face and wet hair.

I have my mother’s strange golden-brown eyes and my father’s burnt copper hair. My face is more square than oblong and my cheeks still rival those of any chubby infant. I’ve never been conventionally beautiful like Lucy, but up here in no-man’s-land, there’re no girl cliques or peer groups to set any sort of standard.

I unscrew the cap on the gold and white glass jar on the sterling silver tray between my double sinks and dip my finger into the silky French cream, lathering it onto my face, thankful that my teenage acne has quit being so dramatic.

“I’m starving,” Lucy says. “And you better eat. I don’t want to sit there and watch Grandpa have an aneurysm watching you poke at your food and not take a bite.”

I step out of the bathroom as she stabs her index finger my way. “He doesn’t notice,” I say, running my tongue along my teeth, thinking I should brush them again before lunch, then rustle my hair into loose wet waves with my fingers.

“The hell he doesn’t.” She bounces on the edge of my bed, wearing a red leather jacket, white t-shirt and black wide-leg slacks with combat boots and a pair of red headphones around her neck.