Teach me everything.
The Hookup Equation, an all-new romantic comedy that is “filled to the brim with laughs and emotion” from Roxie Noir, is available now!
My whole life, I’ve been a good girl. I follow rules like nobody’s business. I obey guidelines like I was born to it. Show me a line, and I’ll toe it.
I’m even a twenty-two-year-old virgin. Good is my middle name.
And then, I break one tiny little rule. Miniscule. Inconsequential.
Next thing I know, I’m trapped with an incredibly handsome stranger. He’s got eyes like cut emeralds, biceps that makes my head spin, and a smile that has me rethinking all my life choices.
We escape a bar bathroom together. We go on an impromptu date. We share the hottest kiss I’ve ever had, one that leaves me panting for more. We promise to see each other again.
Turns out, we see each other the next morning.
In my calculus class.
Which he’s teaching.
My handsome, sexy date is Professor Loveless, and we’ll be seeing each other plenty. Every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday all semester.
There’s no choice but to call it off. We both have too much at stake: I could lose my scholarship, and he could lose his entire career.
But I can’t call off the way I feel.
I can’t call off the way he looks when he rolls up his sleeves and explains imaginary numbers.
I can’t call off the heated glances, or the way our hands touch when I hand in my homework, or the memory of his body pressing against mine that night.
I’m a virgin.
He’s my professor.
And if we give in, it could cost us both everything.
But I’m so tired of being a good girl.
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“I’m sorry I was a jerk on Friday night,” I start over, moving closer. “I still think that what I said was valid, but I didn’t have to —”
He steps closer, leans in.
“—I didn’t have to be an asshole about it,” I say into his ear.
“I think I deserved it,” he says. His lips brush my ear, and my eyes flutter closed.
Don’t, I tell myself. Don’t do a single thing that isn’t apologizing for your behavior.
As if I didn’t seek him out. As if I didn’t drag him into this tiny, cramped back staircase.
“No, you were right,” I tell him, automatically reaching out, steadying myself against his shoulder. “I found you at the banquet. I kissed you later. I gave you a bottle of wine.”
“But I’m the one who should know better,” he says, and then his hand is on mine, holding it against his warm chest. My heart beats harder, faster.
“You think I don’t?”
“I shouldn’t be giving you rides and walking you home,” he goes on. “Pretending that those things are perfectly fine and innocent, because they’re not.”
We shift in the tiny space and suddenly our bodies are touching from shoulder to hip, the jolt of his heat like an electric current.
“We shouldn’t be seeing each other at all,” I tell him, even as I close my eyes, press myself into him so softly I can tell myself I’m not doing anything, my lips millimeters from his ear.
“No,” he says. “The more I see you the harder it is to pretend I don’t like you.”
A hand on my hip, his fingers touching bare skin above my too-small shorts.
“And the harder it is to pretend I don’t want you,” he whispers.
My heart’s beating so hard and fast that it feels like my ribcage is rattling in my body. Outside and from above, the organ hums thickly, surrounding us.
“What if it were my fault?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
I know I should walk away. I know that. I know my coworker Nathaniel got expelled for sexual misconduct and while I have no intention of making porn, I’m fairly certain that sleeping with my professor also falls into that category.
I know he could get fired and his career could be over.
I know a million things wrong with this scenario, and not one of them stops me.
“I mean,” I say, and plant a kiss on his neck, right below his jaw. His fingers curl into my spine.
“What if —” another kiss, higher up, “— it were my fault?”
The last kiss lands on his jawline, right below his ear, my fingers now woven through his hair, his slight stubble sharp on my lips.
He moves his hand until his palm is flat on my back, in the space between the shorts and my vest, underneath the jacket I’m still wearing. He swallows hard, his breath on my neck.
Then his hand is on my face, his thumb stroking my jaw, and he pulls me back, his green eyes nearly black in the dark, his lips parted, his gaze roaming my face. I don’t breathe. I don’t think my heart beats.
And he kisses me.
I love writing sexy, alpha men and the headstrong women they fall for.
My weaknesses include: beards, whiskey, nice abs with treasure trails, sarcasm, cats, prowess in the kitchen, prowess in the bedroom, forearm tattoos, and gummi bears.
I live in California with my very own sexy, bearded, whiskey-loving husband and two hell-raising cats.
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