Seducing Amelia - Plump Playwright #2 - Sample - ON SALE NOW!

1: Amelia: Tenors

Silence descended on her small world when the front door clicked shut. Amelia Perkins sighed, a smile teasing her lips. Sonja had, at last, gone home for the day, leaving Amy alone in the still, book-scented library. The setting sun offered a final illusion of warmth through the windows high above the shelves.

She rose, ambled to the record player to the rear of the building, pausing to tidy books, and rearrange a few before slipping a long-playing record out of its cover. She placed it on the turntable with a reverent touch, lifted the needle with a steady finger then lowered it.

Pavarotti's Viva La Traviata Le Brindisi filled the small confines of the quaint library. She closed her eyes, raised her face to the ceiling, and allowed his dulcet voice to soothe her. She shivered, wishing she knew a man with such a deep tenor. Her nipples hardened under her vintage button-up blouse.

Amy stored that feeling, having assessed it from all angles for her writing. Whatever lost desire, love, longing she experienced, she poured it into her novels. Then before she fell asleep, whatever lingered, she'd take care of as if she attended to her anti-aging rituals.

A spinster at twenty-eight? In tiny Gainsford, she was, with no prospects other than Phillipe, her neighbor's son, who insisted on treating her to dinner when he visited from the "big city". He tried every time for a little affection, but no, dinner did not equal sex in Amy's mind, no matter how much she longed for someone to love her.

Balancing a stack of books against her ample bosom, she navigated the shelves, waltzing, and sashaying down the aisles. She hummed or sang along, pausing only to replay it. As crisp as the digital version was, it couldn't compare to the authenticity of an LP.

To slide in a book at the base of the shelf, she had to bend at the waist and balance on her platform pumps—a weakness of hers. She hadn't seen the man enter the library or approach her, just sensed his shadow when it was too late. Amy bolted upright, yelped, leaped back, bounced off a bookshelf, teetered on her heels for a moment before sliding to the floor.

"What the f...physics 530 do you think you are doing?" She huffed her hair out of her face to glare at the intruder.

Her breath hitched and she blinked. The fashion for criminals must have changed. Since when did they wear crisp grey suits that molded to broad shoulders and bulging biceps? He was too tanned, as if he'd just returned from a tropical island. He had to be the head of a drug cartel. Now that made sense.

One moment she sprawled before him like a ritual offering, the next she was in his arms, his hands gripping her waist. His navy-blue shirt gaped, tuffs of ebony hair peeked through. His cologne overpowered the musty library, citrus and grass...delicious. He waited as if to ensure she didn't fall over, then with a curt nod, released her.

"My apologies..."

Whatever he said after that, she couldn't repeat. Holy Dostoyevsky, his voice rumbled like distant thunder. Her calmed nipples tightened and tingles spread with her breasts swelling. Wow, she had no words to describe the sensation. It couldn't be instant attraction. Sure, she wrote about it but was there proof of its existence, or was it an urban legend?

His cheeks darkened, and he clenched his jaw, waiting for her to speak.

Blinking at him, as if dazed, she opened her mouth but her mind wouldn't fire a thought.

"Listen, I don't have time for this bullshit. I'd like the contact details for Ms. Amelia Perkins."

She frowned. Why did he want to speak to her? In that harsh tone, she wouldn't be helpful, not when he'd scared her to death then hummed desire through her body. Here in Gainsford, a man had to buy a woman dinner, kiss her among other intimacies to get her to this stage of readiness. He just had to use that lethal voice of his.