Joy Ride: A Virgin Romance (Let it Ride Book 3) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Joy Ride

  Blurb

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Damned (Biker Romance)

  Trigger Warning

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Books in the Series

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Blue Moon Creative Author Services

  Joy Ride

  Let it Ride Series

  Life isn’t about the destination.

  It’s about the ride

  Blurb

  IAN

  As an English professor at an Ivy League university, I’m at the top of my profession, but something’s missing. I gave up my artistic dreams to pursue an academic career. And I’m still haunted by the scars of my past.

  I enjoy breaking the rules and doing what I damn well please. And a dangerous infatuation’s blooming—Darcy’s intelligent, innocent, and virginal. I long to be her first, to teach her every wicked thing I know.

  There’s just one problem—she’s my student, the ultimate forbidden fruit.

  DARCY

  I lead a well ordered life with to-do lists and schedules. I always do the safe thing, make the right choices. I’ve made all my plans—got accepted into a master’s degree program, and I even have a graduate assistantship lined up.

  Although, I long to be an author, like my father, but it’s not a stable career. Yet, I can’t stop thinking about seeing my name on a book cover.

  To make matters worse, I keep my thinking about my sexy professor—he’s got a British accent, an attitude, and a bad boy streak. I hang on his every word. When we get close, all my barriers and rules break down. He’s encouraging me to throw caution to the wind and chase my dream.

  Joy Ride is a steamy, forbidden romance with a panty-melting alpha hero, and a satisfying HEA. There are elements of a virgin romance, as well as a professor student romance.

  The Ride Series is about four best friends (Kate, Poppy, Darcy, and Iris) who are about to graduate from college. They've vowed to have one last gasp, before adulting for real. Each of them is at a crossroads in life. Where will the road ahead lead?

  Table of Contents

  Joy Ride

  Blurb

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Epilogue

  Damned (Biker Romance)

  Trigger Warning

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Books in the Series

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Darcy

  “Did you actually do the reading, Mr. Archibald?”

  I sat in the front row of Dr. Ian Sterling’s classroom, doing my best to stifle a smile. The professor was an ass to everyone but me. He had a short temper, his moods were black, but he admired my intelligence and always called on me.

  Sterling reminded me of Professor Snape—mysterious, distant, didn’t suffer fools gladly. And he had the British accent to boot. Or maybe I’d read the Harry Potter books too many times, and my inner nerd was showing.

  In the beginning, I couldn’t decide if I liked Sterling or if I found him terrifying—a bit of both, to be honest. Fear and attraction produce the same sensations—shortness of breath, hammering heart, tongue-tied. He was intimidating, older, worldly, handsome, smart, and everything I’d ever wanted in a man.

  So, yes, I liked him, a bit too much.

  I loved watching Dr. Sterling in action. And I took a vicious sort of pleasure in watching him verbally eviscerate someone, particularly when the student in question had it coming.

  Sterling stood an inch or two over six feet, with wavy dark brown hair, which brushed the collar of his crisp button-down shirt. His eyes were a warm hazel brown, which matched his tweed suit, and he had a neatly trimmed beard and mustache.

  He graduated from Oxford, an impressive credential, but had a poet or philosopher vibe. Sterling was in his early thirties, with a bohemian quality.

  “Mr. Archibald, I’m waiting.” Sterling arched a brow. “What ideals does Keats hold dear? Here’s a hint: it’s the same as all the rest of the romantic poets.”

  My best friend, Iris Davenport, dated William Theodore Archibald III. Ugh. Even his name was pretentious. His family came from old money, and Iris went to Columbia on a scholarship, so she wasn’t “good enough” for him and his stuck-up family. Will dumped Iris for a blue-blooded debutante named Jolie Irving. To make matters worse, he’d been juggling them both. Talk about a low-class move.

  So, I thoroughly enjoyed watching Will roast on the hot seat. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person.

  “Right. Of course.” Will’s cheeks had gone red, and he kept shuffling through his notes as though the answer might unexpectedly appear on the pages.

  The Romantic Poets class focused on Keats, Shelley, and Byron, among others. I doubted Will understood their significance. They were among my favorites, though I had a special place in my heart for the morbid romanticism of Edgar Allen Poe.

  “Since we don’t have all day, maybe one of your colleagues can provide the answer? And I’d recommend actually doing the reading for Friday’s class, Mr. Archibald because I’ll be calling on you.” Sterling’s gaze lit on me, and I sat up straighter in my chair. “Ms. James, kindly inform Mr. Archibald, since he couldn’t be bothered to answer the question.”

  I could answer this in my sleep.

  “A romantic must always follow his or her heart—being true to oneself, no matter what the cost.”

  “And how did the poet embody this?”

  I could feel my classmates’ eyes on me. Everyone considered me the teacher’s pet, which is a lot less sexy than it sounds.

  “Keats is the embodiment of a tragic hero. The poem we read for class today, ‘Ode to a Nightingale,’ focuses on disappointment. The poem’s speaker is telling a nightingale and the audience about his dissatisfaction with his own life. Keats wanted to marry a young woman named Fanny Brawne, but as a poet, he didn’t have the means to support her. He’s consoling himself with the idea that his art will live on beyond his death, even if he isn’t able to have
the things he wants in this life.” My lips curved into a smile. “And FYI, Benedict Cumberbatch does a reading of this particular poem—it’s worth a listen.”

  Because everything sounds better in dulcet British tones—especially lectures. Sterling had what’s called an estuary accent, which isn’t posh or Cockney—it’s somewhere in between. Yeah, I looked it up, because I’m obsessed.

  “Excellent, Ms. James.” Sterling smiled and then continued on to the next subject.

  I’d gotten a position as Sterling’s graduate assistant next year. As an English major, I’d had him every semester since I started at Columbia, so he was familiar with my work. I prepared for every class and never missed a deadline, which made me the natural choice for the position.

  It’s hard to believe in a few weeks I’d be graduating, before moving on to pursue my master’s degree and my doctorate. Then I’d become an English professor, like Sterling. Everything was happening so fast, running at a breakneck pace.

  Sometimes it overwhelmed me.

  I tugged at my shirt collar. I felt hot all of a sudden like someone had tossed me into an oven. And then I felt it—my anxiety building. I’d had panic attacks since high school. Like now, they struck out of nowhere.

  It couldn’t have come at a more inconvenient time, not that there’d ever been an opportune one, I guess.

  Time was running short with only twenty minutes left in the class. I had notes to take and homework assignments to write down. I didn’t want to miss the rest of Sterling’s lecture.

  Stop it. Calm down, Darcy.

  But talking yourself out of a panic attack is impossible. Despite the anxiety meds I took, these episodes kept coming. And they’d been occurring with greater frequency lately. I’d already had two this week.

  Maybe because I’d come to a crossroads in life, and nothing would be the same after May. I liked my life scheduled and predictable, thank you very much.

  Pressure added to the problem. I hadn’t been getting enough rest lately. And I’d been pushing myself to complete assignments ahead of time. I didn’t want them piling up toward the end of the semester.

  I had to leave before I disrupted class. So I darted out of the room, dashed down the hallway, and into the bathroom, where I shut myself in the very last stall. Most people had gone home for the night so I could freak out in peace. It was nearly seven in the evening.

  Once I was alone, fear struck with a vengeance.

  Heart-pounding, throat-closing, white-knuckled terror. There was no rhyme or reason to it, either. I wished I could figure out my triggers and shut them down before it happened.

  I pressed my back against the cold metal wall and pulled it together.

  The symptoms of a heart attack and a panic episode are the same. My condition wasn’t life-threatening, but it unsettled me. The first one I’d had sent me to the emergency room. The doctor did a full workup—urine and blood samples, and EEG, but nothing panned out. Then they told me I’d had a panic attack, gave me some meds, and told me to “relax.”

  Yeah, real helpful—thanks. Because nothing calms a person down more than being told to chill out.

  This is all in your head, Darcy. Let it go. You can do this.

  I squeezed my eyes shut and distracted myself by thinking about the book I’d finished writing. One of the great things about being a writer is the ability to lead two lives at once—one real, and the imaginary world of your work in progress.

  For Love or Money, the working title of my book centered around good-hearted but bad-ass contract killer and the waitress he falls for. What can I say? When it came to fiction, I’m an incurable romantic, and I loved redeeming questionable men through the power of relationships.

  I’d handed it over to my father, Alan James, for feedback a few weeks ago. Alan is a published author, and I’d hoped for a few pointers, maybe even some praise. Instead, he’d destroyed me, saying I’d be better suited to learning about literature than creating it myself.

  To be clear, my dad wrote sci-fi novels, not literary fiction, not exactly the next War and Peace. And hey, what’s so awful about commercial fiction, anyway? I liked reading for entertainment. Even thinking about his reaction pissed me off, and my hands curled into tight fists.

  Okay, not helpful.

  After emptying my thoughts, I took a deep breath and placed a palm on my diaphragm. It was a trick I’d learned in counseling. Slowing my breathing brought my anxiety level down.

  I focused on my heartbeat, inhaled and exhaled. Gradually, my pulse slowed, and I didn’t feel so scared. I stood there for a long time, as the tension ebbed away.

  Afterward, I was a limp mess, clinging to the wall for support.

  I heard the murmur of voices and footfalls outside the door. Class must be over. So I waited for everyone to clear out again.

  When the crowd left, I crept out of the stall, splashed some cool water on my cheeks, and examined my face in the mirror.

  “Darcy?” A knock sounded on the exterior bathroom door. “Are you in there?”

  I closed my eyes. “Yes.” It was Dr. Sterling.

  “Are you all right? You left all of a sudden.”

  My stomach lurched.

  “I’m fine. Thanks for checking on me.” I opened the door and flashed a reassuring smile.

  Until today, I hadn’t had a panic attack in one of his classes. Maybe because I enjoyed being around him. Although I wasn’t comfortable with Sterling, per se, far from it, he gave me a giddy sense of anticipation, a not altogether enjoyable experience, but exhilarating, nonetheless. Sterling made me feel alive somehow, more me.

  I’d known Sterling for four years but had barely scratched the surface. He was very private, but I appreciated the man-of-mystery air. Most people broadcast their every move such as what foods they ate, where they went shopping, and other mundane details. For all I knew, Sterling could be a spy or an assassin. Probably not, but you get the gist.

  “Anytime. Couldn’t let anything happen to my favorite student.”

  My toes curled. Teacher’s pet indeed.

  “Fancy a cup of tea? The café downstairs is open for an hour or so.”

  “Um, sure.” We’d had tea before and once we had lunch in the faculty dining room. I fell in step beside him as we walked down a flight of stairs. I told myself this was all above board. We’d be at a university-owned eatery, and we’d probably discuss school-related business while we were there.

  Yet I wanted to spend time with him, and my feelings were anything but proper, but he didn’t know. So no harm in indulging my infatuation in a safe way for a few moments, right?

  I’d spent most of my life trying to be as perfect as possible and failing. Throwing myself at a professor wasn’t even an option, even though I wished it were. I’d never act on my crush, but he made it difficult to maintain appropriate boundaries.

  A friend of mine Kate Vincent was a wild child. She’d have no guilt about starting an affair with a teacher. We were polar opposites. I’d never met a rule I didn’t like. While she annoyed the hell out of me, I admired Kate’s courage when I didn’t want to smack her. I’d never admitted it, though.

  A few minutes later, I’d ordered a large Earl Grey, while Sterling had gotten a cup of hot water because American tea is “rubbish.” We grabbed a booth in the far corner.

  “So what are you up to this evening?” Sterling shook some loose-leaf English breakfast tea from a container into a mesh ball and then dropped it into his drink. He followed it with two sugar cubes.

  For a moment, I was distracted like when Sterling lectured. Instead of concentrating on his words, I thought about his deep voice, watched the sensuous way his lips moved. Fantasized about touching him. Right now, my fingers itched to stroke his tweed jackets. His cologne held a hint of bergamot like my favorite tea, the smell was intoxicating.

  Sterling’s sinfully handsome. Even the depressing yellow hue cast by the fluorescent overhead lighting failed to lessen his appeal. How’s it even possi
ble? Everyone looked terrible under crappy illumination.

  Although I noticed his cheeks had hollowed, and dark circles underlined his eyes, Sterling always had a slightly haggard appearance. Probably because he spent his nights with mature, cultured women. They’d have some wine, a gourmet meal, maybe read a poem or two aloud, and then make love by a roaring fireplace.

  Or, er, something like that, anyway. Not like I’d imagined the scenario before.

  “Darcy?” he prompted.

  “Right. Sorry. I’m going to Vagabond. My friend’s stepfather is throwing us a birthday bash.” Unlike Kate, I didn’t party much, but there hadn’t been a way to bow out of the invitation graciously.

  My friends and I had birthdays the same week—like the universe had predestined us to be besties. Although I realized my twenty-first would be the last pleasurable milestone—sixteen gave me the ability to drive, eighteen—the right to vote. Twenty-one was supposed to be the big one. Now I could legally buy alcohol, although I’d never purchased it illegally. So what?

  I hadn’t even dressed for the occasion. This afternoon, I’d thrown on a pair of jeans, a cardigan, and a T-shirt—my usual preppy vibe. I’d pulled my long, dark hair into a messy ponytail, thrown on some Chapstick, and been out the door. Girly things like dresses and makeup didn’t appeal to me.

  “So your friend must be Poppy Bishop, Bettie Bishop’s daughter, and her stepfather’s Sebastian Cross?”

  I nodded. “They got married on a reality show a couple years ago.”

  Bettie had been a famous television actress and now starred on Broadway. And Sebastian was a rock star working on a new album. Both of them had gone to rehab after bottoming out. Poppy said the reality show had been a publicity stunt, not a love match, and their contracted marriage would end soon.

  Personally, I thought the news made her a bit too happy. But then again, she had a thing for her stepfather. So see? I didn’t have the market cornered on unfortunate crushes.

  “I’m impressed. Sebastian’s former band, Mutiny, is one of my favorites. I loved their Insanity record. How come you never told me?”

  “I’m not one for name dropping.”

  Like Stephen King, my father was a household name. Though I never mentioned him to most people because we had a strained relationship. He wasn’t what you’d call a supportive parent, and I avoided him whenever possible.