Smut University (Smut University #1) Read online

  Contents

  SMUT U Title Page

  Legal Stuff

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  More SMUT University is Coming SOON!

  About the Author

  Also by Kahlen Aymes

  Best Romance of 2017! The Trading Yesterday Series

  After Dark: Your NEXT BILLIONAIRE OBSESSION!

  The FAMOUS NOVEL SERIES

  Connect with Kahlen

  Upcoming Titles by Kahlen

  Sample Chapter ~ EMBODY by SE Hall

  By

  Kahlen Aymes

  Legal Stuff

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is purely coincidental.

  SMUT UNIVERSITY Copyright © 2019 Kahlen Aymes

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book, or portions thereof, in any form. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, screenshot, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical without the express written permission of the author or publisher. Scanning, uploading to, downloading from, and/or distribution of this book via the Internet/email or via any other means without permission of the author/publisher are prohibited, illegal, and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic or print editions and do not participate or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Piracy is not a victimless crime.

  ISBN (ebook): 978-0999671320

  Cover created by HM Kahler

  Photo Credit: Depositphotos: 176126816

  Acknowledgments

  First, thank you to all of my readers; I have some who are brand new, and some who have been with me since day one even before publishing. Without you, I would have no reason to write a single word! I love and cherish you all! You are my inspiration!

  Sincere thanks to Stacy Hahn, Jaimé Billiam, Maria Alexander, Joanne Griffiths, Julie Kirby, Sandra De Gouveia, Sara Garrett, Justine Jane, Theresa Natole, Diane Wilson, Yulanda Bolton, Meredith Wojciechowski, and Anna Murra for lifting me up when I badly needed support. You made me cry with your outpouring of love and support. I love you, all.

  To all 175 of my Angels, I cherish you and always will. If you never read another one of my books, I will hold you close in my heart, forever. You come from all over the world and I feel like we are family. XOXO

  Much love and gratitude to the many, many bloggers who help promote my work and love my books and characters. It means the world to me. I’ll never be able to express

  To the many authors who collaborate, help and support me, I owe you endless thanks. Especially from Indie Authors Anonymous, Alessandra Torre & her Inkers group, and the KU Romance Explosion authors. This is my tribe.

  Special thanks to Samantha Christy, Julie Richman, Michelle Dare, AD Justice, Gina Whitney, Jessika Klide, Isabelle Peterson, TK Leigh, Kathy Coopmans, SE Hall, Harloe Rae, M. Robinson, Lynn Jaxon, Tia Louise, & Kaylee Ryan. Each of you have helped me above and beyond normal kinship, and I am so grateful for your friendship.

  To my editors: Justine Tevis (also my PA), Diane Wilson, Karen Hrdlicka, and Donna Cooksley Sanderson: I couldn’t do this without you. It takes a tribe to write a book.

  Thank you also to Rachel Mizer & Samantha Paxton for their help on covers, even if it’s just telling me how to fix something.

  Thank you to Steven Himes at Telemachus Press for always being available and willing to help when I have a problem with files, covers, printing vendors and a plethora of other stuff. I truly value you.

  Thank you to Sandra De Gouveia for your amazing graphics and teasers. They are AHHHMAZING! You’ve become a dear, dear friend.

  To Olivia and my mom, Colleen: Thank you for being patient with me when my brain is buried in my WIP and I’m not always “there”. This has been a tough year for all of us, and I’m grateful for both of you.

  Words cannot express my love and gratitude for each and every one of you. I am truly blessed to have you all behind me.

  Love & Peace…

  ~Kahlen

  1

  “I hear the professor is to die for,” Michelle, my best friend and roommate uttered, looking around the lecture hall with wide blue eyes. She was beautiful in the traditional big-boobed, blonde-haired, pouty lips way with the sort of innocent vulnerability that men flocked to. “I wonder if he is still as handsome as those pictures that I found online. How he’s not married is beyond me.”

  I was opening a blank document on my laptop preparing for the notes I would type onto it throughout the next hour, while she took in the students around us who anxiously waited for the infamous professor to enter at the front of the room.

  I’d begged off sitting in the front few rows that she’d requested of me, insisting on sitting mid-way up and in the center of the big hall in the Corner Building of Columbia University. The room didn’t seem wide, but the rows of seats rose up several stories from the front of the room where a platform in front of a large digital screen had what looked like an old antique desk sitting off to one end.

  I rolled my eyes at Michelle’s over-the-top enthusiasm for the yet unseen man who would teach our class. I had to admit inwardly I was somewhat awe-struck, but not for the same reason as Michelle. She had a sort of hot-for-teacher fetish, and it helped if the professor was indeed, hot. I’d seen pictures of Jaxon Michaels on the internet and a few television interviews he’d done when he released his last couple of books. He did have a Ph.D. in English and Comparative Literature, but more than that, he was a New York Times bestselling novelist, who only moonlighted as a professor of Creative Writing at Columbia. No question, he was smoking.

  Glancing up to look around the room for the first time in the five minutes since we’d arrived, I notice the diversity of the people filling the seats around us. Many were laughing and chatting, but few had their heads buried in their computers, as I did.

  I leaned to my right to where my friend was seated, and I spoke softly. “Maybe he has a big brain and a teeny weeny,” I offered, a sly grin sliding across my face.

  My friend huffed and sat back in her seat, clearly offended that I’d even consider such an absurd possibility. “What?” Michelle scoffed indignantly. “Not likely.”

  I laughed out loud as glee filled me. I wasn’t sure why it made me so damn happy that she’d consider the possibility ridiculous. “How do you know? Do you think just because he teaches a class about writing love scenes, he’s automatically hung like a horse?”

  “Actually, it has crossed my mind,” she stated emphatically. “I mean, the man writes such hot sex, he had to have experienced it! He must have a treasure trove of techniques.”

  It was my turn to have intentionally wide eyes as my mouth flattened into a thin line and I shook my head. “Ever heard the saying ‘those that can, do, and those that can’t, teach?”

  “Buzzkill,” she muttered.

  “Maybe he reads a lot,” I added. “Good writers are voracious readers.”

  I was still grinning as I continued to yank Michelle’s chain. During the three previous years at Columbia most of my instructors and professors had been impressive, but it was fun to see Michelle squirm. She was probably right; the name of the course alone had the seats in this huge auditorium packed from the first row to the last, but unlike my horny friend, I was here to learn from a master.

  “Oh, my God! Professor Michaels is so sexy!” Another female student sitting behind us swooned loudly.

  “I know. If only we would have gotten here sooner, maybe we would be sitting closer to the stage.” The second woman was less obtrusive and her voice much less boisterous.

  Michelle nudged my arm with her elbow. “Are you listening to that? I told ya.”

  My head snapped around and I locked eyes with her. I couldn’t help rolling them again. “You’re kidding!” I admonished, using my pen to point to the front several rows of seats by the lectern that were full of eager young women. I imagined that classic scene from Indian Jones where the woman in the front row had “I love you” painted on her eyelids so that when she blinked the professor saw it. I also figured that if this man were as hot as everyone said, he’d have a similar reaction as Harrison Ford had in the movie.

  “He must get sick of all this unbridled and sophomoric adulation,” I observed dryly. “Unless he’s a narcissist.”

  “Oh, my God, Addy,” Michelle moaned. “Can’t you stop being such a smarty pants for five minutes? Do you even have a vagina? Why don’t you just hole up with your books while I get in a few private lessons?”

  “You think that you’re the only one with that idea, Michelle? Look around? The poor man probably has a sort of super-human resistance to the constant flow of estrogen flooding the air around him; either that, or he’s gay.”

  My friend’s mouth dropped open in horror as she considered my words.

  The bawdy woman behind me, who had obviously been listening to our conversation, leaned forward and stuck her face between mine and Michelle’s. “Um, no way, honey. The man ain’t gay.” Her eyebrows shot up and she shook her head. “Tr
ust me.” I shifted in my chair to get a good look at her. She was middle-aged and looked a bit out of place in the sea of twenty-something students, but maybe she was making a career change.

  Ain’t? my mind protested. And, this woman was in a 400-level writing course?

  “See?” Michelle looked at me, smugly. “Dr. Michaels is not gay.”

  “No, he’s definitely hetero,” the woman said empathically. “Mmmmm! Mmmmm! MMMMM! All man, that one!” She must have done some sort of clenching thing with her whole body because she made the air rush around me.

  Startled by the woman’s outburst, I glanced over my shoulder at her and her companion; a more delicate, deer-in-the-headlights looking woman sitting to her left.

  I bit my lip so I wouldn’t start giggling, though Michelle was openly smirking. I was about 300% certain there was absolutely no way this woman had carnal knowledge of our bestselling professor, and even had doubts that she was a serious student, but I decided to humor her anyway; just for shits and giggles. Maybe she was a Jaxon Michael’s groupie.

  Even my hormone-filled friend was taken aback and was having trouble holding in her amusement.

  “Wow,” I said, drolly. “I guess I should have brought an extra pair of panties to shimmy into halfway through this class.”

  The timid younger woman sitting next to the more obnoxious one, piped up softly. “If they last that long. He’s a real panty-melter.”

  I was surprised to hear this from her, considering her demeanor. “If only his name were Professor Melter, then, huh?” I challenged, the dimple in my cheek deepening when my mouth slid into a grin.

  The first woman looked as if she’d suddenly seen the face of God or discovered the cure for cancer. “Ya know what? I’m gonna start calling him Professor Panty-Melter instead of Dr. Michaels! That’s genius!”

  I forcibly stopped myself from laughing and concentrated on the screen of my laptop, noting the time in the upper right-hand corner of the screen, silently praying for the class to start so this asinine conversation could end.

  “Yeah, I’m sure he’ll be very receptive,” I added dryly, under my breath. Clearly, this woman wasn’t here for the class, but rather, the handsome author teaching it. “I’ll concede he is handsome, but these scholarly types can be boorish and stiff.” Not that my limited experience afforded me any sort of insight, I silently acknowledged. Still, all of this talk of Dr. Sexy had me curious if the man would live up to the fantasy.

  “Stiff works for me,” Michelle added, grinning, and playing along.

  “I know, right?” The woman behind me swiped a hand through the air in front of her and snorted out a laugh.

  “Hi, I’m Michelle Monroe and this is my roommate, Addison Tomms.”

  “Glad to meet you,” the more extroverted of the two said. “I’m Brandy Dickenson, and this mousy little thing is Cheryl Simms.”

  I threw her a dirty look from the corner of my eye, sure the two behind us couldn’t see me. My eyes widened as if to ask Michelle why the hell she was encouraging her?

  Michelle was twisted in her seat to engage in a full-on conversation with the two of them, but at the larger woman’s hurtful comment, I shifted to look at Cheryl who was hunched in her seat with downcast eyes. I felt bad for her and it wasn’t as if Brandy, her so-called friend, was any kind of catch herself.

  “Are you majoring in creative writing?” I asked, making sure Brandy could see I was speaking directly to Cheryl.

  “Journalism,” the girl answered meekly. “I’m mainly taking this class because Brandy asked me to.”

  “Well, at least this should be interesting,” I said.

  Several guys three rows in front of us were joking about the content of the course, huddled in a group surrounding the one who had the open syllabus on his computer and, in general, acting like a bunch of complete morons. Uttering words like pussy and cock, then bursting out laughing as a collaborative; clearly amused with themselves.

  One of them caught my eye and lifted his chin in a suggestive nod. He was standing behind the group, his eyes roaming over my face and lowering to my breasts. He was boyishly attractive, but I could only assume from his behavior mirroring that of his friends that mentally, he was twelve.

  “Please make it stop,” I moaned, breaking eye contact, then rubbed the crease between my brows with two fingers of my right hand. I settled back in my chair and got ready to take notes. It was almost time for the class to begin and I could only hope these idiots would cool it once the professor started speaking.

  I felt a light touch on my shoulder and moved my head a half-turn in response to Cheryl’s summons. “Yes?”

  “What about you? Is your major creative writing?”

  “Uh huh,” I affirmed. “If all goes well, I plan on publishing my own novel someday.”

  “Oh, wow! Romance?” Brandy piped up and I nodded. “You might get a lot of office time with the professor, then. I hear Dr. Hottie gives extra help to aspiring novelists.”

  I was hoping to get him to take a pass at the first draft, I admitted to myself. At least, a couple of chapters, before the semester was over.

  “It’s a wonder you aren’t at least attempting to write one, then,” Michelle told Brandy. “Obviously, you’re taking the course for the eye candy. Right?”

  “You’re one to talk,” I said, sliding Michelle a knowing glance. She didn’t know but I had already started writing my novel in secret. No one knew. She also had no idea that I devoured every one of Jaxon Michael’s novels, and I was waiting with bated breath to hear what he had to say about my work. The man had a gift; his words could reach into my chest and squeeze, and a few paragraphs later arouse me to the point of embarrassment. He had a ridiculous talent. Insane.

  “Believe me, I’ve tried. My attempts have been pathetic,” Brandy answered. Instantly her demeanor changed to one of euphoria, and she sat up straighter, as if at attention. “Oh my, God! There he is!”

  After a chorus of exclamations, the auditorium fell silent as a tall, handsome man entered from the right side of the platform.

  I swallowed my disdain for Brandy’s obnoxiousness but refused to encourage her libido-charged adoration of the professor. My eyes immediately went to the front of the room. If I were honest with myself, I was just as hungry for an eyeful as the rest of the women in the room, except that apparently, I was more adept at hiding it.

  I didn’t know exactly what I was expecting, but he wasn’t it. Most intellectual types at Columbia, especially the younger ones, were sort of hippies, some of the more extreme even looking like they hadn’t shaved or showered in days, showing up to class with overly long hair, a half-grown beard, flip-flops, sometimes with socks, or rumpled from top to bottom. The female professors were more aware of their appearance, so not as sloppy as many of the men, but many fell into that category, too; which was cool. Appearance didn’t have anything to do with intellect. That said; Dr. Jaxon Michaels was none of the above. He was like a model from the cover of GQ magazine. Perfectly groomed and put together.

  He was maybe early to mid-thirties and tall; his expensive, dark tailored suit fitted him to perfection and emphasized the strength in his broad shoulders, arms, and torso, before tapering to a slim waist. I could tell, even at this distance, how the fine material was pulled taut over his muscled thighs. He wore dark-rimmed glasses that didn’t detract from the handsome face, strong jaw or high cheekbones.

  Or the hair. God, the hair; it had that perfectly messy look that left every woman in the room slack-jawed. He had that perfect, freshly fucked look that should have seemed out of place but didn’t; the subtle spattering of stubble on his jaw only punctuated it, and conjured visions of muscled flesh all twisted up with mine in rumpled sheets. He obviously had a habit of running his hand through it.