Friday, December 30, 2011
According to Violet Blue and December Ink's gots one! woohoo!
Thanks to Violet and all of you who've read Gritty: Rough Erotic Fiction. For all who bought it, rated it, and commented it on it in 2011...You rock. :)
It's been a while :)
On The Sly is now up at ARe, Bookstrand, Smashwords and winging it's way to Kindle.
Faith has a bit of a run in with her morning coffee. Good thing it's only her and James in the office. Handsome James. Sexy James...Surely she can clean up lickety split on the office bathroom without him noticing. Yeah they've been flirting hot and heavy since she started, but he's a gentleman. And though its forbidden, popping in the office shower'd really be no big deal...right? It's not like anyone might walk in on her or anything...
For ADULTS ONLY
Ta and da. Happy New Year's Eve-Eve.
p.s. back soon with some spiffy news regarding one of my favorite projects...evah!
Thursday, December 29, 2011
I tend to write short chapters. Not short like James Patterson--which can, let's face it, no shit, be like a page--but about five or six pages. I used to have an editor who would get very distraught over this. They're too short! They're so short! OMG! They're sooooooooo short...
And so on.
Now I just do it anyway. And here is my reasoning. When I am reading a really good book and want to sneak in just one more chapter before my (________) fill in the blank...I like short chapters. Whether it's errands or writing or cooking dinner. Whatever! The point is, if I rifle the pages and see it's only four pages well...come on! it's only four pages. Who cannot sneak in four pages? I certainly can and bonus: I feel like I'm getting away with something.
So are you a writer? Long or short chapters--do tell! Are you a reader? Do you like long or short? Inquiring nosey ass minds want to know.
p.s. if I were a kick ass roller derby chick, these would totally be my shorts! Woohoo! Click HERE for purchasing info.
by Lucy Felthouse's man at Waterstone's in Leamington Spa. Haha! Awesome. Big kisses to him :)
Just like this: XXXXXXXXXXXXX
Have *you* seen me? Show me yours I'll kiss you in public.
Wednesday, December 28, 2011
who is me! This lovely awesome fantastical picture is from Saskia Walker who took it in "Waterstones in Scarborough, North Yorkshire". Oh. Em. Gee.
So, if *you* happen to see me, especially my new book The Best of Sommer Marsden, I'd love if you'd shoot me a picture. I'll put it on my blog with your little snippet and a link to you if you have a blog.
Sounds fun, yes? Woohooo! Yes!
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Monday, December 26, 2011
My hillbilly wine glass. Courtesy of my sis. Too funny!
Hope you had a great Christmas. Mine was good until I spent the remainder of it doubled over. I am having some gallbladder issues (our best guess until I can see a doc), so my continuing festivities include no food (though we have a ton), lots of water (though I'd rather have wine) and if I'm wild, some ginger ale. Woohoo!
I'm saving my wineglass for wine, though. I would never mock that beauty by drinking ginger ale out of it. *gasp*
Might be more quiet than normal for the next few days, but hoping you're having a great holiday. Tell me your favorite gift received in comments, if you're so inclined. I'd love to know what some of you got for your Ho-Ho-Holiday whether it was Christmas, Hanukkah, Festivus, Kwanza or just um...Sunday.
Saturday, December 24, 2011
Friday, December 23, 2011
Twenty minutes of trying to get a decent picture of the dog and getting this:
More minutes of being shunned by a pissed off Santa Wiener:
Another thing that fills me with Ho-Ho-Ho spirit is giving stuff away. Like copies of my Christmas (among other holidays) tale of a fetish of shorts. FIXATION will be FREE on Smashwords until Decmber 26th. Use coupon code LK58J to purchase yours!
Denise has found a teeny weenie fixation that she didn’t know about. It seems spotting random and stray erections at various parties turns her on—makes her crazy, makes her randy. Causes her, in fact, to either accost her poor husband or take matters into her own hands. ADULTS ONLY originally appeared on Ruthie's Club
Happy Merry Christmas Eve Eve!
Thursday, December 22, 2011
This is Sucre a la Creme with Maldon Salt and Pecans in transition from ingredients to fabulous, decadent candy...
My grandmother's peanut butter fudge. Which I nailed. Spot on. For the first time ever. I promised girl child I'd try and voila! Success. It usually comes out a wee bit grainy, just slightly off from hers (which was never grainy) but this time, I got it and now that I've got it...I've got it! This will not last long. I have a feeling I'll be making another batch before Sunday.
And the finale. The Sucre a la Creme, the peanut butter fudge, and a Gluten Free pound cake which turned out pretty tasty.
Ta and da. Oh and Fa-la-la-la-la La-la-la-la... Boy child is home with my dad's Christmas gift. Bonus.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
When I found the Santa's Twin Book, I literally gasped. I'd read bits of the book within the book of Mr. Murder when MM was released. When the kids were small, I stumbled over the book from the book. And bought it. To this day, at some point, someone reads from it.
And as for Trixie's book, one word: sausage.
I found these today and thought to bring them up for visitors to look at. I figured I'd share with you in case you'd never seen them.
As for the rest of the day, four felt mice sewn, pot pie made, wrapping done, some editing, some writing and hanging back to be with girl child who is recovering nicely but not 100%. We watched Christmas Vacation together and ya know...that movie never gets old.
Plus, I got my copies of BWE '12 so...yay me! Good stuff. I'm easing into the holiday this year, but I am getting there.
This one was a no brainer for me. My father died in 1976 about 5 weeks shy of my fifth birthday. In 1978 this song was released. For whatever reason, possibly the melancholy opening bits (I've always been a lyric person) I began to associate this song and this sentiment to how I felt about being the kid missing a dad on the holidays.
Sounds super sad, but I must say that when I would hear the opening of this song, my heart always perked up and I took it as a nod from my dad. That even though he wasn't *here*, he was here.
This year I was going crazy because despite keeping the Christmas music station on in the car whenever I went out, I never heard it. They kept playing the Aaron Neville version. And though Aaron has some mad singing skillz...not the same (Sorry, Aaron)
Finally, Monday, when the man was off and we had to shop and I felt my most unChristmasy yet with one pneumonia kid, one health issue kid, an abundance of stress and a shortage of time...it came on. And I hushed the man, sang along and something in me felt a little bit lighter.
It would all be okay.
Maybe way too much importance to hang on a little song, but to me it's my signal that I'm not alone. Even when I feel it. So, there you go. Finding my spirit day, three.
(I have since heard the song about six times. It seems to be every time I'm ready to cry or break something with a hammer). Let's call it the Universe's tranquilizer ;)
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
Getting there. But still not quite. So I bring you John Denver and the Muppets. I grew up on the Muppets (and John Denver). I dare you not to fucking love the muppets!
Five days left. Have you found your spirit? Help me out. Make me feel the holiday love. Share your secret.
Monday, December 19, 2011
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Whew. I might have posted this awesome 5 heart review for Lunatic Fringe before. If I did, forgive me. I can't find it (much like I can't find my own ass with both hands and a flashlight this week) and it came to my notice via some online ping the other day. So tada! A possibly repeat link to an awesome review over at Sizzling Hot Book Reviews!
Now this is brand new. A five star review for Automagically at Two-Lips Reviews. Orsum! HERE'S the full review. And a snippet:
The twists and turns in this story made it a memorable read for me and this is a book I’ll be putting on my keeper shelf for a long time to come.
Thank you, Tina! :)
And finally, I'm over at Elise Hepner's blog with THE BEST OF SOMMER MARSDEN'S MIND AND READING LIST discussing my favorite books of the last three months. And hey! There are probably some names you recognize on there and some you may not. Go check IT OUT.
Happy Saturday. I started the weekend off really right last night--with a bang. Hoping you have similar.
Friday, December 16, 2011
First on the books...*drum roll please in your best Clark Griswold fashion*:
My sister's thirty-ninth birthday! Muwah! Enjoy it, girly. Next thing you know, you'll be just like me. The big four-oh.
To celebrate, my super long 88K plus novel WANDERLUST is FREE for download on Amazon Kindle for EVERYONE. (After five days it will return to being free for Amazon Prime Readers only). Go grab your copy, pronto!
Second on the books, I am on my final stop of the Fantastical THE BEST OF SOMMER MARSDEN book tour. Stop by the Forbidden Bookshelf (ooooooooh...yum) and see what I have to say about my spanking story Spank Pants. Is it true? Is it false? Is it...mebbe?
And third on the books, I was interviewed by Lucas Steele (International Man of Mystery (sorry, that's what I hear in my head when I say his name ;} )). We discussed not just my M/M book HARD LESSONS but TBOSM and the upcoming Restless Spirit and well, lots of stuff!
I'll be back later it with more stuff. But for now, let's just have some coffee and start with this, shall we?
Thursday, December 15, 2011
On fantastical stop number four I'm at Word Ejaculation I'm telling you "true, false or mebbe" on the story NOTHING BUT THE BOOTS. I'll give you a hint. One day I answered the mailman's knock with quite an...ensemble. That's the only way to put it.
Come say hi for a chance to win a copy to eroticize your ereader!
And please note: I tried to tie this tour together. Each stop/blog opens with the same snippet but then after that discusses a separate story. So don't think you've read it when you read the opener. Every day is a new story :D
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
for THE BEST OF SOMMER MARSDEN book tour is Cocktails and Books...I mean does it get any better than that for me? I'm discussing the "True, False or Mebbe" of Picket Fence. Stop in and say hi. You could win a book to eroticize your ereader!
Tuesday, December 13, 2011
For the next 5 days BITTERSWEET, my BDSMy tale of love and lust is utterly TOTALLY FREE on Kindle. Go here to grab yours.
Rayka’s just looking for a peace offering for an offended client when she goes into The Good, The Sweet, and the Yummy. What she finds instead is a very intoxicating man. Deacon James is more sinful than the candy he sells, and Rayka soon finds out that he can push her farther than she every thought she could go. Mentally, creatively, emotionally and yes–sexually. Rayka must remember it’s okay to let him have her body, let him test her limits, but she can’t let him have her heart. Besides, he’s made it perfectly clear he doesn’t want it anyway…
Monday, December 12, 2011
Sunday, December 11, 2011
Find me at:
12th December: http://www.eroticwhispers.co.uk
13th December: http://seducedbybooks.blogspot.com/
14th December: http://www.cocktailsandbooks.com
15th December: http://www.wordejaculation.com
16th December: http://www.theforbiddenbookshelf.com
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Girl child and I spent an hour watching all the Charles Phoenix test kitchen vids and are now plotting our own Astro-Weenie Christmas Tree. So excited!
Friday, December 9, 2011
I could walk past this apple and not bring it home with me?
Working on editing and writing today. Hope you're Friday is rocking. What are YOU reading over the weekend? Share with me. I have a copy of Long Lost and a copy of The Best of Sommer Marsden to give out.
I'll pick a commenter for each over the next few days. Make sure to leave your email addy.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Own a Kindle? You can borrow my novella BITTERSWEET ( a BDSMy tale of love and lust and ya know, dirty stuff) for free. True story. Go HERE for details.
I'm super stoked about that. It's like being part of an invisible library. I get a tingle just thinking about being borrowed by so many people...*ahem*. Is it warm in here?
p.s. spread the love, tell your friends, your neighbors, your mailman, your dentist. Everyone needs to stock their Kindle with some naughty goodies for the holiday season :)
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Morning, all. Here are some werewolves and whatnot for ya ;). LONG LOST is the sequel to BIG BAD so if you plan on reading the former, I wouldn't read what's below. It might spoil some stuff for you.
As for Long Lost, it's already received a very nice 5 star reader review at ARe:
Sommer's did it again!! Great follow-up to Big Bad! Great twists & turns. All characters new & old were enjoyable. Lots of laughs & excitement within. Hope that there will be another to follow. ~Ava
by Sommer Marsden
I had not expected a house. Not a house like this—this cute little cottage with a nice living room and fireplace and three bedrooms and such. I pushed the tree and it wobbled before smacking me across the cheek with rough pine needles.
“I told you to let me get a fake one,” Ellis said from the doorway. He held a glass of wine in each hand and was trying sort of valiantly not to smile.
“You are a wolf,” I wheezed, wrestling the tree. “How in the world can you want fake foliage in your house?”
He shrugged and I felt a thrill work through me all over again at the thought that he was mine. That we had survived Frank the psycho wolf who had tried to kill Ellis and yes, yours truly, because I was Ellis’s long lost reincarnated mate.
Confused? Long story.
The bottom line was, I was his and he was mine and we’d been married by a psychic Samoan in a diner on the way to a town full of werewolves called TOWN.
More confused? Stay with me.
“I want anything my blushing bride does not have to bitch slap to get it to behave, Ruby,” he chuckled.
“Put the booze down and help me with the Christmas tree, husband!” I roared and he tipped his head back, laughing silently.
And then he obeyed.
Together we bullied the tree into its stand and stepped back as if expecting it to attack. “There,” he said.
“There,” I echoed.
And then the tree fell. It hit me broadside, I hit Ellis and together we hit the deck with the big sticky sappy pine on top of us.
“Hunh,” Ellis said.
“Fuck,” I hissed.
“If you insist.”
His hands were on me instantly and I warmed at that. “You are such a slut. It was a figure of speech,” I gasped.
His fingers had wormed under my waistband and were stroking the fragile skin above my mound. All of me tingled, all of me arched up to meet his hand.
“I have finally won your heart, tricked you into marrying me and we are about to share our first Christmas. You are in some severely smoking hot yoga pants and that little bit of cotton you call a sweater and I can see your belly,” he rumbled.
“Can we at least move the tree?” I asked.
“If you insist.” With one big sweeping motion, he pushed the tree up and off us and I—as always—marveled at his strength. Ellis set about stripping me of my sweater. “This is really a little tuft of fluff. Not a sweater,” he breathed.
“Ellis, we should be decorating.”
“Are we expecting company?” His mouth, hot and insistent settled on my throat and he licked the place where my pulse thundered. His fingers found my pussy and he slid those talented digits home.
“Well, no. But this is my first house as a…oh.”
“A what?” The tip of his finger brushed my G-spot and I lost all the air from my lungs.
“A wife,” I whispered.
“I think this is pretty wifely.”
My husband is a werewolf. A big, hot, terribly bad and wonderful werewolf who saved me from a crazy rogue alpha. Along with the help of a vampire and a bear. He was my knight in shining armor and also, at the moment, the man pulling my pants off.
“Yes, yes, this is wifely,” I said just as my poor yoga pants were being tossed across the room. Luckily they landed near the fireplace and not in the fire currently burning merrily within.
“Spread your legs, Ruby,” he said. The hair on the back of my neck rose up and my nipples went hard. Tender heat radiated through my breasts when he nipped them with his sharp teeth. So fucking sensitive, my breasts—unbelievably so lately.
My fingers warred with his to get at his zipper and finally he said, “Let me do it,” and I did. His mouth warm on mine, his tongue greedy when he kissed me, he pushed into me slowly. We both held our breath, eyes locked. And when he started to rock against me, we both exhaled.
“Put your arms up, baby.”
I pushed my arms high above my head and my breast jutted up. I brushed the backs of my fingers through the fluffy cream colored throw rug under me. Ellis pinned me with his much larger hands, holding my upper body tight to the floor as he moved into me. No rush, no hurry, just a blissful rocking motion that had me gnawing my bottom lip in moments.
He felt it. He knew. “It’s okay, sweetheart. We’re not done here. I like it when you have more than one,” he said, leering at me in that big bad wolf guise that always made me wet between the legs.
I came, my arms warring with his grip even though I had no desire to be set free. I simply had to move with the force of my release.
“Good girl. Good Ruby,” he whispered and I damn near came again.
I laughed softly and arched up to meet him, pushing my legs wider to open my body to his and he groaned. “Good Ellis,” I teased. “Good boy.”
“That sounds surprisingly like a dog joke.” His voice deep and rough but his eyes sparkly with humor.
I knew what I was doing. I was baiting him. It worked.
His hand came free of my flesh and he pulled out of me, turning me like his own little Ruby-doll, I found myself on hands and knees, head down, hair brushing my fingers as they clutched at the throw rug.
Ellis drove into me, his body surging into mine, his breath hot on my back. “You fight dirty, wife.”
His hand came around to find my clit and he stroked me with strong fingers wet with my own juices. My breath hitched, my heart pounded. “You, too,” I said.
“Come with me, then.” I felt his hair brush my back between my shoulder blades when he pressed his head to me as if in prayer. He was arched over me and thrusting hard and breathing harder and that was that.
I came as he came. A vibrant hush filled the room and then the sound of our orgasm. When I fell to my chest and he draped himself over me, Ellis said, “God but I love you, wife.”
Christmas was only two days away.
Ellis took me down the main street of Town to the library. I was still getting used to living among werewolves in a place called Town. I still missed my corner store in Baltimore and Mr. O’Dell who visited me most every day. And I dearly missed my best friend, vampire and ex-lover (complicated, much?) Tyler Gent. On the other hand, I was beyond happy. I woke up every day with that tingly sensation in my gut that almost screamed excitement. Sometimes I felt so excited I was damn near nauseous.
“So this is your big Alpha debut,” I said.
“Don’t be nervous,” he said.
I stopped in my tracks, digging the heels of my lace-up boots into the cracks on the sidewalk. “We talked about that. Stop smelling my emotions,” I said.
“Would you rather me say I can smell your—”
He grinned at me and all of me crimped up with emotion at that smile. I had never loved anyone as much as I loved Ellis. Actually, since falling in love with Ellis I now realized I’d never been in love before in my life. The fact that this was our second lifetime together—that I had once been his mate, murdered, and reincarnated to return to him—just made the love thing that much sweeter. And that much more confusing.
“Sorry, baby. But don’t be nervous. I’m not.”
“But you’re all macho and alpha and with the splintered gaze and the prophecy.”
“Hmph,” he said. He didn’t so much believe in this prophecy thing.
According to Samuel Soriano, the psychic who had married us in a diner, there was a prophecy in the Eastern Pack that Ellis Back could work wonders for the wolves. How did we know it was him in the prophecy? By his splintered gaze. See, my yummy husband has blue eyes with a jagged bolt of aubergine in one when he is human. And when he is wolf, he has aubergine eyes with a jagged bolt of surreal blue. He is, for the record, hot as hell in either form.
“Don’t hmph the prophecy,” I said. “You can save the wolves.”
“I don’t know yet.” But when I said it, my gut went heavy and I felt lightheaded. Something was coming. Something probably not good, possibly big. Samuel had also foreseen me being an empath and a psychic like him. So I ignored this part of my running emotions at the moment. Selective feeling. Can’t beat it.
He turned to me and I smiled, turned on tip-toe and kissed him. “Stop sniffing my feelings, Ellis.”
“Kiss me like you mean it,” he said and hustled me back into a dark corner near the library entrance.
I parted my lips for him, let his tongue slip into my mouth and slide along mine.
“Kiss me like you love me,” I said, teasing him.
“God, I fucking love you. You have no idea, Ruby.”
Actually, I did. He had risked his life and his beliefs to save me from that crazy—and now thankfully dead—Frank the wannabe alpha. Awful, awful Frank had wanted to kill me a second time. Frank had been the one to kill me in the 50s and he tried it again a few weeks ago.
“I have an idea,” I said and pressed myself to him. “But for right now, we need to go in there and be the mated, happy Alpha leader couple type people.”
“That was a mouthful,” he laughed.
“And then some.”
“I’ve got a mouthful for you—“
“Ellis!” I hissed, swatting him. “You are a big dirty pervert.”
“You love it.”
“I do,” I admitted and blushed, but then I hustled him into the library where there was a nice little Christmas celebration planned. You know, before he did me in the alleyway or anything.
I was in the reading room doing the ‘princess wave’ as Tyler used to call it and schmoozing with the locals when my phone rang. I recognized the number and my stomach bottomed out. But I pressed the button anyway.
It was Tyler.
Things had not ended well with us. A smoking hot threesome between him, Ellis and myself and then he’d had to let me go to Ellis. Who was my destiny. But Tyler was still hurting and I felt like I not only lost a lover but had lost my very best friend.
“Ty,” I breathed.
“Ruby. We have a problem.”
And then I was sitting in a tiny little wooden chair meant for a child, because it was sit down or fall down. I chose to sit. Somebody was dead.
* * * *
Tuesday, December 6, 2011
but this was a favorite from my early days with Xcite. It's one of the stories chosen for the freshly minted "The Best of Sommer Marsden". I'll be bringing more snippets from multiple works soonish.
Happy rainy Tuesday.
p.s. I've linked to the just released ebook. Also available on paperback in the UK (coming to the US soon :D )
From The Best of Sommer Marsden
My Good Boy
by Sommer Marsden
The first time I saw Joshua he was stumbling down the
Avenue at twelve in the afternoon. Snookered, drunk, high as
a kite. He was wearing a three-piece suit that any fool could
tell cost a pretty penny. I’m not one for suits but even I
wanted to run my hand over that dark grey fabric. I just knew
it would feel like liquid silk. His shaved head radiated a
lobster-like glow from the alcohol and he was smoking a
cigarette in that way. The way an extremely plastered person
smokes. Not just smoking it, but drawing on the filter so hard
I half expected him to suck the entire smouldering cylinder
into his mouth.
I was drawn to him. I admit it. He positively radiated
submissive. This was a man who felt out of control and he
needed some help. Some tender loving care. Or a good
whipping. It was a toss-up.
My feet carried me to him before I could reconsider. I was
hoping I had struck gold. A man who carried the weight of the
world on his shoulders but craved a woman who would push
him. And push him around. I get off on power. I get off on
men who can be broken. For whatever reason, I wanted to get
off with this man.
‘What’s wrong with you?’ I said down to him. He was
sitting on a concrete planter that held a sickly-looking palm
tree. ‘Why are you fucked up at noon?’
I figured it best to let him see exactly who I was right off
the bat. If he was going to be mine, then he had to see the real
me from the get-go.
He squinted up at me and took another severe drag on his
cigarette. ‘I am not drunk,’ he said very carefully. The caution
and slow speech obviously earmarked him as a completely
‘You most certainly are,’ I sighed and planted one of my
black stiletto heels on the planter. His eyes were level with
my crotch and my short skirt rode up with the movement. No
doubt he had a perfectly wonderful view of my crotch. That
‘OK, so I am,’ he said directly to my pussy.
‘Good. At least you’re being honest. Now tell me why,’ I
barked. Oh, if only I had a whip. Hell, I’d settle for a ruler.
‘I am…’ he slurred, ‘…having a bad day. I have too much
stress. I feel like I might…’ he trailed off and took a final drag
of his cigarette, practically licking the fucking thing. I
snatched it out of his fingers and flicked it into the street.
‘Explode? Cry? Jump off a large building?’
‘Yesh,’ he sighed. ‘All of the above.’
‘Come on,’ I said and grabbed his hand. I hauled him to
his feet and stood there waiting for him to fall over or fall on
me. He did neither.
‘Where’re we going?’
‘You’re coming home with me and we are going to get
you straightened out.’ I marched him toward my waiting Jeep.
‘You don’t even know me!’
I stopped turned and said, ‘Diane. And you are?’
‘Good. Now I know you. Get in the fucking car,’ I said
and pointed to the door. He nearly broke his neck getting in
but he managed.
I could not wait to get him home.
He slept the twenty-minute drive to my house. He was
snoring to the point of annoyance and I knew the first thing
I’d make him do was brush his teeth. Stale beer breath is not a
I pulled into the driveway and unbuckled. Went around
and opened the passenger side door. ‘Joshua!’ I barked.
He came awake in a series of grunt and snorts. He blinked
at me and wiped his mouth. ‘We here?’
‘Yes. Get out. Let’s go.’ I helped him out, though. The last
thing I needed was for him to take a header in the driveway
and knock himself unconscious.
Inside, I set about making a pot of coffee in case he‘d need
it. ‘There are towels in the linen closet. The bathroom is the
last room down the hall. Get a towel, take a shower and brush
your teeth. Use my toothbrush, I’ll get a new one.’
Now I waited. Was he what I thought he was? Most men
would tell me to fuck off. Or complain or try to hump me in
the kitchen. He dropped his head and nodded. ‘OK.’
I smiled. I could smell them a mile away. ‘Well? Why are
you just standing there? Get moving.’
By the time he came out of the shower, his skin pink like a
baby, I was in my corset and boots. My big red boots. They
make me feel like a superhero. I love boots. In a sexy pair of
boots I feel like I can beat the devil.
Sunday, December 4, 2011
A twisted little tale from many moons ago. I think roughly 2007. This is my version of a blog at the moment.
by Sommer Marsden
The day has been awful. People vying for my attention, throwing problems at me. This consultant did this, that consultant neglected to do that. I have played the mediator, kept my cool, been the lone grownup in a roomful of intellectual five-year-olds. I am done.
The house is dark and quiet as it always is. Empty. I am the only breathing thing that inhabits it. Beyond that it is stuffed full of books and music. Art and comfortable things. A warm cozy coffin of loneliness.
I pour myself a glass of Shiraz and kick my shoes off in the middle of the dining room. It doesn't matter that they're in the middle of the floor. No one will trip over them. I can navigate my domain in the dark and know where I have left my debris and detritus. There is no one else here to be courteous for. Not even a cat.
The tiny automatic night-light has come on in the kitchen, giving off a subtle glow to guide me. I switch on my laptop without turning the overhead on. For this, I like the ghostly blue light given off by the screen. I like to be shielded and cloaked when I delve into this part of myself. It is easier to accept in surreal light than in the cold, clinical penetration of the ceiling fixture.
As the computer hums and comes to life, I reach under my silk blouse and unhook my bra. I go through the mystical dance that women have mastered, pulling it off without removing my top. I drop it on the floor by the stove and take a sip of wine. Once upon a time, I would have lit a cigarette. Somehow I have managed to kick this particular addiction. Not the one that truly needs to be eradicated, but it is a start. I sit at the table and wait for the computer to tell me it is ready.
I hold my breath until I am nearly dizzy and finally it is ready. I plug in my password and pull up the Internet. From there it is simply a matter of plugging in the address: www.Kindred.com. The logo lights up the screen: WHERE LIKE-MINDED PEOPLE COME TO CONNECT. My account comes up and prompts me for a password. The password flies off my fingertips like electricity. Beau. Not hard to remember.
I have six messages waiting. I haven't checked in three days. I'm rather proud of this. I have been trying to hold off the urge. Save it for the days like this one. The days where I need...comfort. Where I need something to anchor me to earth so that I will not fly off the planet and shatter into a million little pieces.
I begin my ritual. It must be done before I can open the folder marked NEW MESSAGES. I read my ad.
SWF seeks interested man. Must be roughly 5' 10", nearly black hair, blue eyes. Between 180-190 lbs. Married, single, attached -- irrelevant. Must answer to Beau regardless of given name. No attachment expected. Instruction will be given. If interested contact December71@kindred.com.
It's all there as I ran it. It always is. The ritual is in the fact that I must make absolutely certain that my terms are clear. That they know, without a doubt, what I want, what I need, what I expect. It is there and I suck in a deep breath that feels like sunshine. Good. I click on the link to retrieve my new messages and read them.
The first four are useless. Men who have ignored almost completely my physical demands and/or what is spelled out so clearly. I delete them with a sigh. The fifth has potential. He's attached a picture. His real name is William. He's the right height. The right weight. His hair is a little too light, his eyes not a bright enough blue, but I don't delete him. So far, he is the closest.
I say a little prayer that I don't even realize I'm reciting until I hit the link for the last message. His name is Brian and he is the closest I have come in a very long while. Months to be exact. His hair is the same shade of dark chocolate, his eyes a sparkling blue shot with striations of green. The head shot is up close and the excellent quality of the digital photograph shows all of this clearly. I fight a rolling wave of nausea and take a steadying sip of wine. My hands are shaking and I try to steady them. I realize it is pointless and set my glass down on the table. I stare at Brian and then click RESPOND. I e-mail him my approval, a date, a time, a location and his instructions. His online indicator is glowing and within minutes I hear the melodious tinkle of a new message. I click it. He has responded:
December, I look forward to it. I'll be there.
I study the signature. A fierce buzzing excitement unfurls in my stomach and even though I know it is false I sink into it. I let it light me up from the inside, loosen my limbs, release the tension in my shoulders and my neck. A complete imposter, that signature, but one I welcome like an old lover looking for nothing more than a quick fuck. I let that one word use me up and spit me out. Then I shut down the computer.
When I go to bed, I relax into phantom arms. Let my mind fill in the blanks of what is missing and make it a reality. A brief reality. However, it is an illusion that would allow me to bridge the world of consciousness and the world of dreams. Once asleep, the arms that hold me will be much more solid. The words whispered in my ear, clearly audible. Until morning. When the alarm sounds. Then they will simply vanish back into the ether where they live.
My boot heels clack militaristically as I make my way to the hotel. The streets are full of Christmas shoppers, rabid drivers, rowdy kids. Downtown at Christmas time. Heaven and Hell. So much to see. So many spectacles. Yet, so much sadness as well. The homeless, the beggars, the hookers trying to look like everyone else while hawking their services on the corners. I step over a used hypodermic needle as I enter The Charles. One of the oldest hotels in these parts. Smack dab in the middle of crime central these days, but still managing to maintain its old fashioned, genteel facade.
The desk clerk gives me a once-over and decides I'm not a working girl trying to use the hotel for seedy sex. He graces me with his most practiced smile and gives me a, "Yes, ma'am. How can I help you?"
"I have a reservation for room 213. Just overnight. Quick business stop," I say, not sure if I am elaborating on my reservation for him or for myself.
"Ms." I correct in my best snippety bitch voice. There is no reason for me to reserve the room under a false name. I am not married. I am free to do what I please. Where I please. It occurs to me that I don't know if Brian is married or not. Then it occurs to me that I really don't care. It will only be a few hours out of his life. If he is married it's his problem. His choice. My role in his life is brief and burning hot. Like a flare that goes down to nothing but a thick streamer of smoke as it dies. He can deal with the guilt himself, if there is any.
"Right, Ms. Sorry, Ms. Dunn. Your guest has already gone up. We gave him his key card as instructed."
"Colleague," I correct the poor boy again. "And what was his name again?" I ask, just a light catch in my voice. This is the true test. Of my selection. Of my illusion. "I don't want to embarrass myself and not know. We've never met."
The young man who is really no more than a boy checks his computer. "I have that I should only allow a Beau into the room. When he arrived he said his name was Beau. No last name. He wouldn't give one. Is this correct?" he asks by rote as he has been taught.
A spectacular flood of oxygen floods my lungs as I allow myself to draw air. "That is correct," I whisper. Then I clear my throat as he eyes me warily. I cough and smile. "Yes," I say louder this time, "that's it. Beau. Thank you."
He nods and hands me my key card. As I make my way to the bank of elevators, I can feel his eyes on my back. I keep my posture straight, my walk confident. Let him think whatever the fuck he wants. He is of no concern to me now.
The door to 213 looks like all the others. I pause to admire its anonymous beauty for a moment before I know it is time to enter. When I do knock it is way too loud, way too harsh. Nerves. Fear. I feel twisted.
He opens the door and my heart slams in my chest. I breathe him in with my lungs, soak him into my pores. He is perfect. Hair exactly the right sinful shade of nearly black. Blue eyes bright and vibrant. Intense but humorous, as if he's just heard a really good joke. His build is dead on, shoulders and chest broad. Even his stance is correct and although I know it is a fluke, I revel in it.
I scan his soft denim shirt and faded button-fly jeans. Just to my specifications. Exactly as I demanded. I take in his dirty work boots and with a sigh, I let my gaze drop to his hands. A few nicks, a few scratches, a slight stain of oil or dirt under his fingernails. Enough to show even the casual observer that these are working hands. The intimate observer knows that these are talented hands.
I breathe out his name, "Beau." Half question, half joyful prayer of thanks to the Heavens.
He approaches me, stretches his arm out to me, past me and shuts the door. He takes both my hands in his and I feel the warm, sinister slide of fluid from my body. That's it. It has begun. He begins the litany so clearly spelled out to him in the e-mail.
"December, I'm so sorry. So sorry, baby. I was wrong. So very wrong. I want you, sweetheart. Love you. Not her. Never her. Just you. Always you."
And he drops to his knees, working the delicate buckles on the straps of my heels. At my feet he continues the stream of words. "Love you. Only you. Lift your foot, sweetheart."
I do. He removes the shoe, tosses it aside gently. Kisses my foot, the cleavage between my toes, through my stockings. I feel my nipples tighten, my head falls back on its own and I let it. The sound that escapes me is hopeful.
He moves to the other foot. "I don't think I can live without you. Come back to me. I'm begging." He kisses my other foot, the humid heat from between his lips slipping under the vulnerable material of my hose.
Strong hands, Beau's hands, run up my calves. He pushes his thumbs against the muscles, places his forehead against my pelvis. His breath invades me through my thin dress. "December."
For just a second I hear the slight inflection when he says my name. The inflection that is wrong. All wrong. A black shadow of realization flares up in my mind and it mocks me. It's not him. It will never be him. Leave now. Save yourself. Save your soul. It's not him...
But he says it again, "December," and he sighs it this time. It is said so that I can push that shadow away. Leave it whispering to nothing but itself. I run my hands through his hair, watch his bowed head as his hands travel higher. They slide over my thighs and my knees feel as if they won't support me anymore. His fingers push past the top of my stockings to feel the naked skin underneath and I actually sag a bit. I steady myself with a hand on my head as he kisses my pubis through my dress.
I'm not sure if I say "Beau" out loud or just in my head. But I say it with some part of me, lips or soul. That much I'm sure of.
His hands push up past the garter straps and cup my bottom. He stands, quickly lifting me up and against him in one giant movement and I gasp. He carries me to the bed, despite the fact that we are roughly the same height. We could, in fact, be brother and sister to the untrained eye. He doesn't drop me or bounce me or lower me roughly as most men would. No, he lowers me slowly, carefully, and drapes his body over mine. His lips crush against mine, warm and tasting slightly of mint. I open my mouth without preamble and suck his tongue into my recesses. Tasting the mint and the darker, male taste that is just him.
He plunges his hands into my hair, works circles on my scalp with the pads of his fingers. His lips slide down my neck, the skin pebbling in delight with the sensation. His tongue traces the contours of my collarbone and I arch up against him without thinking. Push my hips against his, feel the wonderful slide of his already hard cock along the seam of my labia. I'm wet, I know that, but when I feel the blunt erection nudge at me, I feel a fresh seep of fluid drench my panties. I am ready and yet I want to stay right here.
"Beautiful. You are. It's true. So wrong. I was so wrong." He undoes the tie of my dress and lays it wide open around me. It is a brilliant dress. A wraparound. Much like a bathrobe, once you have freed the knot, it can be little more than a memory if you choose. I had chosen. So had Beau.
I'm exposed and I shiver. Nothing separates my flesh from his but a black scrap of a bra, a tiny thong and the garter and hose. I am both anxious to see them go and a little scared. My ever-present thoughts remind me that the quicker this progresses, the quicker it will end. But he's in no hurry, that much is evident. I send up another tiny prayer of thanks. I have been given a gift and I want to enjoy it. Even the fact that his eyes have just a hint of the wrong slant does not affect me too much. A momentary blip of panic on the radar and then it is gone. He is kneeling between my spread legs and lazily undoing the clasps that keep the black thigh highs up. They make tiny sounds of protest as he releases them.
"I love these. I really do. It's almost a shame to take them off. But I will. I don't want anything there. Nothing between us."
This was not in the script, but I am far enough gone that I appreciate his ad-libbing. They are words Beau would have said, so I suck them into my body and hold them close. He pulls the hose off one at a time as if he is unwrapping a gift and enjoys the suspense. I lift my hips as he tugs the garter down over my skin. I hear them hit the carpet like feathers falling from the sky. He bends to kiss the triangle of black fabric that shields me from his lips. Again, the moisture invades the fabric like a wraith. So warm, his lips, his breath, his forehead on my belly. I begin to murmur and don't care what I am saying. They are just words. This is an act. I surrender. I willingly give myself over to the illusion as his tongue nudges up under the fabric and strokes my skin with a lick like a flame.
He tugs the thong even as he kisses along the waistband, branding my skin and making me squirm. I rise up to accommodate him and lose that meager shield, too. It joins the fray on elegant cream carpet. "Just you. I should never have left. Not for her. Just you..." he mutters, parting my now swollen lips with his tongue. He masterfully sucks my clit into his mouth and I give a little cry.
His words haunt me, though. He should not be saying them at this point. It is all wrong. Even as my body goes fluid and pushes against him seeking more from his mouth, his tongue, my mind is filling in her name. Her face. Her. The one who was chosen over me. I cringe a little and he continues the words that I have given him. My cunt is responding to his mouth, that tightening that tells me I am working my way up to an orgasm. I'm not just seeping now but gushing and the great wide pain in my chest from her face in my mind sweetens that pleasure just a little.
"Not her," he says again as he pushes his tongue into my weeping body.
"Shush, Beau, shush," I say, half crying. Clawing desperately at the wall of reality that is beginning to loom over me. Back. I need to get back into the illusion. "Shush," I say with a little more grit in my voice and I push my palm against the top of his head a little too hard. To make my point.
He never stops lapping at me or drinking me in. In fact, he plunges two fingers into my cunt and I arch up with a cry despite my frustration. But he has taken the hint and remains quiet. Playing me perfectly with beautiful long fingers. Talented hands. He strokes my engorged G-spot. No words from his lips, just appreciative sounds. Worshipful sounds. With those, I plunge headfirst into the bright colors that blossom behind my eyes. I come around his fingers, body splayed as if in agony.
I take a deep breath. Wrapped snugly back in illusion, I watch him withdraw his fingers from me and bring them to his lips and lick them clean. I grab the top button of his jeans as I watch and tug brutally. The remaining buttons give up with a soft pulling sound. I have his cock in my hand before he can react. As soon as I grab him, stroke him, his eyes grow hooded and dark and he looms up over me almost maliciously. I open my legs, guide him into my body and take his first thrust with a small grunt of pleasure. He rocks into me greedily and the slide of my silk dress still under me is a gentle caress.
It all melts away. The pain. The frustration. The loss. Grief. Anger. Sadness. I feel it falling away from me like old bark off of a beautiful tree. I move up to take him deeper and in my mind I see this memory played out hundreds of times. Hundreds of moments stolen and claimed with him. Beautiful memories, so fragile yet hearty. Tempered glass. White gold. Seemingly soft or breakable, but indestructible.
His breath grows louder in my ear, hot on my neck. I wrap my legs around his waist, tilt my hips higher in an attempt to pull his cock further into my body. As far as it will go. He clutches my ass, hands hot and wide. Strong. He pulls me up to meet him until I cannot tell who is in charge. Who is taking who. I don't care.
I gather around him. My muscles bunching, clinging, pulling at him as my body coils under impending orgasm. He pulls the innocent bra cups down and latches onto one nipple. He paints his tongue around the tip until I feel like screaming. And I do. But just a little. He moves to the other. A nip, a bite, enough to pull me tighter and I feel as if I might simply burst apart.
I clutch at him, thrash at him, bite his neck and hiss his name, though in my soul, I know it isn't his name. I bite him again and hear him roar. A primitive sound as he empties into me and it allows me to give in. I come with a sob. Spent and exhausted. Pleasured and tortured.
"Over here," I say to him and drop my dress to the floor. I pull back the covers and I pull him around me. Wrap him around me. Place him just so and make sure the tableau is correct. The sheets are draped just the right way and I am lying as I remember lying so long ago. "Now sleep," I say as if he can on command. But he does. He drifts off rather quickly. I lie awake for a long time and remember. I try to recapture that last night. And when I drift off, the arms around me are very real and very warm. They are also imposters much like his signature. At that point, I do not care.
When dawn comes he gets up quietly. His courtesy is almost funny. He was told to leave at dawn and he is. He gathers his clothes and I listen. I keep my eyes closed, pretending to sleep. I hear him get dressed and then he surprises me by dropping a reverent kiss on my forehead. I almost open my eyes but don't. I don't want to see the look on his face. I don't know what it will be. I am afraid it will be disgust, or worse, pity.
"I'm sorry I couldn't be him for you," he says and my throat seizes up. I stay still. The door clicks softly as he leaves.
I wrap the sheets around me tightly. A cotton cocoon that I will stay in until checkout time. As always, the tears begin. They burn a hot penitent trail down my cheeks and puddle under my face on the pillow. I begin my prayers. Secrets that I keep from myself and whatever is running the universe. They spill out of me like poison. I say I'm sorry. I have done it again. I ask for forgiveness. A fallen angel trying to reunite with her god.
Until the next Beau shows up in my account.
Friday, December 2, 2011
Since I survived I'll announce that...tada:
LONG LOST, the sequel to BIG BAD is out today. Woohoo! You can find a blurb and all that jazz here (note, if you haven't ready BB and want to, I wouldn't go check out the blurb for LL). It's also available at ARe and all those fine vendors.
And woohooo! Yesterday on my actual 40th the sexy book above was released in the UK (US coming v. soon). That's a hell of a birthday howdy! Find out more here.
Let's see, I have more to say but cannot remember what it is. I guess that's the senility setting in. Heh.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
has arrived. And that is my GF spice cake with buttercream icing made by my awesome girl child.
I didn't sleep last night and I look about 50 but I'm happy and I got lots of birthday hugs and wishes and tweets and FB posts and all that jazz this morning. And I did not burst into flames or nuthin. So yay me! go 40!
Oh and for those of you quietly pondering the whole birthday spanking scenario...the answer is yes.
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
birthday greetings setting atop a big box that contains my brain...I mean iPad. And below that a gift from lovely May Deva! A wiener for the wall. And look...I have a naked spot on the wall. (Um...I took a pic down for a Halloween sign and um...lost it...)
Tuesday, November 29, 2011
in an area that looks v. much like this. In my head of course. It's been a crazy day. I ran, found out a neighbor was robbed in the middle of the day yesterday (!!!!), went to the bank (freaked out thinking my house was being robbed), then to the grocery store where I called the asst. manager on their piss poor check out policy for customers (while freaking out internally that my house was being robbed). I came home and unloaded (my house had not been robbed), got back in the car (took my laptop so I would not be robbed...of IT), went to the post office where I nearly punched the rude ass woman who waited on me (internally also freaking out that car was currently being robbed), got caught in the rain, went to the library and grabbed hold items (try to hurry so your car isn't robbed) and then got stuck in a bigger rainstorm and came home.
I am happy to report that I have not been robbed but have possibly gone loco.
That is all! Back to the dirty writing.
Monday, November 28, 2011
Moi! Freaky deaky! Go see me if you get a chance and read whatever it was I said (LOL--I try not to overthink things. Sometimes that is very apparent). I'll never adjust to seeing myself for things like this, but it's a great way to kick off my birthday week. I have a feeling this week (at least in some spots) is going to be like a roller coaster ride.
Good morning, all. Happy Monday.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
that's how many days you have left to share a birthday memory with me and/or share our wisdom on turning forty and win my big birthday extravaganza! Full deets are here.
My time in my thirties is slipping away fast. Like sands through the hourglass so are the...well, it's going quickly. Let's just leave it at that.
Now back to some crappy SyFy movie with Mike Hammer in it.
Friday, November 25, 2011
And to do just that I bring you a brief funky Q&A with Charlotte Stein regarding her book CONTROL. Huzzah!
SM: You'll pardon me, Charlotte, if these are some goofy questions, but there has been some wine. So the obvious choice was to sit down and write your questions for Control now! Duh!
I loved this book. I loved it, loved it, loved it so much I was ready to turn to page 1 after finishing the book. I laughed, I cried, I almost fell off my exercise bike (no shit) and yes...I got um...well, the man got a lot of action during this book. So here are my questions, bear with me.
Who is Andy? Who! Who? Because there is a scene in Control where Andy so very much debases himself (not like him) that I literally snorted so hard I choked. I want to know the visual for you when you wrote that very snarky, sexy, bad-bad boy.
CS: Some version of Alex O'Loughlin. It had to be Alex O'Loughlin, because by God that dudes looks as though he'd be up for just about anything. He has this weird mixture of forceful passion and laidback-who-gives-a-fuck that I've always found very beguiling, and of course - it contrasted nicely with Gabriel's repression and restraint.
My faux-Alex is probably going to be the star of one of my upcoming novels - Addicted. Because he makes an almost perfect sex addict. Insane enough about it to make it orsum, laidback enough that you don't worry.
SM: I know who Gabriel is, your version is so not who he was in my head (the beauty of erotica, if you ask me) but can you fill in my ever so nosy readers?
CS: Gabriel is based loosely on Gabriel Gray, from the TV show Heroes. Only you know. Way, way hornier. And not secretly a serial killer.
SM: Why submissive men? What is it about the sub man that flips your switch? I tend to love the Dom's but you managed to make the sub man work for me. How did you do that you witchy woman?
CS: I don't know, really. I've always just loved what I now know as femdom, and I remember it being a huge, huge disappointment to me, as a teenager, to realise that other women don't like the kinds of stories I do. I loved Black Lace books, but for a long time I couldn't get over how rare it was to find submissive men in them. I thought it was natural, to explore in fantasy what is often so reviled in reality - a strong woman, and a passive man. And then I grew up and realised that fantasy has almost nothing to do with reality. It's just whatever you like, and that can be just about anything - even for me. I can enjoy stories about submissive women just as much as I enjoy submissive men stories - as long as it's done well.
As for what flips my switch about it...I think my main kink is the idea of a man being completely unable to control himself. Not in a "I'm going to take you now" sort of way. More in a "fook, I just came buckets all over myself" kind of manner. I've never liked the stereotypical sort of femdom where the guy is all thin and weak and pathetic, grovelling on the floor of a cage while hogtied, as his Mistress stands over him in thigh high boots. I like very real scenarios that just so happen to have a reversed power dynamic - it's the woman who's objectifying, who's controlling the scenario, who's taking something she wants, etc.
As for why you don't mind it...well...at the very least I try to make my heroes hot. I think whether it's femdom or not, there's something very appealing about getting to do whatever you want want with some hot dude.
SM: Outfit you feel sexiest in?
CS: My birthday suit.
SM: Outfit you find him sexiest in?
CS: Sweatpants and nothing else. No underwear. No top. Lemme see what you've got, babe.
SM: Sexiest matching outfits (heh) with accessories, even!
CS: Well, Husband and I do have matching dressing gowns. But they're not cool. They're not sexy. There are things in the pockets that have probably been there for years. They looks like someone skinned an animal called a Blurto to make them...no.
SM: What are you working on now? Can you give us a peek? A snippet? A clue!?
CS: I am working on (in no particular order):
Power Play: workplace shenanigans, in which the boss of a publishing company takes serious advantage of her assistant. Because he's a horny bastard who makes her.
Nameless: Set in the same world as Reawakening. Zombies take over, girl finds herself locking horns with the usual redneck lowlife apocalypse asshole, can't stop having accidental red hot sex with him.
Future Pursuits: Sequel to Past Pleasures.
Menage: Friends do some naughty things. Meet up years later. Can't help doing them again.
Love Letters: Wife discovers her husband bonked a guy in college. The revelation sends their sex life through the roof, enter stage right the guy he bonked who also happens to be the most charming motherfooker to ever grace the earth.
SM: How will you be spending your holidays and does it involve a man like Gabriel in sexy women's underthings?
CS: I've asked Santa for that very thing, but somehow I suspect he's not going to come through for me. I'll probably be spending it like usual: seven hundred hours logged on the DS, a million plates of beetroot and ham eaten while watching various sitcoms, loads of books read on my Kindle, Husband asking me a thousand times if I liked my presents even though I always do because he's orsum.
SM: Will you come visit me and go shopping?
CS: YES! YES I WANT TO DO THIS PLEASE WE WILL GO TO THE SHOPS YES YES. Hooray!
SM: Chocolate, vanilla or cinnamon?
CS: Cinnamon. If they made a thing called a cinnamon bar, and it was basically cinnamon dust compressed into a log, I would eat it. I would eat nothing else forever - I forsake you, chocolate. My heart will always belong to cinnamon.
And if you were asking a secret sex question: also cinnamon. That means shoving it up his bum, right?
When Madison Morris decides to hire an assistant to help run her naughty bookshop, she gets a lot more than she bargained for. Aggressive Andy doesn’t quite make the grade, but continues to push her buttons in other areas, while uptight and utterly repressed Gabriel can’t quite take Madison’s training techniques. One makes her grasp control, while the other makes her lose it. But the lines are blurring and she’s no longer sure who’s leading and who’s following. In the midst of kinky threesomes and power plays, can Madison work out what she really wants?
THE FIRST APPLICANT FOR the assistant job is very promising indeed. He puts his head between my thighs with minimal supervision and almost no prompting.
The only problem is I don’t recall creating an oral presentation portion of the interview. Or, for that matter, a portion that requires the answer: you know you want it. To a question I don‟t remember asking.
But I guess I must have asked for something, or none of it would have happened. Maybe it was all the staring I did, at the curling many-coloured tattoos all over his heavy-looking arms. Or the way I bristled beneath the weight of his deep blue gaze. I must have leant forward, and asked about his previous job experience in a way that suggested an underlying code.
Job meant sex. Experience meant now.
It was sharp of him, really, to understand. He got a cross in the interview attire column-such a thin, barely-there T-shirt!-but he got a big tick in the takes initiative and the understands subtle instructions columns.
I don’t think I got any ticks, in the cool, calm, controlling boss columns, unfortunately. But can’t I be forgiven? He looked like liquid sex and I can’t remember the last time I had anything even remotely resembling a drink. Or resembling a hard, solid body over mine. Or resembling the scent of someone besides myself, all over me-the slick slide of a tongue against my skin.
It’s probable that some of these needs showed on my face. And though I’m sure that some people are of the mind that women who wear neat little pleated skirts and boxy corduroy jackets-the uniform of bookstore owners and librarians everywhere-are bookish and quiet and quite dull, there’s probably an equal amount who view said women as repressed cauldrons of lust.
I’m pretty sure he sensed my boiling cauldron.