by Lola Darling
The sex god, however, sure does come with his share of baggage.
“I think there’s another six boxes in the truck, and then the stuff I stuck in the car last night.”
I can’t help rolling my eyes, though I’m grinning at the same time. “Seriously, dude, how do you even own this many things?”
“It’s 90% books,” he protests. “I have a lot of reading to keep up with.”
“When was the last time you actually read any of those books?” I laugh.
He wraps his arms around my waist in response, and tugs me against him, sweat and all. God, he smells great when he’s been working out. He calls me weird for saying so, but I can’t resist him in moments like this, or when he’s fresh home from a long run around the neighborhood of our new home, half an hour outside the city, a cozy little two-bedroom that even has its own backyard. I’d forgotten what that was like.
I’d forgotten what having anything besides a day job felt like.
Max dips his head to kiss me, long and slow. I taste salt on his lips, mingled with that pure essence of him that drives me so wild. I slide my arms around his neck, my hands tracing their way up to get lost in his mussed black hair, which he’s let grow a little bit now, almost down to his ears. It looks sexy on him. Not business proper the way he dresses at the office. More like I’m in charge, and I’m going to take advantage of you right now.
His tongue slips between my lips, and for a moment, I lose track of time. That is, until another mover stomps past us, more of Max’s books in his arms. This is the last load of things from his old apartment. Most of his day-to-day stuff was in the house already, but since his lease Displaying off limits new cover.jpgdidn’t end until now, we waited to haul the remainder of his possessions over. I’m slightly regretting our stalling now that I’ve realized how many stacks of books he had hidden around his place, though.
I lean back a little, biting his lower lip just before I break away from the kiss entirely.
“You know, no amount of kissing is going to make me forget to tease you about how many copies of Lord of the Rings you own,” I point out.
“Probably not,” he agrees. “But it might make you forget to get annoyed about the new bookshelf I bought for the dining room and besides, I saw that copy of Man Candy on your nightstand, babe,” he says teasing me about my own guilty pleasure.
“Oh, brother,” I treat him to the eye roll he’s got coming. ”Where are we going to—”
“Relax, it’s a small one this time! Last one, I promise.” He extends a pinky to me, and I lean in to bite it in response.
“I get to eat your pinky if you’re lying,” I mutter.
“Well, you do know how I enjoy it when you eat me,” he replies, winking.
I roll my eyes and shove him, though not hard enough to actually push him out of reach. I enjoy feeling his arms around me too much, damn him. “Do I?” I peer up at him. “Or do I just enjoy the view while I do?” I wink.
“I knew it.” He stands straight, shaking his head with a morose expression. “You’re only using me for my looks.”
I snort and swat his chest lightly. “I’ve got bad news for you buddy, you aren’t getting away that easily. I’m in this for the long haul. Even when you’re old and gray and fat from eating too many In-N-Out burgers—”
“First of all, there is no such thing as too many In-N-Out burgers,” he corrects me with an arched brow. “And second of all. Good.” He bends to kiss me again, gently this time. “Because you’re stuck with me, too, gorgeous girl. I hope you know what you’ve signed up for.”
“I always read my contracts before I sign,” I remind him, leaning up on tiptoe to kiss him back. “And this one? I’ve got to say I am more than happy with the terms.”
I rest my head on his chest, my gaze traveling out front to the sprawling lawn outside, and in the distance, the little copse of trees that I think reminded us both of the mushroom forest, when we found this apartment. Standing there, on the brink of starting our future together, nestled in this house, I can’t think of anyone whose stacks of boxes I’d rather share, or anyone in the world whose arms I’d rather be in.
“One more thing,” he adds, a mischievous note in his tone.
“There’s not another load of boxes, is there?” I reply with a raised eyebrow in warning.
He smirks. “On my honor, Your Honor.”
I laugh, my cheeks flushing a little as one of the movers passes us at that moment. Good thing Max likes it when I blush. “What is it?”
“I filed my change of address form with HR today.”
My throat tenses up. It’s been an unspoken not-so-secret at work that we’re together. Neither of us said anything, but neither of us didn’t say anything, either. Not even when Martha “popped by” my office to interrogate me about who I’m dating now, since I “look so happy and full of life all the time lately.” And not even when Hannah stopped touching Max’s arm all the time and started making subtly annoyed comments to the other secretaries about my man-thieving ways.
The only time I came close to saying something was when Paul summoned me to his office about two months ago, fully recovered and back to work, albeit with greatly reduced office hours.
“You and that Davis kid get along pretty well, huh?” he said, the question evident in his eyes, though at least unlike everyone else, he didn’t try to ask me point-blank.
“We do,” I admitted, trying to study his expression, to glean some idea of whether or not he approved.
I didn’t need to study him too closely. Paul’s expression broke into a broad grin. “I met my wife at the office, you know. Total cliché. Boss falls for his doting secretary. But we made a great team, before I let it all fall to shit by not putting her first enough, not being there for her.” Paul’s eyes narrowed, then. “If he ever stops putting you first, believe me, he will rue the day.”
I laughed softly. “You know? I’m not even worried about that, honestly.”
Paul’s smile deepened. “That’s when you know it’s the real deal, kid. So don’t you two worry your heads about any of the particulars here. Concentrate on what’s most important, Chloe. Don’t lose sight of that.”
It was the closest thing to a blessing we were going to get, I knew, and it was plenty for me. “I won’t,” I promise him.
“What did they say?” I ask, and it feels a bit ridiculous, two grown people needing to ask a third party for permission to fall in love, but it’s the way of the world nowadays, I guess.
Max just laughs softly. “They said, and I’m quoting here, ‘About damn time, you two.’”
I laugh too, and this time when he pulls me into his arms, I relax against him completely, sighing with content. “Well then. I guess it’s official now.”
“I guess so.” He bends to nibble on my ear, and that rain of shivers he always manages to induce trickle down my spine. “Team MacDav for life.”
I punch him this time. “Oh my God you are so damn cheesy.”
“Told you so.”
“This is your idea of a romantic line?”
He bites my ear again a little harder. “Well, I could say I love you but you’re probably sick of hearing that one.”
I roll my eyes, even as I bury my hand in his hair. “Never.”
“Well then. I love you, Chloe.”
“I love you too, babe.”
“And we’re changing the name of the house to MacDav, by the way. I’ve already filed the paperwork.”
I wriggle out of his arms and glare at him. “Motion to appeal.”
“Denied.”
“On what grounds?” I cross my arms.
“On the grounds that I say so.” He loops an arm around my waist and pulls me against him in one smooth motion. As our bodies crush together, his heat spilling around me, he leans down to claim my lips once more, kissing me long and hard.
“Fine,” I reply when we part. “On one condition.”
He lifts an eyebrow. “What’s that
?”
I grin. “Tonight it’s my turn to be the judge.”
THE END
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Excerpt of Teach Me
Check out the first chapter of my last book, TEACH ME! Available now! Free on KU!
“Looks like you dressed for the occasion.”
“You said I should come prepared, professor.” She wriggles beneath me.
I bring my hand down on her bare ass, just sharp enough to make her feel it, not enough to leave a mark. She inhales sharply, her hips bucking.
“And have you, Ms. Reed? Or will I need to reprimand you more thoroughly?”
When Harper Reed came to Oxford, her dream was to study modern poetry with the infamous Professor Jack Kingston, NOT to sleep with him. But his lectures are intoxicating, his knowledge captivating, and his accent drops panties faster than Charlie Hunnam on a Saturday night.
Harper has never made good decisions when it comes to sex and Jack has never been able to commit, yet there’s something between them that neither of them has felt before. But students and teachers are not supposed to fraternize, even as this out of control connection puts both of their futures on the line.
When their forbidden love is tested, can they make the grade?
Chapter One
Harper
I’m late.
I force my legs to move faster, hugging my sheepskin coat around my body as I hurry through the cobblestone streets. By day, I’ve gotten decent at navigating Oxford—it’s not as big as London, so I can remember most of the major streets around the colleges. But it’s not as well-organized as London, either, so when I try to guess where a side street ought to be based on which road it runs parallel to, it doesn’t end well.
And, of course, I still haven’t fixed my US cell phone, so I don’t have GPS service either, only a basic text and call plan. I am actually using a paper map to get around.
Mary Kate had better be grateful I’m coming to this damn party.
I pause in the glow of windows from a corner pub to study the paper.
“Need a hand there?” drawls a Scottish guy, a cigarette drooping from one lip and a foamy beer cooling in his fist. Beside him, an older guy is chugging a Guinness like there’s a prize for first to finish.
“I’m looking for, um.” I squint at the text she sent me once again.
Hey there my favorite USian pen pal. So excited you are finally coming to Englandia for more than just a week! You’re gonna love Oxford. I get into town the night before term starts—my friends are having a fancy dress party at 5 Pusey St. You better come or else!!! How long has it been since you were last in London, 2 years? You owe me a visit Xoxo. P.S. —wear your best habit! ;)
“5 Pusey Street?” I say.
The man shakes his head and takes the map from me. “This is us.” He points at one side. “You gotta go back up Broad to St. Giles, hang a right—you know where the Bird and Baby is?”
I shake my head.
His friend finishes his beer and belches. “The Eagle and Child,” he corrects the first guy. “Can’t you hear she’s not from around here?”
“You don’t sound like you are either,” I snap, though I feel bad the moment I do. He’s from closer to here than I am. “Sorry. I know it. Thanks,” I tell them both. I’m just grumpy because it means I walked fifteen minutes in the dead wrong direction.
I trudge past the row of stately buildings and colleges that look like they were plucked from a medieval movie set and plunked down in a modern-day parking lot. The Eagle and Child was the first pub I visited on my first day in Oxford. I’ve been trying to soak up the literary scene here, and that pub is famous for being Tolkien and C.S. Lewis’s haunt back in the day.
My grumpiness eases as I study the side streets I pass, where old-fashioned street lamps illuminate cobblestones and chatty gaggles of students, voices loud from drink and white with smoke. Even the air smells inspiring. Fall mixed with the faint musk of rain on its way later.
If there’s anywhere in the world I’m going to forget about Derrick—no, don’t even think his name, I scold myself—it’s here. If there’s anywhere I can find my inspiration again, anywhere I can start to write the poetry that I’m starving without, it’s here.
And now I’m on my way to my first-ever British college party, to meet up with the girl I’ve been best pen pals with since we were 11 years old.
Life is good.
I have a huge grin on my face once more by the time I find the turn off of St. Giles and onto the side street where she sent me. At the entrance, I ring the buzzer and unbutton my jacket to smooth down my gray silk blouse and knee-length black skirt. It hugs my hips just right to show I’m fun, not enough to show I can’t handle myself at a high society event.
Mary Kate said fancy dress party, after all, and her joke about me dressing like a nun aside, I assume she meant I should wear my classiest outfit.
This is, after all, my fresh start. Things are going to be different here. I’m going to be different. No more screw-ups. No more sneaking past Derrick’s roommates because I need to be kept secret; no more hooking up with that jerk film major who, it turns out, was just using me for my key to the English House. No more any assholes like that. I’m starting over here.
A buzzer sounds from somewhere inside the building. I push open the door and follow MK’s text directions upstairs to the third floor. Even through the door, I can hear the sound of raised voices and loud music.
I guess fancy parties can still be fun ones. I try the knob, find it open, and push open the door.
Then I freeze like a deer in headlights, and gape at the scene within.
The first people to catch my eye are a trio of guys in pope hats, fishnet leggings and black high heels. A girl in a nun habit and what looks like a bathing suit bikini takes photos of the guys while they perform a chorus kick line.
“Welcome, welcome!” Another girl, this one in a low-cut shirt and bodice that look like something out of Oktoberfest, sweeps toward the door. “Don’t be shy, come on in!”
“Sorry, I—I think I have the wrong address,” I stammer, fumbling in my coat pockets for my cell.
“Don’t be silly! You must be Harper—MK’s in the kitchen.” Oktoberfest girl grabs my jacket from my shoulders and slides it off me and onto a coatrack nearby. “Can I get you anything? Some Pope Juice maybe?”
I blink at her in confusion, and my gaze drifts back to the guys in pope hats.
She giggles. “It’s punch, darling, don’t worry. Nothing sinister.” She grabs my hand and leads me through an old, rundown looking apartment toward a dingy kitchen. “I’m Amber, I went to school with MK. She was always talking about you, you know. I gotta admit, you aren’t what I expected.” Amber’s eyes dart up and down my long skirt, and the conservative, expensive blouse I picked out for this occasion, which I clearly and totally misunderstood. “What are you supposed to be, an actual nun?”
“Escaped from a convent,” I manage.
We reach the kitchen, and a mass of boobs and hair assaults me in a giant, bone-crushing hug. Mary Kate is dressed in her sluttiest best. Somehow she makes the skintight neon red miniskirt and matching pleather bustier totally work. It probably helps that she’s 5’10” of Victoria’s Secret model proportions.
“Hi MK,” I manage to squeak out.
“I thought you’d never get here!” she exclaims dramatically, still squeezing all the air from my lungs while she plants a wet kiss on my cheek. Someone’s already been at the pope juice, I see.
When she finally lets me go to breathe, I grin up at her. I could never stay mad at MK for long. She’s the one friend I could always pour my soul out to, ever since we were kids and our parents arranged for us to write letters through a pen pal program so we could both “experience new cultures” through each other
.
She’s the only person who knows the whole story about he-who-must-not-be-named, too.
“Me?” I exclaim. “I thought you would never get here! You left me wandering around Oxford alone and confused for a whole week of foreign student orientation.”
“I’m sorry darling—you know how the Mother can be. Punch?” She extends a fistful of some sort of violently red beverage.
“You also didn’t explain the whole fancy dress thing,” I point out as I accept the punch.
“I honestly thought you knew.” She pouts. She does look sorry. “Tarts and Vicars is a tradition on campus. Haven’t you ever seen Bridget Jones?”
I snort into my cup of punch. Mm. The drink is pretty damn tasty. Pure sugar, just the way I like.
MK spins to face the rest of the kitchen. A gaggle of guys and girls in various stages of undress smile at us expectantly.
“Now. Let me introduce the crew.”
Three sips into my second round of punch, I realize my mistake. This stuff is strong. Mary Kate has migrated upstairs to the roof with a hot American guy I vaguely recognize from exchange orientation. Even though she paused to wink over his shoulder at me before going, I feel a little bit abandoned. First she brings me here without explaining what the hell “fancy dress” parties really entail, then she skips out with the first hot guy who winks at her? I mean, yes, her new boytoy displays an impressive arsenal of temptation, but really, she couldn’t have made sure I was okay first?
Her friends from the kitchen have dissipated, and to be honest, I didn’t remember any of their names yet anyway.
I walk (okay, stumble) toward the confessional booth in the corner. I haven’t seen anyone go in and out of it all night—it seems more like a party prop than anything else. Adding to the atmosphere. I only wish I’d known what that atmosphere would be before I agreed to meet MK tonight.
