In Sinful Rewards, my sizzling new contemporary erotic romance serial from Avon Impulse, Bee, the heroine, receives naughty challenges from a mysterious texter. Every time she accepts one of these toe-curling challenges, she’s given a luxurious reward, a pricey item she covets yet can’t afford on her small salary.
Bee doesn’t know who this texter is. In the first story, readers meet a variety of characters (or suspects – grins). Nicolas is a handsome yet cautious billionaire with a dark secret. Hawke is a tattooed bad boy biker who might or might not be living illegally in the condo complex. Lona is an aging high class escort who knows just a little too much about Bee. Cyndi, Bee’s best friend, is crazy wealthy and she’s frustrated that Bee’s pride won’t allow her to take her help. There’s also the possibility that we haven’t yet met her texter.
In each installment of Sinful Rewards (each installment is priced at a crazy low 99 cents, less than a convenience store chocolate bar and just as yummy), Bee receives one sexy hot challenge with the possibility of one delicious reward. She doesn’t know what this reward is until AFTER she completes the challenge. This means she has to weigh the difficulty (or, in her case, the naughtiness) of the reward against what she could possibly earn.
I love this idea (and secretly Bee does also). It is the wrapped birthday gift scenario. When the gift is wrapped, it could be ANYTHING. It could be an all expense paid trip to Paris, designer shoes, a lifetime supply of Nutella, a 500 page book of puns, anything. On the flipside, if the giver doesn’t know us well, it could be something we don’t want—like yet another toaster (being a white girl married to a wonderful Asian man – rice cooker seems to be the gifted appliance of choice).
If you were given a mysteriously wrapped gift (as big or small as it needs to be), what would you imagine (or hope) would be inside?
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Belinda “Bee” Carter is a good girl; at least, that’s what she tells herself. And a good girl deserves a nice guy—just like the gorgeous and moody billionaire Nicolas Rainer. He is everything she wants in a man.
Or so she thinks, until she takes a look through her telescope and sees a naked, tattooed man on the balcony across the courtyard. Hawke is mysterious, the bad boy she knows will bring only heartbreak. He has been watching her, and that makes him all the more enticing.
But when a mysterious and anonymous text message dares her to do something bad, she must decide if she is really the good girl she has always claimed to be, or if she’s willing to risk everything for her secret fantasy of being watched.
Is her mystery man the reclusive billionaire with a wild side or the darkly dangerous bad boy?
Cynthia Sax lives in a world filled with magic and romance. Although her heroes may not always say, “I love you,” they will do anything for the women they adore. They live passionately. They play hard. They love the same women forever.
Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her supportive hubby offers himself up to the joys and pains of research, while they travel the world together, meeting fascinating people and finding inspiration in exotic places such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.
Author Website: http://cynthiasax.com/
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Voices murmur outside the condo’s door, the sound piercing my delightful daydream. I swing the telescope upward, not wanting to be caught using it. The snippets of conversation drift away.
I don’t relax. If the telescope isn’t in the same spot as it was positioned last night, Cyndi will realize I’ve been using it. She’ll tease me about being a fellow pervert, sharing the story, embellished for more dramatic effect, with her stern serious dad or, worse, with Angel, that snobby friend of hers.
I’ll die. It’ll be worse than being the butt of jokes in high school because that ridicule had been about my clothes and this will center around the part of my soul I’ve always kept hidden. It’ll also be the truth and I won’t be able to deny it. I am a pervert.
I have to return the telescope to where it was positioned. This is the only acceptable solution. I tap the metal tube.
Last night, my man-crazy roommate had been giggling over the new guy in three eleven north. The previous occupant had been a gray-haired, bowtie-wearing tax auditor, his luxurious accommodations supplied by Nicolas. The most exciting thing he ever did was drink his tea on the balcony.
According to Cyndi, the new occupant is a delicious piece of man candy, tattooed, buff, and head-to-toe lickable. He’d been completing arm curls outside and she’d enthusiastically counted his reps, oohing and aahing over his bulging biceps, calling to me to take a look.
I’d resisted that temptation, focusing on making macaroni and cheese for the two of us, the recipe snagged from the diner my mom works in. After we scarfed down dinner with Cyndi licking her plate clean, she left for the club and hasn’t returned.
Three eleven north is the mirror condo to ours. I straighten the telescope. That position looks about right but then, the imitation UGGS I bought in second year college looked about right also. The first time I wore the boots in the rain, the sheepskin fell apart, leaving me barefoot in Economics 201.
Unwilling to risk Cyndi’s friendship on about right, I gaze through the eyepiece. The view consists of rippling golden planes, almost like…
Tanned skin pulled over defined abs.
I blink. It can’t be. I take another look. A perfect pearl of perspiration clings to a puckered scar. The drop elongates more and more, stretching, snapping. It trickles downward, navigating the swells and valleys of a man’s honed torso.
No. I straighten. This is wrong. I shouldn’t watch our sexy neighbor as he stands on his balcony. If anyone catches me…
I glance behind me. There’s no one here to catch me. Cyndi won’t know I looked. The hunk in three eleven north won’t know I looked. I’m not harming anyone.
I bend over and take another peek.
The sunlight casts interesting shadows across his stomach, accentuating the ridges of muscle, the dip of his navel. I dart my tongue over my suddenly dry lips. His skin is marred with silver scars, some round, some slashes, this proof of hard living, of survival, arousing me, tightening my nipples and moistening my pussy.
I shouldn’t lust after him. He’s the wrong kind of man, the leaving kind, too virile and feral to stay in one place for long. I can tell this from his stance, from his brazen exhibitionism. He wants me to look at him, to care for him. I tilt the telescope downward. His hips are slim. More scars are etched along the bones. Fine brown hair trails from his navel to…
My mouth drops open. He’s completely naked.