Teach me
everything.
The Hookup Equation, an all-new
romantic comedy that is “filled to the brim with laughs and emotion” from Roxie
Noir, is available now!
My whole life, I’ve been a good girl.
I follow rules like nobody’s business. I obey guidelines like I was born to it.
Show me a line, and I’ll toe it.
I’m even a twenty-two-year-old
virgin. Good is my middle name.
And then, I break one tiny little
rule. Miniscule. Inconsequential.
Next thing I know, I’m trapped with
an incredibly handsome stranger. He’s got eyes like cut emeralds, biceps that
makes my head spin, and a smile that has me rethinking all my life choices.
We escape a bar bathroom together. We
go on an impromptu date. We share the hottest kiss I’ve ever had, one that
leaves me panting for more. We promise to see each other again.
Turns out, we see each other the next
morning.
In my calculus class.
Which he’s teaching.
My handsome, sexy date is Professor
Loveless, and we’ll be seeing each other plenty. Every Monday, Wednesday, and
Friday all semester.
There’s no choice but to call it off.
We both have too much at stake: I could lose my scholarship, and he could lose
his entire career.
But I can’t call off the way I feel.
I can’t call off the way he looks
when he rolls up his sleeves and explains imaginary numbers.
I can’t call off the heated glances,
or the way our hands touch when I hand in my homework, or the memory of his
body pressing against mine that night.
I’m a virgin.
He’s my professor.
And if we give in, it could cost us
both everything.
But I’m so tired of being a good
girl.
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Excerpt
“I’m sorry I was a jerk on Friday
night,” I start over, moving closer. “I still think that what I said was valid,
but I didn’t have to —"
He steps closer, leans in.
“—I didn’t have to be an asshole
about it,” I say into his ear.
“I think I deserved it,” he says. His
lips brush my ear, and my eyes flutter closed.
Don’t, I tell myself. Don’t
do a single thing that isn’t apologizing for your behavior.
As if I didn’t seek him out. As if I
didn’t drag him into this tiny, cramped back staircase.
“No, you were right,” I tell him,
automatically reaching out, steadying myself against his shoulder. “I found you
at the banquet. I kissed you later. I gave you a bottle of wine.”
“But I’m the one who should know
better,” he says, and then his hand is on mine, holding it against his warm
chest. My heart beats harder, faster.
“You think I don’t?”
“I shouldn’t be giving you rides and
walking you home,” he goes on. “Pretending that those things are perfectly fine
and innocent, because they’re not.”
We shift in the tiny space and
suddenly our bodies are touching from shoulder to hip, the jolt of his heat
like an electric current.
“We shouldn’t be seeing each other at
all,” I tell him, even as I close my eyes, press myself into him so softly I
can tell myself I’m not doing anything, my lips millimeters from his ear.
“No,” he says. “The more I see you
the harder it is to pretend I don’t like you.”
A hand on my hip, his fingers
touching bare skin above my too-small shorts.
“And the harder it is to pretend I
don’t want you,” he whispers.
My heart’s beating so hard and fast
that it feels like my ribcage is rattling in my body. Outside and from above,
the organ hums thickly, surrounding us.
“What if it were my fault?” I ask.
“What do you mean?”
I know I should walk away. I know
that. I know my coworker Nathaniel got expelled for sexual misconduct and while I have no intention of making porn, I’m
fairly certain that sleeping with my professor also falls into that category.
I know he could get fired and his
career could be over.
I know a million things wrong with
this scenario, and not one of them stops me.
“I mean,” I say, and plant a kiss on
his neck, right below his jaw. His fingers curl into my spine.
“What if —" another kiss, higher
up, “— it were my fault?”
The last kiss lands on his jawline,
right below his ear, my fingers now woven through his hair, his slight stubble
sharp on my lips.
He moves his hand until his palm is
flat on my back, in the space between the shorts and my vest, underneath the
jacket I’m still wearing. He swallows hard, his breath on my neck.
Then his hand is on my face, his
thumb stroking my jaw, and he pulls me back, his green eyes nearly black in the
dark, his lips parted, his gaze roaming my face. I don’t breathe. I don’t think
my heart beats.
And he kisses me.
About Roxie
I love writing sexy, alpha men and the headstrong women
they fall for.
My weaknesses include: beards, whiskey, nice abs with
treasure trails, sarcasm, cats, prowess in the kitchen, prowess in the bedroom,
forearm tattoos, and gummi bears.
I live in California with my very own sexy, bearded,
whiskey-loving husband and two hell-raising cats.
Connect with
Roxie
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