Cora Carmack: Losing it

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Cora Carmack Losing it
  • Название:
    Losing it
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    Cora Carmack
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    Современные любовные романы / на английском языке
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Losing it: краткое содержание, описание и аннотация

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Sick of being the only virgin among her friends, Bliss Edwards decides the best way to deal with the problem is to lose it as quickly and simply as possible - a one-night stand. But her plan turns out to be anything but simple when she freaks out and leaves a gorgeous guy alone and naked in her bed with an excuse that no one with half-a-brain would ever believe. And as if that weren't embarrassing enough, when she arrives for her first class of her last college semester, she recognizes her new theatre professor. She'd left him naked in her bed about 8 hours earlier.

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I slid the material a bit lower, and bit down on my lip to try and silence a groan.

“Bliss?” Garrick knocked lightly at the door. “You okay?”

“Just peachy!” I said back.

I pulled on the pants again and gasped.

“Bliss, just let me help. You’re worrying me.”

I closed my eyes, trying to think of a way around this. Hobbling awkwardly with my jeans around my knees, I found a skirt with an elastic waist in my hamper. I pulled it over my head, and down to cover my underwear, and then took a seat on the toilet.

I felt my cheeks, certain that they were probably a mortifying shade of red. Nothing I could do about it now. I said, “Okay. Come in.”

The door swung open slowly, and Garrick’s head peeked around the corner, followed by the rest of him. He took one look at my rumpled skirt, and the jeans bunched around my knees.

Then he laughed. Raucous laughter, actually.

“This is so humiliating.” How was I ever going to have sex with him now?

He pressed his lips together to stop the laughter, but amusement still danced in his eyes.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re in pain. You just look so…”



I leveled him with a glare.

“Ridiculously cute.”

His grin was intoxicating, and I couldn’t help my begrudging smile.

“Alright. Now that you’ve had your laugh, help me take off my pants,” I said with the same sarcasm I’d been relying on since he entered.

Either he didn’t catch the sarcasm or he just didn’t care because his eyes fixed on me in a way that I could only describe as downright predatory. Suddenly, much more than my leg was burning up.

He stared at me for a moment before dropping his eyes, and clearing his throat. Kneeling beside me, he took my leg into his hands.

I had already started to pull the capris down, so the burn was currently covered. His hand hovered by the zipper, which was now around the middle of my thighs. He cleared his throat again, and then slipped his hand down my pant leg.


I was pretty sure I was having one.

Using his other hand, he pulled the jeans down as far as he could, just over my knees. He looked up at me, cleared his throat again, and said, “Can I borrow your hand?”

I couldn’t speak, but I put my right hand forward, the palm of which was embarrassingly sweaty. He took my hand, and pulled it inside my pant leg to join his own.

“Keep your hand here, and pull the fabric as far away from your leg as you can. I’ll do the same at the bottom, and we’ll try to slip them off without touching the burn.”

I nodded, my hand ten times steadier than my heart.

He slipped his hand up and out, his light touch sending shivers through me. He did as he said, pulling the fabric away from my skin at the bottom, and then together we tried to pull the pants off.

It wasn’t the most successful mission. These jeans were indecently tight (thanks to Kelsey), and every once and a while the fabric bumped my skin, and I cringed.

“Sorry,” he apologized each time like it was his fault. I wanted to correct him, but I just loved the way he said “soo-ri” so much that I let it go.

After a minute or two of slow and careful maneuvering, my jeans hit the floor.

We both laughed—the way you see people in movies laugh after they’ve just diffused a bomb. And when I stopped laughing, I realized that his hand was still on my leg. One hand was cupped around my ankle, and the other was brushing softly against the skin around the burn.

If he kept touching me like that, I was going to melt into a puddle right here on the floor.

“Um, thanks.”

He seemed to realize then what he was doing. His eyes flicked quickly to his hands. Instead of pulling back immediately, he grinned, brushed his hand slowly down my leg, and then let go.

“No problem. Now we need to cool it off. We could run it under cool water.” I pictured my leg hiked up to the sink, or us both trying to maneuver in my bathtub. My face must have given it away, because he added, “Or just a cool damp cloth will work.”

I handed him a washcloth from a basket behind me, and he turned on the sink, waiting until the water was cool before wetting the cloth.

I sucked in a breath as he laid it across my burn, but the cool felt good, enough that I relaxed for the first time since we came into my apartment.


I nodded, “Much. I’ll never wear jeans that tight again.”

He quirked a smile. “Now that would be a shame.”

I was going to need a fan to keep myself cool if he kept saying things like that.

“Listen,” He began. “I’m sorry about this. I never should have pushed you to get on that bike.”

“It’s not your fault I know nothing about motorcycles, and didn’t realize it would be hot.”

“I can’t believe you’ve never been on a motorcycle.”

“Yeah, well, there are a lot of things I’ve never done.”

He quirked one eyebrow. “Like what?”

“Well…” I swear my heartbeat sounded like stu-pid, stu-pid, stu-pid as it pounded in my ears. “Um, until today I’d never met anyone who was British.”

He laughed, combing his fingers unconsciously through his hair. It made me want to comb my fingers through his hair.

He said, “That’s why you kissed me, isn’t it? All you American girls seem to love accents.”

I swallowed my smile and said, “I believe you were the one who kissed me.”

He stood, and his messy blond hair fell over his forehead, framing those devilish eyes. “So I was.”

He ran the cloth under the water again to keep it cool, but my body was too heated to really tell the difference when he placed it back on my skin. His other hand curled around my ankle again.

I kept my breath carefully steady, and said, “Your turn.”


“What’s something you’ve never done?”

“Well, I’ve never chatted up a girl in a pub before tonight.”

My jaw dropped. “Really?” How was that possible? He was gorgeous! Maybe all the girls just threw themselves at him before he even entered the bar, so he never had to bother with going inside.

He shrugged, and with the motion his thumb started brushing back and forth against the top of my foot.

“I know it goes against the English stereotype, but I’ve never been much for getting sloshed, um drunk, all the time.”

“Me neither,” I said. And I meant it, even though my head was still a bit fuzzy from all that tequila. “So what brings this non-stereotypical Brit to Texas?”

He shrugged. “I’ve been in the States for a while. I came here to go to school, and never went back. I actually just moved back to Texas though. Haven’t been here for a few years.”

“Me too. I just moved back here a few years ago.”

I’d grown up in Texas when I was little, but we moved to Minnesota when I was in 8th grade. It was always my plan to come back here for college.

He re-wetted the cloth one more time, and we sat there talking. He told me about growing up in England, and how different it had been living in the states.

“The first time some bloke told me he liked my pants, I was so shocked I thought I’d left home missing a few key things.”

“Pants? I don’t understand.”

“That’s what we call underwear, love.”

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