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.