He’s so arrogant.

   She’s so self-righteous.

I can’t stand him.

   I want her.

 He’s a distraction I don’t need.

    She’ll say yes eventually because I’m not giving up.

 

Justine Porter is stuck between a rock and a stripper pole. She lost her law school scholarship, which means she has two choices to keep her life on track: strip for her tuition or tutor the most distractingly sexy guy in her class—the one she’s been turning down for two years straight. It should be an easy choice, but tutoring Ryker Grant could derail her plans to graduate with honors faster than two-for-one night at the Déjà Vu. Then again, topless has never really been her color.

She could take the easy road, just this once . . . but the deal has enough loopholes to trip anyone up.

Who knew they taught bad judgment in law school?

 

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“Excuse me, Ms. Porter. Mr. Grant. Is there something you’d like to share with the class?”

And we’ve officially been noticed by Turner. Justine’s cheeks turn red at the professor’s attention.

“Sorry, Professor Turner. I’ve been asking Ms. Porter out at least once a week for the last two years, and she’s still shooting me down. You’d think I’d give up, but I just can’t let it go.”

Justine’s face and ears flame even brighter red, and she slaps a hand over her face and lowers her gaze to the keyboard of her laptop.

“And do you think that announcing this is going to help your case any, Mr. Grant?”

“No, sir, but you asked if I had anything to share with the class.”

The middle-aged man seems like he would have been cool in his day, and I know it’s true when he doesn’t bust my balls any further.

“Fair enough, Mr. Grant, but save it for after class. I imagine you’re going to have a lot of apologizing to do, and perhaps some groveling.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Turner moves on to call on the next person on his list to recite the facts of the case, and I’m glad he didn’t bestow that little honor on me.

Justine grabs the Chewbacca Pez dispenser between us and pops a few yellow candies into her mouth. Her face is still bright red, and Turner’s right. I should probably apologize for humiliating her, but it’s not like anyone in this room doesn’t know I’ve been trying since the beginning of our first year. She’s the only one who pretends like it’s not happening—at least until that night after finals at the bar.

I haven’t been able to get the way her body curled into mine out of my head. I need to remind her how fucking good we could be together. If that kiss was anything to go by, when we get naked, we’ll be explosive.

One more chance. That’s all I need to convince her that we have a hell of a lot more to explore.

Class grinds on for what seems like an eternity until Turner dismisses us and everyone starts packing up their laptops and casebooks.

I know I’ve got one shot to get Justine to agree to talk to me—especially after I made my little announcement to the class.

Biding my time, I wait until she’s trying to pass behind me, and I stand so she runs directly into my chest. Thrown off-balance, she wobbles, and I wrap both hands around her hips to steady her.

“I got you.”

Her eyes narrow and her mouth curls into a scowl. “You did that on purpose.”

“Deliberately got in your way so I could get my hands on you again? Damn right, I did.”

I see a flash of confusion and then the anger takes precedence again.

But we both know it’s the truth. Getting my hands on her is exactly what I want. Her shirt rides up on the sides, and I sweep my fingers along her bare skin. Fuck, she’s soft. Which guarantees my dick isn’t.

“Let me go.”

Instead of a demand, Justine’s words sound breathless. I have to remind myself I’m standing in a classroom with a professor up front and students filing in and out. This isn’t the time or place for a hard-on.

“I’ve got some things I need to say to you, and you’re going to let me.”

Her brown eyes snap up to mine, surprise clear in them. “Why should I?”

“Because you’re nothing if not curious, and you want to know what I have to say.”

She steps backward, and I let my fingertips trail across her skin before they drop away. Justine adjusts the straps of her backpack on her shoulders and tucks Chewbacca into a side pocket.

“You know you want to hear the rare sound of me apologizing, don’t you?”

Justine purses her lips, and all I can think about is the dreams I had all weekend of her staring down at me from a stage while she danced and stripped. My own private show. I’m not going to admit how many times I jacked off to the mental picture. I need the real thing, and I won’t have another shot if she won’t even give me a chance to talk to her.

I don’t know what changes her mind, but she relaxes her posture and relents. “Fine. You’ve got five minutes. This better be good.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Meghan March has been known to wear camo face paint and tromp around in woods wearing mud-covered boots, all while sporting a perfect manicure. She’s also impulsive, easily entertained, and absolutely unapologetic about the fact that she loves to read and write smut. Her past lives include slinging auto parts, selling lingerie, making custom jewelry, and practicing corporate law. Writing books about dirty talking alpha males and the strong, sassy women who bring them to their knees is by far the most fabulous job she’s ever had. She loves hearing from her readers at meghanmarchbooks@gmail.com.

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