Vacations always bring a certain frisson, offering excitement, a break from routine, and a sense of discovery—of sensuous strangers and far-off places. This volume showcases some of the best erotic writing from both sides of the Atlantic, bringing together a collection of unashamed, wildly entertaining fantasies of indulgence with hot, horny guys from a variety of countries. Whether it’s a buff Aussie snake handler or a rugged American woodsman, there’s a naughty holiday fling to suit every taste in this X-rated collection. With rich sensuality and an eye on the exotic, this is the perfect beach read.
“You will not be able to put this naughty tale down!” ~5 hearts Janalee/TRS
“…a very hot short story….I can’t wait to read another book from Celia Stuart.” ~ 4.5 Cupids – CLR
“You rescue damsels in distress and cook dinner, too. Nice.” With a smile, I shoved another forkful of meatloaf in my mouth.
Greg cleaned up nice, too, very nice. Jeans and t-shirts were obviously invented for men like him. Rugged men who didn’t give a damn about how they looked but looked damned fine in anything they put on. He’d shaved the stubble off to reveal a firm, square jaw and washed away the day’s heat and grime to show off a surprisingly intelligent set of eyes.
“Man’s gotta eat.”
There’s a lot to be said for the strong silent type, but I’m not sure what. Maybe I should have asked him to take me to a hotel. I tried again. “So, how’d you end up out here in the desert?”
He paused, a buttered piece of roll halfway to his mouth, and scowled at me. Obviously, something he was good at. ‘I think the better question would be, how did you end up out here in the desert?”
“You always let strangers you find sleeping on your couch make themselves at home and feed them?” I countered, suddenly angry. I could scowl just as good as him.
“What in the hell are you doing driving around by yourself like that? You’re a hell of a long way from Oklahoma, little girl!” He threw his roll down and it landed in a puddle of gravy on his plate.
“You snooped in my car?”
“Damn right I did, Lucy Jean Cavanaugh of Oklahoma City, Oklahoma. You always masturbate in stranger’s beds?”
Lips pursed, I threw down my fork, scooted my chair back and crossed my legs, suddenly wishing I’d worn my robe to dinner instead of denim shorts and a t-shirt. “I’d masturbate driving down the highway if it suited me,” I quipped tartly. “What the hell are you so mad about, anyway? Your turn, you grouchy old bear. Why are you out here?”
“I like wide open spaces.”
I snorted and tossed back, “I was on vacation, when I broke down.”
“Never.” He sipped his tea, keeping his eyes on his glass.
“Never? You mean, you’ve never taken in a stranger? Then why did you?”
“I like redheads,” he said. Eyes on his plate, he quietly added, “And you’re a real redhead.”
“I notice lots of things.” His voice was low and rough as he finally looked up at me, the anger in his eyes now replaced by something hot that made me clench my thighs together.
Outside the window, night blanketed the desert, hiding the stark scenery. But in the kitchen the air changed, suddenly electric, and I resisted the urge to reach up and smooth my hair in case it were standing on end.
“Your skin.” His voice was a low, hypnotic rumble that pulled me out of my chair.
“How long’s it been?” I walked around the tiny table, stopping beside his chair, and peeled my shirt over my head, letting it fall to the floor. My bare skin goosebumped and my nipples tightened as Greg focused on my breasts.
“So long I don’t even remember–” he whispered, looking up at me, “–what it feels like to have a woman wrapped around me, under me, clawing at me.” He turned to face me and spread his legs, pulling me closer as his fingers working at the button-fly of my shorts.
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