Submitting to the Boss (17 page)

“I’m dying to see how you’re going to bring
up the subject of sex,” he mused.

Cat puffed a breath across his chest. “We’ve
talked about sex before.”

“Sexual innuendo and jokes. It’s not the
same as asking her if she’d like me to...”

“Make her come with your tongue.” Trust Cat
to finish the thought. “Don’t you worry. I’ll find the perfect
opening to get the ball rolling.”

“I’m sure you will.” His wife was out there,
known for saying exactly what was on her mind. “What about
Logan?”

She outright snorted. “He’s not going to be
any problem at all.”

Drew had to agree. He didn’t believe Logan
was a player, but the man had certainly gotten into the sexual
innuendo thing with vigor. When Cat suggested strip poker instead
of their regular game of Hearts on one of their card nights, Logan
had jumped at the idea. It was Alexis who nixed it. She was a
petite, pretty, blue-eyed blonde with sexy curves and
mouth-watering breasts, but she was on the shy side, far more
reserved than Cat. Drew liked her well enough. She was smart,
funny, your basic all-around nice girl next door with the ability
to really listen to what a man said, not just lip service. So to
speak.

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

More erotic romance by Jasmine Haynes:

Anthology:
Beauty or the Bitch & Free Fall

Take Your Pleasure

Take Your Pick

Past Midnight

What Happens After Dark

The Principal’s Office

Try a sample of Jasmine Haynes’s
Max Starr
Series
, an erotic paranormal mystery romance.

Thirty-something, down-on-her-luck accountant
Max Starr has the unfortunate gift of being psychic, a
newly-discovered wrinkle in her already messed-up life. Her
husband, Cameron, is dead, killed in a botched 7-11 robbery two
years ago. She’s cut herself off from friends, moved out of her San
Francisco home in favor of a studio apartment, and dumped her
flourishing career as a CPA to do temp work.

And now Max has developed an annoying
penchant for attracting the spirits of murdered women. Okay, they
possess her. And to exorcize them, Max must unmask their killers.
But how?! By stepping into the void their deaths created, taking
their jobs, befriending the loved ones they left behind. Max goes
wherever she has to go and does whatever she has to do, with a lot
of help from the ghost of her late husband Cameron and hunky and
very enticing Detective Witt Long.

Excerpt from
Dead to the
Max
, Book 1

Copyright 2010 Jasmine Haynes

Cover design by
Rosemary
Gunn

Prologue

She’d dressed in a long, black skirt and
white blouse, flawlessly pressed. She was perfect. The perfect
daughter, perfect wife, and perfect employee.

Tonight she longed to be the perfect lover.
They’d stolen quick, furtive moments together, but this was the
first time she would have all night with her lover. Her body
hummed, with anticipation, with guilt, with fear.

She’d parked her silver Maxima in the
farthest corner of the San Francisco International Airport
long-term lot, then caught the shuttle bus to the terminal
building. She’d done everything he asked. Except wait outside the
terminal. She wasn’t supposed to pace in front of the arrivals
monitor, trying to decide if she liked the anxiety, the
foreboding.

She slipped her wedding band and sapphire
engagement ring into the inside pocket of her leather purse. His
plane was five minutes late. Checking the arrival time for his
flight one last time, she crumpled the bit of green paper with the
flight information he’d given her, threw it on top of an already
full trash can, then walked to the lounge area to take a seat.

His gaze swept her as he stepped off the
escalator outside security, and her heart sank to the toes of her
sensible pumps. The glare he shot made her tremble. Was he pissed?
Had she ruined everything?

Two confused, blank-eyed children clung to
his big hands.

His estranged wife met them, ready to take
his kids from him.

He neither kissed nor touched the pretty,
plump blonde. Her sole purpose was to pick up the children after
they’d returned from a visit with his parents.

His hands now empty and his bag slung over
his shoulder, he walked several steps behind them. His wife
chattered at the children and ignored him. Clusters of travelers
engulfed them until they disappeared in the throng surrounding the
baggage carousel.

She lingered in the waiting area another ten
minutes, then rose, dragging her leather purse up her arm to her
shoulder, and headed for the front doors, a lump in her throat.
Once outside, she stood at the curb for the next long-term bus. He
was at the other end of the island, the way they’d arranged. His
wife had unknowingly played into the scheme, telling him she’d pick
up the kids but
he’d
have to take a taxi.

She wondered why he and his wife still played
this silly game.

The night had cooled. Her silk blouse was
thin, but the heat from rumbling buses swept beneath her skirt and
set her on fire. She could feel the hot lick of his gaze as if
twenty feet didn’t separate them, his anger and desire a potent
combination.

Need, hunger, dread, and excitement formed a
squirming package in her stomach. Butterflies. Spontaneous
combustion.

He sat in the back of the bus, she in the
front. They neither spoke nor looked at each other. The ride to
long-term was the longest ten minutes she’d ever known. Finally
they turned down her aisle. She couldn’t believe she was doing
this, couldn’t imagine stopping it now. Wouldn’t stop it even if
her life depended on it.

She exited from the front of the shuttle, he
from the rear, the overnight bag now in his hand. Pulling out her
keys, she pressed the remote alarm.

The bus pulled away. Her heart hammered.

His bag was on the ground beside them and his
hands were up her skirt before she had the car door open.

He dragged her into the back seat. She spread
her legs over him, straddling his thighs. The roof of the car
scuffed her hair. Tugging on his zipper, she took him in her hand.
He sucked in a breath; in the past, he’d always initiated. There
wasn’t time to fish the condoms out of her purse. When she slid
down onto him, he groaned, but he didn’t take his eyes off her
face.

She’d never been so wet, so vocal, or come so
willingly in her life.

Three power-thrusts later, he came.

She screamed.

* * * * *

She screamed out her orgasm. Tears gummed
her lashes and rolled down her cheeks. Hands circled her throat.
From the floor of the car, the rumpled bit of green notepaper, the
one she’d thrown away, taunted her, and the empty condom wrapper
shouted her shame. How had it come to this?

In that moment, before fear gripped her,
before instinct took over, when her guilt was strongest, she
welcomed Death. Welcomed it as the life was choked from her,
welcomed it until her eyeballs ached and colors exploded behind her
lids. Until blood from her bitten tongue leaked down her raw,
bruised throat. And then her body fought for survival.

She tore at the fingers, shrieked, twisted,
kicked, scratched, and punched. And still she couldn’t drag in a
breath. Terror fisted around her heart and squeezed. Fear of death.
Fear of life. Fear like she’d never known. Not even the night
someone put a bullet in Cameron’s head.

Max Starr woke clawing at her throat,
Cameron’s name breaking the thrall of the dream. Blood drummed in
her ears. Her heart pounded against the wall of her chest.

But she could breathe. Oh God, she could
breathe, sweet, clean air smelling of early morning, green leaves,
and hope. She was here, in her bedroom, where she belonged.
Safe.

“Are you all right?” Cameron’s voice, not
spoken but inside her head, comforting, familiar, the way a dead
husband’s voice should be, the only way a crazy, grieving widow
should hear her husband’s ghost. But she’d have given anything to
feel his arms around her right now. For real, not just in the
erotic dreams he brought her.

Sometimes fantasies weren’t enough.

Like now, when her throat still ached. She
lightly caressed the flesh, her fingers cool, her skin tender with
residual effects of the nightmare.

“It was a dream,” she murmured for both their
benefits. Maybe her worst nightmare--except for that night two
years ago when Cameron was killed--but still just a dream. After a
deep inhale, then a long sigh, the tension dribbled out her
fingertips and the soles of her feet.

Physical, reality-based sensation
returned--sheets tangled around her legs, her back stuck to the
cotton. She pushed the bedclothes aside to let cool air from the
open window blow across her naked body. In the elm outside her
window, the stray black cat gave a pathetic mewl. She shouldn’t
have fed it yesterday, but knew she’d do the same thing today. Her
racing heart eased into a steady, normal beat.

“That was a vision, Max, not a dream.”
Cameron’s voice again, always with her, inside her.

It had been his name that woke her. It wasn’t
part of the dream, vision, whatever it was; his name was something
she’d interjected into a reality that didn’t belong to her. Even
now she sensed remnants of another’s strong emotions inextricably
linked with her own.

In the dark corner across the room, dear
departed Cameron’s eyes flashed. Despite the two years since his
death, those glittering points of light, all she ever really saw of
him, still gave her a little jolt, part excitement, part fright.
The red tip of his spectral cigarette glowed. He’d loved them when
he was alive. They’d been the death of him in the end, not by
cancer, but by gunshot at the corner 7-Eleven where he’d gone to
buy his last pack.