Excerpt of Through the Red Door by Sadira Stone

Clara and Jared were adventurous lovers, but this was beyond anything they’d tried, or even imagined. She turned the book sideways and peered closer at the drawing. Something touched her shoulder and, startled, she squeaked like a little girl and slammed the book shut.

Beside her stood Nick, the smutty professor, holding a plate with two scones. Was that a blush coloring his chiseled cheeks? With his deep olive complexion, it was hard to tell. She lowered her gaze and found herself looking right at his crotch.

Damn it!

With no safe place to direct her gaze, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath.

“Sorry, Clara. Beautiful women bring out my devilish side. Please forgive me.” He slid a new scone onto her empty plate, then sat beside her. “I guess Shunga isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.”

“Shunga?”

Nick nodded. “This type of painting or woodblock print. There’s usually a funny text to go with it.” He balanced the book between them, resting on the arms of their two chairs, then glanced at her, an eyebrow raised.

Okay, Clara, time to put on your big girl panties. You can handle this.

She nodded.

Nick flipped to a new page. “The beautiful costumes and hair arrangements date from the Edo era, roughly the 1600s through the mid-1800s. And here’s the text.” He pointed to columns of delicate Oriental writing.

“Can you read it?”

“Not very well. I have a friend here at the university who can help with the translations. This really is an extraordinary book.” He sipped his coffee and flipped the page.

“Are their, um, private parts always so large?”

He shot her another devilish grin. “Always. You know, it’s funny. In European artwork, male genitals are often unusually small, compared to…” He glanced down at his own lap.

She followed his gaze, then jerked her eyes away. Her voice creaked like a twelve-year-old boy’s. “Yes, I’ve—uh—I’ve noticed.”

“But in Shunga, all the genitals are outsized.”

“Doesn’t that scare women away?”

“On the contrary—these drawings were presented in ‘Pillow Books’ designed to instruct young couples in the art of love.”

Nick flipped the page again and pointed to an image of a couple going at it fiercely. “Notice how the woman’s toes are curled?”

She giggled. “I thought that was just an expression. You know, he made my toes curl.”

Nick closed the book and gazed into her eyes. The corner of his full lips twitched upward. “I hope someone’s curling your toes, lovely lady.”

Her breath escaped in a soft whoosh. Discussing sexy artwork with this gorgeous professor was uncomfortable, if titillating. But no way was she ready to discuss her own love life, or lack thereof. Nestled beside him in the squishy leather chair, her mind and body waged a battle. The combination of his warmth, his husky voice, and the beautiful, explicit images laid out before her—it was too much, leaving her hot and tingly, but also squirmy with embarrassment. She wasn’t ready to feel this way again. And yet, her body had other ideas.

She cleared her throat and sat up straighter. “I’m a widow, Mr. Papa—Nick. My husband passed away a year ago.”

Nick’s teasing smile melted away. His dark eyes shone with emotion. “I’m sorry, Clara. I hope I haven’t made you uncomfortable. I didn’t mean to pry.” He laid his hand over hers, his touch warm and soft. “I lost my wife two years ago. Cancer.”

The tension drained from her body like water through a sieve. He understood.