Total pages in book: 27
Estimated words: 25686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 25686 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 128(@200wpm)___ 103(@250wpm)___ 86(@300wpm)
Then strong, powerful arms grab me about the waist, bracing me before I fall. I’m flush up against him, dazzled by his scent and warmth and strength, so much shorter than he is that my head hits mid-shoulder even in heels. I blink up at him. A current passes through my body, a zing of arousal that shocks the hell out of me. I’ve made out with men who didn’t affect me as much as the chaste, powerful touch of this man. I blink.
“Thank you,” I mutter. I need to push away from him but he’s holding me, his eyes slightly widened in surprise. Why surprise?
“You’re okay?” he asks. I nod dumbly. He lets me go as if I’m hot to the touch, and I nearly stumble again but grasp the table. Cheeks flaming, I take the stack of paper he hands me, then in a daze pass them out to the other ten or so students in the class. I wouldn’t know how many there are. I can hardly bring myself to look at them.
The rest of the class goes by in a blur, and I do my best to focus, but I’m way off my game. My mind is teeming, my body strangely energized, and I make a vow right then and there that I need to stop reading so many damn romance novels. I read one or two a day, fully immersed in the escapism it brings me, and I think they’re getting to my fucking head. I’ve always been a hopeless romantic, but it wasn’t until I hit my senior year in high school I discovered romance. I’ve been a complete addict ever since. But this obsession has not served me well, especially since my particular tastes these days are always the kinky variety involving handcuffs and safewords and dominants.
Everything about this man fits the bill. I could see him with a length of rope or crop in his hand as easily as I could imagine him with a cup of coffee.
I blame the writer in me. My imagination is on overdrive, wondering what this man would do with my body.
My ass.
My mouth.
Jesus, I need to get laid.
I take notes dutifully but have no idea what I wrote, when I realize that everyone is getting up and shuffling out the door. My head whips up to the clock on the wall, and I realize class is over. Fumbling, I grab my notebook and pen, and shove them into my bag, when his stern voice arrests me.
“Ms. Romano.”
I look up at him. He’s over at his desk, straightening things out, but he definitely called my name.
“Yes?” My voice is husky and a little squeaky.
Get your shit together, girl.
“Please remain after class.”
The blood pounds in my ears as the nameless, faceless people I’ve just sat next to for an hour filter out of the class, leaving me alone with Professor Slade. The door shuts with a click behind the last person to leave, and I turn to face my professor. Now that we’re alone, he seems even larger than before, as if his entire presence fills every inch of this classroom. I feel small and helpless, and more than a little curious. I click-click-click my retractable pen nervously when his voice cuts through the quiet like a whip.
“Stop that.”
The pen clatters to the desk. I look up at him, stunned. I swallow, my mouth dry, and take in a deep breath.
He pushes off the desk and stalks over to me, looming over my desk, then he leans against the edge of the desk beside mine. He’s so big, the space between the desks so small, he’s almost brushing up against my desk. Why the hell has he asked me to stay after class?
Those eyes entrance me. God, those eyes.
“You look a little bewildered, Ms. Romano.”
“Giada,” I say without thinking. I have no control over my mind or body, it seems.
A corner of his lips quirks up and he tilts his head to the side. “Giada,” he repeats.
“Yep. That’s right. Giada. It’s the Italian form of the word jade,” I blather on like an idiot. “My mother spent several years in China and had a penchant for the gem, so she decided to name me after it.”
His stern eyes twinkle a bit, but he only nods.
“It’s a hard gem known for its healing properties,” I continue like a wind-up toy on speed, “and it’s a… really pretty green.”
Like your eyes.
I slam my mouth shut and wish for the floor to swallow me up.
He nods sagely, grasping his chin and stroking the stubble on his chin. I’m suddenly wildly jealous of his hand. I want to be his hand. I want to touch him.
I’m certifiable.
“I see. Well, now I know.”
Oh, God, I’m an idiot. I sit and wait for him to continue.