Venus in Blue Jeans (40 page)
“Oh, yes, he was very concerned. Said he knew we hadn’t parted on the best of terms.”
“True enough.” Cal took a sip of Dos Equis to give himself something to do. Jealousy was an immature emotion.
“Then he asked me out to dinner.”
Cal jerked back, staring. “He’s here? In town?” So he was immature, so what?
Docia shrugged. “I don’t know where he is exactly. With Donnie he could always be in someplace like Austin. He said he’d drive over. I’d rather see him crawl, myself. Preferably on all fours. Over broken glass. And even then I wouldn’t talk to him.”
Cal felt the corners of his mouth edge up again. “I take it you told him no.”
“I told him I was busy. That I’d be busy every night for the foreseeable future. And that I’d just as soon he stayed out of my town for that same foreseeable future.”
Cal put his arm around her waist, pulling her close so that he could kiss the top of her head. “That’s my girl.”
Docia stared up at him, green eyes burning. “What on earth did I ever see in him?” she murmured.
Cal shook his head. “No telling, babe.”
“Oh well.” She sighed. “Thank God he turned out to be such a louse.”
Cal arched an eyebrow. “And the reason for that would be…”
“Because if he hadn’t been such a creep, I might never have run away to Konigsburg to mend my broken heart, and I might never have found you.” She slid her arms around his waist, resting her head against his chest. “The love of my life.”
Cal felt a bubble of joy rising up inside him. He tried to think of something clever to say, but his brain had turned to mush.
At the other end of the room, Kris Kristofferson sang “Loving Her Was Easier Than Anything I’ll Ever Do Again” on Ingstrom’s jukebox. Allie had climbed onto the barstool next to Wonder and was dusting flour off her chef’s pants. Janie and Ingstrom were involved in some kind of intense discussion, probably dealing with the lack of Texas wine by the glass.
And then Docia looked up at him again, ruby hair curling around her shoulders.
Botticelli’s Venus. In jeans. The love of his life in the Dew Drop Inn, downtown Konigsburg, Texas.
Cal pressed his forehead against hers. “Welcome home, babe,” he murmured.
About the Author
Meg Benjamin lives in South Texas with her husband, two sons, and various animals. After teaching English and communication for over twenty years, she’s now retired and writing full time. To learn more about Meg, please visit
www.megbenjamin.com
. Meg loves to hear from her readers. Send an email to her at
[email protected]
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Is it possible to be jealous of yourself?
Model Behavior
© 2008 Janie Mason
From nine to five, commercial artist Molly Birchfield lives a lie. A victim of sexual harassment at her previous job, she now hides behind boxy clothes and plastic glasses. She keeps much of her personal life a secret, even from her friend and coworker, Scott McDowell. Especially since erotic visions of him fill her dreams.
When Scott finds himself in need of some quick cash, Molly grabs the chance to delve into an after-hours relationship with him. She concocts a fictitious twin sister to hire him—for some nude modeling sessions.
Scott is immediately attracted to Molly’s “sister” Mary, who is physically identical but vastly different in style and temperament. Their sexual relationship quickly comes to a boil, but Scott soon realizes he’s missing something: Molly’s companionship.
In the throes of passion, the truth tends to come out of hiding. Confession is good for the soul, but when Scott discovers her deception, Molly stands to lose more than a sexual partner and her best friend. She could lose the only man she’s ever loved.
Warning: This story contains graphic language and enough explicit sex to leave you hot and bothered.
Enjoy the following excerpt for
Model Behavior:
Molly Birchfield awoke, aroused and on edge from yet another erotic dream. As she had on previous nights, she rushed to her pad of drawing paper and graphite. Her hand flew over the surface of the page. A smooth line curved from her dream man’s broad back down to a firm, bare ass, then continuing down to outline muscular legs. The pad of her ring finger smeared blackened shadows at the cleft of his tightened buttocks.
During these feverish bursts, Molly wished she was a sculptor, able to run her hands along a three-dimensional version of the man’s delicious contours.
Working her way up the model’s incredible body, she added higher definition at the trapezius, deltoids and triceps. Not wanting to distract from the musculature, she chose to forgo body hair in these drawings, even though the man who haunted her nights had a masculine layer on his legs, forearms, chest and groin. She decided to add the facial profile to the drawing later, concentrating instead on capturing the perfection of the body. It was always the same face anyway.
Scott’s.
Near sexual frenzy, she let that first sheet of paper flutter to the floor and began a frontal pose. She illustrated the outer curve of muscular calves, thighs and hips with clean lines. Her heart raced as she sketched the corded muscles of the abdomen that flowed down to the groin. Male anatomy was no mystery to her, but she allowed herself to savor the mental image of her dream man’s semi-aroused penis before drawing it.
Molly swallowed hard and then bit her bottom lip, lusting after his steely male thickness. In her dream she had reached out, weighing him, stroking him with her dusty palms. Then she had dropped to her knees…
“Someday,” she whispered.
***
It looked like a twelve-story phallus.
Molly, a seasoned commercial artist, stared wide-eyed at the paper. What was I thinking? Her rough sketch of Thrillville Amusement Park’s newest ride, the Fall of Fear, too closely resembled a very enthusiastic male organ.
How Freudian is that?
Probably a safe bet to say this wasn’t the image a family-oriented theme park wanted to project.
She glanced quickly over her shoulders. Hopefully, none of her co-workers at K&B Advertising had entered her cubicle and gotten a peek at her erection. Wasting no time, she crumpled the paper, hopped off her ergonomic stool and buried the evidence of her self-imposed celibacy deep in the wastebasket.
Horniness aside, between the office’s stifling heat and her fatigue from another night of erotic dreams she was finding it impossible to stay focused on the theme park’s advertising. Even with the deadline a few days away. She closed her eyes to gather her wits, but couldn’t keep from fantasizing about Scott.
Perspiration beaded on her forehead and trickled down her cleavage. Between her thighs she pulsed with a familiar, unsatisfied desire. Her hands were white-knuckled and damp from gripping the edges of her design table, and she shifted uncomfortably on her stool.
“Okay, this is a stick-up,” said a voice behind her. “Hand over your purse, nice and slow.”
Molly’s eyes flew open as she felt something hard press into her spine. She hoped that, in her horny, daydream state, she hadn’t actually moaned aloud.
“Oh, no.” She gasped in a mocking helpless-female voice.
“Quiet,” the familiar voice said. “Follow my instructions and nobody gets hurt. Now, like I said, hand it over.”
“But I don’t have a purse.” Molly tried her best to sound brainless and breathy.
“Nice try, but I know different. I’ve been watching you for awhile now, girlie.”
She couldn’t help but grin.
“You’ve got a purse as big as a saddlebag, full of all kinds of female doo-dads.”
“What?” Molly whirled and deftly slapped the fluorescent highlighter out of Scott McDowell’s hand. “I don’t own doo-dads. Take it back, McDowell.”
Scott laughed at her semi-indignation and retrieved the marker from where it had landed in the corner of her cubicle.
“Okay, okay, but what would you call all that crap you cart around?” His blue eyes twinkled in devilish amusement and, as he straightened, he ran his free hand through his thick blond hair.
“The items in my purse are none of your business.” She pushed her plastic-framed glasses back up the bridge of her nose and pretended to be in a huff. “But, I repeat, there are no doo-dads.”
“Jeez, what’s with you? I was just kidding around.” Scott leaned against the edge of her filing cabinet.
In deference to the heat, he’d rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt, abandoned his necktie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. A few tawny hairs teased her into contemplating the masculine chest beneath. She forced herself not to lick her lips.
God, she wanted to jump Scott and rip off his clothes. He wore navy pleated-front trousers, leaving her to wonder how much of the folds were filled with air and how much with…him. She’d been craving a cool shower all morning, and now she needed one for a reason other than the unbearable heat.
Hoping he hadn’t guessed her line of thinking, she averted her gaze and dabbed a tissue at the moisture on her upper lip. Temperatures like this made wearing her thick hair in a tight bun sensible, but even it seemed to be melting, lilting slightly to the left of where she’d pinned it that morning.
The K&B offices were sweltering, but one would never have known it by looking at Scott. Unfortunately, doing just that increased Molly’s body temperature a good thirty degrees. She looked and felt like she’d been standing all day in front of an open pizza oven, whereas Scott looked like a brand new Ken doll ready for an afternoon picnic with Barbie.
“You’re a pod person, right?” she asked. “The air-conditioning is on the fritz, the building is about a zillion degrees, and you look like you just stepped out of a Saks Fifth Avenue ad.”
“Bite your tongue. Saks isn’t a client. Yet.” He smiled, and the chill that zipped up her spine almost made her forget about the office’s current sweatshop conditions.
It’s not the past that wounds us…it’s the ghosts we hold on to.
Hearts Awakened
© 2008 Linda Winfree
Hearts of the South,
Book 6.
A lifetime ago Mark Cook’s pregnant wife vanished, taking everything and leaving an empty, aching hole in his life. Since then, as penance for his failure as a husband and father, he’s refused to allow himself to live. Refused to lay his sleeping heart on the line for any woman.
Enter Tori Calvert, his best friend’s baby sister. Suddenly, against his will—and against his better judgment—that same damaged heart seems determined to reawaken. And Mark’s not sure he can withstand the pain.
When she was a teenager, a vicious attack ripped away Tori’s very essence as a woman. Finally she feels ready to focus her existence on something other than her job as a rape crisis counselor. And to step outside the shelter of her loving, protective family. She trusts Mark more than any man, yet fear holds her back.
Fear that even the healing light of love may not be enough to banish the shadows of the past.
Enjoy the following excerpt for
Hearts Awakened:
Tori drifted into awareness. The light from the hallway shone into her eyes, and she squinted and yawned. A blue dress shirt was draped over the edge of her mirror. A pair of men’s loafers sat by the door. The owner of those shoes slept behind her, one hard arm draped over her waist. His hand curved around her ribcage, scant inches from her breast.
And that wasn’t his belt buckle poking her in the backside.
Her stomach twisted and her heart thudded in an irregular rhythm. She shrank away from the arm holding her, colliding with the solid chest behind her. Her heart shifted from its thudding to a frightened flutter. The hand tightened and a murmured protest sent warm breath along her bare shoulder.
Mark.
Her heartbeat slowed somewhat. She was in bed with Mark, that was his hand wrapped around her, his chest along her back. His erection against her bottom. She concentrated on breathing, slow, relaxed breaths. She was in bed with Mark, because this was where she’d wanted to be. Closing her eyes, she absorbed the sensations of being this close to him.
He smelled of clean male. Being wrapped in his loose embrace made her feel sheltered, protected. He slept on, snoring lightly, his breath a warm rhythm on her skin. The hot outline of his hand through silk enticed her. An inch or so upward and he’d be molding the underside of her breast. She pictured that hand sliding up, fingers curving around her, arms tightening, that hard ridge pushing more insistently against her.
A liquid ache pooled in the pit of her stomach and she shifted, filled with restlessness. Her breasts tingled, feeling heavier, fuller, and she laid a hand over her abdomen. If she didn’t know better, she’d swear she could feel her pulse between her thighs. All this, just from being in his arms, from thinking about his touching her?