Talk Dirty To Me by Inez Kelley, Ginny Glass Read Free Book Online

bobbed with a swallow. His eyes met hers and sparked with something—amusement? Shock?

    “I have,” he answered, his eyes dropping to his coffee cup. “They’re a bit racy. This is only our second date, Nora.”

    Nora laughed. Jarod was adorable. “I…A friend sent them to me. I guess they’re supposed to help with my dissertation.”

    Jarod’s eyes sparkled in the dim light and he reached over, rubbing his fingers over the back of her hand. “You can’t explain away passion like that with DNA sequences, sweetheart.”

    Sweetheart.

    Nora’s heart hit a speed bump and last night’s conversation came roaring back into her head. A tremor of suspicion narrowed her eyes. What was the likelihood that two men would call her sweetheart in the same twenty-four-hour period? Her throat tightened reflexively before a chagrined exhale relaxed it.

    His voice carried the rich notes of a cello, not the sultry smoke of a saxophone. No, Jarod was too proper to engage in the wicked debauchery she and James had gorged on. From the neat edges of his classic-cut hair to the pressed pleat of his trousers, he was the epitome of debonair. She could easily see him sipping chardonnay and making polite small talk at faculty gatherings.

    Her gaze dropped to his fingers stroking her hand. They were long, lean, like a piano player’s. The short-clipped nails and hidden strength in his touch churned through her blood. She was instantly hotter than the steaming liquid she lifted to her lips.

    Maybe James was right. Maybe she wasn’t broken. And maybe there was more to Jarod than Shakespeare and Dickens.

    “Passion like that…What do you know about passion like that?” She was toying with him. She lifted her gaze over the rim of her cup and locked her eyes on the warming green of his.

    He set his coffee aside. His narrowed gaze raked over her. “Miss MacGregor, are you flirting with me?”

    The fingers on the back of her hand curled and she rolled her palm, clasping his. The simple act of holding hands burned with eroticism. Long, slow arcs of his thumb on her skin sizzled, and her breath caught. She leaned forward, propping one elbow on the table edge, knowing the move would give him a small glimpse into the soft grey V-neck of her sweater. “Maybe.”

    Interest flared like a match, and his eyes traveled slowly from her face down to her collarbone. She could almost feel the slide, the path of the emerald fire as his lashes lowered. A thrumming under her ribs spread heavy yearning through her body.

    “‘My true love for you, the love of my verses, the love of my eyes for your strange luring eyes, comes blowing over my soul like a wind of spices…’” Nora stared steadily as she quoted.

    Jarod’s eyes flicked up to hers. A challenging gleam brewed behind his glasses and his smile bordered on wicked. “James Joyce loved his wife, mind, body and soul. How would you explain that as anything other than purely of the heart? Passion and love aren’t an equation. They simply are.”

    She fought not to get lost in the simmering sea of his gaze. “I don’t know that I believe in the intangible, and any teenager can feel passion.”

    Jarod shook his head. “No, teenagers feel the rush of hormones they can’t control. Lust is temporary, easily satisfied and forgotten. Passion consumes you.”

    The moment stretched, thickened. Nora’s pulse beat hard in her throat. She wanted to drown in those beautiful eyes. The waitress bustled up with their burgers. Nora pulled her hand away and Jarod leaned back, the moment broken.

    His voice was light. “These look great.”

    They started in on their meal and their conversation relaxed as Nora shook off the electric sensitivity skating along her nerves.

    What’s happening to me?

    Lunch was not supposed to be torture. It was supposed to be a burger and fries and a walk to Nora’s lab. Jarod jammed his hands into his pockets as he kept pace with her on the brick path, willing