A poem by Blaire Leon

If sex is dirty, why would I do it with someone I love?
If sex is dirty, then didn’t we all come from the dirt?
What if I like the dirt?
What if I want to get dirty?
What if I want to roll in the mud until I’m so fucking filthy that I’ll never be clean again?

When twenty-five-year-old graduate assistant Caiden Brenner asked Blaire Leon how old she was, she said she was a senior. He chose to believe she meant in college. They connect over Lord Byron’s Don Juan and, as their conversations become increasingly thicker with sexual innuendo, Caiden finds himself obsessing over a totally off-limits undergrad who’s bold, beautiful, brilliant, and one of the most passionate poets he’s ever met.

But it turns out Blaire hasn't been totally honest. She's the seventeen-year-old valedictorian of her high school class, taking courses at Sierra State while awaiting her acceptance to Stanford.

Will Caiden get too deeply into Blaire to back away before he finds out the truth? Or will their connection be enough to seduce him into risking his entire future on Jail Bait?

About the Author:
Mia Storm is a hopeless romantic who is always searching for her happy ending. Sometimes she’s forced to make one up. When that happens, she’s thrilled to be able to share those stories with her readers. She lives in California and spends much of her time in the sun with a book in one hand and a mug of black coffee in the other, or hiking the trails in Yosemite. Connect with her online at , on Twitter at @MiaStormAuthor, and on Facebook at


Chapter 1
My nipples are hard, and the heat radiating off his body, only inches behind me, makes them harder.
My palms are slick, and no matter how often I wipe them on my baggy jeans, they don’t dry.
My diaphragm is tight with anticipation, and I know he must be able to hear my shaky breath.
I am burning alive, even though I know they keep the library cool so exhausted students don’t fall asleep and drool on their books.
When Professor Duncan sent me to the resource desk at the university library and told me to ask for his graduate assistant, Caiden Brenner, I had no idea. I’ve dated a few boys at school, and I’ve even had sex once, but I can’t remember my body ever reacting this way to being near a guy—seizing up and refusing to participate in any semblance of normal behavior. Maybe that’s because, no matter how hot they are, teenage boys smell rank.
“Is this it?” Caiden asks.
His firm chest presses against my shoulder as he leans over me to reach for a book on the second shelf, well above my head, and he most certainly does not smell rank. His cologne (or maybe it’s just his deodorant) combined with some warm, earthy scent spins me in a cocoon of heady sensations I don’t even have names for.
He brings the book down and backs away a step as he opens it. “Don Juan by Byron, right? This the one you were looking for?”
His tongue slips out for a moment as he scans the page, drawing my attention to full, firm lips that aren’t quite symmetrical. Both upper and lower are just a little fuller on the left. But they’re wet now, and the fluorescents overhead shine off creases and curves the exact color of the coral sheets on the double bed I left unmade this morning.
The thought conjures the image of Caiden twisted into those sheets and not only do my nipples tighten more, but a hot ache starts low in my belly.
As his eyes scan the first few pages, I take the opportunity to burn his image into my retinas for later. There’s a faint star-shaped scar on the right side of a nose that’s on the small side and flares out at the bottom. My gaze trails along his thick, curved, golden eyebrows, across a broad, smooth forehead with a flat, dark mole near the hairline on the left, and down the curl of longish honey brown hair that hangs over his right eye—an eye that is blue, but just barely. Under the blue of his irises is something darker, like steel gray storm clouds gathering behind a twilight sky.
They lift to mine and I look away quickly. Then I realize it’s a little too obvious that I’m trying to not look at him, so I lift my gaze from his black Vans to the book in his hands.
His hands.
They’re long, with smooth, bronze skin and clean, trimmed fingernails. I don’t know why I’m noticing his fingernails, except every little thing about him fascinates me.

I tear my eyes away from his hands, and when I can’t think of a single normal thing to do with them except look at his face again, I find him staring at me with an amused expression—just a slight uptick of the fuller side of his mouth and a glint in his gaze.


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