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Too Hot to Print Harlequin downloadable e-novella |
The coordinator of an erotic book club goes from being a wallflower to a wild woman when an unlikely suitor turns out to be the man who brings buried fantasies to the surface! (sequel to Seduction by the Book) |
Excerpt
“Any big plans tonight?”
Gabrielle Pope did her best to conjure up a smile for Lewis, her coworker at the downtown branch of the Atlanta Public Library, as they exited for the commute home. “Not really…a quiet evening with Mellors.”
Lewis gave her a wry smile. “You spoil that cat rotten.”
“He spoils me back. Do you have plans?”
“John and I are going to an exhibit at the High Museum,” Lewis said of his partner. “You’re welcome to join us.”
Her chest squeezed with fondness--the couple was concerned she spent too much time alone and often asked her to be a third wheel. “Thanks for the invitation, but I want to finish the book I’m reading.”
Lewis wagged his eyebrows. “Is it one of the books for your red hot book club?”
“It’s the Red Tote Book Club,” she chided and glanced around to make sure no other employees were within earshot.
“Your secret is safe with me,” he whispered. “No one else knows you hold a naughty book club meeting in the library.”
“The books we discuss are classic erotic literature,” she said crisply.
He lifted his hands. “No need to get defensive--I think it’s great. I’m happy for you.”
Gabrielle bit her lip at the unspoken words hanging in the air. Because you don’t have anything else in your life.
Lewis reached over and squeezed her arm. “If you change your mind about the museum, give me a call.”
She nodded. “I will. Be safe driving home.”
“You be safe on the train.”
Lewis waved and moved in the direction of a nearby parking garage. Gabrielle turned and walked up the sidewalk toward the Peachtree Center Marta station, acknowledging the pull of melancholy on her limbs. The day after the regular meeting of the Red Tote Book Club always left her a little blue because it would be an entire month before the group would convene again.
There was a whiff of truth to Lewis’s inference about the role the book club played in her social life. She hadn’t realized how dependent she’d become on the camaraderie of the five women who gathered in a forgotten room of the library to drink smuggled-in wine and eat chocolate as they talked about the changing of sexual mores and gender roles over the centuries as portrayed in classic erotic volumes.
The women--Cassie, Page, Wendy, Jacqueline, and Carol--had proved to be the ideal book club group. They were all single in their early- to mid-thirties, with diverse backgrounds and occupations, and they all brought to the book club a healthy attitude toward sex.
Because the discussions had progressed so well and the women had grown so comfortable with each other, Gabrielle had decided to up the ante. She’d challenged the women to take what they’d learned in the pages of erotic novels like Lady Chatterley’s Lover by D.H. Lawrence and The Slave by Laura Antoniou, and use the lessons to seduce the man of their dreams. To-date, four out of the five women had done just that and seemed delighted with the outcome. Only one of the members had balked at the challenge, but Gabrielle still held out hope that the last woman, Carol, would change her mind in the wake of the others’ success stories.
As Gabrielle descended the steps in the train station to stand on the platform, her midsection began to thrum with awareness. The success stories of the younger women had made even her dare to dream that someday she might find her own sexual match in a man. She glanced around at male faces in the crowd, seeking another lonely soul, someone looking to make a connection, but no one even made eye contact. When a young blonde dressed in a fitted short skirt suit and high heels stepped in place next to her, Gabrielle felt a pang for her own fading youth.
She took care of herself, but forty had come and gone and instead of sky-high heels and short skirts, she now favored sensible wedges and light cardigan sweaters to navigate the workday and ward off the chill that seemed to permeate the library. Smart, trendy clothes tended to fall victim to messy printer cartridges and broken ink pens, but Gabrielle conceded that the practical outfits had robbed her of some of her feminine sparkle. She tugged at her demure neckline. What kind of man would find her attractive in her stretch slacks and shapeless beige sweater?
Certainly not the sexual dynamo she craved for her bed partner.
The northbound train rumbled into view and pulled alongside the platform with a whoosh of cool air in the underground tunnel. When the doors opened, she boarded with other passengers and, because the library opened and closed later than most business offices, had no problem finding an empty seat.
After settling in, she pulled the book she was reading from her tote and turned to the page marked with a tasseled bookmark. The story was an erotic romance novel about a woman and her sometime lover. Although it was clear to the reader the couple was perfect for each other, the characters had not yet reached that conclusion and were mulling the alternatives while falling in and out of bed with each other. Gabrielle smiled to herself. Erotica writers of centuries past would be pleased to know that book guidelines regarding content and language had relaxed greatly. Readers could now enjoy story lines that reflected contemporary attitudes toward sex, especially where women’s roles were concerned.
Soon Gabrielle was immersed in the characters’ lives and the lush love scenes that left her body temperature elevated and her breathing intensified. She found herself envying the woman whose lover plied her body with unmitigated pleasure. As the woman strained toward climax, Gabrielle’s thighs quickened.
A body settled into the seat next to her. She squashed a flash of irritation at the distraction and kept reading, but the scent of masculine cologne tickled her nose. In her peripheral vision, she noticed the man was well-dressed, his brown slacks neatly cuffed and creased, his camel-colored jacket of good quality. The hand resting on his knee was large and square, the fingers long and blunt-tipped.
And thick.
Gabrielle forced her attention back to her book and reread a paragraph. The man shifted in his seat, brushing his arm against hers, jostling the book she held.
“Pardon me,” he murmured.
When she slid her gaze sideways to take in the stranger’s profile, her mouth went dry. The big man sported close-cropped light brown hair, a square jaw, and a sun-tinged complexion. The untanned crow’s feet at the corners of his light-colored--hazel?--eyes said he was a sportsman, perhaps in his late forties. Indeed, he had the boxy build and erect carriage of an athlete. Probably football, given the size of the man’s shoulders…and hands.
A hand naked of a wedding ring.
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