Monday, 28 May 2018

Blue Monday

Public domain pic from Wikipedia

Every Monday I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!

I'm delighted to announce that my short story Sourdough has been picked up for The Sexy Librarians' Dirty 30 Vol.3, an anthology edited by the wonderful Rose Caraway.

So here's a brief teaser....

Grace busied herself with kneading the dough, rolling it out onto the floured table-top and plunging her hands into the soft white mass. The muscles danced in her forearms as she bore down upon it, stretching and folding and squeezing, and the familiar work made her breath come harder. The rhythm was mesmeric, almost, and it was a while before she looked up at Amos again.

He was watching her. Not her face, she realized; he hadn’t even noticed her surreptitious glance toward him. He was staring at her cleavage as if entranced, his mug half-way to his lips but forgotten.

Such a famished look in those eyes.

Heat rose to Grace’s face as she realized her culpability. Her white camisole was low-cut, the top button not even done up, and her breasts bulged softly out over the top of her corset as she leaned forward, just like rising loaves. He’s lusting after me. The wave of heat washed down from her cheeks, through her breastbone and into her belly and down between her thighs, gathering weight and force as it went, until she thought it would wash her out down the creek and into the Missouri and out to sea a thousand miles away, all the way back to her giddy girl-days in England. The shock took the breath from her.

Without thinking—she couldn’t think, not with the blood roaring in her ears like that—she flipped the dough forward a few inches on the tabletop, so that she’d have to lean even deeper into the kneading. The bulge of her breasts must be more precarious now, and she could feel the quiver of her cleavage with every move she made.

When she looked up at Amos this time, she made the motion obvious, though she never paused in her labors. Their eyes met, burning, and his face went stiff, like a mask.

They both knew.

It felt inevitable.

Push went her hands in the dough. She sucked her dry lips briefly to moisten them.

As if pulled by gravity, his gaze fell back to the cleft of her breasts, struggled to her face, and then fell again. She looked at the felt hat in his lap and imagined what it must be covering. She’d seen his erection tenting his canvas pants before at odd moments—once when she’d been hanging out laundry and he’d been chopping wood nearby. Once when she’d poured the hot water into his tin bath while he waited to undress and wash. She’d always pretended not to notice. Now she wondered dizzily what his cock would feel like against her palm, her thighs, her lips.

Push. Fold. Turn. The heavy beat of life. The damp well of her sex was threatening to spill down her thighs.

Softly, almost shyly, he slid his hand beneath the hat to grasp himself. There was a plea in his eyes now.

She smiled. Hot, she thought. Hard. Full of marrow and frustration. She’d like to see that.

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