fucking filthy that I’ll never be clean again?
When twenty-five-year-old graduate assistant Caiden Brenner asked Blaire Leon how old she was, she said she was a senior. He chose to believe she meant in college. They connect over Lord Byron’s Don Juan and, as their conversations become increasingly thicker with sexual innuendo, Caiden finds himself obsessing over a totally off-limits undergrad who’s bold, beautiful, brilliant, and one of the most passionate poets he’s ever met.
“A thousand and one feels….Getting Dirty is a thrilling, tantalizing forbidden romance you do not want to miss! I not only devoured this book, it devoured me right back!”–Katy Evans, New York Times Bestselling author of REAL
“What year are you?” I don’t even realize I’ve said it until it’s out of my mouth.
Her eyes flick from the book to mine. “A senior.”
I feel my eyebrows arch before I can stop them. “You look younger.”
She bites her lips between her teeth for a moment. “Is that good or bad?”
“Neither, I suppose.” But my insides burn, knowing that she’s not as off-limits as I originally thought. It’s nearing the end of January. Commencement will be here soon enough. She graduates and all bets are off.
“So…” she says, twisting a finger into the ends of her hair. “I know you like old, dead poets. How do you feel about hearing something fresher?”
I lean toward her. “Such as?”
“I’m reading in a poetry slam tonight. It’s just something over at Tino’s in Jonestown on the fourth Friday of every month. There’s no prize money or anything, but I perform something new pretty much every month.”
“A poetry slam…” I want to say yes in the worst way, but it feels dangerously like a date.
She must read the hesitation in my eyes. “If it’s too weird, no worries. I just thought, since you like poetry…”
She leaves the thought dangling. Like a noose. And I jump right into it. “Yeah. Why not?”
The answer to that rhetorical question is that it’s not May yet and she hasn’t graduated. I’m risking everything I’ve worked the last three years toward. My entire future. But the voice of reason is being drowned out by the raging waves of something rolling up from the deepest layers of my being like an undertow. Something base and essential. And unrelenting.
“Do you want to meet me there?” she asks, standing from her seat and giving me a better view of the entire exquisite length of her.
“Yeah…that’s probably best.” Plausible deniability. No, Dr. Duncan, I didn’t have any clue she’d be there. Just went to hear the poetry.
“Great,” she says as she gathers her book and shoves it in her bag. “It starts at nine. There are usually five or six poets and it’s a random draw, so I don’t know what time I’ll be reading.”
I nod without standing, no longer able to tame my erection. “I’ll be there at nine.”
“You know where Tino’s is?”
Electricity crackles under my skin. I’m really doing this. “Yeah. I’ll find it.”
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