Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67801 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 339(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
“Class ended at eight. I’m grading papers now.”
“And hoping someone notices your dashing new wardrobe?”
Thomas chuckled, and damn, I loved that sound. “Something like that.”
“Well, please tell me you at least wore your new boxer briefs.”
“I did.”
“Oh,” I purred. “What color?”
“Black.”
“Mmm. Good choice. What else?”
“Shirt, socks, shoes…”
“Oh, Thomas. We need to work on your phone-sex technique.”
“Phone sex? I’m not…I didn’t—I don’t know how to do that.”
My grin felt like it split my face in half. “I’ll start. First, set the scene…I’m sitting on my sofa in nothing but the tiniest G-string and—”
“Wait. Is that true?” he intercepted incredulously.
“No…but we can pretend,” I teased.
Silence. My smile dipped as I waited for him to fill it. Damn it. I’d gone too far.
“I have a question, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course.”
“You texted and picked up my call. I’m taking that as a good sign. Does this mean we’re friends?” he asked tentatively.
“We were always friends, Professor.”
“Okay, but perhaps we should define the terms of friendship. I don’t want to get it wrong.”
“Terms?” I frowned.
“Well, you don’t share all of your highs and lows with all of your friends. Some get your work concerns, others belong to a wider circle…and some strong-arm their way in, make unrealistic demands, and ask a million questions,” Thomas replied matter-of-factly. “I fall into the latter category.”
I burst into laughter, suddenly feeling lighter than I had since Sunday afternoon. “I like friends who show initiative. Yes, we’re friends and yes, you can ask me anything.”
“Okay…what are you actually wearing?”
I glanced at my ensemble and chuckled. “Hawaiian-themed PJ bottoms and a T-shirt that’s been washed so many times, I’m not sure what was on it originally. But let’s pretend I’m wearing itty-bitty undies instead. Then again, maybe not. I can’t do service to a G-string. I wore one once and it went so far up my crack I was afraid it would have to be surgically removed.”
“That sounds…painful.” Thomas cough-laughed.
“Are you okay?”
“No, I almost choked on an olive. I’m eating a late dinner in my office. I didn’t have time for lunch today.”
“Ah, what’s on the menu?”
“Greek salad from the Aegean Café.”
“I love Greek food. I could die happily on a bed of spanakopita.” I sighed, pulling a throw blanket over my legs.
“Seems like a reasonable way to go.”
The silly retort was so out of character, I guffawed. Thomas joined in, then asked about my dinner, which earned me a short lecture on the importance of a healthy diet. It was the kind of rambling conversation about nothing in particular that served me well in my profession, but knowing it wasn’t Thomas’s forte made it special somehow.
The next evening, we covered the importance of plant life and lamented our black thumbs. I almost spit out my tea when he told me he’d absently watered a plastic orchid for an entire year before he’d clued in that it wasn’t real.
“How is that possible? You’re a genius!” I’d snickered.
“My genius failed me.”
I snort-laughed and admitted I’d done the same thing once or twice.
The following evening, he gave me a dissertation on the science behind ice cream while I indulged in a pint of Chunky Monkey. Don’t ask. The details were murky from the start. Ice crystals, air, fat globules…nothing sexy, yet it was surprisingly entertaining.
We spoke every night that week. And every night when I hung up, I reminded myself that I wasn't good for Thomas. I needed to steer him toward other men, and the best way to do that was to build his confidence.
So, a week or so later, I turned the volume down on Murder, She Wrote and cautiously broached the subject.
“We’ve been remiss, Professor.”
“How so?”
“We haven’t discussed your quest to find an appropriate date. We should probably do that.”
“Oh. Right. How do we start?” he asked awkwardly.
“You should probably give me an idea of your likes and dislikes.”
“Honest, friendly, easy to talk to,” he replied immediately. “But I’m more worried that he may be all of those things and I’ll be the one who freezes.”
“Give yourself some credit. You’re very personable and charming. And you never freeze with me.”
“Thank you, but phone conversations aren’t…intimate.”
“They can be.”
He cleared his throat. “What I mean is…we aren’t in a sexual situation nor are we discussing sex.”
Okay, I must have been out of my mind. Why else would I say… “If sex makes you nervous, maybe it would help to talk about it.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. Am I a sex therapist now?
“Sex doesn’t make me nervous,” he stated. “I’m actually quite good at it.”
Holy shit.
My hand went straight to my crotch.
“Are you?” I squeaked, squeezing my balls.
“Yes, but getting into a situation where I can put my skills to use is another matter. And I’m not good at…talking about it.”
His textbook delivery should have been funny, but the tent in my boxer briefs was no laughing matter. I gripped my shaft through the cotton barrier and licked my lips.