Under the tutelage of Professor Dominic Romano, straight-A student Myra Dalton faces a new challenge during her final semester at Princeton University. It's not just her coursework alone that flusters her, but the unimpressionable gentleman that wal...
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September 18, 2003
[myra dalton]
Myra didn't know what to expect when she stepped into Dominic's apartment. Her nerves were a wreck, but she felt comforted by the cool-toned cashmere paint running along the walls. The corners of the room and shelves were accentuated by greenery of all kinds.
It was the first thing that she noticed after he opened the door for her, and greeted her with a long kiss that swept her off her feet.
As she had expected, his apartment was modern. Neat. Simple. She occupied his space with great care, wary of her every step and gesture.
With a small smile, Myra removed her tan coat. It slipped down her shoulders, into Dominic's hands, and he hung it by the door. While she marveled over the wall of windows that overlooked the busy city center, his arm wrapped around her front and pulled her into his chest.
Calloused fingers toyed with the straps on her velvet dress, the dark purple hue matching all the pins that kept her hair in a bun. Dominic pressed his lips against her neck, taking a deep breath as his fingers curled around the smooth fabric at her stomach.
"Spin around for me."
Her face heated.
Dominic held her hand above her head and she twirled around, biting back a smile.
"You look wonderful, Myra. Absolutely ravishing."
She thanked him in a low voice, calmed by the '60s music that resonated throughout the loft. His home. She could see herself dancing with him in the early morning sun after picking out a song; she could see herself in his arms on the floor while he read to her; she could see herself falling asleep against his chest on the sofa after a long day.
"You have a beautiful place."
He peppered kisses along her shoulder, and she reached to cup his face. The young woman turned in his hold, and played with the knotted strings of the apron behind his neck. He had flour in his dark hair and a streak running along his forehead too.
"I can see that you've been busy," she mused, feeling his warm touch glide down her back. She instinctively arched closer to him.
"I made spinach stuffed ravioli from scratch. None of that frozen or processed crap."
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