Page 5 of The Hockey Player and the Tutor
Not only did it provide historical relevance to how the world looked at sex back then, but it also delves into the manner in which these authors portrayed romance and intimacy. And, honestly, it was just downright hot and steamy reads.
Studying sex in literature was an erotic feast for my imagination. I had no idea how my body would react to all the steaminess included in those books—but react it did. As a virgin, I have no experience with sex, desire, or love as a basis to compare sex in real life to that in the books. But immersing myself in those novels sure did ratchet up my interest in finding out what all the fuss is about.
Sadly, a year later, I still have no clue.
I select an open table and set my bag down on the empty chair with a sigh. None of those problems will be resolved tonight as I scan the room for anyone that looks like they might be Preston. I’m picturing this stuck-up, polo shirt-wearing douche with slicked back hair and daddy’s Porsche fob on his key ring.
“Ahem.”
The deep throaty sound from behind my shoulder startles me. I whip around and smack right into a brick wall.
Well, not an actual wall, but a hard chest of a man. And when I say smack, what I really mean to say is that my Dolly Parton-sized boobs flop and then smoosh against this gigantic guy standing in front of me and leave melon-shaped wet spots on his shirt.
The embarrassment alone has me disoriented and shook. On instinct, my hands fly up to push away from this tall impediment and I flatten my palms on the first thing I can reach. His pecs. The thick muscles strain and flex under the weight of my fingers, and instead of dropping my hands, I dig my fingertips into the T-shirt.
I wobble slightly when I crane my neck up to see what towers over me. My shoulders tremble involuntarily—is that from the cold air or this guy’s hugeness? He’s like some kind of lumberjack with massive shoulders that fill the red and black plaid jacket he wears. The herky-jerky movement of my body has my sweater slipping off my shoulders and it falls around my feet like a pink puddle on the floor.
I remain staring up into the twinkling eyes of the biggest man I’ve ever seen like a fawn caught in the headlights. He stares down at me, his deep blue gaze drifting over my face and then down over my…
Oh, crap.
I drop to my knees, pivoting on my heels to scrounge around the floor for my sweater, and then look up again at the mountain of man in front of me.
He takes a quick glance around the room, his brows lifted in amusement. His wavy, tawny-gold hair swishes over his forehead, still a little damp on the ends, and a pinkish swirl tinges up his neck and over his cheeks. Even his ears turn a tomato red.
That’s kind of cute, but he seems embarrassed too. Why would he be…
Oh…I’m so preoccupied by his appearance that I realize too late what it might look like from someone else’s vantage point. A young woman on her knees in front of a hot man with her head right at his crotch.
Oh, my God!
“Uh…do you need help?” he asks in a low baritone that shoots delicious zaps of electricity down my spine and between my legs.
A quote from D.H. Lawrence’sLady Chatterley’s Lovercomes unbidden in my head. “…and the moment you begin to be aware of your body, you are wretched.”
I quickly stand and yank the material of my pink cardigan over my chest, turning around as I absently fumble with removing my books from my bag on the table. I try to hide my humiliation over being such an idiot, not to mention my damp appearance.
“I’m sorry.” I throw my hand in the air. “I’m such a klutz.”
A gentle touch lands on my shoulder.
His voice is calm and quiet, as if this is all normal to him. “Hey, it’s okay. I’m the one who should be sorry for sneaking up on you. But I thought you saw me walking toward you. I assume you’re Brinly?”
“Y-yes. I’m Brin. You’re Preston?” I say with a shaky voice, nervously turning to the side and offering my hand for him to shake. With my other hand, I grab hold of the sweater edge to keep it from falling off again and exposing my breasts. My nipples remain fully erect, like missiles ready to launch and he has the launch code.
He drops my hand when I step back, doing everything I can to avoid his eye contact right now. I grab a chair and slink down, pretending to organize my books and papers by shuffling them around. When my hair falls forward, I fiddle with the still damp ends, flicking the strands over my shoulder. I must look like a drowned rat.
“You’re early,” I blurt out, tipping my head up to see his lips quirk into a half grin. “I wasn’t expecting you to be on time.”
His eyes connect with mine again and I notice they crinkle at the corners, his long lashes framing his deep-set eyes. They are warm and blue like the ocean and hold a thousand untold stories in them.
He chuckles, hooking his thumb toward the door of the library. “Sorry. I can go and come back if you want.”
I blink up at him with confusion. Is he serious? “Uh…why would you when you’re already here?”
Preston flashes me a bright, white-toothed smile. “I’m just messing with you. I have a habit of using humor when I’m nervous.”
He glances away, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets. What in the world would a guy like him be nervous about?
