Read an Excerpt
'Picture Perfect' by Lexie Davis
Some men had it. Some didn’t. Amanda Petersen watched as Preston Miller slid his soaked white tee up his flat abs, trying to tease the camera as she’d instructed.
Note to self— Kill Kiki tomorrow.
The fifth annual charity calendar for Cancer Cure was coming up and Kiki Long headed the fundraising council. Upon taking the position, she’d manipulated her friendship with Amanda and coerced her into doing the entire photo shoot for free. And the models she’d assigned weren’t something to be desired.
This year’s theme was Red Hot Firemen. And so far, Amanda had only seen the red and firemen portion of that theme. Hot had yet to grace her presence.
Preston grinned, nodding his head as if what he offered belonged on the cover of GQ. In her humble opinion, what he offered didn’t belong in the local newspaper Chronicles of Hope much less the annual charity calendar everyone for miles supported.
Okay, that was harsh, but this was Preston. The same Preston she’d grown up with who loved to annoy her as much as tease her about dating him. He wasn’t exactly model material even if he did have a decent face.
But then again Hope, Texas didn’t have much to offer. The ladies around usually grew up with the men who now acted more like brothers than lovers. And the lovers they did have burned them to the point that they thought all men in Hope were scum. Half of Amanda’s past lovers had only made homeruns because her need was high and there was nothing else to do in this town. And having nothing to do, she’d developed this hobby and discovered a talent for photography.
Take the good with the bad.
“You want me, Mandy, admit it.” Preston licked his lips suggestively. “You know I can make you scream your throat raw.”
<strong>'Carnal Collisions' by Jenna Byrnes</strong>
The car came out of nowhere, smashing into the passenger side of her new, two-door compact with a sickening crunch. Jada Green’s head whacked the visor before her airbag deployed, slamming her back. While her vehicle spun in a complete circle, she clutched the steering wheel, alternating curses with prayers until it finally came to a stop.
Dazed, Jada suddenly wondered if she’d remembered to mail her mother’s birthday gift. Strange thoughts filtered through her mind. She winced. Focus! A quick inventory established that while she appeared to be fine, the right side of her car had crumpled inward to half its size.
“Lady! Are you okay?” A grey-haired man with a frantic expression pounded on her window. “Stay right there! I called for an ambulance.”
“That’s not necessary. I’m fine.” A round, red splotch fell on her skirt. Mystified, she touched her forehead. Pulling back her caramel coloured fingers, she saw they were bloody. Jada glanced in the rear-view mirror and found a gaping cut above her right eyebrow. Gulping, she nodded at the man. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t see you!” A woman’s pale, tear-streaked face appeared in front of the cracked windshield. “I swear I didn’t. Are you all right? Oh god, you’re bleeding!”
The man opened her door and offered a folded white handkerchief. “Hold this against your head. Apply pressure.”
“Thanks.” She did as he instructed and tried to get her bearings. Everything seemed surreal—faces crowded around her, everyone talking at once. Time stood still. Peeling back the handkerchief, she looked in the mirror again. The gash continued to bleed profusely. She pressed the bloody cloth back to her head quickly.
“You shouldn’t move in case you have other injuries,” he told her. “An ambulance is on the way.”
“I really think I’m fine.” She did a mental check of the rest of her body, everything seemed intact. “I just want to go home.” It’d been a long day in the beauty salon. One late customer had set her back twenty minutes, and she’d scrambled to make up for it all afternoon. She looked forward to a pint of rocky road ice cream followed by a leisurely soak in the tub, and possibly a little vibrator action.
'Beyond Meddling' by Barbara Huffert
“Boy, you’re a damn fool.”
Evan Wilton sat upright in bed, scanning the room for the source of the voice that awakened him. He saw no one. Of course he wouldn’t. His grandfather, the man he thought he’d just heard was dead. He died over three months ago. It was merely a dream. He flopped onto his back and draped his arm over his eyes. His grandfather was dead. When would he just know that and not need to continually remind himself of the fact? How long would it take?
“I’m speaking to you, boy. The least you could do is pay attention.”
“Pop?” Evan asked aloud, feeling the fool for doing so as he cautiously removed his arm.
“Of course it’s me. You think after all these years you’d recognise my voice.”
“But you’re dead,” he stated.
“So? What’s your point?”
“I’m dreaming. That’s it. I have to be. It’s just because I miss the old coot so much that I think I can still hear him.”
“Old coot? Who you calling an old coot, boy?”
Evan shook his head. He rubbed his eyes and looked around the room again. This time he saw his grandfather leaning against the doorjamb. He jumped out of bed. “Pop? What the fuck?”
“Put some pants on, boy. It’s too early in the morning to be waving that around. And watch your mouth.”
'Beg Me' by Desiree Holt
Sable gazed around the room, absorbing the men and women in elegant evening clothes. Self-consciously she smoothed her hand against the fabric of her silk sapphire sheath and tucked a stray auburn curl behind one ear. She’d pulled every string she could to wrangle an invitation to this fundraiser for the top socially elite, with one objective in mind. And there he was. Alex Courtland, billionaire owner of the Auto-Tech software company.
Writing a series for Erotic Fantasy Magazine called 'Every Man’s Fantasy' she’d interviewed the sexiest men in the country. The articles were a raging success because for a change, they were told from the man’s point of view.
From the moment she’d first met him at a media function, Sable wanted not only the interview but the man. Tall and lean, he carried an aura of power with him that was almost visible. Thick midnight black hair was worn long and tied back at the nape of his neck. Eyes like hot coals stared out from under lashes so thick most women would kill for them. His finely chiselled features could have been created by a sculptor.
She’d come here tonight determined to get what would be her final—and most exciting interview. She’d heard all the whispers about him, how he was into bondage and S & M, how he worked to break the spirit of the women he took to his isolated Maine retreat, and how he never saw them again after that. Two words were used to describe him in the boardroom and the bedroom—ruthless and cold.
Alex Courtland was all about control, and Sable knew about that. Control was how she’d turned lumpy, dumpy Sally Morgan into the mysterious Sable M, and how she maintained that image.
Just looking at him made her nipples harden and liquid soak her crotch. For months now, he’d played a starring role in her darkest fantasies, and she could almost come just being near him. How could one person have such an effect on her?
As she watched him he turned, and his eyes locked onto hers. If she’d been aroused before, it was nothing to what she felt now.
'Sexier Side of the Hill' by Victoria Blisse
It was late, or was it early? It was one of those morning hours that rest in the middle of the night and I was beginning to regret my clever, money saving idea.
“Ticket please.” The bus driver, at least, looked semi-awake. The bags under his eyes were old and worn in, like favourite slippers. I handed him my slip of shiny cardboard, and he clipped it, passing it back as I stepped up into the bus.
The smell of cheap cleaning products and musty seats enveloped me as I trudged down the aisle to the very back. I know it’s somewhat childish, but I couldn’t seem to shake the need to get as far away from the driver as possible. I settled in the back corner and marvelled at the number of nutters getting on this very bus at rude o’clock in the morning.
My excuse? I’m nearly forty. I graduated in the summer as a doctor and I wanted to throw a party. So I was off to France for cheap booze and an adventure.
The first few travellers to board after me were pensioners, a couple who smiled and nodded to the others up front. The gentleman helped his wife remove her coat and pressed a hand to her arm as she slipped into their seats. How very romantic.
It was the last two men to get on who really grabbed my attention. They were both handsome but completely different in appearance. The dark-haired, cocoa-skinned guy was smooth and slick, his clothes pressed and reeking of expense. His complexion shone, and his shaven cheeks glowed with the health afforded by expensive beauty products.
The other man was rougher. His chin was studded with tiny whiskers which combined with the groggy look to his blue eyes and showed me he hadn’t been awake very long. He was dressed for comfort. His old, worn jeans definitely hadn’t been bought in such a shabby-chic condition and the old denim jacket was in matching condition. The T-shirt beneath it all was plain but clean.
I wanted to leap on both of them, to dive in and take a bite from the smooth darkness and the light charm at exactly the same time. My mind, already filled with naughty images, and my body were on an erotic edge. It wouldn’t take much to tumble me over.
'Pandemonium' by Lyn Cash & Alexis Fleming
Kris Selenium closed her eyes, relying on her other senses. Her fingers traced the contours of the dildo, familiarising themselves with the implied strength reminiscent of masculine girth and length. As a psychologist, she knew the benefits of masturbation, even if as a woman she didn’t understand the ramifications of nurturing a polyurethane facsimile to life using an electrical cord or a set of highly charged batteries.
She cocked one eye open. This wasn’t doing it for her. The clock read one minute and thirty seconds past the last time she’d checked the time.
“Come on, Kris. Focus.” She set aside the sex toy and thought. Why was it that so many of her patients could come just thinking of one particular man? What was it about his music that enthralled them so?
She sighed. If only she could identify with them, but her personal affliction that no one could see and none knew about in this incarnation, other than her parents and her personal physician, kept her isolated. Which is probably one of the reasons you went into psychotherapy to begin with, twit.
She looked to her right at the photograph she’d clipped from the local newspaper’s celebrity section. He was truly handsome in a dark, swarthy, mysterious way—he looked more pirate than pin-up, more masochist than musician. What was it about the man that drew women to him?
Maybe it was his appearance. Now that she could understand. Had she dwelt on that face before picking up the dildo, she probably could have easily relieved the tension that had built since she’d lain down to contemplate ways to help her therapy group.
Pussy. She needed to bring anatomy into their discussions in order to guide her patients into relying on their own femininity rather than their male counterparts’ cocks and chests to bring them to climax and to empower them during the day when sexual relief wasn’t an option.
Pussy, cock, brain, muscles. The words tumbled about inside her head like gems waiting to be polished. The key to unlocking the women’s collective problem lay somewhere mingled with those words, but where? She had to keep searching for the answer.
Maybe it was his voice. If so, perhaps he’d allow her to do some recordings of him, to study the results and to measure the impact his voice had on women. The more she knew about men like him, the better she could probably help women such as the ones in her groups.
Kris flipped the knob on her bedside radio, knowing what she’d hear, realising how angry she’d soon become, but needing to hear the deep timbre anyway.