Page 3 of Finally, His

The opaque glass window of the door rattled under Colette’s knuckles. As she waited for someone to answer, she drank in the name etched there—Griffin Miles Storm, Dean, Arts & Humanities. He’d been promoted since she’d last stood in his presence—or, should she say, trembled in his classroom?

She swallowed as if that would help stuff down the butterflies threatening to take flight in her throat.

In all her twenty-six years, Colette had plenty of practice dealing with things that made her belly flutter, and she prided herself on overcoming them. Like when she was six years old on the playground, and Billy Turner dared her to swing herself so high the chain links slacked. Or when she’d gotten her first translation job and the snotty Italian diplomat tested her by throwing out sex terms to see how she’d handle it. She’d blushed hard but recited the correct words.

The only place she’d ever failed at displaying much courage was with Griffin Storm. The man had occupied her shockingly graphic, filthy imagination all through college. He’d look at her in class with such drop-to-your-knees intensity that she’d weaken to the point of being mute.

That night’s introduction showed things hadn’t much changed with him. Just recalling how his dark eyes blazed her way made her want to flee like a rabbit being chased by a wolf—a rabbit that wanted to be caught. That was before she knew who he was.

Only, if she’d left, she’d be back to where she started—being fixed up by well-meaning friends with accountants and lawyers who talked about work promotions and beach vacations at the Outer Banks.

She didn’t see Griffin Storm standing on the beach with a Budweiser in his hand. Rather, he held a flogger in a dark ballroom.

She gently rapped on the door once more, that time a little louder.

“Enter.” The deep male voice that rumbled through the glass door was unmistakable. Itwashim. Seeing him the other night wasn’t a dream.

She turned the knob, stepped inside, and willed herself to keep breathing as she caught sight of the man behind the large oak desk.

He stared down at a folder, a curl of dark hair falling into his face. She cleared her throat, and his lashes lifted. She nearly swooned. Did he have to have such beautiful eyes? Soulful, liquidy-dark, and fierce?

She managed to get the door closed, the click echoing in her brain like a ping-pong ball in an arcade machine.

She turned to face him. “Dean Storm,” she managed to peep out.

He rose so slowly it was as if he was unfolding, growing taller. “Hello, Colette. Sit.” He pointed to a wooden chair in front of his desk.

She quickly took a seat and set her bag down next to her. She smoothed her skirt as if that would lengthen the cotton. Funny, it’d never seemed too short before. Now, she paraded too much skin.

“You asked to meet with me?”

“There was no asking involved.”He sat on the edge of his desk before her. “Interesting to see you at Club Accendos the other evening.”

The man got straight to the point, didn’t he? “Yes.I was just … accompanying my friend, Charlotte.” And then darting out of there like a scared rabbit once she’d realized who he was.

“I hope I wasn’t why you ran away.”

“I didn’t run away.” More like stumbled out of Accendos, a few people rushing to help her to the promised waiting car. Charlotte insisted on going with her, and she’d had to endure her friend’s constant questioning about whether anything bad had happened between her and Griffin. Apparently, if so, the club owner would have a “conniption fit the size of a tsunami.”

Colette forced the lump down her throat. “My attendance was … an experiment. I mean, Charlotte needed someone to go with her, and—”

“No, she didn’t. She’s quite comfortable at Accendos.”

Busted.

A slight smile threatened to form on his face. “Her Master and I are friends.”

So, so busted.

He crossed his arms. “Did someone say something to you? Something happen?”

“No.”Liar. You happened, Dean Storm.

He uncrossed his arms and sighed. “Then it was me. Had I known my card would elicit such a response, I would never have offered it.”

Was this meeting an apology? Remorse? Neither felt right coming from him. Over the years, she’d believed he, with his gorilla-sized energy, would never stoop to regrets.

She, on the other hand, had always regretted not being braver about her sexual proclivities. The other night was supposed to be the beginning of calling up some courage around the kind of relationship she sought. Showing up at his office was even a step further. But now?Scared rabbit intact.

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