Since I’ve filled my blog calendar with luscious guesties, I’ve barely had time to post my own news. And you know there’s always lots of that. Today, I’d like to talk about two anthologies that released early from Cleis. Two different flavors of erotica for my eclectic readers—you’re bound to find something to suit your tastes!
For those of you who think you don’t like anthologies, think of them as a chance to meet new authors or a collection of bedtime reads—just long enough to get you in the mood, but short enough you can actually have time to do something about it! Click on the covers if you’d like to head to Amazon to purchase.
I have a hyper-sensitive clit. Touch it with a callused finger or the scrape of a nail and I come out of my skin.
Men don’t get it. I can demonstrate how I like it touched, but most think arousal dulls the nerves, because the more aroused they get, the harder they rub and press—like my clit’s a damn ignition switch and all they have to do is push it more insistently to get me revved.
I explained my problem to my best friend Morgan one night over drinks. She studied me with her smoky grey eyes. “Do you mind my asking why the hell you go for dick?”
The question shocked me. The answer was on the tip of my tongue, but I held it there. Why indeed? It isn’t as though I truly craved a man.
Her lips curved—just the corners. “I bet if you showed me, I’d get it right.”
The suggestion tantalized. I raised my Bellini and took a quick sip, stalling before I replied. Morgan was attractive. I liked her full curves. I’d had the usual feminine curiosity about what she looked like nude, but never allowed myself to go there.
I swallowed, bubbles tickling the back of my throat, then forced a smile. “Are you teasing me?” I asked, surprised by the huskiness of my voice.
Her eyes narrowed, and she sat back in her chair. The glide of a toe up the inside of one calf made my breath catch. “Does it feel like I’m teasing?”
I stepped out of the shower onto chipped and cracked aqua blue tiles with grout so dingy it was hard to tell what color it had been. Not that the bathroom was dirty, thank god. Just old. Like the rest of the 60’s-built motel I’d found on the little back country road.
I toweled my hair then shook my head like a dog, not caring where the droplets landed. It wasn’t a mess I’d have to clean up. For one last night I could be irresponsible, messy, even if it was only in a small way.
I draped the towel over the edge of the old white tub and sauntered naked into the small room with the double bed. It smelled of tobacco and industrial cleansers. The bedding looked clean if a little nappy from wear, but I peeled back the quilt-top and tossed it on the floor anyway. Pristine white sheets beckoned.
Just as I lay back, sighing with relief, sounds from outside the room jarred me from my happy haze. Tires squealed, masculine laughter bellowed through the thin walls, and car doors slammed. Read the rest of this entry »