Something thrilling! I’m the Guest Author for the whole month of August on the Erotica Readers & Writers Association website! They’ve posted my bio and three FREE stories of mine! So be sure to head over there to check those out! Look at the panel on the left side where it says “Guest Author.”
I’ve been so busy with the Cleis Press books, I haven’t had a chance to talk about the book Paisley Smith and I put together. First, don’t you love the cover? Especially that big fat tongue? Mm-mmm.
I write a lot of short stories. Usually too short to publish on their own. While most are picked up for collections, I don’t like the thought that some of my readers can’t enjoy them if they don’t want to read an anthology of random authors. Last winter I put together a collection of hetero tales, called Strokes. Readers seemed to enjoy that.
I still had all these lesbian shorts doing nothing on my computer. Not enough to fill out a collection all my myself, but then I have friends. One in particular—Paisley Smith—is a fantastic lesbian fiction author. I asked her if she’d like to join me. She was all over it, and in fact wrote never-before-published stories just for this book!
And if you think LGBT fiction isn’t your cup of tea, well take a look…
From Paisley’s “Riding Bitch”:
After my third call went to voicemail, I flipped closed my cell phone and peered down the dark street. No sign of my boyfriend, Garrett. I couldn’t imagine why he’d forgotten to pick me up from my job at the Giggling Grouper.
Thunder rumbled and I turned toward the gulf. Soft lightning illuminated the sky in the distance. But beach storms rolled in fast. Apprehension gnawed at my stomach.
I’d sensed Garrett pulling away, but since my job was seasonal, and I’d probably be moving back to my hometown in Georgia after Labor Day, I really hadn’t bothered to end things with him.
Tonight, it seemed, he’d beaten me to the punch.
I glanced at my watch. Half past two. He was thirty minutes late and everybody I knew was either in bed or lived an hour away in Foley. No sense calling a cab. The fee to make the hour-and-a-half drive from Orange Beach to my place in Bay Minette would cost every dollar I’d earned for the night.
The parking lot was desolate except for one empty car and a motorcycle.
Even though the balmy, coastal breeze was far from chilly, I hugged my arms to myself.
I had the wickedest crush on her. Even though I’d only been with a couple of girls—and that had been in high school—I found Lindsey sexy as hell. She wasn’t the type most girls, even full-fledged lesbians, would find attractive. With super-short brown hair and square-shouldered frame, she looked like a boy. At the restaurant, we joked about how many times customers referred to her as sir.
But there was something about her. Something indefinable. Something that made me wet between the legs whenever I thought about her tangled in the arms of another woman. Just an inexplicable je ne sais quoi existed about the contrasting enigma of her plush, naturally pink lips and the men’s button-down and khakis she wore to work that intrigued me.
On more than one occasion, I’d fantasized about sneaking a kiss with her in the walk-in cooler, or on the pier after closing. Truth be told, I fantasized about way more than kissing her. I doubted I was her type though. With my trademark twin, blonde pigtails and black booty shorts that got me more tips than I deserved, I was an all-American girly-girl, the kind who fretted about hot-gluing bling to my cell phone or chipping a nail. I’d always figured Lindsey liked rough and tumble gals, the no-nonsense type who slid into second base at the softball games she refereed on Sundays.
And even if she did find me attractive, there was another problem. The woman was my boss. Even though my job was temporary, fraternizing with employees was against the rules for the shift managers.
Just as I started to dial Garrett one more time, the back door opened and Lindsey stepped out. She’d changed from her shirt and khakis into a pair of jeans, biker boots, and a tight-fitting black tank. Balancing her helmet on her hip with her arm, she slammed the door closed and turned the key in the lock.
As she started toward her bike, more—and closer—lightning bathed her in an eerie yellow glow. Her Joan Jett walk was decidedly masculine, and she whistled as she crossed the parking lot.
“Hey, Lindz,” I called, suddenly terrified at the thought of being abandoned here all night.
Thunder boomed as she stopped. Her eyes widened at the sight of me standing there, looking like a lonely loser at the edge of the parking lot. “Shit, Megan,” she said in that oddly sensual, androgynous tone of hers. “You scared me. What are you doing out here? Your ride didn’t show?”
As I hurried toward her, I shook my head.
Pity for me flashed in her eyes. “How you gonna get home?”
I shrugged, suddenly near tears.
She reached out and clasped my shoulder. “Come on, now. None of that. Any jerk who’d leave you stranded this late at night doesn’t deserve you anyway. I’ve got an extra helmet in the restaurant. I’ll take you home.”
“All the way to Bay Minette? I couldn’t—”
“Home with me,” she said. “There’s no way we’ll beat this storm. Besides, it’ll do you good to let him worry for once.” She grinned.
“You’re right,” I said, relieved I’d found a ride. “Thanks.”
She thrust her helmet into my hands. “Hang onto this and I’ll get the other one.” She started back toward the restaurant.
The first drops of rain fell on my face and arms as I ambled over to her bike while she retrieved the other helmet. I’d never been on a motorcycle before, and the thought of riding this one nestled behind Lindsey caused my stomach to do flips. I wondered if my nervousness stemmed more from being on a motorcycle, or from the idea I was going home with Lindsey.
She returned and traded helmets with me. I watched her don hers, my mouth going dry at the sight of her in her easy fitting jeans and that thin, thin tank. Obviously, she wore nothing underneath her skimpy top. Her breasts were small, no bigger than mine had been when I’d first worn a training bra. I wondered about the sensation of kissing them, cupping them as she fingered me. Wetness dampened my panties.