Dirty
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?
Goodreads Giveaway: https://www.goodreads.com/giveaway/show/128130-getting-dirty
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 MiaStormAuthor.blogspot.com , on Twitter at @MiaStormAuthor,
and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/MiaStormAuthor.
EXCERPT
Chapter 1
Blaire
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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