Curvy Amelia Perkins is a spinster. As a librarian, she is determined to drag this town out of its illiterate rating, no matter the reader's preferences. So when sweet elderly Maude asked for something with a little steam in it, Amy didn't hesitate...
Amy shivered, unlocked her front door, and stepped into her duplex. Her body hummed, making demands she couldn't quite satiate. A single woman didn't have many choices when it came to sexual release. She debated whether to bath and ease the tension within her, thanks to a certain man, or channel it into her writing.
She toed off her pumps, dumped her handbag on the chair in the foyer, stripped her gloves off, and dropped them on top. A few steps into her quaint kitchen and she had the bottle and a sherry glass on the wooden counter. She slammed one glass of sherry back, pausing to enjoy the sweet burn as it settled into her belly. With the glass and bottle in hand, she crossed her unused living room and entered the enclosed patio. The glass conservatory was warm in winter and cool in summer, providing heavenly views when she wrote.
Amy stared at the starlit sky, refilled her glass, and settled behind the antique mahogany desk. She flipped open her laptop, waited a moment for it to boot up then let her fingers fly across the keys.
The more she wrote, the more flustered she became. She had sexual tension between the characters from the first chapter with them doing it by the third. Sighing, she slumped into her chair, allowing her posture to relax for a moment. Then she stiffened, closed the document, and opened another. After a downed glass, she wrote the next chapter of Loving Finley.
Fin's dad raised her as the son he never had. She was a mountain guide, escorting groups of men through the mountains on a "get-in-touch-with-their-inner-man" camp. She can handle herself and anything her mountain can throw at her. Except this. A flash flood strands her with the most irritating man on the planet.
Duke Delaney, some hotshot football star she's never heard of. He's a player, an ass, and thinks, because she has a vagina, she's fair game. Hell, no, not happening. She has the secret novels she's written, about dominant men and untamable women in cosmopolitan cities, what's not to like? They keep her romantic side fueled and well-hidden. Now she has to get Duke's sexy-as-sin ass to Old Margot's cabin and hope the radio's working.
By the time they'd reached the stashed emergency supplies, the tension was off the roof. Growling, Amy slammed her laptop shut. Three hours she'd wasted, with thoughts of Tom Bradshaw surfacing. She should've used her fingers, anything to silence her body's humming. It wasn't as if she'd see him again so this attraction had to ease off.
Amy ran a bath, filling it with scented oils she'd imported from India. Jasmine and magnolia rose with the tendrils of steam. Drawing in a deep breath, she unbuttoned her blouse, sliding it off her shoulders. She shivered when the heated air touched her skin but she didn't stop, tugging the shirt out of her skirt's waistband and tossing it onto the wooden stool. Shimmying out of her skirt, she dropped it onto her blouse.
Unzipping her wire-and-lace, nude-toned chemise, she massaged her breasts, moaning as the throbbing sensitivity shot darts of need to her pulsing core.
"Damn you, Tom Bradshaw." She sank into the water, allowing it to ease her muscles and hopefully, her need.
Amy snoozed, topping up the hot water with a twist of the tap with her toes. Her phone dinged and she reached for it. Who would send her a text at this time of night?
A gasp tore from her at the name on her screen. She wiped water droplets and damp tendrils off her face as if they hindered her ability to see.
I'd like to see you tomorrow.
Wiping her hands on her towel, she typed with both thumbs. Her heart beat loud enough to drown out Mrs. Lorenzo's reality shows. How did you get my number?
The three dots flickered, as if they crossed the great cosmos, taking their sweet time to show his reply.
When I want something, nothing stands in my way.
Amy's hand trembled and she fumbled with her phone, almost dropping it into the bath. I'm busy tomorrow.
That wasn't a lie. On Saturdays, she worked until noon, lunched with her twin sister, Liz, followed by an afternoon at the community center teaching kids to read. Sunday was the Harvest Fair and she'd volunteered to manage the kissing booth.
His response was quick. No, you're not.
A photo loaded of her book lying on his crumpled sheets, his bare leg peeking in from the bottom of the image. Black hair feathered a muscled thigh, the sight of which drew a gasp from her. Holy Tolkien. She turned her phone to admire him from all angles.
I want to discuss this book...and the author.
"Holy f...physics!" Amy tossed her phone onto her towel and leaped up, sloshing water everywhere. Soap bubbles sloughed off her but she didn't care. She stepped onto the mat to trample it, a silent scream contorting her mouth. He couldn't know who Gemma James was. It wasn't public knowledge.
Neither was her phone number.
She squealed, her breathing ragged. She had to answer him. If she didn't, he'd know he'd struck a nerve. I'd love to discuss Gemma James with you, Mr. Bradshaw. She is one of our most popular authors. There's even a rumor that she's from Gainsford.
Amy gave her phone a smug smile, balancing it on the basin while she dried herself and pulled on a nightgown. She straightened the gathered collar, settled the cinched in waist, and fluffed the frilly skirt that ended mid-thigh. In pastel pink, it was a pointless garment due to its transparency. She adored how it made her feel feminine, delicate, and sexy.
Slipping into dainty, befeathered heels, she brushed her teeth then rubbed her hair dry, staring at her phone, dreading yet hoping he'd reply. Her heart chose a steady rhythm then would leap and dance, fluttering butterflies in her chest.
The three dots cycled but with no response.
Climbing into bed, she lay there, fingers gripping the quilt and waited.
Do you think she's single?
Amy laughed. Gemma could be a man or someone Maude knows.
LOL. I doubt it. The way she writes arouses me.
She gasped, squirming into her mattress, tempted to ease the ache but strangely reluctant to do so. I don't think she's your type, Mr. Bradshaw.
Call me Tom. Dinner at six.
She harrumphed. The audacity of the man. I didn't agree to dine with you.
Good night, Amelia.
She slammed her phone onto her nightstand, mumbling and cursing under her breath as she tossed and turned. Part of her would stand him up, the arrogant donkey's backside. The other part wondered what she should wear.
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