Hard Ridin' (26 page)

Gabe pulled her closer until her pelvis fit snugly against his thighs. He pressed a knee between her legs, the coarse fabric of his denim jeans causing a friction against her thong-covered sex.

Not to be left out, Sean slid his hand up Isabella’s rib cage, boldly capturing one of her breasts, his thumb digging beneath the sequined fabric to find and tweak the pointed nipple.

Isabella reached to either side, the backs of her hands sliding over Sean and Tanner’s crisply starched cotton shirts, downward to their thick leather belts. She sighed, barely remembering to draw in the next breath.

Gabe’s mouth released hers and he leaned back, staring down into her eyes. “Are we overwhelming you?”

Hands stilled on her breast and bottom. “No!” she gasped. Then she slid her hands into the waistbands of Sean’s and Tanner’s jeans. “I’ll let you know if it’s too much.” Her leg slid up the outside of Gabe’s, her sex rubbing over the top of his thigh. If anything, the thong was too much.

Tanner gripped the string binding one side of the thong and tugged the bow loose. “Sweet mercy.”

Gabe untied the other, dragging the tiny scrap of flashy sequins out from under the black chaps.

Sean worked the bow at her neck.

The straps slithered across her collarbone, letting the bra fall forward, her breasts spilling out. He quickly loosened the strap at her back and tossed the garment to the ground. Now all she had on were her chaps and boots.

Feeling decidedly wicked and greedy for having three men where most women settled for one, Isabella pressed her breasts into Gabe’s chest, then backed away, tugging at the metal snaps on his shirt. “I don’t plan on being the only one naked in this scenario.”

“We can fix that.” Sean ripped his shirt open, the silver snaps popping open with the force. He tossed the shirt across the stage.

Tanner followed suit, taking it a step further by unbuckling his belt and ripping it free of the loops.

Isabella quivered, her senses on fire. She pushed Gabe’s shirt over his shoulders.

He shrugged free of it, the muscles in his chest rippling with every movement.

Isabella reached for his belt buckle, slipping the belt off. The music played on and she danced away from the men, dangling the belt from her hand, letting it slide over her shoulders and down between her breasts.

Sean reached for her. “You’re killing us.”

She slipped away. “I never finished my lap dance.”

All three men sat as one, flies open, chests bare and ready for anything she might do.

Love can be a lifeline.

Healing Touch

© 2012 Jayne Rylon

Play Doctor, Book 2

As thrilled as Luke Malone is for his best friends, Kurt and Becca, enough is enough. The couple welcomed him into their lives, and their bed. But lately, he’s feeling less like a participant in their happiness…and more like an intruder.

Yet when a beautiful woman comes to his sexual psychology practice, Luke is forced to turn her away. It’s not that he doesn’t want to help her, it’s that he
wants
her. Too much to stay impartial.
 

Brielle Norris would rather have a root canal than see a shrink. But she’s had enough of letting the scars from an abusive relationship rule her life. Knees knocking, she steps into the psychologist’s office—and runs right into a tall, handsome man whose gilded perfection makes her own quirky faults even more painfully obvious.

She never expected he’d hand her off to one of his colleagues—then take a personal support role in the unconventional treatment she needs to heal.

In tandem with Kurt and Becca, Luke strives to teach Brielle that not all relationships end in disaster. At least this one won’t—if he can keep her safe when her past rears its ugly head.

Warning: Contains scenes of outside-the-box therapy involving a ménage a quatre. Closed course, professional drivers; do not attempt without…ahem…expert supervision.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Healing Touch:
 

Luke grumbled as he tried to read his scribbles off the crumpled list in his hand. He paused to decipher his doctor’s writing. It really had gotten illegible lately.

“Excuse me.” A soft voice distracted him from his squint.

He glanced up in time to see a woman hesitate as she approached from the opposite direction, a half-full basket dangling from her arm. Sure, he hadn’t left a big gap, but the pretty, slender lady could have easily slid by.

“Sorry,” he apologized, parking his grocery cart at the very edge of the aisle.

“You’re fine,” she murmured with a shy smile.

He stared as she took a deep breath then darted through the opening. Her long hair swished against the curve of her waist, which he’d bet he could nearly wrap his hands around.

Too bad she wasn’t on his menu for this evening.

Now you’re going to cooperate?
He rolled his eyes at his hardening cock, which had an instant appetite for the demure brunette who disappeared around the corner. He resisted the urge to follow her.

Barely.

Nothing much piqued his interest these days.

Maybe deciding to try his hand at cooking would be another flop. He’d test-driven enough hobbies intended to shake him out of his funk—golf, woodworking, voyeurism and landscaping—to recognize another lemon looming on the horizon.

After all, what he really craved had nothing to do with the dozen or so items his housekeeper had dictated he purchase for his culinary experimentation. If only there was a store he could patronize to browse for a life partner…

Lately his house echoed, reminding him of his loneliness as he paced during sleepless nights. He’d thought those would vanish once he’d reached some of his goals. But now that he’d hit both career and financial milestones, the nest egg he’d amassed rotted in his bank account with no hope of being used for something worthwhile like a vacation house for two or retirement plans or a fancy wedding or a kid’s college education fund. Without someone to share his successes with, they seemed sort of…pointless.

Shaking himself from the gloomy thoughts, he focused on the scrap he’d torn from his notepad. What could he possibly need for his stir-fry that would start with a
z
?

Zucchini!

He nabbed a decent bottle of St-Emilion Bordeaux from the wine section on his way to the produce display at the front of the store. Didn’t it figure? A heart-shaped ass was presented to him as the woman he’d inadvertently trapped bent over to rummage through a crate of onions on the cracked linoleum.

If he hadn’t loved this place on entering, he did now.

Luke couldn’t say he’d ever shopped here before. The emphasis was certainly more on the product than the displays, something he found refreshing after the overly bright fluorescents of his usual megamart.

He might have to start frequenting the place, which touted
the
freshest vegetables at lowest prices
. After passing it a million times before—since it was on the street between Kurt’s office and his house—he’d decided to alter his routine, hoping to change his broader course. Something had to give. Soon.

The damned adorable clientele here had lifted his spirits already. He didn’t claim to be a perfect man. Or even a decent one. No, he slowed down to relish the view as long as possible as he approached.

As if she sensed his gaze, she made her selection then peeked over her shoulder. Maybe she always checked her back.

Something about the momentary flicker of fear in her wide, brown eyes tugged at him. He considered saying hello, starting a conversation, yet he guessed she’d bolt the instant a stranger approached. Especially a man who looked as hungry as he must.

Who’d hurt her?
he wondered.

She nibbled on her glossy lower lip—a natural, pale pink.

Luke offered her a gentle smile. She ducked her head and zigzagged around a low-hanging, cheesy cardboard archway that had seen better days. The path took her the long way to the lettuce. He shook his head and resisted the urge to give chase.

At least four different types of zucchinis were nestled at the very end of the row of pallets. The store had clearly run out of space and stuck them in the narrow lane. The awkward configuration left him surrounded by vegetables on three sides while he dug through the offering as if he could tell by osmosis which he should add to his selections. It was such tight quarters he’d had to abandon his cart at the opening, winding through the admittedly colorful and fragrant vegetables to reach the bins.

“How the hell do you tell which one to pick?” he muttered to himself.

Or so he thought.

“The freshest ones still have a moist end on the stem. The skin should be a little prickly but shiny.” The woman he’d refused to stalk, despite the directive from his crotch, offered assistance in a melodious voice that made him think of candlelight and fancy silverware, instead of the basic white plates he’d eat off tonight.

She didn’t enter the narrow section, waiting on the wide swath of linoleum outside its boundaries while he floundered. Probably she just wanted him to get the hell out of her way again.

“Ah, thanks.” He smiled at her, using her criteria to select what he thought was a prime specimen. “What about this one?”

She shook her head. “Almost, but no. It’s too big. The ones that are about six inches long or less have better flavor. Don’t take one that’s too fat either.”

Luke almost swallowed his tongue. At least choking kept his crass remarks from rushing out before his better sense could filter them.

How old are you? Ten?

“Better?” He exchanged the vegetable for one that conformed to all of her rules.

This time she beamed at him, and the expression transformed her from appealing to exquisite. “Perfect. Would you mind handing me one too?”

He focused on discovering the ideal zucchini for her, shifting several layers until an exemplary summer squash appeared. Something about her encouraged him to apply himself for the first time in a while.

Who would have thought?

“Here. This one.” He held the best out to her. Not a single mark marred its skin, flawless like hers.

She blanched and froze.

“What? It’s not good?” He tipped his head.

“It’s great. Sorry, I just—can’t go in there.” She waved her hand between the enormous boxes of produce.

“Ah, no worries.” He didn’t pry. He’d never met someone who was lachanophobic but he knew rare and unusual things existed in this messed-up world. Maybe she was afraid of one of the other vegetables or the creepy crawly things that could easily be hiding in the cracks after stowing away on the organic haul. More likely, of being too close to a man, especially one as tall as he was. He tried to slouch, making himself as unimposing as possible.

“Here you go.” He slipped the zucchini into a plastic bag and handed it to her at arm’s length.

“Thank you.” She shot him a sad smile laced with something that looked like regret then bolted while he wrapped up his find the same way.

Hard Ridin’

Em Petrova

One man by day, the other by night. With cowboys this hot, who needs sleep?

Eight months after her lover, Holden, went off to join the Alaskan fishing fleet, Laurel gave up on him and soothed her broken heart by focusing on her dream of owning a small organic farm. Now her crop is growing—and so are her feelings for Jens, the hunky rancher who owns the land she’s tending.

Behind her affection for Jens, though she hides a secret: she still aches for Holden. If Jens knew she once loved his best friend, she fears he’ll walk out on her, too.

When Holden returns to find his girl in Jens’s arms, he’s nearly crippled with jealous rage. And with fear that she’ll run away from them both unless they figure out a solution—fast.
 
It’s Jens who comes up with the crazy-hot idea to share her.
 

As their three-way dance of seduction heats up, the sexual and emotional barriers fall like dominos. But now it’s Jens who’s holding onto a secret. One that could not only destroy their tenuous bond, but leave them all without a home.

Warning:
 
Contains two sexy cowboys who want the same woman; and, in winning her heart, they discover a steaming-hot attraction for each other.

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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.