Girl-Nerds Like it Harder (Erotic Romance) Book 1

  GIRL-NERDS LIKE IT HARDER

  BOOK ONE OF THE GIRL-NERD SERIES

  BY RACHEL DUNNING

  Copyright © 2013 Rachel Dunning.

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  Cover Design Copyright © 2013 Rachel Dunning.

  Cover Photo Copyright © 2013 iko.

  Obtained from Shutterstock and used with permission.

  Smashwords Edition

  ISBN: 9781301389315

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  By Rachel Dunning

  Girl-Nerds Like it Harder, #1 Girl-Nerd Series

  Girl Nerds Like it Faster, #2 Girl-Nerd Series

  Girl-Nerds Like it Deeper, #3 Girl-Nerd Series

  Girl-Nerds Like it Longer, #4 Girl-Nerd Series

  Know Me, #1 Truthful Lies

  Find Me, #2 Truthful Lies

  Finding North, #1 Naïve Mistakes Trilogy

  East Rising, #2 Naïve Mistakes Trilogy

  West-End Boys, #3 Naïve Mistakes Trilogy

  Like You, #1 Perfectly Flawed Series

  Christmas Comfort, #1 Hot Holidays Series

  For news of upcoming releases, visit:

  http://racheldunningauthor.blogspot.com

  For those who believe in the impossible...

  Table of Contents

  BEFORE WE BEGIN...

  GIRL-NERDS LIKE IT HARDER

  BOOK TWO

  BEFORE WE BEGIN...

  Let’s you and I make an agreement about this book, shall we?

  This is meant to be a fun book, a short book, a book that might cause you to undo your top button from the ensuing steam of it. If you were looking for the secrets to life, you won’t find them here. If you were looking for something that will take you a week to read, you won’t find it here either.

  But, if you want a few laughs, a little bit of heat, a slight distraction on a busy day, or maybe just that wistful feeling of wondering what if life were this simple?, then go ahead and delve into this work of fun fiction.

  Do we have a deal?

  Great, have a blast!

  P.S. It goes without saying that this book is intended for adults only.

  If you want news of upcoming releases, please subscribe here: http://racheldunningauthor.blogspot.com

  GIRL-NERDS LIKE IT HARDER

  -1-

  I lost my virginity while thinking of an algorithm.

  When I’d finally said “hah!” at the end of Clayton Remington poking his perfect pecker into me from behind, I’m sure he thought I’d just come. Truth is, I’d just solved an equation in my mind. When he said “Was it good?” I said “Oh, yeah!” and made the words stretch for extra syllables just the way I thought guys like it.

  He was still behind me, doggy style, and he couldn’t see my face. But I guess it was good—the algorithm, that is. Ironically, it had been an equation about maximizing throughput by the optimization of source input graphed against resultant output.

  Yeah, I didn’t get the irony of it then, on my hands and knees on Clayton’s dorm bed, his thing still poking in and out of me after he’d come. He was saying “oh yeah, ooh, good, mmm, oh yeah oh, Layla, oh...” and I was thinking about numbers.

  I let him have his fun. It wasn’t his fault I’ve always been more aroused by a set of computer code on a screen than I have by guys wanting to ram their rods into me like I’m some blow-up doll. I’m a pragmatist. I think in mathematics and connections, correlations, logic and facts. So my view of love at that time was a simple one: Input. Output. Product.

  I don’t think I need to elaborate on that.

  I’d met Clayton at a party a few weeks before. A Christmas party. I wasn’t much of a party-goer but Clayton was, apparently. He was also majoring in Computer Science at The University of England and we’d been in the same Functional Programming class the whole of our first year there, but never spoken. Of course I’d noticed him before, a boy with blue eyes like that doesn’t get ignored, even by the geekiest, nerdiest girl in town. But, like I said, code was and always had been my only boyfriend.

  After a few drinks, we’d started chatting. He’d seemed like an OK enough guy, so I kept seeing him, hanging out with him after class. I found out that he grew up in the poorer parts of London and, even though both his parents were still alive (unlike mine), they’d divorced when he was young and his mom then started going through boyfriends faster than a McDonalds Drive-Thru.

  We had a lot in common. But, me being me, I didn’t get into many details about my own story, skillfully turning the subject away whenever it came up.

  Finally, I figured I’d try this whole sex thing. And who better, than with someone I was relatively compatible with? It wasn’t a big thing for me like “OMG losing my virginity needs to be so special!” Not at all. I didn’t even bother telling Clayton it was my first time...

  I had, however, gotten on the pill a few weeks earlier. I might not have insisted on fireworks for my first time, but I did insist on the real thing all the way.

  Sure, I’d wanted sex, good sex, just like I’d heard about on TV, in movies, in books. Which is why I’d finally decided to pick Clayton to do it with me on my first go.

  Clayton was far from butch. He was athletic, blonde, attractive. But he was no Alpha Male. Of course, he didn’t wear the thick horn-rims (I wore those till I was seventeen) or carry a pencil behind his ear all day (I still do that), but he was smart, and sweet. I figured that an explosive orgasm the likes of which I’d only heard about would come about from two people with similar operating systems. I mean, you can’t connect a Power Server up to an old 486 computer, can you?

  There was a reason I’d stayed a virgin for so long. In my endless aching years of study of the male beast I’d come to appreciate certain key facts about him: He likes sex. He likes sex with anything remotely attractive. If he is given a choice between attractive and unattractive, he goes for attractive. Some men have software quirks in their make-up, so not all men think the same. Some are more compatible with big girls, others with thinner ones. All of them have unique preferences for their desktops and the skins they choose. But there is one undeniable fact I came to understand already at a young age:

  Given the choice between sex with a girl and sex with his hands, a boy always chooses sex with a girl, regardless of whether or not that girl is compatible with his preferences or not! So the girl might be big, small, young, old, really old, unattractive, attractive, whatever—the prime mover behind a male’s main processor, his central microchip, is this: Input. Output. Product.

  It’s a simple processor.

  I’d long since decided that I was in no ways interested in being nothing more than the female connector in the wiring of some man’s primal desires to spread his electrons out into the world in that endless cycle of Input, Output, Product. For that reason, whenever some guy had made eyes at me or squawked out some catcall trying to get me into bed or to connect his output with some other input-socket of mine other than the main one, I’d ignored it. And I’d ignored it for one reason.

  I’m not ugly, per se. That much I know. But, damn it, I am so far from typical hot-babe material that whenever I heard those attempts of guys to
get it on with me, I knew I was dealing with that final thing about the male computer-chip that I’d learned at an early age: Choice between female or the hands!

  You see, I’m small, as in “A-cup, no shape, and short” kind of small. My skin is too pale and any amount of time in the sun makes me look like a tomato. I have the muscle tone of an electrical cord that’s been left out in the Mojave Desert for too long. My hair is brown, just brown, not chestnut or auburn or dark brown or radiant brown. Brown. My features are small—button nose, tiny ears, nothing-special lips. The way those small parts come together makes up a face which is the polar opposite of Kate Moss. Also, a ruler is curvier than me. I guess the best way to describe me is ‘simple.’ Then, of course, there’s my obsession with geekdom. I play games. I write code. I think in formulas and endlessly ponder whether there is intelligent life in outer space or not. In other words: I’ve always been about as attractive to a man as his next gaming console, and about as interesting.

  My own processor seems to have been configured differently. There had never been a man who got my juices running, who made me overclock my heart-rate, who sent my eyes into flutters of sparkling desire. So, at nineteen, when I finally allowed Clayton Remington to satiate his own desires with me, to ‘take my innocence’ let us say, I’d actually been doing an experiment, an experiment with someone who I believed saw more in me than just the Female-Or-Hand winner. But an experiment nonetheless. And the experiment had failed. Because I still had no clue what this whole love-or-sex thing was all about. He hadn’t given me an orgasm, and I’d been thinking about other things while he’d obviously been having a groaningly good time of it...

  And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s an unsolved problem.

  -2-

  The way to solve a bug is to go about reproducing the error. You specify the expected result compared to the achieved result. Well, that one was easy.

  Expected result: Over the top orgasmic explosion.

  Actual result: Zilch.

  I laid out the possible factors: Penis size, clitoral stimulation, physical and emotional attraction (if any), hormonal make-up, etc. Of course, it was all done in a spreadsheet on my laptop. I had to postulate certain factors to start off with, such as: I’m normal, or close to normal. This made sense because I’ve never had any major diseases and my dad had also been a small guy physically so it would follow that I never made it past five-three in height. I hypothesized various other points—

  Oh, god, here I go again. Boring the shit out of people with my geek-speak! Sorry, let’s move on...

  Here’s the point: Clayton and I did it again.

  We were in his dorm room once more, a typical male dorm room with clothes and boxers and pennants and car and surfer magazines on the floor. On a desk by the window, between the two beds, was a photo of him and his sister, a gorgeous blonde that made me jealous every time I saw her.

  I was on his bed. We’d been technically ‘dating’ for a little over a month now. The last time we’d had sex (my failed experiment) had been the weekend before. It had taken me a few days to get my wits straight after that and decide whether or not we were going to keep ‘going out.’

  The first thing I wanted to get clear was that he knew how I felt. I may be a pragmatist, but I’m not cold-hearted.

  “Clayton,” I said, lying back on his bed in a holey tee and jeans torn at the knees. “I need you to know that I don’t think I have...feelings...for...this. I mean, this is...” I didn’t know how to finish that sentence. I was never good with people. Give me a chat box and a keyboard any day.

  “Oh, yeah, I know,” he said casually.

  I smiled, because British accents always make me smile. And especially Clayton’s. I was one of three Yanks accepted into The University of England this year. I know, I know: Nerd alert!

  “Yeah, but, I mean, I do like, um...” I coughed.

  “What, the sex?”

  I thought of it for a minute. I actually hadn’t liked the sex. Not yet. That was the problem. Which is why I wanted to have it again... “Yeah, well, I mean, it’s just physical, you know?”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

  For all that Clayton lacked in the bulky department, he made up for it with his mesmerizingly aquatic eyes, short blonde hair that fell around his eyes, and a face that didn’t seem to age. He reminded me a bit of Leonardo DiCaprio in Titanic, just not as skinny.

  He looked up at me from the surfer magazine he was looking at, with his marine-blue eyes... And then something happened to me. Something I hadn’t expected. A glitch in my own software. A bug!

  I got wet. And warm. In my nether regions. And my skin heated up.

  I cleared my throat, moved back on his bed against the wall and looked out the window. I tried to process it in my head, tried to think of my spreadsheet, the rows, the formulas—

  “Do you want to do it now?” someone asked. ‘Someone.’ Yeah right. It was Clayton of course. But I was so far away in the lightning-speed calculations of my mind that I may as well have been daydreaming. (Actually, that is daydreaming for me...)

  “Um, wh— huh?” I croaked.

  “Now. Would you like to have sex now?”

  I wiped my suddenly wet palms on my jeans. “Well...” Wait a minute. Wait a minute! Why was I doing this? Why had I suddenly allowed this guy to do me when I’d avoided it with so many others in the past? What had been different? Why had I violated my rule about the hand and—

  Abruptly, he was next to me, nestled on my side, my left shoulder touching his right, his bare leg in contact with my clothed one. And he read his magazine.

  The Hertz-Rate of my heart picked up. What was it now—ninety beats? A hundred? What factor was this? Why was he so close?

  He shuffled slightly. My head turned suddenly and I looked down to where his boxers would be but they were covered by a photo of some guy riding a crest of a wave in Australia.

  “How’s the magazine?” I managed to get out, trying to act cool.

  “Interesting.” He flipped a page.

  How’s the magazine!? Did I really just fucking ask him that?

  “So, you want to do it or not?” he asked, still eying the mag.

  Gush! I shuffled back. Goddamn it, suddenly I wanted it. Suddenly I really wanted it. And not because of some dumbass experiment, but because of a feeling in me I didn’t recognize...

  I wanted it right now.

  And suddenly I felt inexperienced and out of control... I felt like...like...like a fuse had popped or a module of some sort had been removed! I wanted to ask him stupid shit like why was he with me or what did he see in me or—

  His right hand eased up the inside of my thigh. My leg quivered. My bottom lip trembled. My eyelids fluttered and I tried to speak the words, tried to tell him that something wasn’t right with the existing configuration but my mouth wouldn’t move—

  His palm eased off, just before it hit my crotch, and moved to my quad muscle (what little of it there was), rubbing it gently, warming me up. His cracked lips touched my neck. Snowflakes began to fall outside and I wondered, for one delirious moment, if this layout wasn’t being run by some Supreme Systems Administrator up above, hitting a combination of keys on a master keyboard so as to prompt this heavenly download of joy while Clayton, slowly, continued to kiss me on my neck, down to the hollow of it...

  My breath caught. My heart rate moved up from Hertz to Megahertz to Gigahertz. Clayton moved his hand down to my knee and eased two fingers inside the tears, caressing my skin. His fingertips were lightning, shooting all the way up my sciatic nerve and causing my mouth to salivate unexpectedly.

  My body went limp against the cold wall. I tried to think of something to say, I tried to make sense of what was happening! My eyes closed. I heard Clayton’s magazine fall to the ground. He pushed his dry lips down to where my neck meets my shoulders, then he licked my skin in a delicate lap upwards, then down, up again.

  OK, my vocal hardware failed me here: I whimpered.
“Cl—Cl—Clayton...”

  “M-hmmm?” He kept kissing me, pushing me with his nose and lips down onto his bed. I lay back.

  He lay next to me. The webcam which was my eyes closed shut. I couldn’t open them even if I wanted to. This was a total systems failure on my part and I was gonna have to do some serious analysis on this later!

  But now... Right now, I—Didn’t—Give—A shit!

  Something took over me. Something not having to do with computers and software and hardware and web protocols... Something warmer. Something with feeling...

  A primal thing, visceral, and blindingly human. Out of nowhere, I wanted Clayton, wanted him with every geek and non-geek part of me alike.

  “Clayton?” I repeated.

  “Yes,” he whispered.

  “Fuck me, please. Fuck me so I come hard, OK?”

  “Yes, babe.” His voice was blessed molasses dripping down my breastbone, waiting to be licked off by that same tongue that now tickled and twirled my earlobe in a movement so experienced, so certain that I wondered who the hell that guy had been who’d screwed me doggy style the week before!?

  It hadn’t been Clayton. No ways. And, now, lying here, Clayton’s hand easing to my belly button and then up, I didn’t give a howling hoot about any time before or after. I cared only about now.

  -3-

  He licked my neck gently and wetly from one side of it to the other, a white-hot razor of excitement across my throat. Shivers padded with nervous feet down my spine. His left hand eased itself up to my right nipple and he took it between his index and thumb and pressed it, squeezing it once so that my eyes shot open from the twang. The action fired galvanized shocks up my neck and all I wanted now was to kiss him. I began to move, to try and turn and kiss Clayton but, oh-so-gently and oh-so-certainly, he laid his hand flat on my ribs and pushed me firmly back down. I got the message: Don’t move. Don’t do anything. I’m in control here.