Okay,
I admit
it. I've
got a
thing for
nerds. When
The Man
from U.N.C.L.E.
was popular,
I had
the hots
for skinny,
intense Ilya
Kuryakin, not
the dashing
alpha guy
Napoleon Solo.
I was
hopelessly in
love with
Mr. Spock.
(After all,
think about
making love
while in
the throes
of a
Vulcan mind-meld!)
Near the
top of
my sexy,
romantic movie
list is
"Earth Girls
are Easy",
featuring gangly,
geeky Jeff
Goldblum as
a brilliant
alien. A
more recent
example of
a romantic
nerd is
Clive Owen's
short, unshaven,
and amazingly
ingenious character
in the
bank robbery
thriller "Inside
Man".
It's
fairly easy
to understand
why I
feel this
way. Growing
up, I
was the
egghead, the
bookworm, the
too-smart girl
whom everyone
made fun
of. The
only guys
who could
deal with
me were
the ones
who were
at least
as smart
as I
was. They
weren't on
the football
squad; they
weren't voted
Best Looking
or Most
Popular. But
they had
that something
that could
start my
motors. It
was intoxicating—yes,
arousing—to
have a
conversation with
some of
these guys,
especially when
I got
out of
high school
and into
college. We
understood each
other, and
I began
to discover
that despite
their definite
nerdish qualities,
they were
enthusiastic and
innovative when
it came
to sex.
Since
I joined
the romance
authors community,
I've heard
a lot
about alpha
heroes. It's
critically important,
I've been
led to
believe, that
the protagonist
in an
erotic romance
be tall,
beautiful and
buff. Rugged
but handsome
features, broad
shoulders, chiseled
pectorals, powerful,
muscular thighs
that naturally
invite musings
about what
lies sheltered
between them—attributes
like these
apparently constitute
the romance
ideal. Our
hero should
also be
physically strong,
courageous, and
generally the
dominant type,
though some
sensitivity or
a shameful
secret will
not be
taken amiss.
Well,
I
don't
completely
buy
it.
I
mean,
a
nice
bod
and
a
pretty
face
are
not
to
be
sneezed
at.
But
they're
not
enough.
Call
me
perverse
(many
people
have),
but
I
find
intelligence
to
be
the
most
essential
aspect
of
a
sexy
hero.
Furthermore,
I'm
willing
to
accept
less
than
stellar
physical
qualities
if
my
hero
is
a
clever,
imaginative,
horny
genius
who
can
figure
out
how
to
get
himself
and
his
heroine
out
of
sticky
situations,
and
who's
smart
enough
to
understand
what
will
truly
turn
her
on.
Theo
Moore,
the
hero
of
my
BDSM
erotic
romance
The
Gazillionaire
and
the
Virgin,
is
perhaps
the
most
thorough
nerd
I’ve
ever
written.
He’s
a
brilliant
computer
scientist,
a
professor
at
a
top
university
and
the
inventor
of
a
revolutionary
artificial
intelligence
program.
He’s
also
shy
and
socially
awkward,
a
borderline
autistic
with
mild
symptoms
of
obsessive
compulsive
disorder
(OCD).
How
could
this
sort
of
guy
possibly
be
sexy?
you
might
be
thinking.
He
is,
though—so
much
so
that
my
editor
told
me
she
had
to
take
breaks
to
relieve
her
tension
while
she
was
working
on
the
book!
As
it turns out, Theo’s the “virgin” of the book’s title. (Ever
met an alpha male virgin? Nah!) Though he’s in his late twenties,
he’s far too uncomfortable in social situations to have ever had a
girlfriend. On the other hand, as befits the brilliant academic that
he is, he has done a lot of research. Theo’s
a
natural
dominant
who’s
made
a
thorough
study
of
sexual
and
BDSM
techniques.
When
he
meets
billionaire
CEO
and
closet
submissive
Rachel
Zelinsky,
he
finally
gets
the
opportunity
to
put
all
his
research—and
his
Dom’s
intuition—
into
practice.
He
gives
Rachel
what
she’s
been
looking
for
her
entire
life,
the
opportunity
for
complete
surrender.
Not
to
mention
quite
a
few
orgasms
along
the
way!
Just
for fun, here’s a bit from the book that illustrates my hero’s
decidedly non-alpha tendencies.
The
smell
tells
me
I’m
home,
long
before
I
open
my
eyes—a
mixture
of
black
tea,
sandalwood
incense,
and
a
hint
of
the
glue
I
use
for
my
models.
The
air
conditioner
hums
and
in
the
background,
I
hear
the
soft,
sedate
progress
of
some
Bach
harpsichord
sonata.
The
music
sets
up
echoes
inside
my
head,
which
feels
swollen
and
fragile
as
a
Fabergé
egg.
The
firmness
molding
my
back
and
butt
suggests
I’m
stretched
out
on
the
bed.
Have
I
been
asleep?
I
don’t
recall
lying
down,
indeed,
don’t
remember
anything
for
the
space
of
several
breaths.
Then
it
all
comes
crashing
back,
a
tsunami
of
embarrassment,
fear
and
regret.
The
fund
raiser.
Rachel.
Oh,
my
God!
“Theo?
Are
you
awake?”
She
keeps
her
voice
low,
as
though
she
understands
the
pain
bouncing
around
in
the
hollows
of
my
skull.
Memory
flutters
back
in
bits
and
pieces.
A
dizzy,
endless
journey.
Struggling
not
to
vomit
on
Rachel’s
upholstery.
I
crack
open
my
eyelids,
squinting
into
the
welcome
dimness.
“Rachel?”
I
rasp,
my
mouth
dry
as
the
Santa
Anas.
All
I
can
see
is
the
featureless
ceiling.
“What
happened?”
When
I
raise
my
head,
seeking
her,
the
room
spins
and
my
stomach
objects
strenuously.
She’s
there,
though,
leaning
toward
me,
seated
on
one
of
my
dining
room
chairs,
which
she’s
dragged
to
the
side
of
the
bed.
Her
curls
have
come
loose
from
the
glittering
clips
she
used
to
tame
them,
and
her
make-up
is
smudged.
She’s
unspeakably
gorgeous.
Despite
my
sorry
state,
the
headache
and
the
cotton
mouth
and
the
dizziness,
my
cock
stirs
inside
the
monkey
suit
I’m
apparently
still
wearing.
Ah,
the
tenaciousness
of
lust!
“How
are
you
feeling?”
The
concern
I
hear
in
her
tone
has
an
immediate
healing
effect.
“Pretty
rocky,
but
I
suppose
I’m
all
right.”
I
ease
myself
into
a
half-sit,
propped
against
my
pillow.
“Here,
drink
this.”
She
hands
me
a
glass
full
of
fizzing
liquid.
I
swallow
it
down,
ignoring
the
protests
from
my
gut.
Despite
the
medicinal
taste,
I
feel
slightly
more
human
after
consuming
it.
Rachel
leans
back
and
contemplates
me,
eyebrows
drawn
together
into
a
frown.
My
dick
hardens
further
while
a
blush
climbs
into
my
cheeks.
I
feel
like
a
naughty
schoolboy.
The
sensation
is
not
entirely
unpleasant.
“I
told
you
to
go
easy
on
the
champagne.”
“I
should
have
listened
to
you,”
I
admit.
“But
I
was
so
nervous.”
“I
know,”
she
says.
“I
know.
I
think
the
stress
had
as
much
to
do
with
your
collapse
as
the
alcohol.”
I
nod.
“I
used
to
faint,
back
when
I
was
at
school—when
things
got
really
bad.
When
I
couldn’t
handle
a
situation,
that
was
my
final
escape.
Finally
my
parents
pulled
me
out
and
got
me
a
tutor.
It
hasn’t
happened
since.”
“I’m
sorry
I
pushed
you
so
hard,
Theo.
I
should
have
known
better.”
Her
hand
claims
mine,
in
a
gesture
so
casual
and
natural
it
seems
unconscious.
Does
she
have
any
idea
what
she’s
doing
to
me?
Still,
remarkably,
I
have
no
urge
to
pull
away.
“You
were
doing
so
well,
though.
I
was
so
proud
of
you.”
She
gives
my
fingers
a
squeeze.
I
squeeze
back,
amazed
that
I
can
be
so
comfortable
with
her
touching
me.
“But
now
I’ve
disappointed
you,
I
imagine.”
I
try
sitting
up
straighter.
It’s
awkward
with
only
one
hand
free.
I
want
to
adjust
the
swollen
lump
pressing
against
my
zipper,
but
of
course
I
don’t
dare.
“And
the
donors—they’re
probably
all
laughing
their
millionaire
heads
off
at
poor,
pathetic
Theo
Moore.”
“Not
at
all.
Everyone
was
quite
worried
about
you.
Roger
Varley
wanted
to
call
an
ambulance,
but
I
thought
you’d
really
rather
go
home.”
“You
were
right.
Thank
you.
But
how
did
you
get
me
up
to
the
second
floor
and
into
bed?”
“It
wasn’t
easy.”
Her
whole
face
lights
up
when
she
laughs.
“You’re
a
big
guy.
The
gardener
helped
me
bundle
you
up
the
stairs.
I
fished
the
key
out
of
your
trouser
pocket.”
The
concept
of
her
hand
wriggling
into
my
pants,
her
heat
warming
my
body—it’s
too
much.
My
cock
surges,
threatening
a
premature
explosion.
I’ve
got
to
get
Rachel
Zelinsky
out
of
here,
before
I
really
embarrass
myself.
~~~
To
be honest, I’m deeply in love with Theo myself. He represents every
geeky, horny guy I’ve ever had the pleasure to know—and I mean
that in the Biblical sense! No alpha male could ever turn me on the
way he does.
