Finding Autumn
Authors: Beth Michele
Finding Autumn
Copyright @ 2014 by Beth Michele
Cover Design by Richard Luciano
Editing by Lea Burn, Indie Express
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Interior Design by Angela McLaurin, Fictional Formats
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owner.
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Table of Contents
Dedication
To Nikki, for encouraging me to spread my wings. This one’s for you.
Prologue
~Olivia~
One Year Ago
I turned the doorknob to the apartment quietly, ensuring I could sneak in without being heard. Excitement and nervousness coursed through my veins. This was big for me. I wasn’t usually that daring so it’s a surprise I knew he would never see coming.
Slowly, I tiptoed across the wood floor of the living room, hesitating when the slats creaked beneath my feet. With extra light footfalls, I cautiously continued down the hall to his bedroom, pausing at the door to take a deep breath. Looking up, I noticed it was cracked open. With a cheshire grin stretched clear across my face, I loosened the belt loops on my trench coat to reveal my very naked body, pushed open the door, and yelled, “Surprise!” only to discover that the surprise was definitely on me—clueless, naïve, me. Sean and Kimberly, the slut from apartment 4B, were wrapped around one another like vines. They jolted apart at the sound of my voice, shock forcing its way out of Sean’s guilty green stare. Kimberly, on the other hand, smiled like the cat that just swallowed the canary.
Apparently,
I
was the canary in this scenario.
Sean pulled the sheet over his very obvious erection. “What are you doing here?” he asked, as if I had no right to be in his home. At that very moment, I felt like I was in some bad B movie. Even my novels were better than this.
“You disgust me,” I bit out, but I knew my eyes betrayed me, tears filling them to the brink. I was completely at risk of giving him the satisfaction of knowing just how much this affected me. Before I did that though, I ripped the engagement ring off my finger and threw it at him, shouting, “You’re an asshole, and it’s over!” I covered myself up quickly, running out of the apartment and stumbling down to my car. Once inside, I banged my head against the steering wheel as the floodgates opened, tears cracking my heart in two.
I felt humiliated, foolish, and gullible, along with a number of other choice words that would fit this situation so perfectly. But there were only two words zooming around in my head.
Never again.
Chapter One
~Olivia~
So, this is my life.
I realize this statement sounds like a complaint, when in reality I have nothing to bitch about. I’m twenty-seven years old and I write best-selling erotic romance novels under the pen name Autumn Winters. I know it may sound cheesy, but I’m attached to the seasons, what can I say? I live on the East Coast, my home a penthouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan with my beagle, Charlie.
I’m not whining. Really, I’m not. I get to live in my own little world, a fantasyland inside my head. It certainly beats the reality of my life. My characters are absolute perfection. The females are always smart and beautiful, well endowed, curvy, relatively carefree. Of course, they aren’t the ones I fall in love with. The ones I fall hard for are tall, dark, and muscular, have kissable lips, the perfect V, and the rest—let’s just say I have a vivid imagination.
Sounds like a good life, right?
It was perfect until twelve months ago… but I’m over that now. I’m done trying to have serious, long-term relationships. What I’d give to be like the heroines in my novels. The ones that get fucked by gorgeous men with huge cocks, their bodies lavished with so much attention that it sends them to another world. Who needs flowers and candy? Not me. Not anymore. What I want is a nice, thick cock to fill me to the brink of ecstasy.
Therein lies the great irony of my life. I write hot, sexy, romance novels, yet my existence is anything but. I’m not carefree like the women who grace the pages of my books. But then again, that’s probably why I write them. I can live out my deepest, darkest fantasies.
That’s what happens when you grow up in Wisconsin with two strict parents and attend catholic schools for far too many years. You become repressed, and then you rebel against your repression by writing steamy romance novels.
Or at least
I
did.
The family picture on the dresser comes into focus: my parents and two younger sisters. My stomach twists. I miss them terribly, but I had to get away. I couldn’t handle all the rules, the expectations that I could never live up to no matter how hard I tried. And believe me, I tried.
I giggle, thinking about how my parents would respond if they knew my secret, but it’s a sound tainted with bitterness. They actually believe I’m a vice president for a cosmetics company. It’s laughable, really. But considering my mother’s reaction when she found the Judy Blume books I’d been hiding under my mattress as a teenager—she grounded me for an entire month—this definitely wouldn’t go over well. They might even disown me.
I sigh before stepping in front of the ornate, wooden, full-length mirror in my dressing room. There she is. Olivia Stadler. The image staring back at me is plain, nothing out of the ordinary. My brunette hair is piled atop my head in a tight bun, my waist and legs swathed in a long, blue skirt. A white blouse, buttoned way too high, I might add, adorns me, and not in a very flattering way. Thick, black, wire-framed glasses hide my deep, blue eyes. Jesus. I look like someone’s secretary, and not even a hot one at that.
Letting out a frustrated groan, I shove my skirt down my legs and throw it across the room. Charlie cocks his head to the side, trying to figure out what my problem is. “Well, Charlie, I need to get laid. For an entire weekend. Can you make that happen?” I huff, my hands propped on my hips. He stalks off into the living room. He’s fed up with me, too.
With a nimble finger, I roll over every hanger in my oversized closet, finally settling on a black, knee-length, pencil skirt. I leave the blouse on, but unbutton it just enough to show a bit of cleavage. After all, I’m a C cup, might as well exploit what I’ve got. The black sling-backs are calling my name, so I slide them on before turning around and taking another look in the mirror.
Definitely better.
Now for the hair. The bun isn’t working. I look like someone’s grandmother. Reaching up, I unclip it and let my dark waves fall over my shoulders, hanging down to my breasts.
Something’s still missing.
I’m not one for wearing a lot of makeup. I much prefer the natural look but maybe I need to switch it up a bit. Strolling into the bathroom, I pull my makeup bag from the top drawer and dig through it. It’s fairly sparse but I manage to pull out some lip-gloss, rose blush, and eyeliner.
After a few minutes of perfecting my pout, dusting a pink glow on my cheeks, and making my blue eyes pop, I’m ready. I put my glasses back on, simply because it helps me sink deeper into the role I play. Taking one last glance in the mirror, I actually manage a smile. I don’t want to get too carried away, but this is a sexy look for me. I suppose there’s only one way to test that theory.
I check my suitcase one more time ensuring everything is packed for the quick trip to Boston, then shake my head and sigh. Another writers’ seminar—translation: one boring day of listening to people drone on about technique. I write erotic novels, there is only one technique that I really need to understand intimately. From the plethora of people buying my books, I’d say I have that in the bag. Okay, in my head I do.
With one last look around the penthouse to make sure I’m not forgetting anything, I walk over to Charlie and give him a kiss, then a pat on the head. My friend Vanessa is staying here for the weekend, so he’ll be in good hands. “Later, Charlie. Be good. Wish me luck. Pray for cocks to rain down on me.” I wink at him as I make my way out the door into the night.
Chapter Two
~Olivia~
The station is swarming with people when I arrive. I’m taking the high-speed Acela so I can get to Boston faster and travel in style. I squint up at the board indicating the train’s arrival in ten minutes on track 48. I have just enough time to grab a mocha latte at Starbucks.
As I catch a glimpse of the ridiculously long line, I almost decide to can the idea and just head straight for the platform. The problem is, I’m a bit of a caffeine junkie and no matter the time of day, I need my fix.
I drag my suitcase behind me, making my way to the back of the line. I’m browsing the different pastry choices from a distance when someone knocks into me. My purse falls to the ground, every single item of any importance spilling out for the entire world to see.
“Shit,” I mumble to myself when I spy the pink vibrator, glaring proof of my non-existent sex life now on public display. “God damn it,” I utter again, shaking my head and scrambling to grab it, when I notice a pair of beautiful, masculine hands scooping up my belongings. Completely mortified, my cheeks flush a deep red, and I’m silently praying he hasn’t spotted my favorite sex toy.
My eyes make their way from the ground, climbing past the hands and up the length of strong, muscular arms to an absolutely gorgeous face, and I take a hard swallow. A chiseled jaw with a hint of stubble, irises the color of aged brandy, a sharp, sculptured nose, and perfectly tousled hair that matches his hypnotic eyes. I don’t realize that I’m staring until his lips quirk up into a grin.
Could I be any more obvious?
He tosses the items back in my purse and nods toward the vibrator. “I’ll let you handle that one,” he offers, his voice a rich timbre to my ears. “Although,” he whispers, leaning in close, “I’m sure I could put it to good use.”
