Mondays are the day I post a sexy excerpt for your entertainment!
The Sexy Librarian's Dirty 30 Vol.3 i
s OUT NOW! It includes my Western story Sourdough:
Come inside, experience the breadth, inspiration, and excitement of superb erotic storytelling.
Browse my card catalog. Find the perfect story to suit your mood, with subjects tantalizingly indexxxed to whet your appetite!
Lose yourself in these thirty risqué adventures, loaded with fabulous characters in provocative situations. Get ravished by flirty-frills and sassy petticoats in our hot bodice-ripper romance. Keep it strictly confidential as you fall in love with a dangerous undercover spy. Feel your heart quiver as you lust after two brothers on the lone frontier. The choice is yours in this library of sexy-sharp stories!
Sourdough, by Janine Ashbless:
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.
The muscles of his forearm bunched as his hidden fingers gripped tighter.
That was the moment that Ezra came thumping down the stairs from the bedroom above. Amos managed to whip his hand out from beneath the hat before his elder brother opened the stair door, but the rest of him stayed frozen. He couldn’t move from his chair. Grace straightened up sharply, pulling the great ball of dough toward her. She felt as if her whole being was about to fly apart like a keg of gunpowder.
“Morning,” said Ezra, swaggering into the room behind her and surveying them both.
“Good morning, husband,” said Grace over her shoulder. Her voice would not rise above a whisper.
Amos nodded, quick and—she thought—looking guilty.
Ezra certainly noticed something in the air. He came up behind Grace as she worked assiduously at the dough, and rested his big hands on her hips. “There’s a fine sight for a morning,” he said, snuggling his crotch into her ass. “You enjoying it, brother? Just sitting there taking in the view?”
“I’ve just got in,” Amos muttered. “Been out in the long pasture.” He dropped his coffee mug on the
table.
“There’s nothing like the sight of a wife hard at work in the morning,” said Ezra, ignoring his words.
“
Her prices is beyond rubies, as the Good Book says. S
he looketh well to the ways of her household, and eateth not the bread of idleness, isn’t that so?” His hands were working in her long skirts, squeezing her ass through the layers of cloth, gathering them up. “Bet you wish you had one, brother.”
Amos glowered. He was used to being taunted, Grace knew, though it was rarely this blunt. But he couldn’t move right now. If his lifted the hat and stood, his guilt would be obvious.
“Ezra,” she protested, as he found his way under her dress and to the thin cotton of her long drawers. Her face was growing ever more pink.
“Hush now,” he said, putting a hand between her shoulder blades and tipping her forward over the edge of the table. “You’ve got women’s work to be getting on with.”
For a moment she thought he meant the bread, until she felt him toss her bundled skirts up around her hips and reach between her thighs to the split of her bloomers. Ezra always woke with a beam you might build a bridge on, but he’d never been this bold before. Not in front of his brother.
Amos squirmed angrily.
“Damn, this feels fine,” her husband said, his fingers sliding rudely into her while his other hand worked open the buttons of his fly. “Best feeling in the world, Amos."
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