“Have you ever considered seeing a therapist to talk about your problems?”
Have Iwhat?
My face burns. “No.”
“Patrice is wonderful,” he says. “I really think she can help you.”
I nearly pound my fists against the desk in frustration. Is Dr. Conlon seriously this dense? Any other man would be rippingmy blouse off by now. Andnothingkills the mood like talking about a shrink.
Christ, what a loser.
I sigh in frustration and lean back in my seat.
“Forget it. I’ll be okay,” I say. I have to regroup. Maybe we can arrange a second meeting. And I can show up wearing, I don’t know, lingerie.
Dr. Conlon frowns at me. “Are you sure?”
I nod. “Very sure.”
“Let me write Patrice’s number down for you anyway,” he says.
He pulls a pen out of the penholder on his desk (who has apenholder?) but accidentally knocks the holder onto the floor, spilling pens all over the place. I sigh again and get up to help him clean the mess. God, what a clueless klutz. Just my luck.
I bend down on my knees, picking up what appears to be an endless supply of pens. Why the hell does he have so many pens? Dr. Conlon is bent over in his chair, picking up pens with his left hand as I crouch next to him on the floor.
When I have half a dozen pens in my hand, he grasps my wrist. “It’s okay, Rachel. I can handle it.”
I look up at his bright-blue eyes. That’s when I notice it: his gaze flitting down my neckline to my very visible breasts. It’s just a second—he was super quick—but I saw it. And heknewthat I saw it. His face turns a bit red—this is my chance. I put my fingers behind his neck and pull his head toward mine.
I knew I’d be the one making the first move.
“Rachel?” There’s surprise and confusion on his face.
I press my lips onto his. At first, he seems frozen and absolutely stunned, but then his arms draw me closer to him.
God, men are so easy to predict.
Not to be conceited or anything, but I’m a really good kisser. I have to be. Most professors aren’t good kissers. Most of themsuck at it. Usually, they give me too much tongue—of course, when you don’t like a guy, any amount of tongue is too much tongue. And usually too much saliva. When you kiss a girl, you don’t want her to feel like you’re spitting in her mouth, trust me.
Okay, I’ll be honest: Dr. Conlon isn’t a bad kisser. He’s actually… kind of good at it. That part surprises me. And I don’t get surprised too often.
But good kisser or not, I can tell it’s been a while for him. I can’t say why exactly. Maybe it’s his eagerness. I can tell how badly he wants me by the way he touches me.
I unbutton my blouse, slide off my skirt, as he watches with his jaw hanging open. As I begin to unbutton his shirt, he looks up at me and grins crookedly. “I never thought my day would end up like this.”
I return his smile. “Are you glad?”
“You have no idea…”
And then I get my second surprise: Dr. Conlon has a nice chest. Maybe I should have given him the benefit of the doubt, considering he’s at least ten years younger than the youngest professor I’ve been with. Still, I didn’t expect muscles. And no beer belly, that’s for sure. I run my hands over his pecs, and I’m practically shaking.
Get a grip, Rachel!
“What?” he asks, looking concerned. “Anything wrong?”
“No. Not at all.”
This is ridiculous. I can’t startlikingthis guy. If that happens, then he’s the one in control. And that would be a huge mistake. So I close my eyes and think of the one thing that never fails to disgust me: Mr. Pritchett. Pritchett’s disgusting, hairy body. His sagging jowls. His sweaty skin.
