Mr Blackwell:Teacher Student Romance

By: S K Quinn



You picked up my book. Which at least means the cover is good …

Hope you like the story too.

Books have always been my light in the darkness, so I write feel-good romance to lighten your day.

I still can’t believe so many people read my books.

Each and every day, I am humbled by this fact.

I can’t thank you enough.

Ps – I’m excited to share my new website.

If you’d like feel-good stories and (sometimes) free books, take a look:

Happy reading, pretty lady. xxx

Mr Blackwell

This is Book V of the Ivy Lessons series, and is written from Marc Blackwell’s point of view.

Marc and Sophia have just decided to share their relationship with the world. They are in bed together and Sophia has fallen asleep.

Marc is watching Sophia and waiting for the morning …

WARNING: In this book, Marc shares his past relationships with women, including bedroom scenes. If you loved the Ivy Lessons and feel this would spoil the romance, you may want to wait until the next book.



Ivy College.

The night I let go …

I love watching Sophia sleep. Sometimes I almost can’t bear how beautiful she is.

‘Marc?’ Sophia stirs. ‘Is it morning yet?’

‘No,’ I say. ‘Go to sleep.’

It’s dark outside, but the day will come. The sun always rises. And in the morning it will light Sophia and I up for the world to see.

Tomorrow, we will go public with our forbidden relationship.

Everyone will know about the teacher who fell for his student.

I can imagine what the press will write.

Marc Blackwell. Oscar-winning actor. Owner of Ivy College. Seduces young, innocent student.

I don’t care what they say about me. But if the press badmouth Sophia or her family tomorrow, I will kill them.


Sophia and I … out in the real world together.

But it has to happen. We can’t run anymore.

We love each other to the point of obsession. We were meant to be together. We just cannot be apart. So whatever challenges we have to endure, we will endure them.

If Sophia didn’t understand what she was getting herself into, I would let her go. I would walk away. But she’s a grown woman. She knows it will be hard.

The press will dredge up stories of my past – stories that will hurt her.

It really is impossible to think there was a Marc Blackwell without a Sophia Rose. But there was. An angry man flailing around in darkness.

Sophia has changed me – she found my light. I never want to be the man I was before.

Together we move forwards.

Away from darkness.

I lay back on the pillow, hands behind my head, staring at the ceiling.

Memories prod and poke.

There was a time before Sophia. A dark, lonely time. I just pray she can forgive my past …


Ten Years Ago

Los Angeles

The set of Their War

I sit in a plastic chair drinking coffee from a polystyrene cup, watching the film crew set up for Ria’s big scene.

Ria struts around in suspenders and a corset, picking up outfits and holding them against her tanned curves. She doesn’t need to be half-dressed on set like this, but she likes to tease the crew.

The teasing doesn’t work on me though, because I’ve already seen her naked.

Ria plays my mother in this movie. But when the cameras stop rolling, we have sex in her trailer.

As I watch Ria prance around, the bulk of Baz Smith falls onto the plastic chair beside me.

Baz is a legend. A huge, hulking action movie star who has the muscles to back up his big mouth.

He plays Terry Stout in this movie – a commander who saves me from a land mine. I play an underage soldier who lied to get into the army.

Before I met Baz, I idolised him. Most teenage boys have pictures of lingerie models on their walls, but I have pictures of Hollywood legends like Baz. His poster sits right next to De Niro and Pacino.

When I saw how many scenes I had with Baz, I was determined he wouldn’t act me off the screen. I would hold my own. And I have.

‘Nice-looking girl, isn’t she?’ Baz observes, as Ria tosses her long brown-black hair around tanned shoulders. ‘Got those Brazilian curves going on. Well. Fake ones, anyway. You fucked her yet?’

I nod.

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