Sunday, August 17, 2008


Ahoy, maties, Pirate's Booty is officially available here.

Want to know more about what you're getting into? Here's a quick tease, in which the modern heroine, Elizabeth (there are two, one in 1712, one contemporary), checks out her hot neighbor:

There went her next-door neighbor Lucius, the other part of her cottage’s good view, tromping toward the village.

Considerate of him to leave his porch light on so she could see him!
She couldn’t help staring after him with a little voyeuristic thrill that moved from her eyes down to her suddenly perky nipples and from there to her clit, which tingled as if to remind her it needed occasional attention.

Lucius was bundled up against the cold in a bulky navy peacoat and an extraordinarily ugly brown hat with earflaps that made his head look mutated, but he still managed to look good.

Okay, he looked lumpy and bulky, but she knew how good he looked when he wasn’t quite so encumbered, and she had a vivid imagination. His shaggy dark-blonde hair that he wore pulled into an untidy ponytail, his high cheekbones, his smoky gray eyes, his lean, but powerful build, the weathered complexion of someone intimate with the ocean, had made her revise her descriptions of her hero. Thanks to Lucius, her dashing pirate Matthew was both more disreputable-looking and sexier than her original vision, although she’d have to go back and make sure the character’s eyes were uniformly gray, not brown as they’d started out.

And that inspiration sprung from exchanging a few words with Lucius the day she took possession of the cottage--a blessedly warmer day than this one, when he’d been out and about in nicely snug, faded jeans and a heavy charcoal sweater, cableknit like an Irish fisherman’s and definitely well-loved. She knew little about him other than he was knee-weakeningly good-looking. That, and that he was a handyman at one of the island’s surviving grand Victorian hotels. He’d mentioned it and then offered his services if anything broke down in her house, either to fix it or find someone who could.

Oh yeah, she’d take his services any time…

He was hot and worked with his hands. She’d moved from those bits of information into a fantasy that involved her calling him because she thought her bed seemed rickety and squeaky. He’d decide the best way to test its strength was to tie her to it spread-eagled, then torment and tease her wide-open self with those clever hands and an equally clever tongue. Caressing and teasing her nipples roughly enough to almost hurt, making them swell and harden and ache. Licking and caressing her swollen clit until she was soaked and trembling, on the verge of orgasm, then drawing back--over and over again so she grew got wilder and wilder with desire. He’d wait until she was a sweat-drenched, writhing mass of lust before fucking her senseless. And of course, it was a perfect cock, long and thick and with a jaunty curve to it that hit her G-spot with every stroke. (Hey, it was her damn fantasy. Why shouldn’t he be endowed like her heroes?)

Sometimes, in the fantasy, they broke the bed, which in fact had been fine until they started going at it like particularly rut-crazed weasels. And then he spanked her because it was “all her fault” and got them both so excited they fucked again on the broken bed, or up against the kitchen counter, or…well, just about anywhere, really.
Despite the chill in the room, her body felt fevered, aching with need.


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