unrequited love. But it’s time to move on. No more stalking, no more obsessive
seeing around campus could be a great one—only he is the new poetry
professor—the married poetry professor.
broody—but his glares and taunts don’t scare Layla. She might be bad at poetry,
but she is good at reading between the lines. Beneath his prickly façade,
Thomas is lonely, and Layla wants to know why. Obsessively.
the storage room of a bar with your professor and you kiss him. Sometimes he
kisses you back like the world is ending and he will never get to kiss you
again. He kisses you until you forget the years of unrequited love; you forget
all the rules, and you dare to reach for something that is not yours.
topics like cheating and death. 18+ Only.
a storm of desire to kiss him better. It’s a tornado, an avalanche in my body,
and in one breathless moment, I decide to go for it. It’s okay. I can take the
blame for it later.
rules and reach up and kiss him. A feathery peck on his plump lips, it’s a kiss
of solidarity, a kiss that intends to tell him I understand—but one isn’t
enough. It only manages to ratchet up my lust. So I give him another, this time
on the corner of his mouth, and then another one on his jaw.
touches. I want more, but I won’t take it. I’ll be good; I’ll only give.
he fists my curls and stops me. I look at him fearfully, ready to apologize—not
for the kiss, but for being the kisser. His gaze reflects passion, stark,
raving need, and I shiver, despite wearing layers and sweating with his heat.
trying to kiss me, Layla?” he rasps, flexing his fingers on my makeshift
tell? Blush rises to the surface and I know I’m glowing like a neon sign.
Swallowing, I nod. “Yes.”
closer to me, still not touching—as impossible as that is—but infinitely
closer. “You want to kiss me, Miss Robinson, you do it right.”
does he have to call me that? Now, here? My spine arches on its own and my
heavy tits graze the contours of his shuddering chest.
ask innocently, belying the daring action of my body. His stern, professor-y
voice is doing things to me, making me wild, uncontrolled.
second, he’s silent, just watching. I’m afraid he’ll back out from whatever
this is, whatever insanity we’re about to commit—but then I sense the shift in
the liquor-laced air as he opens his mouth and growls, “Like this.”
Drinker. Imaginary Ballet Dancer and poetess. Aspiring Lana Del Ray of the book
I’m a big believer in love (obviously). I believe in happily ever after, the
butterflies and the tingling. But I also believe in edgy, rough and gutsy kind
of love. I believe in pushing the boundaries, darker (sometimes morally
ambiguous) emotions and imperfections.
The kind of love I write about is flawed just like my characters. And I hope by
the end of it, you’ll come to root for them just as much as me. Because love,
no matter where it comes from, is always pure and beautiful.