Begging for It (Asking for It, #2) by Lilah Pace EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Author Name: Lilah Pace
- Book Genre: BDSM, Contemporary, Contemporary Romance, Dark, Erotica, Erotic Romance, Romance
- Series Detail: Book 2 in the Asking for It series
- ISBN # 9780425279496
- ASIN # 0425279499
- Edition Language: English
- Date of Publication: September 1, 2015
- PDF / EPUB File Name: Begging_for_It_-_Lilah_Pace.pdf, Begging_for_It_-_Lilah_Pace.epub
- PDF File Size: 1.5 MB
- EPUB File Size: 908 KB
Normally I don’t worry much about walking across campus to my car. My
schedule as a graduate teaching assistant allows me to leave before dark
most of the time, and the University of Texas at Austin is one of the biggest
colleges in the nation, meaning people are usually around.
However, this is the Saturday night after Thanksgiving. Most students
are still at home with their families. Professors too. Me, I left New Orleans
sooner than I’d planned. The enormous pile of research papers I had to
grade could’ve been split into a couple of days’ work, but I was close
enough to finishing this evening to keep on to the end.
That’s why I’m walking across a nearly deserted campus, not far from
downtown, at 11 o’clock at night.
A white truck drives along the nearest road. Its headlights sweep past
me, and I blink against the glare. For a moment I think the truck might be
about to stop, and I wonder if it’s stopping for me. But then it drives on¸ and
I breathe out a sigh of relief.
The world spends so much time telling women how not to be raped—
more time than it spends telling men not to rape. So I remind myself that I
know what to do. I keep my head up. I look around me so that I’m alert and
aware of my surroundings. No earbuds to deafen me to the sound of
approaching footsteps, no phone in hand to distract me with texts or games.
What I’m wearing shouldn’t attract undue attention: denim skirt, winecolored cardigan. And I’ve got on flats I could run in, if I had to.
And I also know to meet the eyes of any man I see, so he’ll realize I’ve
registered his presence. That I could identify him later.
Which is why, when I hear the dull thud of boots on the ground near me,
I turn my head—and stop in my tracks.
The man walking so close is tall, six-foot-two or -three. Muscular too, as
his low-slung jeans and tight-fitting shirt reveal. Yet he’s not some
bodybuilder type; his waist is almost impossibly narrow beneath such broad
shoulders, his neck long. His proportions suggest both brutality and
fragility.
One glance would tell anyone this man is stretched to the breaking
point, and make you wonder what he’d do if he broke. In the bluish glare of
the streetlight, his features are almost too beautiful to be rugged, but not
quite. Straight nose, high cheekbones like slashes, his thin-lipped mouth set
in a firm line. One of his broad hands could circle my throat. The
description for the police would begin Caucasian, fair skin, dark hair
cropped short, clean-shaven. His eyes are the shade of steel.
And they are locked on me.
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