It's been a busy summer for me. Book release, story written, more writing done, juggling work and family. I don't know about you, but it's a great time to take a break with a hot book excerpt. I have a number of re-releases to take care of, but first I want to share something original, from an upcoming episodic work, as yet untitled. I had originally planned a serial, but I understand they're getting bad press because readers don't care much for cliffhangers. Fair enough. Instead I'm going to put everything in one book. Here's a preview of the first part, Tom.
How can I get this man off my couch tonight and into my bed next to me? Better yet, on top of me?
I’d asked myself that more than once, too often in the space of a few hours that it had become my new mantra. Tom O’Keefe worked for the London branch of Kline Creative Associates and suffered the misfortune of visiting our Miami headquarters at the height of storm season. One has to question the wisdom of scheduling the annual retreat while an unwelcome guest named Hurricane Lily reached triple-digit wind speeds on her path toward our coast, but when I finally placed Tom’s handsome face with the sexy English accent I savored during phone conferences I wanted to dry hump Mother Nature in thanks. The bad weather would surely keep him in town for an extra day or so.
From the moment he strolled into our offices this morning, his charcoal jacket draped over one crooked arm, the corners of his green eyes crinkling as he smiled, one could no doubt sense the collective wobbling of high heels as every woman in his crosshairs grasped something for support. “He’s fucking gorgeous,” whispered the front desk receptionist as I walked past. Yeah, understatement of the year. She pushed her glasses back to the bridge of her nose. “He could be the next Doctor. God, he’s so suave.”
I didn’t catch the obvious geek reference she made. Lucy wore striped wizard scarves to work and quoted Hobbits. Her zeal for fantasy fandoms and her slim figure made her a dream fuck for any guy in the office, but it was interesting to watch Tom glide past her with nothing more seductive than a nod in greeting as he followed the group into the conference room.
Other members of the secretarial pool, huddled around the front desk to view the parade, proved less subtle.
“I could chew on that pouty lower lip all day,” murmured Ellen.
“I’d nibble on that fine white ass,” chimed in Keisha.
I only straightened my posture so as to bring some elegance to my size sixteen frame and brushed a fleck of paper dust from my black pencil skirt. I kept my own fantasies about Tom O’Keefe to myself—I didn’t need reality to edge closer and spoil the lovely images in my head. No doubt, somewhere in London, a size zero Burberry model bearing a perpetual frown awaited between satin sheets for his return.
“Back to work, ladies,” I chided before resuming my duties.
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