Excerpt of Darkside Sun by Jocelyn Adams

Professor Green didn’t even look back after he went through the door into the main hallway of the AL. I tried not to notice how those dress pants hugged his firm behind, but my gaze kept zeroing in there like his ass had its own gravity.

Shaking off my idiocy, I padded along behind him, feeling too underdressed to be going to his office. I imagined an immaculate space arranged just so, complete with a golden throne or a sacrificial altar. Or a torture chamber. What did one wear to a torture chamber? If said chamber belonged to him, a dress or suit at the very least. And polished nails. And high heels, not dirty hiking boots. Not that I did heels or dresses, but I almost wished I’d dressed better today. Perhaps worn my Sunday-best plaid.

My pulse ricocheted around my body when he stopped by an oak door that said “Professor of Anthropology” and opened it. What did he want, anyway? Publicly humiliating me wasn’t enough—he had to give me a private thrashing, too? Everything would be fine. It would.

Hopefully the creepy bug thing stayed on the dark side of the veil. He’d gotten me into enough trouble today. What would Green have done if he’d discovered something had invaded his lecture hall from a black hole in his wall? Find some way to insult it, no doubt. He held the door open. “Inside.” Heaven forbid he’d spend the breath on a few extra words to make him sound like a human being. I expected him to step aside, but he stayed, half-blocking the doorway.

My right arm brushed his body as I entered. It was warm and hard like stone, or great gobs of muscle polished with a heavy-duty workout schedule. Every hair on my body leaned toward him, while the rest of me wanted to run or attack myself with sandpaper to get the lingering sensation of him off me. Not that it was entirely bad. There were definitely a few zings zooming around my nether regions that had nothing to do with fear.

Ignoring my odd bodily reactions, I shuffled toward his polished, possibly antique cherry desk. Its surface appeared spotless and immaculate, as I’d figured it would be, just like him. Only glimpses of beige walls were visible around the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves holding old, leather-bound tomes as well as glossy hardcovers. All in alphabetical order, of course. He probably color-coded his sock drawer, too.

The small space smelled of him, a mixture of leather, booze, and undertones of cologne. Something sweet and no doubt expensive, with a French name I’d have a hard time pronouncing. Except for the cologne and booze, the room reminded me of Grandpa’s library at our cabin in the woods before Dad had boxed it all up when I was twelve and donated it for reasons he’d never shared. It was one of the saddest days of my life outside of losing Grandpa to cancer a few years later.

I’d have given my right lobe to have a week to spend rifling through the yellowing pages on Green’s shelves, soaking up their knowledge. Ancient Egypt, Pompeii, Indus Valley, the Khmer Empire, the Minoans, it was all there for the reading. I reached up for a particularly old one, smiling at the memories the books stirred.

“Don’t touch anything.” Green slammed the door shut.

My bones rattled. Scowling at him didn’t make him go away. I wanted to ask him why he was such a dick, but instead I said, “Look, I’m sorry I was late for your class, but … I haven’t been sleeping well, okay? You made your point. It won’t happen again.” It wasn’t entirely a lie. Knowing something might ghost through the wall while I slept did not make for good nighttime experiences.

He blinked those strange, blue eyes at me, and a few more sporadic zings had their way with me. “You lie horribly, Plaid,” he said. “I wouldn’t suggest taking up poker.”

“My name is Addison. Addison Beckett.” My growing indignation snapped the words out. He wasn’t much taller than my five-foot-eight, maybe five-eleven. Before now I’d assumed he was much taller. Even up close he didn’t appear much older than me, if I only looked at his splendid body. The eyes, though, told another story. He’d seen some heavy crappola. It swam in those eyes like a crocodile in dark waters, waiting to reach up and snap my head off if I came too close. The hints of green around his pupils turned out to be jade starburst-shaped coronas lying over a field of ice blue. Pretty, if you could ignore the crazy in them, and unlike any eyes I’d ever seen. My heart gave a little bump and wiggle when he turned them on me.

Expelling a sigh, he went to a little cabinet built into one of the bookcases and opened the door. After pouring himself a glass of amber liquor, he sat down behind his shiny desk.

“Why am I here?” I asked. “I already know you’ll give me zero on my paper even though I rocked it. It’s not three-thousand words, but it’ll tell you a lot about the Mayan calendar.” I dropped it on his desk. He stared at the pages dusted with large sneaker prints. Then he stared at me. I picked it back up.

He sat back in his leather chair, using one hand to undo the first two buttons of his shirt, baring a tanned wedge of bronzed, hairless chest. Oh. My. God. The professor persona melted away in an instant, as if someone had turned a key on his back, and he slipped into a darker guise.

Appearing terrifyingly delicious, he lounged back, languid and lazy as a cat, and only those strange eyes let me know he was stalking me. I had an errant thought that it might be fun to be chased by him.