Dirty
A poem by Blaire Leon
If sex is dirty, why would I do it with someone I love?
If sex is dirty, then didn’t we all come from the dirt?
What if I like the dirt?
What if I want to get dirty?
What if I want to roll in the mud until I’m so 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.
But it turns out Blaire hasn't been totally honest. She's the seventeen-year-old valedictorian of her high school class, taking courses at Sierra State while awaiting her acceptance to Stanford.
Will Caiden get too deeply into Blaire to back away before he finds out the truth? Or will their connection be enough to seduce him into risking his entire future on Jail Bait?
******* My Review*****
I really enjoy this books. The characters were well made and there was not so much, drama and conflict as what you expect, but what I liked the most about it is that it was realistic. Storm, really got into things that made me think a lot, especially about those ridiculous society standards about who should be dating who and is right or wrong when it comes to love, Blaire and Caiden are bold characters that you can really related to. The most powerful message for me is that Love is love and it just happen, it knows not rules or ages, when it hits you, you just have to accepted, regardless the situations.
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About the Author:
Mia Storm is a hopeless romantic who is always searching for her happy ending. Sometimes she’s forced to make one up. When that happens, she’s thrilled to be able to share those stories with her readers. She lives in California and spends much of her time in the sun with a book in one hand and a mug of black coffee in the other, or hiking the trails in Yosemite. Connect with her online at MiaStormAuthor.blogspot.com , on Twitter at @MiaStormAuthor, and on Facebook at www.facebook.com/MiaStormAuthor.
EXCERPT
Without realizing I’m doing it, I find I’m leaning toward her. I catch myself and stop. But before I can pull back, she closes the rest of the distance and presses her lips hard against mine.
Any thought that I shouldn’t be doing this evaporates like fog in a stiff breeze at the taste of her mouth, moving hungrily on mine. She’s scotch and fire on my tongue as she devours me. Right or wrong, I’m powerless to stop her.
Her fingers run down my face to my chest as she opens her mouth wider, inviting me deeper inside. I take the invitation, tasting as much of her as she’ll give me. Her hands tug at the hem of my shirt and my breath catches when cold fingers meet my warm abs.
I press harder against her, drawing her closer, and fire rips through my veins as our tongues and hands explore the new landscapes of each other’s mouths and bodies.
But a shard of coherent thought finally manages to pierce the bubble I’ve constructed to justify what I’m doing. “You’re a student,” I say against her mouth.
Her lips skim to my ear. “I like you, Caiden,” she whispers, and her saying my name with that hot breath, that wet mouth, is nearly enough to break my resolve. “I like you a lot.”
I take her by the shoulders and gently peel her away, my heart hammering out African drumbeats against my ribcage. “You’re so damn incredible, but I can’t do this. It’s totally against university rules. I’m sorry.”
“You’re not my professor,” she says, her expression wounded. “If we like each other, I don’t see why it should matter.”
“I’m Dr. Duncan’s graduate assistant. My boss is your professor. It’s a conflict of interest, since I do most of his grading.”
“So you are conflicted.” It’s clear from the predatory shift her expression takes that she hears that I’m trying to convince myself as much as her.
I drop my head against the headrest. “I am.”
She leans closer again, her breast pressing against my arm through the thin cotton of her top. “I’ll never say anything. No one needs to know,” she whispers, her breath feathering over my neck.
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