In Too Deep
CONTENTS
2. Time Out with Professor Hottie
13. Lessons with Professor Hottie
About the Book
Every morning, librarian Gwendolyne Price, begins to find indecent proposals and sexy stories in her suggestion box. Shocked that they seem to be tailored specifically to her own deepest sexual fantasies, she begins a tantalising relationship with a man she’s never met.
But pretty soon, erotic letters and toe-curlingly sensual emails just aren’t enough. She has to meet her mysterious correspondent in the flesh.
About the Author
Best known for her many sizzling, sensual tales for Black Lace Books, Portia Da Costa has over thirty novels and novellas to her credit and over a hundred short stories, written under a variety of pseudonyms.
Portia loves creating sexy, likeable people and putting them in steamy situations, and has penned historical, paranormal and even futuristic stories, in addition to her acclaimed contemporary novels.
She lives in the heart of West Yorkshire with her husband and Alice, their beloved cat. When she’s not busy writing, Portia can be found reading, watching TV and movies, or hanging out on Twitter, and elsewhere, online. She was formerly a librarian and has also worked in local government.
Find out more about Portia at
www.portiadacosta.com
and follow her at
@PortiaDaCosta
Also by Portia Da Costa
Continuum
Entertaining Mr Stone
Gemini Heat
Gothic Heat
Hotbed
Kiss it Better
Lust Bites
Magic and Desire
Shadowplay
Suite Seventeen
The Devil Inside
The Stranger The Tutor
In Too Deep
Portia Da Costa
For my travelling companions, Valerie and Madelynne
1 You’ve Got Mail
I HARDLY DARE
look again. But if I don’t look, I must be imagining things, and I’m not sure I want to admit to imagining
this
.
It’s slightly scary. And it makes me want to giggle. In about equal measures.
For the third time since I fished it out of the library’s old-fashioned suggestion box, I flip open the eggshell-blue envelope and unfold the four sheets of heavy, high-quality paper inside it. The words written on them, evenly spaced in navy ink, are inscribed in an elegant, almost copperplate hand.
I blush, and it’s as if my mind fills with a silent, thrilling voice. My heart beats hard and I get this stupid urge to press my hand to my chest, as if that could slow it.
It’s an effort to sit still, but I manage to, even though I’m still in danger of sniggering.
I’ve been watching you, Ms Gwendolynne Price, did you know that?
Every day I observe you in the library. Every day I want to reach out and touch you. Every day I wrestle with my urges … You pass me by and I want to grab you by the arm, drag you behind one of the book stacks and do unspeakable things to you. I want to slide my hands beneath your skirt and fondle you until you moan with pleasure. I want to bare exquisite expanses of your creamy skin right here in the public lending library, inches from those peasants who meander unaware around your domain. I’d like to unveil your sumptuous curves and kiss and
caress
you with my tongue until you’re in such a state that you can’t keep still. I want to suck your delicious clitoris until you whimper and buck and come. Come for me
.
Don’t be afraid, my lovely Gwendolynne. I mean you no harm … I just want a taste of you. Or a touch
.
Would that I could worship you chastely from afar, like some courtly knight pining in purity for his lady. I wish to God I could write romantic poetry, cataloguing your sweetness, describing every last facet of your smile and your grace, and outlining the way I long to kneel at your feet and then kiss your very footsteps as you walk away from me
.
But it’s no good, my darling. That’s just not enough for me. I can’t confine myself to the pure and high-minded. I’m too much of an animal, my dearest. A horny, uncontrollable beast. The sight of your curves gives me an enormous hard-on. The desire to fuck you senseless rules me. My cock turns to iron as you pass me by. I ache as I hear the way your skirt swishes around your thighs, and I almost wish that I could be that simple length of cloth myself. So that I could be close to your delicious cunt and drown in its fragrance and its taste
.
I can’t stop obsessing about what lies between your legs. The lush grove of your sex and its intimate pink geography. I’d love to spread you wide and stare at you for hours, caressing you with my eyes, savouring what naked vulnerability and exposure would do to you
.
My fantasies about you plague my every waking hour. They screw up my work, but I don’t care. My only comfort is imagining that similar fantasies might obsess you too. I dream about you dreaming about my cock. Picturing it and speculating about it, imagining how it would feel in your hand, or your cunt
.
And it’s not such a bad one, dearest Gwendolynne, as cocks go. In fact when I’m thinking about you, it can get pretty spectacular. It rises in tribute to your luscious, sensational beauty
and
the promise of exploring every last inch of that beauty, plunging into it as we roll around on the Reference Library floor, half-naked and fucking like a pair of desperados
.
And yes, my glorious, erotic Queen of the Library, it won’t surprise you that I’ve been masturbating like a maniac lately, thinking of you. I’ve been working and working away at my cock while I dream of what I’d like to do to you with it
…
I keep seeing images of you in lingerie. Little scraps of barely anything at all that reveal more than they conceal
.
Do you like silk and lace, dearest Gwendolynne, or are you a plain white serviceable cotton type of girl? I could devour you in either, or in nothing at all, but you know what we lustful, raving perverts are like. We fritter away hours of our lives speculating on what kind of bra and panties the women we long for wear
.
In my imagination you’re wearing high-end underwear today. Delightful skimpy wisps that embrace your glorious breasts and bottom like a second skin … Little bits of frippery that enjoy intimate body privileges that I can only dream about
.
I see you in scarlet. Not any plain old red but a deep, rich, singing colour, the colour of a fine vintage wine or a rare and precious ruby. And there’s white lace too. A piquant edge of innocence that only makes the red silk look more sinful. More decadent. More like the sort of thing a high-class hooker would wear
.
Yesterday, in the library, you were wearing a pretty navy-blue shirt and a trim denim skirt that showed off your sumptuous arse to perfection. But in my mind you were dressed as a thousand-pound-a-night call girl underneath all that
.
I loved your breasts in that shirt. In fact, I adore your breasts, full stop. They’re rounded, abundant and magnificent. Worthy of the goddess of love herself. You’re Aphrodite to me, you know that, don’t you, Gwendolynne? And your splendid breasts
command
me to worship them in the most exquisite detail with my eyes and my fingers. Here in the sanctum of my imagination, they’re a feast for my greedy, famished senses. They’re high and pointed, a pair of delicious handfuls, a joy to behold. And the silky skin of their upper curves, above that teasing edge of lace, is as sweet and soft and mellow as milk and honey on my tongue
.
Do you touch your own breasts, Gwendolynne? I’d love to know
…
Why don’t you touch them now, as you read? Slyly and sweetly … No one need see you do it, but I’d know, oh, I’d know … I’d see an exquisite, embarrassed flush on your lovely face, and I’d know you were blushing for me, and me alone. That you were touching yourself because
I
wanted you to … and to please
me.
That’s it, unbutton your blouse, slide your fingers inside, and run the tips of them across the lush curve, and around the nipple where it’s hard beneath your bra. Do it! Do it now! Nobody will be able to see you if you pretend to reach down and get something out of the drawer in the desk
.
It’ll just be our private sex act, the first gambit in our game
.
And later, at night and in privacy, you’ll do it again, thinking of me as you roll the tip of your finger around the tip of your breast. Round and round, round and round, light as a feather. And when that excites you too much, perhaps you could gently pinch yourself? Punish yourself for teasing me by taking that dark juicy berry of a nipple and tweaking it this way and that while you begin to squirm where you sit, wet and turned on?
Do you enjoy a little pain with your pleasure, Gwendolynne? I think everyone should, at least once in their life. Not too much … I’m not a brute or a sadist … But it’s a delicious, sophisticated spice on the sexual menu and you strike me as
a
woman whose appetites are voracious once they’re whetted. I think you have the imagination to sample just about anything, don’t you, my darling goddess?
I’m only guessing, but I’m not often wrong
.
And you, you’re a woman who’s brave and bold and ready for adventure. A woman who’s primed for pleasure and the chase
.
Am I right? I think I am
…
Anyway, back to your breasts, your beautiful breasts
…
Now, I see you lying on satin sheets, your magnificent body framed in the luxury it deserves. I suppose satin sheets are a bit of a cliché, really, but who cares? They’re the stuff of a million classic wank fantasies, not just mine. But perhaps your sheets are white rather than black? Mm … that works for me
.
‘
Nights in white satin’, eh, my delightful one? What I wouldn’t give for some of those … Long, dark, scented nights in which to gorge myself again and again on the abundant pleasures of your body … Well, that would be my paradise. My ultimate wish … will it ever happen?
You lie there, a study in scarlet and white, creamy, honeyed skin and long, wild, tawny hair. No plaits tonight, sublime Gwendolynne. Your beautiful hair is another aspect of you that’s almost become a fetish to me … Would you be disgusted and repelled if I said I’d like to come in it? I imagine myself kneeling over you, your naked and rampant supplicant, and then folding the wild silky waves of your hair around my penis and caressing myself with it until I climax
.
Oh, Gwendolynne, I’m hard as a rod of iron simply thinking about it!
And I think I’m going to do something about it. Right now
.
Adieu, my glorious Queen of the Library, adieu … Perhaps you could write me a little email to say you forgive me for being such a disgusting deviant? Or perhaps you could tell me one of
your
fantasies? And then I’d know that you’re just as deviant as I am
…
Yours, in body and soul, especially in hard, aching body
…
Nemesis
Nemesis? Oh, please … The man’s a raving pervert, fond of purple prose and probably dangerous … and he calls himself ‘Nemesis’? It sounds like something a teenage gamer would call himself when playing online.
And yet, all the same, the note and even just the stupid word itself induce a shivery frisson. I imagine a tall dark figure, very mysterious, maybe masked even, maybe wearing leather, looming over me. Someone strong and hard and sexy, who makes me kneel and kiss his boots … then kiss his cock.
I shake my head and it dawns on me that for the last few minutes I’ve been completely out of it, lost in Nemesis-land. And the worst of it is, I’m actually doing what he told me to. Well, not quite, but not far off. I’m touching my ribcage, just beneath my breast, through my cotton top.
Snatching my hand away, I make a big deal of folding the letter carefully and shoving it in the pocket of my skirt. And that makes me feel a bit turned on too, thinking of what he said about my skirt.
In a weird way, the letter
is
Nemesis and, in my pocket, he’s nestling dangerously close to my pussy, just like he said. There are only a couple of layers of cotton between it and him.