Read Online When It's Love by Emma Lauren - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Emma Lauren
Tags: Contemporary
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mother invited you to stay overnight, so maybe you bring a change of clothes.”
“She’s so sweet. I’d love to,” I say. I slept at Ottawa Estate twice last year, once on Christmas and then again on New Year’s. I know my cats are lonely for a night when I’m away, but other than those two kitties there’s nothing keeping me at home. And a night at Ottawa Estate is like a vacation in a five star hotel. The rooms are decorated in a palatial-style, with four-poster beds, crisp white sheets with gold trim, chairs upholstered in velvet, and hand painted vanity tables. Each guest room has a full bathroom with a claw-foot tub, marble floors, and linen hand towels beside the sink with Ottawa embroidered on their edges in navy blue cursive letters.
“Did you buy shoes?” Henry asks.
“Almost,” I say.
“Do it,” Henry demands. “If you show up to Christmas dinner in hot, new clothes and those hiking boots of yours, I don’t know what I’ll do with you.”
“OK,” I say giggling. “I’m on it.”
I hang up the phone and order the Steve Maddens, feeling guilty for spending so much money on shoes. But since I never buy anything for myself, I figure this one purchase is justified. There’s free express shipping, and the shoes should arrive tomorrow, just before Christmas. Then with a racing heart I click open my email. Nothing but junk mail. Not even an hour has passed since I sent my message to Professor Sparling. I inhale slowly, a few good, deep breaths to calm myself, take a shower, eat some peanut butter out of the jar, and get ready for bed. Just before joining the cats on the futon I take one more peek at my computer. (Because just one more peek wouldn’t mean I’m obsessive or anything.)
Sometimes obsessiveness pays off.
There’s a message from P.Sparling! Seeing his name gives me Jell-O knees. I open it to find only one little line.
Are you naked?
It was sent one minute ago, so if I reply now, Professor Sparling might see it right away. I summon up that sassy slut inside of me and tell her to get to work. When her voice takes over me, I think I play this game well.
Should I be?
Before I have a chance to process what I’ve written, and what I’m getting myself into, I get a reply.
In my humble opinion, you should always be naked.
I might get cold.
I don’t think thirty seconds pass before I get a message that says:
We’ll get you some fluffy white earmuffs like Kate Upton wore in her Sports Illustrated Antarctica photo shoot.
All of a sudden I’m laughing out loud. I never imagined Professor Sparling to be a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue type. He’s such an uber-intellectual. The image of him flipping through that magazine is completely incongruous with the image of him in my mind. I would have pictured him lying in bed reading Aristotle, not Sports Illustrated. Ha! Who would have thought he’s even heard of Kate Upton? I hit reply: Earmuffs should do the trick. Now what about how much you want me? Last I recall you’d just told me to take off my pants.
We’re sending emails back and forth so quickly it feels like a live chat, which I’m tempted to suggest. I’m afraid, though, that Professor Sparling might be one of those old guys who doesn’t get fast technology. (At least he’s not faxing his messages to me!) And the truth is that I don’t want the pressure of having to reply instantly. This flirtation has spun so far so fast. I don’t need it to be ultra rapid. Two days ago I was Professor Sparling’s student pining away for his attention, and look where I am now. I feel out of control … and I love it. It’s like being awake after a three-and-a-half year hibernation. There are sensations coursing through my body that I haven’t felt since I was eighteen. For the first time since that awful day at Lake Pleasant, I truly want to be part of the world again. I want to be the cute and sexy young woman I have the potential to be. Even if nothing more happens with
“She’s so sweet. I’d love to,” I say. I slept at Ottawa Estate twice last year, once on Christmas and then again on New Year’s. I know my cats are lonely for a night when I’m away, but other than those two kitties there’s nothing keeping me at home. And a night at Ottawa Estate is like a vacation in a five star hotel. The rooms are decorated in a palatial-style, with four-poster beds, crisp white sheets with gold trim, chairs upholstered in velvet, and hand painted vanity tables. Each guest room has a full bathroom with a claw-foot tub, marble floors, and linen hand towels beside the sink with Ottawa embroidered on their edges in navy blue cursive letters.
“Did you buy shoes?” Henry asks.
“Almost,” I say.
“Do it,” Henry demands. “If you show up to Christmas dinner in hot, new clothes and those hiking boots of yours, I don’t know what I’ll do with you.”
“OK,” I say giggling. “I’m on it.”
I hang up the phone and order the Steve Maddens, feeling guilty for spending so much money on shoes. But since I never buy anything for myself, I figure this one purchase is justified. There’s free express shipping, and the shoes should arrive tomorrow, just before Christmas. Then with a racing heart I click open my email. Nothing but junk mail. Not even an hour has passed since I sent my message to Professor Sparling. I inhale slowly, a few good, deep breaths to calm myself, take a shower, eat some peanut butter out of the jar, and get ready for bed. Just before joining the cats on the futon I take one more peek at my computer. (Because just one more peek wouldn’t mean I’m obsessive or anything.)
Sometimes obsessiveness pays off.
There’s a message from P.Sparling! Seeing his name gives me Jell-O knees. I open it to find only one little line.
Are you naked?
It was sent one minute ago, so if I reply now, Professor Sparling might see it right away. I summon up that sassy slut inside of me and tell her to get to work. When her voice takes over me, I think I play this game well.
Should I be?
Before I have a chance to process what I’ve written, and what I’m getting myself into, I get a reply.
In my humble opinion, you should always be naked.
I might get cold.
I don’t think thirty seconds pass before I get a message that says:
We’ll get you some fluffy white earmuffs like Kate Upton wore in her Sports Illustrated Antarctica photo shoot.
All of a sudden I’m laughing out loud. I never imagined Professor Sparling to be a Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue type. He’s such an uber-intellectual. The image of him flipping through that magazine is completely incongruous with the image of him in my mind. I would have pictured him lying in bed reading Aristotle, not Sports Illustrated. Ha! Who would have thought he’s even heard of Kate Upton? I hit reply: Earmuffs should do the trick. Now what about how much you want me? Last I recall you’d just told me to take off my pants.
We’re sending emails back and forth so quickly it feels like a live chat, which I’m tempted to suggest. I’m afraid, though, that Professor Sparling might be one of those old guys who doesn’t get fast technology. (At least he’s not faxing his messages to me!) And the truth is that I don’t want the pressure of having to reply instantly. This flirtation has spun so far so fast. I don’t need it to be ultra rapid. Two days ago I was Professor Sparling’s student pining away for his attention, and look where I am now. I feel out of control … and I love it. It’s like being awake after a three-and-a-half year hibernation. There are sensations coursing through my body that I haven’t felt since I was eighteen. For the first time since that awful day at Lake Pleasant, I truly want to be part of the world again. I want to be the cute and sexy young woman I have the potential to be. Even if nothing more happens with
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