The Art of Sexâ€¦ In Writing.
The name alone would have made it the most sought-after writing course at Columbia, but it didnâ€™t hurt that the professor was smoking hot!
Addison Tomms was an aspiring romance novelist and senior Creative Writing Major at the prestigious Ivy League university. The class was packed and judging by the tongues wagging and the obvious swooning by the male and female student body alike, she figured she was one, in maybe a hundred, serious writing students in the auditorium.
Addy knew Dr. Jackson Michaels was a New York Times bestseller many times over, and secretly, she devoured his books. His love scenes set the pages, and her body, on fire. It was no secret that the associate professor teaching the course was sexyâ€¦ but was he as really as sexy as his words?
Addison had her answer on the very first day of class when the handsome Dr. Michaels taunted and teased his students with what the class actually entailed; all watching with mouths agape. He was a thousand percent more stunning in person than the television entertainment interviews sheâ€™d seen or any of the photos that she and her best friend, Michelle, had spent hours searching online.
Something stirred deep inside her when his sensual eyes raked over her because sheâ€™d been the only one brave enough to answer his first question. Her reaction was physical; his gaze felt as if heâ€™d actually touched her, and she was more and more intrigued.
SMUT UNIVERSITY (Part One) Excerpt
His eyes locked with mine. â€œMiss Tomms,â€ he said my name without asking who I was. A shiver ran through me that he remembered; like it foreshadowed some earth-shattering scene about to come. Those intense eyes framed by incredibly dark lashes. The strong jaw. The broad, muscular shoulders. God, that face. That f*cking sex hair. Up close it was criminal how incredibly sexy he was. He was utterly stunning.
My breath left me in a soft rush, and I sucked in another so I could speak. â€œDr. Michaels,â€ I acknowledged with a small nod.
He had a file box in front of him that held the graded papers separated alphabetically by dividers. He reached in and slowly pulled mine out. Maybe this weird tradition he had of insisting the first assignment was printed out was his way to bring his students face-to face in order to press upon us just how intimidating he actually was. And, he was.
There was admiration in his eyes as they roamed over my face and hair, lingering on my mouth. I couldnâ€™t help looking at his. His lips were as perfect as the rest of him, the lower one full and begging to be bitten. I cleared my throat. I felt like helpless prey; paralyzed by a mixture of fear and adulation; the venom of his incredible eyes and his scent. Whether it was his will to eat me alive or seduce me, it was certain that I would succumb to either in that moment. My heart thrummed inside my chest, blood rushing in my ears, wetness pooling between my legs. Oh, God, my legs went weak and I struggled to stand.
His long fingers bent the stack of stapled paper so that the grade was hidden from view when he held it out to me. I held the book bag to me with one arm and reached for the document with the other hand.
He pulled it back for a second, denying it to me, his brilliant eyes still burning, but now teasing into mine. I cocked one eyebrow in question and a hint of a smile graced his luscious mouth. â€œIâ€™d like to see you in my office, tomorrow. I have office hours from four to six. Does that work?â€
My mind was racing; wondering at the reason behind his request at the same time as my heart fell into the pit of my stomach. Did I totally screw up the assignment? I felt like I was about to throw up and wished the earth would open up and swallow me.
He cleared his throat. â€œMiss Tomms? Does that work for you?â€
â€œUmmm,” I stammered. “Yes, professor. See you then.â€
â€œExcellent.â€ He handed me the paper, his eyes still not breaking contact. I felt like I was falling into the deepest end of the ocean, drowning and only he could save me. I was in trouble.
My heart felt as if it would fly from my aching chest as I took the paper and turned, concentrating on walking without rushing to the far left of the room, taking the side stairs up to the marble lobby and then walking out of the building. I wanted to look at the grade as I clutched the still folded assignment in my hand, but something inside me hesitated. My heart felt like it would explode as I opened the folded pages and then, in astonishment flipped through the rest. There was no grade. No editorial mark-ups. Nothing.
“What the f*ck?” I exclaimed.
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