Authors: Jasmine Haynes
Somebody's Ex (15 page)
Copyright
2010 Jasmine Haynes
Cover
design by Rae Monet Inc
She’d dressed in
a long, black skirt and white blouse, flawlessly pressed. She was perfect. The
perfect daughter, perfect wife, and perfect employee.
Tonight she
longed to be the perfect lover. They’d stolen quick, furtive moments together,
but this was the first time she would have all night with her lover. Her body
hummed, with anticipation, with guilt, with fear.
She’d parked her
silver Maxima in the farthest corner of the San Francisco International Airport
long-term lot, then caught the shuttle bus to the terminal building. She’d done
everything he asked. Except wait outside the terminal. She wasn’t supposed to
pace in front of the arrivals monitor, trying to decide if she liked the
anxiety, the foreboding.
She slipped her
wedding band and sapphire engagement ring into the inside pocket of her leather
purse. His plane was five minutes late. Checking the arrival time for his
flight one last time, she crumpled the bit of green paper with the flight
information he’d given her, threw it on top of an already full trash can, then
walked to the lounge area to take a seat.
His gaze swept
her as he stepped off the escalator outside security, and her heart sank to the
toes of her sensible pumps. The glare he shot made her tremble. Was he pissed?
Had she ruined everything?
Two confused,
blank-eyed children clung to his big hands.
His estranged
wife met them, ready to take his kids from him.
He neither kissed
nor touched the pretty, plump blonde. Her sole purpose was to pick up the
children after they’d returned from a visit with his parents.
His hands now
empty and his bag slung over his shoulder, he walked several steps behind them.
His wife chattered at the children and ignored him. Clusters of travelers
engulfed them until they disappeared in the throng surrounding the baggage
carousel.
She lingered in
the waiting area another ten minutes, then rose, dragging her leather purse up
her arm to her shoulder, and headed for the front doors, a lump in her throat.
Once outside, she stood at the curb for the next long-term bus. He was at the
other end of the island, the way they’d arranged. His wife had unknowingly
played into the scheme, telling him she’d pick up the kids but
he’d
have
to take a taxi.
She wondered why
he and his wife still played this silly game.
The night had
cooled. Her silk blouse was thin, but the heat from rumbling buses swept
beneath her skirt and set her on fire. She could feel the hot lick of his gaze
as if twenty feet didn’t separate them, his anger and desire a potent
combination.
Need, hunger,
dread, and excitement formed a squirming package in her stomach. Butterflies.
Spontaneous combustion.
He sat in the
back of the bus, she in the front. They neither spoke nor looked at each other.
The ride to long-term was the longest ten minutes she’d ever known. Finally
they turned down her aisle. She couldn’t believe she was doing this, couldn’t
imagine stopping it now. Wouldn’t stop it even if her life depended on it.
She exited from
the front of the shuttle, he from the rear, the overnight bag now in his hand.
Pulling out her keys, she pressed the remote alarm.
The bus pulled
away. Her heart hammered.
His bag was on
the ground beside them and his hands were up her skirt before she had the car
door open.
He dragged her
into the back seat. She spread her legs over him, straddling his thighs. The
roof of the car scuffed her hair. Tugging on his zipper, she took him in her
hand. He sucked in a breath; in the past, he’d always initiated. There wasn’t
time to fish the condoms out of her purse. When she slid down onto him, he
groaned, but he didn’t take his eyes off her face.
She’d never been
so wet, so vocal, or come so willingly in her life.
Three
power-thrusts later, he came.
She screamed.
* *
* * *
She screamed
out her orgasm. Tears gummed her lashes and rolled down her cheeks. Hands
circled her throat. From the floor of the car, the rumpled bit of green
notepaper, the one she’d thrown away, taunted her, and the empty condom wrapper
shouted her shame. How had it come to this?
In that
moment, before fear gripped her, before instinct took over, when her guilt was
strongest, she welcomed Death. Welcomed it as the life was choked from her,
welcomed it until her eyeballs ached and colors exploded behind her lids. Until
blood from her bitten tongue leaked down her raw, bruised throat. And then her
body fought for survival.
She tore at
the fingers, shrieked, twisted, kicked, scratched, and punched. And still she
couldn’t drag in a breath. Terror fisted around her heart and squeezed. Fear of
death. Fear of life. Fear like she’d never known. Not even the night someone
put a bullet in Cameron’s head.
Max Starr woke
clawing at her throat, Cameron’s name breaking the thrall of the dream. Blood
drummed in her ears. Her heart pounded against the wall of her chest.
But she could
breathe. Oh God, she could breathe, sweet, clean air smelling of early morning,
green leaves, and hope. She was here, in her bedroom, where she belonged. Safe.
“Are you all
right?” Cameron’s voice, not spoken but inside her head, comforting, familiar,
the way a dead husband’s voice should be, the only way a crazy, grieving widow
should hear her husband’s ghost. But she’d have given anything to feel his arms
around her right now. For real, not just in the erotic dreams he brought her.
Sometimes
fantasies weren’t enough.
Like now, when
her throat still ached. She lightly caressed the flesh, her fingers cool, her
skin tender with residual effects of the nightmare.
“It was a dream,”
she murmured for both their benefits. Maybe her worst nightmare—except for that
night two years ago when Cameron was killed—but still just a dream. After a
deep inhale, then a long sigh, the tension dribbled out her fingertips and the
soles of her feet.
Physical,
reality-based sensation returned—sheets tangled around her legs, her back stuck
to the cotton. She pushed the bedclothes aside to let cool air from the open
window blow across her naked body. In the elm outside her window, the stray
black cat gave a pathetic mewl. She shouldn’t have fed it yesterday, but knew she’d
do the same thing today. Her racing heart eased into a steady, normal beat.
“That was a
vision, Max, not a dream.” Cameron’s voice again, always with her, inside her.
It had been his
name that woke her. It wasn’t part of the dream, vision, whatever it was; his
name was something she’d interjected into a reality that didn’t belong to her.
Even now she sensed remnants of another’s strong emotions inextricably linked
with her own.
In the dark
corner across the room, dear departed Cameron’s eyes flashed. Despite the two
years since his death, those glittering points of light, all she ever really
saw of him, still gave her a little jolt, part excitement, part fright. The red
tip of his spectral cigarette glowed. He’d loved them when he was alive. They’d
been the death of him in the end, not by cancer, but by gunshot at the corner
7-Eleven where he’d gone to buy his last pack.
If
you enjoyed this excerpt, look for all the Max Starr mysteries:
Dead
to the Max
, Book 1
Evil
to the Max
, Book 2
Desperate
to the Max
, Book 3
Power
to the Max
, Book 4
Vengeance
to the Max
, Book 5
Max
Starr in Print on Demand:
Revenge Sex Excerpt
Try
a sample of Jasmine’s erotica with her sexy new series about hotwives and the
men who love them. Be warned, this one is pretty darn naughty!
Book
One in the West Coast Series
A
tale of hotwifing
Cover
design by Rae Monet Inc
A
man, the hotwife he can’t control...and the woman who wants to fix what’s wrong
with him.
Tough,
autocratic CFO Clay Blackwell strikes both fear and loyalty into the hearts of
his employees. But he’s got one quirk no one at West Coast Manufacturing knows;
he loves the idea of his live-in girlfriend Ruby being with another man...then
coming home to him for the best sex of his life as she describes every naughty
detail. He’s only got three stipulations: no sex with anyone from work, no sex
with another man in their own home, and she always has to tell him when she has
a date. The problem? What to do with a “hotwife” who has all the freedom any
woman could want, but still can’t follow three simple rules.
Jessica
Murphy has the utmost respect and admiration for her CFO. She also has wild sex
fantasies about Clay every night. Not that she’d ever tell anyone. Until she
walks in on Clay’s girlfriend Ruby screwing Bradley the financial analyst right
on Clay’s desk.
All
bets are off and a little revenge sex is the name of the game. Ruby thinks
she’ll placate Clay by telling him to have sex with another woman to pay her
back for all her rule-breaking. When Jessica learns about that, she makes up
her mind to seduce her boss for keeps, not just one night of revenge.
But
can she become the more-than-one-man woman Clay Blackwell wants? Or will his
desires tear them apart?
Excerpt
Copyright
2011 Jasmine Haynes
Hoisting her onto
the desktop, Bradley spread her legs and yanked on her pretty purple thong.
“Oh yeah, baby,
that’s it, rip them off.” Ruby loved Bradley’s he-man act. Of course, the
panties didn’t tear, but so what, he still managed to slide the thong down her
legs and toss it into the corner.
Ruby was wet and
ready before Bradley even licked her. She’d been wet all day planning the
naughty little encounter.
“I’m going to
make you scream,” he boasted, then he put his tongue to her.
And truly, she
did want to scream. “Oh, that’s so right, baby. Clay never does it like that.
He never finds the right spot.” Bradley always needed a little ego boost to get
him going, and what better way than to tell him how much better he was than
Clay, her live-in boyfriend, lover—whatever you wanted to call him—and most
importantly, Bradley’s boss.
Leaning back on
her elbows, she drew her knees up so she could watch every move he made. His
hair was a lustrous dark brown against the perfect white flesh of her thighs.
His shoulders were wide, and she loved the sight of him in his white dress
shirt as he went to town on her. Ruby enjoyed watching a man make love to her
with his mouth. She loved the brush of soft hair against her skin, and the
bristle of Bradley’s perpetual quarter-inch growth of beard. She relished each
and every sensation.
She especially
loved cuckolding Clay on his very big desk at ten o’clock on a weeknight after
the cleaners had all gone home. His second-floor office overlooked the parking
lot and road, yet with the conference table between the windows and Clay’s
desk, they were virtually unnoticeable from the outside. So Ruby had left the
lights on, all the better to see Bradley
down between
her legs.
“Ooh,” she
crooned. “Clay hardly ever licks me.” She moaned. “And I so love the way you do
it.” Bradley was twenty-nine and a mere financial analyst, so she had to find
ways to coax the best out of him—young men still had so much to learn. One of
those ways was to tell him how much more virile he was than his boss, or
rather, his boss twice removed. Bradley worked for the finance manager who in
turn worked for Clay, but really, it was Clay
Bra
dley
had to impress. To be honest, Clay didn’t always appreciate Bradley’s work, so
Ruby had made it her mission to help the young man feel he was good enough in
other realms. Like doing her nine ways to Sunday. On a Wednesday night.