Desperate to the Max (33 page)

If Alexis didn’t want to play strip poker, there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d get down and dirty in the hot tub. Therein lay his main reservation about the whole idea; it could backfire and screw up a damn good friendship.

Cat tweaked his nipple, getting a rise out of his cock. “What if Logan wants a taste of me if you get a taste of his wife?”

Drew had always known that any kinky play they engaged in wouldn’t be just Cat watching him. She had a downright insatiable appetite for more, more, more. He had no illusions about what he was agreeing to. She would be doing whatever he did and probably a hell of a lot more, but when they finally had sex with another couple, he knew she’d make it totally hot. Maybe he was being led around by his dick—Cat usually managed to get exactly what she wanted—but he’d do it. And suffer the consequences, if any, later.

Trailing a hand down her abdomen, he delved between her legs, stroking her clit. She was wet and warm. “I’ll be jealous as hell,” he muttered.

Logan was a couple of years younger than Drew, a few rungs higher on the corporate ladder, CEO of a billion dollar company to Drew’s VP of Engineering for a medium-size software maker. With reddish hair, green eyes, and a gym-toned body Cat had mentioned a lot more than once, Logan was a good-looking guy.

Cat pushed him aside. “Oh baby, you make me so wet when you get all he-man.” She masturbated for him. He loved to watch. “But if you get her, he’ll insist on having me.”

“Yeah. He’ll beg to spread your gorgeous thighs.”

She moaned, getting herself worked up again with her fantasy scenario. He knew Cat. It was kinky sex, not the man himself that she needed. She wanted the package deal, a foursome. Drew didn’t have to be jealous, but he knew a little jealousy added to her sexual high.

The real truth? He didn’t know how he’d feel. Fantasizing about other men fucking Cat made him explosive in the heat of the moment. In reality, there might be a whole different set of emotions. He couldn’t be sure which ones he’d succumb to until they actually did it.

He started down her body, kissing her belly, her mound, then crawling between her legs. “Is this what you want him to do, baby?” He put his tongue to her.

“Oh yeah.” She moved sinuously. “I want your cock in my mouth at the same time. I want to come on his tongue while you come down my throat.”

She rose swiftly to climax, her body trembling. Cat loved her fantasies. She cried out, clamping her legs over his ears as she came hard. Drew loved how hot she made herself. He had no doubt that soon, very soon, she was going to make the fantasy into reality.

He just hoped it wouldn’t mean the end of a good friendship with their neighbors.

If you enjoyed this excerpt, here’s where you can buy
Kinky Neighbors
. And don’t miss the sequel,
Kinky Neighbors Two

Erotic Romance by
Jasmine Haynes
:

Somebody’s Lover
, The Jackson Brothers, Book 1

Somebody’s Ex
, The Jackson Brothers, Book 2

Somebody’s Wife
, The Jackson Brothers, Book 3

Invitation to Seduction
, Open Invitation, Book 1

Invitation to Pleasure
, Open Invitation, Book 2

Invitation to Passion
, Open Invitation, Book 3

Twisted by Love
, Reincarnation Tales, Book 1

Revenge Sex
, West Coast, Book 1

Submitting to the Boss
, West Coast Series, Book 2

The Boss’s Daughter
, West Coast Series, Book 3

Double the Pleasure
, Prescott Twins, Book 1

Skin Deep
, Prescott Twins, Book 2

Take Your Pleasure

Take Your Pick

Anthology: Beauty or the Bitch & Free Fall

Past Midnight

What Happens After Dark

The Principal’s Office

Yours for the Night

Hers for the Evening

Mine Until Morning

The Fortune Hunter

Show and Tell

Fair Game

More Than a Night

She’s Gotta Be Mine Excerpt

Jasmine Haynes also writes as Jennifer Skully, funny, sexy, poignant contemporary romances. Here’s an introduction to Jennifer Skully’s Cottonmouth series!

She’s Gotta Be Mine

Cottonmouth Book 1

Copyright 2011 Jennifer Skully

Cover design by Rae Monet Inc

Dumped? For her husband’s high school sweetheart he hasn’t seen in twenty years? Roberta Jones Spivey isn’t going to lay down for that, no way. Instead, she decides to reinvent herself. The new Bobbie Jones—new haircut, new name, new attitude—will follow her soon-to-be ex to the small Northern California town of Cottonmouth. And there she’ll show him—and his sweetheart—what a big mistake he made.

What better way to show him what he’s missing in the brand new Bobbie Jones than taking up with the town’s local bad boy—who’s also reputed to be a serial killer. Nick Angel is devilishly handsome and sexy as all get-out. In a word, perfect.

It’s all going exactly according to plan...until a real murder rocks the little town of Cottonmouth. Of course, Nick didn’t do it...did he?

~Previously published in 2005 as
Sex and the Serial Killer
~

Excerpt

A mixture of red dye and sweat trickled down her forehead, hovered on her eyebrows, poised to drizzle into her eyes. Soon to be blinded by runaway hair products, Roberta Jones Spivey could force nothing more than a mousy squeak from her throat. She was about to go deaf, too, from the hairdryer blasting her eardrums, and still, she couldn’t open her mouth wide enough to shriek. Any moment now, her hair would spontaneously combust. They’d smell the smoke first, then the aroma of singed hair, but by the time any of the umpteen stylists scurrying about The Head Hunter’s main salon came to her rescue, she’d be bald. If not charred to a briquette.

Help me before my demise becomes a fifteen-second slot on a tabloid show
. Now was not the time for a panic attack.

Drip, drip, drip, from her eyebrows to her eyelashes. In a last ditch effort to save herself, she squeezed her eyes shut. Burning tears leaked out to mingle with the caustic fluids. She clamped onto the chair’s arms, a death grip, terrified that if she touched the stuff, she’d end up rubbing her flesh off, too.

Someone. Please. Notice me
.

The bowl of the dryer was suddenly jerked up, cool air from the overhead fans wafting across her scalp.

“Bobbie, honey, why didn’t you tell me the color was running?” Mimi was the only person who’d ever called her Bobbie.

Roberta dragged in a breath of air to explain, then collapsed in a spasm of coughing as the stench of chemicals, dyes, perm solution, and her own terrified sweat swooped down her throat.

Mimi’s shoes clicked-clacked away, then back again. “Here, drink this.”

Water had never tasted so good. All Roberta had wanted was a new look. Okay, so she needed a new life, too. Instead, she’d almost died, and her heart was still pounding like the Pony Express. She handed the empty paper cup back to Mimi, who crumpled it, executed a perfect free throw into the trash can, then tugged at a few squishy locks on Roberta’s head, and pronounced, “You’re cooked.”

Roberta was cooked all right. Roasted, basted, filleted, flambéed. And limp as a wet noodle to boot. Residual quivers made her knees wobble as she tried to stand up.

Mimi put a hand beneath her elbow. “Bobbie, honey, you okay?

“I’m fine.” Well, except that Warren had walked out on her three weeks, six days, and seven hours ago. On April eighteenth. Three days after tax day. Two days after he’d left for his little mission up north. In Cottonmouth, California. He’d dumped her with nothing more than a phone call telling her he wasn’t coming back. Ever.

Roberta blew out a breath. “Yeah, Mimi, I’m just fine.”

“Good, for a minute there under the dryer you looked a little panicky.” Mimi patted her arm and led her to the rinse bowl.

“I didn’t want to bother you while you were busy.” Her, panic? Just because her husband of fifteen years had left her for his long-lost, recently-located-through-the-Internet high school sweetheart? The love of his life. The teenage bimbo who’d broken his heart, then disappeared off the face of the earth—or at least left the San Francisco Bay Area for parts unknown. Cookie. What kind of name was that anyway? It made her think of some hairy blue monster on a morning kids’ show. Warren was bound to see he’d made a mistake.

Okay, so she’d made a mistake, too, by actually helping him search the Net. And mailing the hundreds of letters—because he was nervous about calling all those women looking for the right one. And letting him drive to Cottonmouth all alone that fateful weekend. She’d only wanted to help him solve his problem. Because his problem was her problem.

Mimi pushed her head back into the bowl and began rinsing with warm water. Roberta closed her eyes. The water turned off, the soothing scent of citrus conditioner replaced the stinging dye in her nostrils, and gentle fingers massaged her scalp.

“Bobbie, honey, you’re tense. Is work getting to you?”

“No, it’s fine.” Except for those dreaded whispers of “restatement” trickling out of the audit committee, and her boss Mr. Winkleman’s finger pointing firmly in
her
direction, as Director of Accounting. But she wasn’t worried; she knew every balance, every detail, inside and out. Her numbers were solid.

She gave herself up to the finger pads working her scalp and the little knots at the base of her skull. Her breathing relaxed, the whir of her mind’s gears slowed. Ahh.

“So, where’s your husband taking you for your birthday?”

Roberta’s eyes flew open, and all that lovely mellowness fled through the soles of her low-heeled pumps.

“He’s picked out this new restaurant he heard about on Nob Hill.” The lie just sort of slipped out. Roberta believed in little white lies to keep everyone comfortable. Except that there wasn’t anything comfortable about turning forty. Or about being dumped. What was next? Menopause. Old age. Death. “It’s very exclusive, very dressy, and very San Francisco, he says.”

She wouldn’t have had a thing to wear because she’d lost ten pounds since Warren left. But if Warren was taking her out for her birthday, then she wouldn’t have lost the ten pounds because he wouldn’t have left, and then she would have had something to wear. Her temples throbbed. Everything was so confusing.

“You’ve really got yourself a prince there.”

Yeah, a prince. She just hadn’t realized that princes needed Prozac. Or that a good psychiatrist cost upwards of two hundred dollars an hour—excuse me, fifty minutes—just to say, “Mrs. Spivey, you must realize that antidepressants will have a negative impact on your husband’s sex drive.”

He
had
no sex drive. That’s why he’d gone to a doctor to begin with.

Tears suddenly pricked the corners of her eyes. “Yes, Warren’s a wonderful man.”

At least she’d thought so. But he’d gone off the drugs for the Cookie Monster, for God’s sake. And the woman was
married
. Another dumpee in the making. Maybe Roberta should call Mr. Cookie Monster to commiserate.

Maybe she should sue Warren’s psychiatrist for putting the idea of finding closure with his high school sweetheart into his mind in the first place. Instead, she’d dyed her brown hair red.

“Maybe I need a new haircut, too.”

Easing her to a sitting position, Mimi wrapped a white towel around Roberta’s head and squeezed the water from her hair.