Love: Classified Read Online Free PDF

experienced just from hearing his voice turned into an earthquake that caused my belly to clench and reclench pleasurably and I had to bite my bottom lip to stop myself from moaning aloud. I’d seen Clooney in ‘The Descendants’ only a few nights ago on TV but this guy was actually even better: less manicured and with a stubbled jaw and tousled hair greying in undisciplined streaks. This character, walking towards where I sat, frozen, my heart thumping so hard he must surely have heard it, looked too good to be true. And my body was responding to his scruffy, careless handsomeness in an almost violent way. I swallowed hard, willing my nipples not to betray me, my voice to stay calm.
         “I can’t believe this is happening,” I muttered under my breath.
         “What?” he asked, leaning inside my Micra, his tanned arms resting on the half-open window. The hairs on his arms were dark and curly and he smelled the way I’d always imagined a man should – of leather and pine trees and, under that, salt.
         “Is this a joke?” I asked, unable to meet his dark brown gaze.
         “Do you want to see the world?” he countered, his lop-sided smile sending ripples of apprehension through me so I grabbed the steering wheel even tighter or he would have noticed.
         “But…”
         “Why don’t you get out of your car and ask me in for a drink? I know it’s early, but hell, we’re on holidays, aren’t we? And I know you’ll like it.” He bent down and picked up an enticing-looking bottle of sauvignon blanc from where he’d left it on my driveway.
         “I…” I began. I didn’t want to get out for a thousand reasons. The main one being that I looked like a pale, flabby, badly dressed hippo while he looked like, well, George Clooney.
         “Come on,” he urged kindly, opening the car door for me. “I promise I’m not an axe murderer. In fact, I’m a vegetarian and I don’t believe in killing anything, including cockroaches.”
         So with a sheepish smile I ungripped my fingers and climbed out, squeezing my bulk past him and self-consciously leading the way to the front door. He followed close behind and I knew his eyes were on my big swaying backside but there wasn’t anything I could do about it.
         I pushed the door open and led him through my house and onto the verandah. I hoped he’d be looking at other things on the way: the flowers, the woven rugs on the honey coloured wooden floor, the prints on the yellow walls, the happy paintings made by a kid who signed her name “Bree”, the quirky ceramic pots she’d made, filled with shells and pebbles. I hoped he’d see the towering bookcase stuffed with old and new books and hear the radio spilling out the crescendos and diminuendos of a Rachmaninov piano concerto. I hoped he’d notice the chooks scratching under the herbs and smell the pizza dough that was rising in time for lunch.
         “Mmm,” he murmured appreciatively. “You certainly know how to turn a house into a home.”
         “Sit down,” I said, flapping one of the chooks off the cane chair. She was one of the oldest of the girls, the tamest.
         “Isa Browns,” he said, glancing around the garden. “We had them when I was a kid. And I bet yours all have names, don’t they?”
         “Yes,” I laughed , sitting opposite him and covering as much of my body as I could with a big cushion. “My god-daughter Bree named them for what they like most to eat. So the girl who was on your chair is Watermelon and her friends are Sausages and Chips and Lettuce and so on.”
         “It’s great,” he said. “A suburban garden just like a farmyard. It’s beaut.”
         “Thanks. I like it.”
         “Yet you want to leave?”
         “I s’pose everyone needs a change of scene occasionally, though I’m a homebody at heart,” I said.
         “I can see that.”
         “I think I