Description:
I am not a slut, although I’ve been called one often enough. Yeah, I spent three months screwing one of my college professors, but I was crazy about the guy. Then he broke up with me.
I am not a bitch, although people like to say I am. I kept our relationship secret. I’m not responsible for telling the university administrators about it, but a lot of students still blame me for getting their favorite professor fired.
I am not a drama queen, although everyone thinks I am now. When I got a few nasty messages, I just deleted them. When I got the threat, I assumed it was someone being stupid. I still think that’s all it was. My parents worry, though, so they hired me a bodyguard. Now Jack follows me around, intimidating everyone who approaches me and looking obnoxiously hot.
This is what I am. I’m Chloe. I’m a twenty-year-old art history major. Kind of shy, although I pretend not to be. Stubborn enough to stay here for my senior year, even though everyone hates me.
And I’m stuck with Jack.
He calls me “Princess,” but I’m not a princess either.
EXCERPT
I put down my coffee cup so I can bristle at this comment instead of laugh—which is what I really want to do. “That wouldn’t be very bad-ass. And I’ve got to say you don’t have much leeway on that account. You don’t have any cool fighting skills. You haven’t been a SEAL. You haven’t been in jail. You don’t have a tattoo. Not very bad-ass, are you?”
He starts to laugh but then his expression changes strangely. He reaches over and pulls my blanket up over my shoulders.
“Why did you do that?” I let the blanket drop, mostly to defy him.
He lets out a breath as his eyes lower to my chest and then jerk away abruptly.
I glance down to where he was looking and discover that I’m not exactly proper. One of my straps has fallen off my shoulder and the neckline of my tank is drooping dramatically, revealing more cleavage than is entirely appropriate. Plus, my nipples are super-tight and poking out through the fabric.
I jerk the blanket up over my shoulders again. My body doesn’t have such standards, though, and it’s getting all excited about the idea of Jack seeing me like that.
Okay, we were having a conversation. Think about that. Think about that—and not about the way the tension in Jack’s body makes me want to run my hands up and down him.
I have no idea what the conversation is even about. I can’t think about anything except Jack and his big body and his strong hands and his rough jaw and that deep, hot, knowing look in his eyes.
And now I’m jumping off the couch to put up my coffee mug. Better to do that than to do what I’m really wanting to do.
He’s standing up when I return to the living area.
“Where are you going?” I ask, stopping abruptly.
“I was going home. Bill is outside, and you’re perfectly safe.”
“Oh.” I don’t really want him to go, but that’s kind of hard to admit. “I thought you might show me some bad-ass moves.”
“I thought you said I wasn’t a bad-ass.”
“Well, you’re more bad-ass than I am. You could show me how to protect myself.”
His eyes are focused on my face with a strange intensity, as if he’s having to fight to keep them there. “If someone comes after you, princess, then your best move is to run.”
“But isn’t there some special way martial arts way of me knocking them out?”
“You’ve been watching too many movies. The best way to protect yourself is inflict the most damage with the least amount of effort.”
“So how do I do that?”
“Go for his balls.”
I frown. “Oh.”
“I’m serious. His balls or his eyes or his nose. Wherever he’s vulnerable. Wherever you can get to with a hard part of your body.”
“I don’t have hard parts to my body.” Yeah, I know that sounds stupid, but this guy really throws me off and I can’t make my mind work the right way.
He smiles in that knowing way he has and steps over closer to me. “You don’t have many,” he murmurs, that delicious rasp in his voice again.
*******
For the last month, he has almost always been calm and laidback. Only when I get a nasty message does he look angry, and only when there’s a potential threat (none of them materializing into real danger) does he look urgent.
But now, for no good reason, he suddenly seems to simmer with some sort of intensity. He steps forward until I’m backed up against the wall, and I stare up at him with my lips parted. It’s like something is shuddering inside him, just begging to get out.
I have no idea what it is, but I like it. God help me, I like it.
“I mean you’ve got to toughen up eventually,” he murmurs, a thick note in his voice I’m not used to.
It makes me shiver. It makes my girly parts clench.
But the actual words make my spine stiffen again. “What do you mean I have to toughen up? I’m plenty tough.”
He plants a hand on the wall behind me, just to the right of my shoulder, and he leans into me, so there’s only a few inches between our faces. I see the dark curve of his eyelashes. I see the heavy stubble on his jaw. I see the fire in his eyes, and I just can’t look away from it.
I have to clench my hand to keep from touching him.
“You are not tough enough,” he says, his voice even more gravelly than before. “You’re tender. You’re vulnerable. You’re soft and sweet, and your heart is just as soft and sweet as your body. I can stop them from hurting your body, but I can’t stop them from hurting your heart. You’ve got to do that yourself.”
Oh, God, I ache. In my chest. Between my legs. I’m mesmerized by his eyes, his voice, the heat of his body just a breath away from mine. “I’m trying.” My voice is a little shaky, and I can’t help but tell him the truth. “I’m trying, but how the hell do I not let them hurt me?”
“You’ve got to stop caring about what they think. You’ve got to believe that they’re not important to you.”
“I do care. I care that people hate me so much. People have never hated me before.”
“I know they haven’t.” He reaches out and cups my face. His hand is really big and a little calloused, and it curves around my cheek and jaw—warm and strong and protective. His thumb moves in a little caress, stroking just to the side of my lips.
It feels so good I lean into the touch. One of my hands goes up to his chest, and I tighten my fingers in the fabric of his shirt.
I can’t remember ever being so turned on—flushed, weak in the knees, throbbing in all the goods spots—from something that isn’t sexual. Just Jack’s intense physicality and the gentle stroking of his thumb on my cheek.
There’s no way I can hide it. I let my head fall backward and arch my spine against the wall, pressing my breasts toward him without thinking. I let out a long, textured, embarrassing sigh. It’s almost—almost—a moan.
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About the author:
Rachel is a writer, a teacher, a romance reader, and a dog-mom. She loves animals and art and hot men with soft hearts under a tough exterior. She tries to write love stories that feel real, even in unlikely circumstances.
Rachel is a writer, a teacher, a romance reader, and a dog-mom. She loves animals and art and hot men with soft hearts under a tough exterior. She tries to write love stories that feel real, even in unlikely circumstances.
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