Now Nicole is on the prowl, hungry for a wild tryst with a tasty treat. The only question is, who? With the elusive Dr. Cartwright out of reach, and at a college with a prominently female student population, possible conquests appear mighty slim…until a chance encounter with an eager, dashing young man at a local restaurant opens up a possibility. Can a handsome twenty-something fill her now ravenous appetite? And if so, how much more will she want?
Oooo...la la! A Simply Sexy Excerpt for your reading pleasure:
Five days ago, she had attended a faculty party at Professor Simon Connolly’s house in Berry Creek. The party was an early August tradition since she had joined the university faculty ten years ago to teach a course on Romantic poetry and Gothic novels. Simon referred to it as “the last professors’ bash before corrupting the minds of American youth,” but often they were sedate affairs. The rooms were full of middle-aged academics discussing, sometimes passionately but often in hushed tones, the previous semester’s office politics, the national scene, and funding decisions. This fall a new professor would be teaching a course on Chaos theory, and Simon wanted to show him the university’s welcome by showing “the scientist from MIT” that even small town academics knew how to par-tay.
Nicole added Simon’s inflection, complete with a mock Irish accent, when she and Gina Burns discussed attending the party over drinks at Gina’s house two days before the party was set to take place. “He said that? What is this, 1994? Does Simon think that kids still say that?”
Nicole laughed and sipped her merlot. They sat at a table underneath the shade of Gina’s porch. The afternoon heat beat down on the trees in the backyard. Even the misters hissing fine spray around them did little to cool them. “Simon was a survivor of the 1960’s. He still thinks kids say ‘groovy’ and ‘fab’. I just think he wants to debate the new guy,” Nicole mused. Simon taught philosophy at the university, and Nicole believed he never got over his Catholic roots. “He’s supposed to be a genius, and from what I understand, will have a pop science book out in a couple of months. Personally, I think he’s jealous.”
With a paper napkin, Gina dabbed at the perspiration beading at the hollow of her throat and along her collarbone. “I see. Albert Einstein’s younger brother writes a book that makes physics understandable to the same crowd that reads James Patterson, but Simon’s books never sell more than a hundred copies each, and that’s often to students who’ve taken his course.” Gina taught Economics to freshmen, and was one of the few people who ever had intimidated Doug. She was intelligent, attractive, and tall—six foot one—with the lean body of a dancer.
“That has a lot to do with it,” Nicole admitted. “I think too, that he invited me because he wants to know who Doug is screwing these days.” This was a small town, and the college was one of the hubs of activity. While she knew of several professors whose behind-closed-doors student conferences involved much more than standard extra credit counseling, most of the university’s faculty kept their relationships at a professional student-teacher level.
Not Doug. Doug, it turned out, had a string of students lining up outside his office for special “academic guidance.” When they finally agreed to a divorce, she lost count of the number of students who had received the benefit of his instruction. Worse, he never practiced discretion. Many of the male professors learned firsthand when Doug bragged to them, and word got around the rest of the campus pretty quickly. Nicole tried to avoid the gossip. When Gina told her, Nicole merely laughed and said, “You’ve been reading too much John Updike,” but when she finally confronted Doug, he merely shrugged.
Gina downed her drink, a strong margarita on the rocks, and snaked her tongue around an ice cube. Nicole thought for a moment of some of the things she had heard about Gina as well, about how she could torture a man with that tongue until he shuddered into coital bliss, and wondered if she had ever used it on a woman. Not that Nicole would be interested—the idea of being with a woman never interested her—but if she ever decided to date again she might need to pick up some pointers.
“I hear Doug’s fucking some blonde with big tits,” Gina said. “Talk about a cliché. And she used to be one of Simon’s students. If you need to tell that Irish pervert anything, tell him Doug may die being suffocated by cleavage.”
Nicole shook her head. “I don’t know that I want to tell him anything. It’s done. It shouldn’t be a topic of conversation anymore.”
Gina reflected. “You know, from what I hear, the new professor is supposed to be attractive. Brad Pitt’s looks crossed with Isaac Newton’s brain. Maybe you could get to know him. Start something up, maybe even be the subject of the next campus rumor.”
“Dating, having a fling, none of it sounds palatable right now,” Nicole answered.
“You’ve got to get back on the horse at some point,” said Gina. “Maybe you could look at this as your chance. I’ll even wait before I try anything.”
Nicole feigned shock. “You wouldn’t gobble him up before the rest of the female staff get a chance to check him out? That would be a switch.”
Gina reached across the table and squeezed Nicole’s hand. “I’m just saying keep it open as a possibility. And if not, then we’re back to the status quo. I get him first, and the rest suffer by comparison. They can either get in line behind me or help out.” She winked.
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Marcos London was born in Massachusetts but has lived most of his life in the Lone Star State. A graduate of the University of Texas at Austin with a degree in English, he has worked as a projectionist, a bookseller, a technical writer, a substitute teacher, an internal auditor, trainer, and editor. Although a creative dabbler who has been telling stories since he learned to clutch a crayon, it was not until 2011 that he began selling fiction.