"A lovely novella that beautifully balances the contrast between erotic and sweet"
Reviewed by Maria Munoz
Posted October 30, 2010
Romance Contemporary | Erotic
Biologist and doctoral student Nora MacGregor finds herself
torn between two men. Jarod Reed, an English professor, is a
tender man who touches her soul and makes her toes tingle.
James, a mysterious voice on the phone, brings her sexual
fantasies to life, leaving her satisfied and wanting more.
What will she do when she finds out they are the same man? Jarod had been watching Nora walk by his classroom window
twice a week for way too long. When an opportunity to meet
her goes wrong, he leaves their encounter with one thing—
some of the data for her dissertation on women's sexuality.
Becoming "James" by night, Jarrod calls her to offer a
trade, for each question she answers she gets a page of her
data back. Pretty quickly, talking dirty has them both hot
and bothered. During the day, gentlemanly and patient
Jarrod is courting Nora with his old world charm. In TALK DIRTY TO ME, Ginny Glass and Inez Kelley have
crafted a lovely novella that beautifully balances the
contrast between erotic and sweet. I could clearly see why
Nora would be attracted to both Jarrod and James, and her
conflict in having to choose one over the other felt
genuine. The story is fairly short, so it the supporting
characters are few, which works because Jarrod and Nora are
well developed and likable. This is the second book I have
read by Inez Kelley, and she is rapidly working her way up
my list of must read authors. I look forward to reading more.
SUMMARY
"Tell me what you want. Talk dirty to me." Biologist Nora MacGregor is frantic when she loses her
dissertation notes on female sexuality—and some very
personal fantasies. Then a sinful stranger calls with a
wicked proposition: if she talks dirty to him, he'll return
her notes, page by page. "James" allows Nora to explore her
deepest desires and challenges her clinical ideas about
sex. But James can't give her the loving touches she finds
in her budding relationship with Dr. Jarod Reed. Jarod seized an opportune moment to fulfill his desire for
Nora by becoming the mysterious James. While the anonymous,
erotic phone sessions are unforgettable, Jarod longs to
tell Nora he wants more than just talk. But how can
he confess his deception without it costing him the chance
to make their fantasies a reality?
ExcerptTUESDAY
Sleep disturbed. Had to replace car window.
Temp 98.6, pulse normal. Beginning to hate this paper.
"So, the Byronic hero is, in essence, an idealized but
ultimately flawed character." Jarod leaned back on the edge
of his desk, addressing the sea of college students seated
in front of him. "Can anyone give me an example of the
Byronic hero in modern-day literature?"
He zeroed in on a waifish kid who raised one finger and
nodded at him.
"I think Batman is a really fine example of…"
Batman? Unreal. Jarod tuned the kid out. When he took
this job he hadn’t expected to miss the excitement of New
York City, but in this sleepy New Hampshire town, with its
stores that closed at seven and its obsession with adding
seafood to everything, he was bored stiff.
Except for Tuesdays and Thursdays at exactly 5:oo p.m.
The kid droned. Jarod crossed his arms and pretended to
listen. From the single window of his classroom he could
see the main quad. It didn’t get much traffic during class
times. That was why she had first caught his attention.
She had been the lone traveler in the vast cobblestone
path. Worn, faded jeans and a dark blue pea coat swaddled
her frame. In her arms she carried a tall laundry basket.
Long inky black hair flowed riotously over her bright red
scarf. When the autumn wind kicked up, the mass of unruly
jet tendrils tangled with the scarf and she stopped to
brush her hair back.
That was when she looked over—right into his window.
Jarod felt something—a shock, warmth, an unexplainable
electric attraction. Well, it was explainable if you wrote
it off as instant white-hot lust. She shifted the basket to
one hip to free her hand. Her coat fell open and exposed
what could only be described as Heaven in Underwire. The
blouse dipped low enough to show a shadowy valley of
cleavage, and the brisk wind tightened her nipples to
button-hard points that defied her clothing. Not huge, not
tiny, those breasts were the perfect size to be cupped and
licked and nibbled on.
Her lips, full and free of any lipstick, moved as she
walked, as if she were talking to herself. Visions of those
lips wrapped around his cock had sent blood speeding to his
balls. He’d bet his doctorate her hair felt like silk. Even
in memory he could nearly feel it sliding against his palms
as he cupped her head, those lips sucking him, those
breasts bare and heaving as she swayed against him, taking
him deeper into her throat.
He moved quickly behind his desk as an erection stirred
inside his pants. Damn, he needed to get laid. Another
thing this tiny piss-ant town lacked was single pretty
women. At least, available-to-him single women. From the
corner of his eye he caught the inviting tongue slide of
one of the BJ girls. There were four of them in two
different classes. They all looked cut from the same Barbie
mold and made it clear they’d love to work on any extra
credit he assigned as long as it involved him, nudity and
his office couch. One had gone so far as asking him if she
could earn a B on her knees. She wasn’t at all interested
in the literature he assigned. The suggestive prose she
slipped into her essays was closer to Literotica.
Right, as if he were going to risk his job, bland as it
was, and his professional reputation for a little naughty
schoolgirl romp with any of them. No, thank you. He’d get
his rocks off the old-fashioned way, with his palm and pay-
per-view. It was the best this place had to offer.
Four fifty-nine. He wondered what Laundry Woman’s name
was. She walked past his window during class every Tuesday
and Thursday and he cursed whatever fate had put them on
such differing schedules. He never saw her on campus
otherwise, had never run into her going to her car at
night. She looked to be approaching thirty. She could be an
older student but he didn’t think so. They tended to take
early classes to be home with families and children in the
evenings or to hurry to second shift jobs. So who was she?
Boy genius finished up his epic thesis. "And so Batman
upholds justice while at the same time breaking the law by
being a vigilante. That is totally Byronic."
It was totally moronic.
Several young ladies in the class seemed to think this
was not only remarkably smart but worthy of longing stares.
Jarod bit his tongue and forced a smile. He was not yet
forty, but each birthday rendered the mating rituals of
modern youth more and more annoying. He rubbed the bridge
of his nose, feeling a faint headache threatening.
Five o’clock exactly. Jarod waved a hand at the
assembly. "Class dismissed."
He was tired of missing his chance to meet Ms. Right
Now. One bookish kid earned death glares when he spoke
up. "But, Professor, class isn’t over until five thir—"
"Every student that leaves this room now gets an A on
the next pop quiz."
The room cleared in less time than it took Jarod to
collect his coat. The chilled air was damp and the wind
blew bitingly into the collar of his jacket. Dry leaves
rasped with a brittle scrape across the empty brick
courtyard. Spoking pathways led away from its center,
creating a giant wheel made of cobblestone and brick. The
sun set earlier every day thanks to the coming winter, and
Jarod squinted into the fading light as he turned,
searching for her.
After long minutes of nothing, he cursed under his
breath. He was chasing hot random strangers after cutting
his own class.
Crazy.
He turned, ready to head back toward the Gothic brick
building behind him. A rolling gust of wind barreled
through the quad, carrying the sharp smell of wood smoke
and fallen leaves. It slammed the door to Jarod’s building
closed. He opened his mouth to swear but a husky feminine
curse warmed the frigid air.
There she was, on her knees in the slips of what was
left of the sun, in a pile of tangled coat hangers, her
laundry basket upturned beside her.
Fate, you tardy bastard.
By the time Jarod made it across the courtyard to help
her, she’d gotten to her feet and was angrily shoving a
mass of white linen into the tall, round laundry hamper.
Mud streaked the knees of her jeans and heels of her
graceful hands. A crooked nametag read Nora MacGregor,
Asst. Her long white lab coat snapped in the wind over a
tight caramel sweater. A canvas backpack, its top yawning
open, hung over her shoulder and pulled the material taut.
No cleavage this time, just rounded swells of perfection
hidden under soft cotton. His jaw tightened to stifle a
moan.
He might have made a sound, he wasn’t sure. She looked
up and an invisible fist punched him in the gut. She wasn’t
just pretty, she was stunning. Her wind-pinkened skin shone
like a candle flame against the deep night of her hair.
Jarod had a sudden urge to smooth the flyaway strands from
her face, tilt her chin up and claim that pinched mouth. A
stormy scowl only made the depths of her dark bourbon eyes
glow in the dusky light.
She hefted her laundry basket and stepped back a few
paces. "What are you looking at?"
A good month’s worth of stroke material and the most
interesting thing this town has seen since the McDonald’s
opened.
Had she asked him something? If it was an invitation to
nail her, he’d blanked it out. Wait. Wow. Where the hell
had his brain gone?
South.
Speaking of south, his gaze trailed over her, sliding
lower. She was petite and curvy, with the kind of hips he
could spend a weekend bruising. She turned and he took in a
quick breath at the glimpse of her backside. God, what he
would love to do to that ass. The ass that was walking away.
He snapped out of his lust-induced coma. "Wait."
She spun, a small can of pepper spray clutched tight in
her hand. "Get lost, asshole!"
Jarod backpedaled, holding his hands up. "Whoa, whoa! I
was just coming to help you. I saw you fall, I—"
"I don’t give two shits. I’m having a seriously bad day,
and I would appreciate it if you would back the fuck off."
Jarod, enamored as he was by the way her gesturing made
her high breasts bounce, knew when he was about to get his
ass handed to him. He took another step back but did not
lower his hands.
"This is me, backing the fuck off."
She looked skeptically at him, then spun on one heel and
hefted her basket toward the laundry room across the quad.
Halfway there she glanced over her shoulder and paused. A
twitch dipped her dark sculpted brow and she shook her
head. Jarod shoved his hands in his pockets and watched
until she disappeared inside.
Sexual encounters—zero. Hopes dashed—one.
Something lying a few paces in front of him glinted in
the waning light. He took a couple steps, bent and picked
up a sprawled paperback from the ground. A small clear mini-
cassette tape lay underneath. He brushed a bit of dirt off
the tape and flipped the book over. So what did beautiful,
crazy, pepper-spray-wielding, completely fuckable women
read these days? The title shot through him with heat,
forcing the blustery wind’s bite away.
Nancy Friday’s Women on Top: How Real Life Has Changed
Women’s Sexual Fantasies. The binding was creased and
fraying. The yellowing pages were dog-eared and folded.
Several loosened pages screamed "well-used book." Small
notes in the margins raised his eyebrows. Jarod skimmed the
scribbled words, and the warmth spread to his entire body.
Curiosity nudged at him and he examined the cassette. His
eyes widened at the label. A slow smile turned up the
corners of his lips.
Things just got a bit more interesting.
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