The Stars in the Sky (Giving You ... #2) (30 page)

"No," she said, "I'm going to help you with Patty."

And fuck me, she leaned over and gave Patty a scorching hot, wet kiss with lots of tongue.

Shit.

I bent down between Patty's legs and smelled her sweet womanly smell. God, I love the smell of pussy. It smells like sex, like I'm gonna get some. The best thing in the world.

Licking her up one side of her thigh and then the other, I paused to see what Luz was doing. She sucked on Patty's tits like there was nothing else to do, fondling one, kissing the other. Patty let out a moan of pleasure as I tongued her clit, then I put one finger in her hole, then two, and rubbed inside her, while I licked and sucked on her clit.

I could feel her get wetter, I could feel her tense up, I kept going, finger fucking her, eating her, until she came on my face, fuck yeah, shuddering all over me.

When she came back down, I leaned back, hard-on hurting, and looked at Luz, who smiled at me.

"Your turn, darlin'," I said to Luz.

"I think you can take both of us on at once, handsome," she replied.

What a crazy night. But I was up for the challenge. I got up, went to my wallet, and pulled out a condom. Then I got on my back on the bed, and bunched a couple of pillows under my head.

"Luz, you pick, where do you want to be. My cock or my face."

She smiled wickedly. "Face."

"Then, Patty, c'mon, darlin." She climbed over, and lowered herself on my cock, fuck yeah, that felt good, and Luz straddled my head, holding herself above me, facing Patty. "Let me see you kiss again," I moaned, and the girls leaned over and met mouth to mouth, tonguing each other.

Fuck, this was the most erotic thing I had ever seen, experienced, felt, thought of.

Patty started riding me, going up and down my cock, slowly, and Luz lowered herself on my face. Her bare pussy was so magnificent. I reached a finger up her pussy, and a finger up her ass, and held her to my mouth, licking and sucking her, as she kissed Patty, feeling up Patty's breasts.

I’d no idea how we were all gonna come at once but I was enjoying the ride.

I could feel Luz building up, so I kept going, licking, sucking, into it, and she came in a burst of juice on my face. Loved it.

One down. She moved, and rolled over to the side, and started fingering herself next to me. God, I loved that too.

"Patty, darlin'," I managed, "you gonna come?"

"Maybe," she said.

"Let's do this," I said. "Luz, I'm gonna take you from behind. You wanna eat her?"

Her eyes lit up.

Patty spread her legs on the bed, and Luz immediately lowered her face to Patty's pussy. I almost shot my load from that. I got a new condom, put it on, and positioned myself behind Luz, entering her, mounting her.

Now this was even better. I watched Luz's back, her head giving Patty everything she had. Patty writhed and struggled on the bed, ready to let out another orgasm. And I fucked Luz hard from behind, spanking her sweet ass.

Then, when I was about to come, I fingered her clit, and she shuddered around my cock, making me come, hard and long, yeah, in warm spurts. Luz kept going on Patty's pussy, I don't know how, but Patty came again, and we all collapsed onto each other.

Most incredible Friday night ever.

I kissed the back of Luz's neck, pulled out of her, then leaned over and kissed Patty. Then I went to the bathroom and threw away the condom.

Standing there in the doorway of the bathroom, the two girls snuggling into each other, I thought, hot damn, I'm a lucky man.

About the Author

Leslie McAdam is a California girl who loves romance, Little Dude, and well-defined abs. She lives in a drafty, old farmhouse on a small orange tree farm in Southern California with her husband and two small children. Leslie always encourages her kids to be themselves—even if it means letting her daughter wear leopard print from head to toe. An avid reader from a young age, she will always trade watching TV for reading a book, unless it's Top Gear. Or football. Leslie is employed by day but spends her nights writing about the men you fantasize about. She's unapologetically sarcastic and notoriously terrible at comma placement.

Always up for a laugh, Leslie tries to see humor in all things. When she's not in the writing cave you'll find her fangirling over Beck, camping with her family, or mixing up oil paints to depict her love of outdoors on canvas.

Find her on Facebook at
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Excerpt from All the Waters of the Earth

Jake Slausen, hottie workaholic lawyer, is married to his job. Lucy Figueroa, a five foot nothing, sassy romance novelist, thinks she met her fictional hunk come to life when he moves in next door to her. But since he’s never lived, he doesn’t know how to be a romance hero.

She’ll help him figure it out.

***

CHAPTER ONE

Romance Writer's Problems

M
Y FINGERS HOVERED OVER
the keyboard of my computer. I kept typing.

. . . and he shifted, pressing his full male heat into her petals.

Delete.

. . . and he gently slid his member into her secret center.

No. Delete.

. . . and he impaled her on his straining shaft.

Ugh. Delete.

I rapped my fingers on the side of my desk.

What's on Facebook?

No. No distractions. Keep writing.

Or . . . take a break.

I got my ample booty out of my chair and walked into the kitchen of my duplex to pour a glass of water. Today's writing was not going very well. Romance novel number sixteen, I feared, was falling into the pitfalls of
cliché
and drivel. I needed something new. My hero was not making me wet. At all. I tired of typing and deleting, typing and deleting, not getting anywhere.

The thing was, I loved being a romance novelist. I loved everything about it: inventing cute ways to make the characters meet, describing the hot men and women, making up a secret, tragic past, and the sex. Oh, the sex. I loved all of it.

My fictional guys tended to have a few things in common. They were all tall. They had chiseled good looks: high cheekbones, strong jaws, full heads of hair, and gorgeous bodies. They were uniformly Alpha males, the type who would fuck you hard against a wall and make you moan in pleasure. The type to order you around and then show you their soft underbelly. Ooh, baby, make me shiver. I liked them to be men, you know, not wishy-washy, but I liked them to have a soul, too.

For some reason, though, I was having trouble with this book. I always started with the sex, but if I couldn't get that right, then I knew the rest of it wouldn't work either.

I needed inspiration.

Given my profession, I had this habit of always looking for the real life versions of my heroes. I couldn't stop doing it. That sexy-ass DILF in line at Target, with broad shoulders and a beard, balancing a tiny baby girl on his impressive bicep? He looked like Zack from my fourth book. That tattooed masterpiece at Home Depot, all jeans and legs and boots and body? If you grew his dark hair a little shaggier, he kind of looked like Clint in book twelve. And that artsy hottie standing by the bar with the Smith and Wesson belt and what had to be a giant cock? I was going to have to write a book about him next. He was first on my list of heroes after this one.

The thing was, I’d banged out fifteen romance novels in seven years and I wasn't stopping anytime soon. Normally, it was pretty easy for me to do; just not this day, for some reason. I’d done this long enough that I knew the secret to finishing a novel: keep at it. And I kept at it, almost every day, all day. I was not one of those OCD people who has to write every day at the same time and have the same music on and wear the same clothes.

Well, most of the time I wore yoga pants and a cami but they were clean and rotated.

But still, I wasn't really a girl for routine. No manky old college sweatshirt for me to write in, sitting slovenly around the house. A girl had to show some pride. You would never find me without full makeup on every day and a Brazilian blowout for my naturally frizzy hair. I had to look good to take my kid to school.

I was no writer recluse either. I got out of the house, often, going for drinks. Life was too short not to play. I liked to go out with my friends and made sure to get babysitters even though I had a kid when I was seventeen. But I also liked to write, and I did it almost daily. And I was glad to make a living at it, although I had to supplement my income in other ways: I got child support from my ex, Carlos. And, whether you believe it or not, I also posed as a nude model at an art school.

No judgies.

My body was womanly and I flaunted it.

The nude model gig brought in a little bit of dough to spend on high heels and video games for Rob.

There was no way that I could be a regular five foot ten, one hundred twenty-five pound model. No way. I was what you would call fun-sized. Five foot nothin', baby. I never really took off my high heels, except in art class. Short girl problems.

And you know those magazine articles about how to dress for your type and they are all, like, are you an apple or a carrot or something? Me? Pear shaped. And how.

I defined the term "junk in the trunk." My booty entered the room thirty seconds after I did. My waist? Nothing there. It was tiny. My boobs? Small, but perky. My legs? Short and strong. When I bought pants, they never fit because they were too big in the waist and too long in the legs.

But you know what? That was the problem of the clothing manufacturers, not me.

Though my body was not made for high fashion modeling, it was ideal for modeling for art classes, where they celebrated shapes and curves. I had decided a long time ago not to waste precious brain space wishing I had a different body. This was the one I was born with and I accepted my looks. This was how tall I was, and I was not getting any taller. This was how long my legs were, and they weren't getting any longer. And my booty? Yeah, I showed it off sometimes in a tight mini skirt and heels when I went out dancing.

As I drank my water, I looked around my nice Santa Barbara duplex. A royalty check for my fourth novel made for the down payment. Royalty checks on the fifth and sixth helped to pay the mortgage. The rest of the books paid for food for me and my twelve year old son, Rob, as well as clothes, taxes, insurance, and all of the other grown up things in this life.

I must say, though, I was really not a fan of the grown up things in life. I'd rather be a romantic. Who had any use for the real world? That was why we have books.

My home felt cozy and lived-in. Rob had his Xbox and games out, but other than that, we kept it neat. There was a small kitchen, a large great room that was both a dining room and a living room, three bedrooms, one of which I used as an office, and two bathrooms, all in a square. I would call the style early Target, with a dash of Restoration Hardware, meets Dia de los Muertos.

The duplex was part of a larger complex that had a homeowner's association and we had a pool and a tennis court and everything. My unit shared a wall and a laundry room with the unit next door, which was a rental. Someone had moved in over the weekend but I hadn't seen them yet. We had adjoining patios that looked out over the pool. I loved to swim and used the pool often. We were lucky in California that the time of year did not hamper the ability to go swimming and I could go now even though it was nearing Thanksgiving.

Maybe I just needed to get out of the house for a while and take a break. Rob wouldn't be back from school for a while. Sometimes doing things like laundry or driving or swimming or walking helped with the writing.

Downing the last of my water, I went into the bedroom and put on a pink string bikini. I was a girlie girl. I did not do utilitarian. Since I was so close to the pool, I rarely took much down there: just a towel and my oversized sunglasses.

Grabbing my keys, I slipped on my high heeled sandals, threw open the door, and there was a man standing there, with his hand raised to knock on my door.

A very handsome man.

The most handsome man that I had ever seen.

Thick, ebony hair. Sapphire blue eyes. His face had the curves and the edges of a romance hero, with high cheek bones, the hollows in his cheeks, and a shapely jaw.

He was dressed in Mr. Business Man attire: a crisp white shirt, perfect, thick, and lush; a gray and blue silk tie that matched his eyes, not too shiny, not too matte; and a dark gray suit that enhanced his frame. He was tall, but of course everyone was tall next to me. That said, he was probably a foot taller than me, or more, with muscular legs, a flat waist, and broad shoulders.

For a second, I couldn't believe it. There was no fucking way this man was on my front porch. He was the kind of man I wrote about in my books. But those men did not really exist. Those men were just figments of my imagination. Real men have bellies and are too short or too lanky and wear cargo shorts and Star Wars t-shirts and need to manscape. They don't show up at your door looking like Gideon Cross.

He looked at me, equally startled, and then his eyes went up and down my body, taking in my tiny pink bikini and high-heeled sandals. Then he seemed to recover and took a step back and started talking.

"Hi, I'm Jake Slausen. I moved in next door. I'm staying here for a while because I'm remodeling my place. So, I guess I'm your neighbor. Nice to meet you." He had a deep, melodious voice, which was very attractive. But boy, he was a chatterbox. He held out his hand.

"Lucy Figueroa," I said, shaking his hand. His hand was warm, firm, and strong.

I wondered what it would feel like between my legs.

Probably pretty damn fine.

I continued, "I was just heading for the pool. Have you been down there yet?"