The Revenge of Jarrett Jones

By Lyla Sinclair

Katherine Hardin can’t believe she’s just agreed to give a man control over her—three wishes, any time, any place of his choosing. After all, she’s a prominent professor at Edward J. Kumm University.

But just after her fortieth birthday, she was blindsided by sudden, thigh-clenching lust for a 22-year-old senior whose bold stares said he saw her as more than his professor. To cover her desire, Katherine grilled him with questions all semester in front of the class. Now Jarrett Jones has appeared, demanding she make amends, and she can’t resist fulfilling her fantasies of him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyla Sinclair
• Release date: Feb 22, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386583936

Lyla Sinclair

Lyla loves to be alone at sunset, dreaming up new erotic encounters to satisfy her readers' cravings. But most of the day, she can be found lying on the beach, surrounded by nubile young bodies, all of whom are at her beck and call. Eyes closed, sun warming her scantily clad body, she dictates her most lurid fantasies to one of her young sex-slaves as she’s massaged, manicured and lulled to sleep by a nude Spanish guitarist. These catnaps are important, since her nights are spent gorging herself on young men and chocolate (though she never, ever gains weight).

Book preview

Chapter One

I felt a stab of guilt that night in my office as I typed the final semester grades into the Professors Only section of the Edward J. Kumm University website. In the past, I’d always been known as a fair teacher who treated her students with respect. And though our small university doesn’t have the name recognition of Stanford or MIT, within the worlds of communications and the arts we have a stellar reputation.

I’ve always tried to live up to this tradition and conduct myself with the utmost decorum. Or, at least, I did...

...until he appeared.

I never saw it coming, but, just after my fortieth birthday, a new semester started, and something happened to me that had never happened in nearly twenty years of teaching.

As usual, I walked into my journalism ethics class and wrote my name and the course title on the board for those soon-to-be-embarrassed freshmen who’d stumbled into the wrong room. Turning back toward my desk, I pulled out the folder containing the semester syllabi then looked up to glimpse the room full of young minds I was expected to mold this time around. But as I did, I saw something that sent a surge through my entire body to the point of dampening my panties, which were nestled safely inside my pantyhose, thank goodness.

He was sitting in the front row, apparently for the legroom, since he had one long appendage stretched halfway to my desk. Unlike some of the other students who looked nervous about starting a new semester with a new professor, he seemed completely at ease in his distressed jeans and a t-shirt that stretched over a slim, yet broad-shouldered, body. He gave me a sidelong glance of appraisal, but it didn’t feel like he was sizing up the new professor. He looked me up and down as obviously as a man on the prowl in a pick-up bar.

When our eyes met, I braced myself on the desk. They were deep blue, framed in long black eyelashes, but they didn’t have the guileless innocence that some blue eyes held. They thoroughly invaded my body, boring through me until I was afraid they could see my heart thundering in my chest and my blood rampaging through my veins.

This was new.

Although I’d nearly always liked my students, I’d never seen them as anything but my students. They weren’t my friends and they certainly weren’t objects of lust.

I sucked in a deep breath, then, somehow, managed to pass out the syllabi and go through my usual first-day monologue. But my eyes flitted back to his, over and over again, as though they were no longer under my control.

Each time it happened, I found him staring confidently into my face, a slight enigmatic grin driving me to distraction as I wondered what he could be thinking. I finished as quickly as possible, told the students to use the rest of the class time to buy their books and dismissed them.

Without looking up, I grabbed my papers and files, shoved them into my briefcase and headed out the side door, completely disturbed by my newfound lechery. But as soon as I got back to my office, I couldn’t resist taking out the First-Day Questionnaires. I knew his name from roll call—Jarrett Jones. Nice alliteration.

I shuffled through until I found his form. It contained all the basic contact information, which was written in casual, neat manuscript. I saw that he was a graduating senior, but I needed to know something more about him.

My eyes scrolled down to the question, Why did you enroll in this class?

The typical response was, Because it’s required for my major, or Because I heard you were a good professor. However, Jarrett had gone a different way. I had to read it three times before I could believe it.

Because I’d heard Miss Katherine Hardin could make even Journalism Ethics seem hot.

What did that mean? Was it just that I made my class as interesting as possible? Or did I actually have a reputation on campus for being hot?

That was hard to imagine after what I’d been through over the past two years. The divorce had stolen so much of my self-confidence that I’d felt the farthest thing from hot. Of course, for propriety’s sake, I’d still made sure I dressed well, got my shoulder-length brown hair cut regularly, put