Hawke's Prey Read online

  The Julia Hawke series:

  Book One

  Hawke’s Prey

  By Natasha West

  Copyright © 2015 by Natasha West

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Other Books by Natasha West

  Hawke’s Game: Book 2 in the Julia Hawke series

  Chapter 1

  It was early September, the first day of term. And that meant one thing. Well, two things but only one that excited me. The first day of the university year was the lesser fact, but it led to the important thing: Selection Day.

  The lecture hall was filling with fresh students, eighteen or older and new to Medford University. All of them were scared, all of them were trying to pretend they weren't. But having watched this ritual happen every autumn for the last nine years, I knew the signs. Laughing too loud, smiling too hard, walking in that imitation of a confident strut. Did they fool each other? Perhaps. But me, I could smell the scent of fear. As always, it amused me. But it was a distraction from my real mission and I redirected my focus to the task at hand.

  As the students took their seats, I took the opportunity to examine the new class. The tiered setting provided an excellent view of the choices for my selection. There were some stand-out strong candidates immediately. A girl with wavy blonde hair and a cute button nose with a top that at first glance looked respectable, suddenly bent over her bag and gravity pushed her cleavage into view. I caught an eye full of quite a large set of breasts that might be very fun to play with. Hmm, worth consideration but you have to squeeze a few pieces of fruit before you choose the ripest. My eyes travelled to the back of the room where a tall, willowy black girl was wearing a short red skirt that pulled my focus. The legs were long, slender and I took a moment to let my eyes travel up the length of her thigh, stopping at the hem of the skirt, just shy of the place that perhaps she wanted people to think about. I took in the rest of her. She was delicately pretty and worth a second thought. I noticed that in contrast to the skirt, she was wearing a buttoned to the neck blouse. Yes, most girls knew you showed legs or breasts, but never both. Unless you wanted people to know that you were a certain type of girl.

  On that thought, I saw that type of girl sitting right at the front. She was wearing denim shorts and a tiny yellow vest top, technically appropriate to the Indian summer we were having but I wondered if the season had anything to do with her wardrobe choices. Had it been raining, wasn't she the type who would have strutted in here practically naked anyway? I took a moment to subtly assess her assets. Her hair was caramel coloured and long, falling around her slender, bitable neck. Her breasts were medium size, smaller than the Cleavage Girl’s, but more shapely. Her legs had a powerful look about them and I could picture her straddling me all too easily. Denim Shorts was quickly moving up to the top of my list. She had a certain body confidence that was alluring. Would it translate to real world experience, I wondered. Not necessarily. A girl’s dress style didn't always speak to sexual experience. Sometimes it was only a costume. But from the way she placed her hand on the upper thigh of the boy next to her, she was unlikely to be a virgin, which was crucial. I never chose a virgin. Virgins could be tricky. They took things too seriously, clung too hard. Break it off wrong and you're looking at a formal complaint. So far, I'd flown underneath the administrative radar with my proclivities and guidelines like the 'no virgins' rule had kept me safe for the last six years of seducing first years.

  As I considered my choices, I could see that the room was just about settled. Time for me to make my introduction. I stood slowly for the benefit of my shortlist, not to mention the rest of the class. They could wonder any number of things about me in that moment. I could be anyone, anything. Every nightmare and every fantasy is contained in the moment before you speak. And it doesn’t hurt that I’m beautiful. That may sound arrogant but the fact is that I’ve always turned heads. And my good cheek bones, youthful skin and thick dark hair that I tend to wear down mean that although I’m thirty-six, I can pass for twenty-six. Which is, of course, helpful when sleeping with my students as it can help to blur the line between us at the moment when it needs to be blurred. But at other times, times when I need the full attention of my students and their respect for me as their professor, my no nonsense attitude keeps their eyes on me. My dress style performs both functions, giving me command whilst fulfilling certain fantasies for those inclined toward a powerful woman. My clothing is carefully selected, form-fitting and sharp: favoring black, grey and silver. I know the importance of my apparel to those who sat in my classroom. It imparts sexual longing to the few and comfort to the many in need of a firm hand on the rudder of their education. Both were important to me.

  As I looked around the room, I knew that all eyes were on me, as always. I had their total focus. And in that moment, I felt my own excitement at the possibilities that the term held with my potential Seducee. It would start with a few lingering looks and 'accidental' hand touches and little by little, it would build to something else. Private meetings with flimsy excuses while the girl in question struggled with her attraction. Did she really feel this pull, this want? Was I feeling the same? Should she let this happen with her professor? Would that be wrong? Until one day, usually toward the end of the first semester, it would happen. It always did, sooner or later. They always gave in to their yearnings. And it would be delicious.

  I stood at the front of the lecture hall and took a pause before turning to the white board behind me. I began to write my name.

  'My name is Julia Hawke and this is Writing Short Stories.'

  Forty five minutes later found me in a question and answer session as we rounded the end of the class. I was answering a question from a lanky boy with the last of his teenage acne still in evidence, patiently explaining, as I did at the start of every year that no, you cannot truly teach writing but you can nourish and shape the writer to do their strongest work and find their voice, blah, blah, blah. Having trotted out this line many times, I was bored with my own voice but as I looked around the room, I saw that the class was rapt. It was always that way with my students. They were like little sponges, eager to soak up whatever droplets of wisdom I dispelled. Sometimes it would make me feel sad to see their passion, having lost that fire myself. I hadn’t written a word in years. But it didn’t mean I hadn’t learned a thing or two and I was happy to pass it on to those who still cared about writing. And it doesn’t hurt that teaching also provides me with an endless source of nubile flesh. That's what stimulates me these days. Where I used to be excited to sit down at my keyboard and write, now my inspiration comes from the chase. The hunt and capture of a naughty little prize.

  As I dismissed the class, I subtly watch Denim Shorts get up and collect her things and I catch her eye. It's brief but I get the slightest hint that yes, she could be receptive. And with any luck, she'll put up just enough of a fight to keep it interesting before she gives into her own desire. I watched her perky buttocks bounce across the room in the infamous shorts as I stood and collected my notes. Target acquired.

  As I got up to leave, my path was suddenly blocked and I almost walked into my interceptor.

  'Miss Hawke?'

  A
n elfin, bespectacled girl with dark blonde hair pulled back into a tight ponytail was standing in front of me. She was dressed in a conservative cardigan and skirt, both in muted colours. She looked a little parochial. I could see that she was nervous to speak to me but something had pushed her to do it anyway.

  'I'm Penny Stone. I just wanted to tell you that I found your class really inspiring.'

  'Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it. I'm looking forward to reading your work.'

  That statement inspired a blush and I could see that the prospect of me reading her work had struck fear into her. But she was trying to push it down, trying to be confident. I wasn't unsympathetic to a new writer’s nerves about having their work appraised by me. I could recall those times in my own life when I'd been in her shoes. She dipped her head, suddenly finding her shoes fascinating.

  'I'm not very good but I hope you'll make me better.'

  It wasn't an unusual statement from a young writer. Sometimes they believed it and sometimes it was false modesty. If it was false modesty, then the writer in question usually found out later that there was actually some truth in their proclamations of lack of talent. It was the ones who really thought they weren't any good that did the best work because they would push themselves, demand more from themselves, work harder. I examined the girl for pretension and I didn't detect it in her. I laughed gently at her neurosis.

  'We'll see about that, Penny.'

  She looked up at me in surprise, and I guessed that people didn't usually remember her name and certainly not so quickly. I couldn't see why not. Now that I was really looking at her, there was something that drew you in, a certain intriguing quality behind the shyness. That apparent innocence might have hidden depths, the kind that made for interesting work. I decided to keep a special eye on her. Aside from my sexual prey selections, I also tried hard to root out the writing gems in my class, and something was telling me that Penny Stone might be a real talent, someone to nurture. She was looking up at me and seemed to be deciding whether to say something else. I waited patiently and she suddenly looked at her watch and gasped.

  'I've got another class across the campus, I'd better run. I don't know where anything is yet!'

  'You'll get the hang of this quicker than you think.'

  She smiled gratefully and scuttled out of the class. Yes, there was something about her that held a charm. She could never be selected for pursuit, she was clearly far too inexperienced and unworldly for me; but I had to admit, Penny Stone had something that intrigued me.

  Chapter 2

  I ran across the campus, heat in my cheeks from the conversation that had just taken place with Julia Hawke. She had clearly thought I was a country bumpkin and she was right. I wasn't even sure what had compelled me to speak to her one on one like that. So stupid. It was always better to stay hidden, sit at the back and never raise your hand. 'If you don't say anything, you can't say anything stupid', that’s what my mother always says. But watching her talk about writing had planted some seed of excitement in me. It made me want to sit down and start typing right that second, without knowing what might come out.

  But now, thinking about doing that seemed scary and ridiculous. I wasn't even sure why I chose Creative Writing as an elective, it wasn't going to lead anywhere. I was at Medford to get a business degree. Even that was considered a waste of time by my parents. As far as they were concerned, I'd be going to work in the family shop and you don't need a business degree to work in a mini mart in Pilldale Village. But I had managed to convince them that when I eventually took over the business, it would be helpful to have knowledge that would keep the business afloat in a future that no one could predict. What if things in the village changed? What if a large chain store moved in? It was enough to strike doubt into them. I know it's not very nice to worry them like that, but before I settle down in the village, I just want a little time to experience other things. I couldn't even tell you what things, but I guess that's the point. I want to be surprised. And there's not too many surprises in Pilldale.

  I was just about to enter my Principles of Marketing Class when a voice cried across the campus.

  'Penny!'

  I turned to see my boyfriend, Will, running toward me. I sighed inwardly, he was going to make me late but I put a smile on my face and waited for him. He reached me, sweating and happy, dressed in gym clothes.

  'My course is awesome!'

  I laughed at his excitement. This hyperbole was typical of Will. He was like a puppy, excitable and always full of energy. That's what made a physical education degree the perfect choice for him. I hoped it would wear him out a bit. We'd been together since we were fifteen and he'd decided to follow me here to Medford before he found a PE teacher job back home. I hadn't been sure if I'd wanted him with me but I knew that three years on opposite ends of the country might be too hard on the relationship and I had to admit, in all this newness and excitement, it was nice to have a part of home with me.

  'It's your first day, how can you tell it's awesome already?'

  'I just can. I've already made friends and my tutor is really cool.'

  That made me think of Julia. Cool wasn't the word for her. The way she'd moved around the classroom, so self-possessed, so statuesque and patrician. She knew she had her students in the palm of her hand. And when she looked at you, you felt exposed, as though she could see right into you. It was frightening and somehow exciting. She wasn't cool. She was something else they didn't have a word for. I realised I'd gone into my head for a moment and that Will was still in front of me, waiting for interaction.

  'I'm glad you like it'

  'How about you, how was your... Was it writing or something?'

  'Yeah. It was... Fine.'

  I didn't want to go into detail, I wasn't sure I could trust myself not to gush about Julia and for some reason I didn't want to do that in front of Will.

  'Look, I'm sorry, my class is starting. I have to go.'

  'Oh, I didn't realise, sorry. See you later!'

  And with that he was off again, running across the campus. I turned and headed into my next class, still a trace of the excitement from Julia Hawke running through my veins.

  Chapter 3

  It was a few weeks into the term and things were progressing at the usual rate. Denim Shorts, who it turned out was called Chloe, had been stopping by my office for 'quick chats.' Always wearing something revealing, always needing my help. She had written a couple of short stories for my class and both involved tales of being chased by socially awkward teenage boys. She claimed they were fiction but they were obviously thinly veiled accounts of things that had happened to her. 'Write what you know' is tried and true advice, but only when you can bring fresh insight to what you know. Her stories were too literal, there were no original observations, nothing truly engaging. But if the stories couldn't hold my intellectual interest, the topics were revealing in other ways. They were telling me that she was a girl who was looking for someone who knew what they were doing. And the small looks I'd caught in our private sessions told me that the gender of that person might not be as important as skill and experience. I didn't know what Chloe's orientation was and I didn't care. Not every one of my targets was gay or bisexual, in fact many of them weren't. Generally, it wasn't much of an obstacle. A female lover in your time at university was practically par for the course when it came to straight girls. That was the cliché. And it had certainly held up in my experience. Forbidden fruit is sweet to the tongue, no one understands that better than me.

  I was in my office, the door open. Chloe was due imminently and I was looking forward to sitting in this small space with her, the possibility of something happening would sit between us, layering the meeting with hidden meanings. We were still at the stage where I was giving her only just enough to keep things interesting, which was to say practically nothing. A third party in the room would detect no flirtation from my end and very little from hers. But Chloe would know that maybe there was... someth
ing. And that's all I'd let her know for now. Until the last possible moment I would draw out the tension, teasing it to breaking point. It was how I kept my girls focused on me enough to do something they knew was wrong. At first it would be just an idea, nothing they'd ever act on. Perish the thought. But over time, it would grow into desire that became need. When they finally crossed the line with me, it was momentous to them and deeply satisfying, I knew. Chloe would be in the first stages: not yet ready for me, but the idea would be at the edge of her mind. I liked knowing that. It made me tingle with anticipation.

  I thought back to the first time I’d been introduced to the pleasures of younger women. It had been a bad year. I’d just turned thirty and I was struggling with my first novel, which had already been commissioned. I’d had a few early successes with short stories that had led to the book deal, but when it came time to write, the pressure of expectation blocked me from producing anything significant. My deadline came and went and I had nothing to show to the publisher. I was in a serious relationship with a woman, Lydia, and I should have been able to find comfort from her but that wasn’t the case. It had been good for a few years but then it had simply soured. We were circling the drain but after six years, neither one of us had wanted to be the one to finish things. At that time, I had been teaching for a couple of years but I’d always thought of it as plan B and then suddenly, with the passing of the deadline, I was done with writing and done with Lydia and teaching was all I had left. It was a shock and I began to slide into a sadness.

  But that year, there had been a girl in my class. Amy. She was a stunningly beautiful honey colored blonde with full, pouty lips. She was clearly very popular with the boys. But as the year progressed, I became aware that she didn’t seem so interested in them and maybe she had a little crush on me. At first I didn’t even consider it. Everyone knew you didn’t touch the students. Even if it hadn’t been a rule, which it was, it was morally wrong to abuse your position. But Amy, she wasn’t a naïf. She had clearly decided that she wanted me. One day, we’d been in a private meeting and she’d been flirting outrageously. I didn’t take it seriously but I didn’t mind too much either. The attentions of a beautiful young woman certainly weren’t unwelcome as low as I was feeling that year, but I figured it was only harmless flirtation. Then, as the meeting had come to a close, we’d stood up and in the smallness of the room inches apart from one another, I found myself very close to those moist lips and I was struck with a strong sudden desire to kiss her. Amy had seen my fleeting impulse before I could hide it and that had been enough encouragement for her to make a move. Suddenly, her lips were on mine and she pushed her voluptuous body up against me and before I knew it, we were on top of my desk. Her hands were searching me, discovering my body, and I could tell from her low moaning that she liked what she found. And I liked it too, it felt good to feel this want, this need from someone and certainly from someone as exquisite as Amy. I could feel how much it meant to her in a way that a woman my own age, with all her baggage, wouldn’t be capable of. Amy and I had come close to tearing our clothes off right there in my office, but a noise outside had given us pause and I suddenly realised where I was and how dangerous what we were doing was. I stopped it right then and Amy had been disappointed as she left but it had not been the end of it.