Talk Dirty To Me

by Ginny Glass

  And it was wickedly, basely enticing.

  “So tell me why you’ve never just let go.”

  Nora’s mind raced, exasperated and panicked. She had no idea how this man—James?—had gotten her number, but he had her research and, with it, some pretty private notes on some pretty racy fantasies. Resentment rankled in her at the embarrassing position he was forcing her into.

  You need that tape back. You can’t blow all that work. It’s your chance to be taken seriously.

  He wanted truth? He wouldn’t know truth if she told it. What could she say that would satisfy this stranger?

  Lie. “My body doesn’t…It may be hormonal. I don’t make the nerve connections required to have an orgasm or something. I don’t get turned on.”

  A choking laugh filled the static between them. “Nora, sweetheart, that is…impossible. There’s no such thing.”

  He was right, at least in her case, but if he was going to mess with her, she was going to give right back. “It’s first-year endocrinology.” She bristled.

  James laughed, a full-throated, sensual sound that rippled through her. “See, we’re communicating just fine. This is our first fight.”

  Nora rolled her eyes. Too bad the fight wasn’t face-to-face. She’d love to aim a well-placed kick at this creep’s jolly bits. Before she could unclench her teeth, he continued.

  “Your past lovers must all be blazing idiots who couldn’t fuck their way out of a wet dream. You have passion, sweetheart, they just never tapped into it.”

  Nora scoffed, her anger slipping, replaced by indignation. “Stop making it sound like I slept with an army of the inept. I barely date and when I do, the men are…efficient enough.” A little truth—the ease with which she’d let it slip to this phone pervert alarmed her. This perv has your tape. And a pretty nice voice. “They aren’t crass, impolite strangers. You now owe me nine pages.”

  He let her dig slide. His next words smacked of arrogance, as if he knew just how to loosen the buttons on her pristine lab coat. “I could show you that your body is entirely capable of not only being turned on, but capable of being played like a violin on fire.”

  Her laugh was soft. He wished he had that power. What man didn’t? Nora had certainly wished it a few times herself and always came away wanting, needy and unsatisfied. “You’re so cocky. Are you going to fix me, James?”

  “I don’t think you’re broken. Let me show you. Where are you?”

  He had the most delicious voice. She wondered what he looked like. Nora licked her dry lips, tasting the phantom flavors he’d suddenly made her crave—smoke and dark chocolate, sweat and the sharp edge of heat the women in her book experienced with their lovers. The breathless catches in her interviewee’s tones were something mysterious she’d wondered about. She heard them now, echoed in her own breathing.

  Nora closed her eyes, dead silent. So what if she wasn’t some marabou-and-lace vixen? He didn’t have to make fun of her. Her fingers tightened on the phone as he went on.

  “Safe men are boring. Safe men don’t make you writhe and beg and tremble with aftershocks. I can. Tell me where you are.”

  How was it that she could be enticed by the thought of a stranger making her pant in pleasure, scream in satisfaction? His voice sent erotic, delicious tingles along her bones.

  Don’t be silly, Nora. Your body is programmed to respond to masculine octaves…

  The silence stretched. Nora’s stomach clenched. She was tempted and that sped her already thundering heart to a near-painful clip. This was too scary. Too fast.

  “Nora?”

  She hung up, her pulse jumping in her throat. She dropped the phone on the coffee table and wiped her sweating palms on her pajama shorts. She’d clutched the phone so hard her knuckles were white. A foreign trill of excitement warmed low in her stomach at the same instant fear traced icy fingers up her spine.

  “Because I am some stranger, someone you don’t have to face but who really wants to know. I wouldn’t laugh or judge.”

  “I could show you that your body is entirely capable of not only being turned on, but capable of being played like a violin on fire.”

  Of course she’d fibbed to him a little. Her body was fine, there was nothing wrong with it—it functioned. When she’d had sex in the past, the right reactions had occurred, things got in the places they were supposed to go. But she had never “lost it in bed” with anyone. She held a large measure of disdain for sexual theatrics. Some men expected screeching, wailing, thrashing sirens during sex. Nora chose quiet men, plain men, studious men, unspoiled by the porno mentality. Men who didn’t expect her to be a three-ring circus between the sheets.

  Sure, she’d only really climaxed by herself, but lots of women were that way. Three of the women she’d interviewed had never had an orgasm with a man. This James character was just trying to get a rise out of her. He was probably king of the Penthouse and Playboy set, some stoner college kid with nothing better to do than rile her up. She didn’t care about his filthy mind or his opinions on her work.

  So why was her heart still pounding so hard?

  After one last check of the locks on her front door, Nora carried the phone into the bedroom, dropped it into the drawer in her bedside table. She slammed the drawer shut a little too hard, jotted a few last notes, took her temperature and slid into bed. Deliberately pushing all thoughts of James and his mysteriously erotic voice out of her head, Nora closed her eyes. Her mind drifted and the whispers of a seductive caller lulled her into dreams.

  TUESDAY Addendum:

  Responses to “James”—

  Temperature 99.7, sweat production increased,

  heart rate increased, breathing erratic.

  More study needed.

  I hope he calls again.

  WEDNESDAY

  Waking temp. normal, heart rate normal.

  Sleep inadequate—increased sexual content during REM cycle.

  Looking forward to coffee with J. R.

  Jarod scanned the after-lunch crowd and cursed. She wasn’t going to show. She might have figured out he was James or still figured him for some creep. Guilt soured the coffee in his stomach and he tossed his half-full cup in the trash. Great, the most interesting woman he’d met in ages and he screwed up with a phone call.

  “Sorry, I got held up in a meeting.” Nora breezed into the café, bringing sunshine and crisp fall air. She dropped her bulging knapsack on an empty chair and slid into the one across from him. Her cheeks were flushed pink from the wind and a small smile curved her unpainted mouth. “I wasn’t sure if you’d still be here.”

  His stomach flopped like a high school kid on a date with the prom queen.

  “Well, I am.” He smiled. “How do you take your coffee? I’ll get us a cup.”

  “Three creamers, please, no flavored stuff, just normal.”

  The line was nonexistent and Jarod brought two steaming takeout cups back quickly—before his guilt over last night’s charade could bog down his elation at the sight of her. She didn’t act as if she knew the call had been from him so he played dumb. “So what did you do last night besides bio lab laundry?”

  “Nothing.” She sipped the coffee, her eyes fixed on the table. A slight twitch on her lips and the darkening of her cheeks denied her lie and he bit his tongue. She had no idea. “Just research. I didn’t know you wore glasses. You didn’t have them on yesterday.”

  “Ah, well.” He pushed the bridge of his glasses higher on his nose. “My allergies acted up and my eyes were all swollen this morning. I couldn’t get my contacts in.”

  “They don’t look puffy to me.”

  “Antihistamine and getting away from my neighbor’s cat.”

  One eye narrowed as she studied him. She nodded. “I like them. They make you look scholarly. You teach English Lit and Advanced Rhetoric?”

  “You looked me up,” he teased.

  “Of course. Had your name and picture not been on the faculty roster, I wouldn’t be
here.”

  Jarod tasted his own drink. “Cautious lady.”

  “Just smart. There’s no phone listed for you.”

  “Yeah, I keep meaning to switch to a local number but then I forget just as quickly. Besides, it keeps students from calling and claiming their computers crashed late Sunday night before a paper is due on Monday.”

  “Smart man. I noticed you did your dissertation on the Romantic Classics. Isn’t that an odd subject for a man?”

  “Not in Literature. The archetypal romances are the foundation for almost any prose today.”

  The corner of Nora’s mouth quirked upward.

  Jarod bristled at the same time his heart tripped a few beats. “What?”

  “Tell me why you chose Romantic Classics, really.”

  Jarod bit the inside of his lip. He couldn’t tell her he was moved by the emotion of it all, that he was drawn in by lush language and the verbose purpleness of classic literature. It would make him seem too…effete. She had been intrigued by James last night—aggressive, bold and masculine.

  “Most of the Romantic Era classics aren’t just stories. They’re studies of human nature. They epitomize the world thinking of the era. Besides, for the most part, they were written by men.”

  Nora sipped her coffee. Jarod hoped after watching her lips fold around the rim he was still able to form coherent speech.

  “And?”

  “And so they offer a unique and permanent capsulated viewpoint of the driving gender. Like textual anthropology. My title was ‘Gender Representation in the Romances: The Bones of Masculinity Past.’”

  “Interesting.” Nora shifted and her lab coat fell open. The dark olive sweater lent a hint of green to her eyes and offset her skin. It did a world of good for her figure, hugging the curves. He fought to keep his eyes on her face. He liked that lab coat. It was like an outer shell hiding her from the world but underneath, she was all woman. It seemed perfect for what he knew of her.

  Conversation flowed easily and without pause. The story about her car vandalism bothered him but she assured him she now waited for security to walk her to her car if she had to stay late. Copper tinged his mouth as he bit back the words volunteering to meet her himself, just to assure her safety. Too early to feel that protective but damn, now he was going to worry.

  Her mind was amazing, sharp and thorough. The dry wit and almost-clinical slant she could place on anything captivated him. He made her smile with horror stories of his last essay assignment and she offered her own tales about bungling undergrads in Bio 101. She laughed and the dulcet tones tripped down his spine like water from a cool stream. He really liked her.

  A rhythmic beeping from her cell phone brought him out of their soft-focus, autumn-scented world. Somehow, forty-five minutes had passed. He was going to be late for his own class. Nora stuffed a paper napkin into her empty cup and stood. “I have to go. I have to give a lecture in five minutes.”

  “Me, too. Can we do this again?”

  A pink tongue slicked along her bottom lip and she dipped her chin once. “Tomorrow?”

  “If we graduate to lunch, I’ll buy.” He held his breath as she slung the bag onto her shoulder, her eyes averted. Sensing a rebuff, he pushed. “Here, in public. Lots of people around.”

  Bourbon eyes sparkled when she smiled at him. “I guess so, but we’ll go dutch. Noon?”

  This had to be what winning the lottery felt like. Jarod rose and took her hand. He dropped a small kiss on her knuckles. “Until tomorrow.”

  His lips tingled and his chest ached with the rush of his heartbeat. He watched her walk away, a naughty grin widening his mouth. Her lab coat hid her hips, but her straight khaki skirt had a slit in the back that showed her long, lean legs. As he gathered his papers and leather binder, he noticed a student scurrying out of the café.

  “Hey, Chris?”

  “Yeah, Prof?”

  “You work in the mailroom, don’t you?”

  “Yeah, it sucks.”

  Jarod handed him a sealed manila envelope with Nora’s name written on the front. “Drop this in the faculty inbox, will you?”

  He made it to class on time and with a bounce to his step.

  WEDNESDAY 2 p.m.

  Light lunch, yogurt, wheat crackers—coffee with J. R.

  Vitals unreliable (wind chill and late for lecture).

  Interesting and engaging conversation.

  Intrigued. Agreed to lunch.

  He has nice eyes.

  Nora’s heart skipped as her cell phone chirped again. Her gaze zeroed in on the screen—out of area. Her heart sped up. Same time as last night. She flipped the phone open on the third chirp.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Nora.”

  The air froze in her lungs. The pen she held wobbled. “Hello, James.”

  “Did you get your mail?”

  “Yes, nine pages as promised and a photocopy of some letters.”

  “Good, did you read them?”

  “First things first. Since you’re parsing out my book one page at time, I want a new copy as well as the loose pages.”

  A deep chuckle caressed her ear. “Okay, fair enough.”

  “How did you get the envelope in the school mailbox?”

  “Mmm, let’s just say I have an affiliation with the college.”

  Student? Assistant? Professor? Could he be one of the security guards or the cafeteria workers or any of the office personnel? Worrying her lip, she made notes and let the call lapse into silence.

  “Nora, stop worrying. You have all the control here. Hang up and I’m a memory.”

  “Not if I want my things back.”

  “As smart as you are, as organized, I cannot imagine you don’t have these notes three other places. And the book is available anywhere. Try Amazon.”

  Husky, laced with intrigue and a hint of bravado, his voice soothed her concerns. He was right. She could end the call and forget him. But she couldn’t forget those irreplaceable interviews. And could she forget what he did to her? This mysterious, faceless man stirred something in her that she craved without knowing why. The faceless thing unsettled her. She needed a face. “What do you look like?”

  “Just a man, sweetheart.”

  If he wouldn’t give her an image, she would have to conjure one. Jarod Reed’s face leaped to her mind and, startled, she shoved it away. No, she was not going to confuse the two. Jarod was sweet, polite. James’s voice, gravelly and edged with sin, was too deep for the English professor with the gentle smile. This man, he was dangerously tempting and way outside her scope of experience. He made her feel like a teenager with a crush on the local leather-wearing bad boy, all jittery nerves and expectations.

  James was impractical, a bodice-ripper hero who shouldn’t even pique her interest. If she were to give James a face, it wouldn’t be one with Jarod’s green eyes or the slow ease of his smile. Still, Jarod’s face was the only one she could seem to summon.

  “I read the letters. Joyce was a very visceral man.”