Little Red Riding Crop Read Online Free PDF Page B

am here against my will. I have to wonder, however, why you’re here at all. Didn’t I give you homework?” he asked, remembering his rash decision this morning to give her one chance to impress him.
    “You did. And I was a good girl and finished it. See?” He tried and failed to look away as she reached into the bodice of her dress and pulled out a folded piece of paper and handed it to him. The paper was still warm from her skin. “This is it?” he asked, seeing only three paragraphs on the page.
    “Don’t judge a book by its mother. Just read.” Zach glanced at her once more and wished he hadn’t. Everytime he looked at her, he found something else to attract him. Her jacket had slipped down her arm and her pale sculpted shoulder peeked out. Sculpted? His petite little writer had some muscle to go along with her impressive curves. Tougher than she looked.
    Remembering himself, Zach turned from her, tilted the page into a patch of light and read.
    First she noticed his hips. The eyes might be the windows to the soul, but a man’s hips were his seat of power. She doubted he’d chosen those perfectly fitted jeans and that black T-shirt that belied the tautness of his stomach for the purpose of flattering his lower body, but he had and now she lost herself in the thought of caressing with her lips that exquisite hollow that lay between smooth skin and elegantly jutting hip bone .
    She had to meet his eyes eventually. With reluctance she dragged her gaze to his face, as dignified and angular as the rest of him. Pale skin and dark Brutus-cut hair contrasted with eyes the color of ice. Glacial, she decided his eyes were—they spoke of hidden depths. A stark beauty, he was a man made to be admired by intelligent women. Lean and tall but with the substantial mass of an athlete, he was utterly masculine. The world had fallen away in his presence and now that he was gone, she was left in the equally potent presence of his absence .
    Zach read the words one more time trying all thewhile to ignore the annoyingly pleasant image of Nora Sutherlin caressing his naked hips with her mouth.
    “I’ve noticed you usually shy away from long descriptive passages in your books?” he said.
    “I know people think erotica is just a romance novel with rougher sex. It’s not. If it’s a subgenre of anything, it’s horror.”
    “Horror? Really?”
    “Romance is sex plus love. Erotica is sex plus fear. You’re terrified of me, aren’t you?”
    “Slightly,” he admitted, rubbing the back of his neck.
    “A smart horror writer will never put too much detail in about the monster. The readers’ imaginations can conjure their own demons. In erotica you never want your main characters to be too physically specific. That way your readers can insert their own fantasies, their own fears. Erotica is a joint effort between writer and reader.”
    “How so?” Zach asked, intrigued that Nora Sutherlin would have her own literary theories.
    “Writing erotica is like fucking someone for the first time. You aren’t sure exactly what he wants yet so you try to give him everything he could possibly want. Everything and anything …” She enunciated the words like a cat stretching in sunlight. “You hit every nerve and eventually you’ll hit the nerve. Have I hit any nerves yet?”
    Zach clenched his jaw. “Not any of them you were aiming for.”
    “You don’t know what I was aiming for. So what do you think of the writing?”
    “Could be better.” He refolded the page. “You use ‘was’ too much.”
    “Rough draft,” she said unapologetically. She stared at him with dark, waiting eyes.
    “The last line’s the strongest—’ the equally potent presence of his absence .’ ” Zach knew he should give the page back to her but for some reason he stuck it in his pocket. “It’s good.” She gave him a slow, dangerous smile.
    “It’s you.”
    Zach only stared at her a moment before pulling the folded page back out.
    “This is