Chapter One
His arctic-blue eyes met mine, and shivers of recognition
danced through me.
I hadn’t seen him in a year, but it felt like only days. As
gorgeous as ever, Justin arched his brows in surprise, giving me a shy smile
before pouring red wine into two long-stemmed glasses.
So he worked as a bartender in a hotel restaurant. Maybe I’d
ask him for a Sex on the Beach or better yet, a Screaming Orgasm. I grinned.
Still eyeing his dirty-blond hair, neatly trimmed beard and square jaw— God,
I’d love to trail my fingers along that jaw —I walked to the bar, swept my
short ruffled skirt under me and sat down. Long, black hair fell past my
shoulders. I tucked a few strands behind my ear, glad I’d taken extra time this
morning to apply Bold Bordeaux, my favorite shade of lipstick, and matching eye
shadow.
Hey, scrumptious , I wanted to say, but opted for a
more acceptable, “Hi, Justin, how have you been?” My teeth snagged on my lower
lip, and butterflies came alive in my stomach. Why the hell was I this nervous?
Because he’s half your age , my conscience snapped. And
in case you’ve forgotten, he’s your student.
Former student , my inner cougar growled back. He
graduated last June, remember?
“Hi, Mrs. Fall—”
“Jenna!” I corrected him. No need for formalities,
especially since they reminded me of my age. “I’m not your teacher anymore.”
“Jenna,” he said slowly, savoring every syllable as it
rolled off his tongue. He returned the bottle to its shelf and offered me the
wine list. “Great to see you. I’m going to the University of Montreal now. I
started a massage therapy program last summer, but I quit. Needed something
more intellectually stimulating.”
Oh I could stimulate you in all kinds of ways , the
cougar inside me purred.
In my media class, he’d always made insightful comments
about current events, and he eagerly dissected social issues. University suited
him better than massage school. Although massage school had its perks. I
pictured myself lying on a table, a towel draped over me from the waist down,
Justin’s oiled palms sliding down my back, and then creeping under the towel,
reaching all the way to my ass. In long, firm strokes, his hands glided upward,
along my spine, past my shoulders, his thumbs working at the muscles, melting
the tension at the base of my neck. Another smooth descent, his touch making me
wet, his index finger slipping into my crack, still lower, until it dipped into
my moist folds. My definition of bliss.
The waitress whisked the wineglasses off the bar. Except for
two other women chatting away in cozy armchairs by the window, the place was
empty. Good. We had privacy.
Running my fingers along the gold chain at my neck, I asked,
“What program are you in?”
“Fine Arts.”
“Photography?” In one of his oral presentations, he
discussed depictions of the female form, and showed the class a few photos he’d
taken of a nude model. Tasteful shots, I had to admit. He had talent.
“I’m mostly into lifecasting.”
“What’s that?” I opened the wine list and pretended to look
through it, gliding my red fingernail along a blur of names.
“Casts of live models that are made into sculptures. I’m
completing a series.” His face lit up and he spoke faster, clearly passionate
about his creations. “Would you like to see?”
“Of course.” Pushing the wine list aside, I placed my elbows
on the edge of the bar and leaned forward.
“I set up a website to post pics of my art. Hopefully, I can
sell a few pieces to help cover the cost of materials and tuition.” He reached
into his pocket for his cell phone, punched in a few keys, and showed me a
sculpture of a woman’s torso, including the lower half of her face. Her arms
modestly covered her breasts, and her chin turned shyly to one side.
“Breathtaking. It’s so lifelike.”
“Thanks,” he said, beaming. “It’s my best casting work so
far. There are more.”
As he
His arctic-blue eyes met mine, and shivers of recognition
danced through me.
I hadn’t seen him in a year, but it felt like only days. As
gorgeous as ever, Justin arched his brows in surprise, giving me a shy smile
before pouring red wine into two long-stemmed glasses.
So he worked as a bartender in a hotel restaurant. Maybe I’d
ask him for a Sex on the Beach or better yet, a Screaming Orgasm. I grinned.
Still eyeing his dirty-blond hair, neatly trimmed beard and square jaw— God,
I’d love to trail my fingers along that jaw —I walked to the bar, swept my
short ruffled skirt under me and sat down. Long, black hair fell past my
shoulders. I tucked a few strands behind my ear, glad I’d taken extra time this
morning to apply Bold Bordeaux, my favorite shade of lipstick, and matching eye
shadow.
Hey, scrumptious , I wanted to say, but opted for a
more acceptable, “Hi, Justin, how have you been?” My teeth snagged on my lower
lip, and butterflies came alive in my stomach. Why the hell was I this nervous?
Because he’s half your age , my conscience snapped. And
in case you’ve forgotten, he’s your student.
Former student , my inner cougar growled back. He
graduated last June, remember?
“Hi, Mrs. Fall—”
“Jenna!” I corrected him. No need for formalities,
especially since they reminded me of my age. “I’m not your teacher anymore.”
“Jenna,” he said slowly, savoring every syllable as it
rolled off his tongue. He returned the bottle to its shelf and offered me the
wine list. “Great to see you. I’m going to the University of Montreal now. I
started a massage therapy program last summer, but I quit. Needed something
more intellectually stimulating.”
Oh I could stimulate you in all kinds of ways , the
cougar inside me purred.
In my media class, he’d always made insightful comments
about current events, and he eagerly dissected social issues. University suited
him better than massage school. Although massage school had its perks. I
pictured myself lying on a table, a towel draped over me from the waist down,
Justin’s oiled palms sliding down my back, and then creeping under the towel,
reaching all the way to my ass. In long, firm strokes, his hands glided upward,
along my spine, past my shoulders, his thumbs working at the muscles, melting
the tension at the base of my neck. Another smooth descent, his touch making me
wet, his index finger slipping into my crack, still lower, until it dipped into
my moist folds. My definition of bliss.
The waitress whisked the wineglasses off the bar. Except for
two other women chatting away in cozy armchairs by the window, the place was
empty. Good. We had privacy.
Running my fingers along the gold chain at my neck, I asked,
“What program are you in?”
“Fine Arts.”
“Photography?” In one of his oral presentations, he
discussed depictions of the female form, and showed the class a few photos he’d
taken of a nude model. Tasteful shots, I had to admit. He had talent.
“I’m mostly into lifecasting.”
“What’s that?” I opened the wine list and pretended to look
through it, gliding my red fingernail along a blur of names.
“Casts of live models that are made into sculptures. I’m
completing a series.” His face lit up and he spoke faster, clearly passionate
about his creations. “Would you like to see?”
“Of course.” Pushing the wine list aside, I placed my elbows
on the edge of the bar and leaned forward.
“I set up a website to post pics of my art. Hopefully, I can
sell a few pieces to help cover the cost of materials and tuition.” He reached
into his pocket for his cell phone, punched in a few keys, and showed me a
sculpture of a woman’s torso, including the lower half of her face. Her arms
modestly covered her breasts, and her chin turned shyly to one side.
“Breathtaking. It’s so lifelike.”
“Thanks,” he said, beaming. “It’s my best casting work so
far. There are more.”
As he
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