Epilogue #2
“And that’s good?” It sounds good, and her mewls seem to back it up.
“It’s better than that. I’m not sure… I don’t know what I thought, but it wasn’t that it would feel like this. It’s…I feel too full, like I need to push you out, but the rub of you inside is so good as well.”
“Let’s see if we can’t make it even better than that.”
A moan rolls from her throat as I curve a hand over her sex.
She’s so damn wet, and her clit is like a rock beneath my fingertips, so that even the smallest touch brings on a set of shivers.
She relaxes so that I’m fucking her right to the hilt, and my thatch is tickling her cheeks at the culmination of each thrust.
She feels so smooth, as if I’m surrounded by silk.
Kira shimmies with increasing urgency; her breath agitated, and words a jumble of croaks and pleas. “Deeper… Don’t stop…” It’s barely a moment before I’m doing the same, my body quaking with need as we glide closer and closer to the edge.
Kira topples first. Her whole body flames and turns liquid around me.
The vibrations of her orgasm ripple through her pussy and into her arse, making her muscles clench around me.
I start short-stroking in time with the rhythm of my pulse.
My heartbeat is thundering in my head. She’s soaking and crooning.
Her pussy clenches at my fingers when I slip two inside her, while her orgasm seems to roll on and on, like this is so good there can be no end to it.
I switch to making longer, deeper strokes, now clinging on hard to her hips. Won’t surprise me to learn I’m leaving fingerprints. I’m almost there with her. Just a little more… Almost… There.
Red hot sparks explode from my balls and tingle through my shaft as I reach my release. I empty myself fully inside her, jerking until there’s nothing left.
We’re still, pressed together tightly. My cheek is pressed against her back and the twin beats of our hearts drum relentlessly in my ears. “That was—”
“We’re going to do that again.”
Kira—she says all the right things!
“You’ll hear no objections from me.” I tie off the condom and wrap it in a tissue to dispose of. Then I nibble the back of Kira’s neck. She turns so that we can kiss properly.
“I wasn’t sure what it would be like.”
“And?”
“It feels like you’re still in me.”
She glances down almost shyly at my now slumbering cock, and I sense that she’s about to say something profound, except the door to our hiding place gets ripped open.
I expect a member of the venue staff, a paparazzo, a fan girl with a big camera and a cheeky grin, or maybe Lorne come to haul my stellar arse into a seat. It’s none of them.
“Rosie!”
My co-star spies us and shrieks, “I knew I heard you in there.”
Her gaze fastens upon my bared lower half, and upon Kira’s raised skirts. “You’re…” She pauses to suck in a deeper breath. “You’re not gay,” she announces. “I knew it. I knew it was all made up.”
Rosie earns herself an eye-roll. Maybe she’d like to consult about that with all the men I’ve fucked. “I’m not straight either,” I say. It’s the most honest answer I can deliver.
“You’re with a…a girl.”
I hitch my trousers and zip up. “Rosie, one heterosexual shag does not a straight man make. The same as one experimental bro-job never turned anyone gay.”
“But…but…” She pouts and looks puzzled.
“He’s method acting,” Kira says.
Yeah—good one. I almost wish I’d thought of that.
Only, it’s dishonest, and now that I’m confronted with it, I’d rather explain the truth.
That I’m still predominantly gay, just with a newly discovered taste for branching out with one particular woman.
My desire for the fairer sex only extends as far as Kira.
I’m not saying there’ll never be another woman who gets my blood pumping, only that I haven’t happened upon any others yet.
“You don’t think this is taking things a bit far?” Rosie asks.
Good lord, she really is clueless.
“He’s really trying to dig deep into Blake’s mindset.”
The huskiness of Kira’s voice as she says that makes it sound incredibly dirty. I think I’m blushing.
Rosie squints at the pair of us again. Kira smooths my hair, and I remove a smear of lipstick from the side of her mouth.
“Oh, darn it!” Rosie stamps her foot, dragging our attention back to her. “I’m totally vexed with you, Dylan Drake. You know I’d have been totally willing to help you. I’ve been dreaming forever about making butter babies with you.”
“Butter babies?” I have to confess I’m totally lost, as I so often am by the twists and turns of Rosie’s logic.
“That you make with those baster thingies when the guy can’t get it up.”
“Cough… ’Cause he has that problem a lot… cough.”
Yes, thank you, Kira.
She pats a hand over my package, and I squeak.
Rosie sighs and brings her hands to her mouth. “I suppose you won’t be needing my help with that now?”
There doesn’t seem any purpose in pointing out that having kids together was never on my agenda.
“Oh, well. You’d better both get yourselves out of the closet now. It’s past time we were all in our seats.”
Poor Rosie, it takes her the rest of the night to figure out why we both dissolve into fits.
~*~
Thank you for reading SOUL KISS! I hope you loved reading about Dylan & Kira.
They’ll be back in future books in the series.
Meanwhile, Alfie Jones has a dilemma. He’s told his Sunsetter BFFs that he’s dating three people, but now he’s expected to bring them along to Dare Wilde’s celebrity wedding.
Read this Passionate Plume Award Winning Novel NOW!
Conjuring three fake dates to attend a wedding, no problem. Surviving the experience unbroken…
Thanks to a drunken boast about my relationship status, this ugly duckling needs to find three people to fake date in time for my best friend’s celebrity wedding. One trip to the office later, and I have my recruits:
Leo – PA extraordinaire, friend, & fashion guru. How was I supposed to know he has a crush on me?
Elodie – My new intern. The dreamer. Also, prospective crazy cat lady. She made a mistake once, now she’s determined to prove her screenwriting mettle.
And Jet – The repair man. The wild card. The enigma who makes my heart boom, boom, boom.
We each of us have our own reasons for playing along, some more obvious than others. Now all we have to do is make our polyamorous quadouple convincing. Heartache is not on the agenda. After all, none of it’s supposed to be real…
“A fresh and funny take on fake relationships, longing, self-doubt, friendships, and so much more...”
“Had me hooked from start to finish.”
“Clever writing, snappy humor, and sex appeal that I truly enjoyed!” Goodreads Reviewers.
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~*~
If menage is your jam, you don’t want to miss ANYTHING BUT VANILLA. A lonely island, a runaway bride, & a reclusive billionaire, and a whole truckful of ice cream.
★ ★ ★ ★ ★ “A perfect ménage a trois [...] a seriously cool location and characters I could absolutely relate to all wrapped up in a fresh, fun, sensual voice – delicious!” - USA Today bestselling author Lily Harlem.
~*~
Keep reading to enjoy a preview of Mint to Be.
ALFIE JONES
Daylight seeps through the cracks of my eyelids, bringing with it a sharp spike of agony that eviscerates my frontal lobe.
I have no idea what day it is, or even what year.
Evil elves have sandpapered my tongue during the night, and a wet ferret has died in my throat.
There’s a stink in the room, too, that may or may not be the smell of regurgitated alcohol.
Fingers crossed it’s just a sweat- and beer-stained shirt.
I’ve a vague recollection of some bloke throwing his pint over me, but I’m not ready to swear to it as an absolute fact.
Slowly, slowly, I pull at the frayed edges of my mind and darn them back into a whole entity again.
It’d help if it wasn’t so damn bright. Can’t someone turn the fucking sun off for a bit?
I mean really. It’s like the blinkin’ Bahamas in here, and I live in a boxy hovel in west London. The heating must be on super max.
With a clumsy swat, I manage to fish my specs off the bedside cabinet, and sigh in relief as the reactive lenses darken. The world becomes a pleasing monochrome.
How exactly is it morning already?
Okay, so it was technically morning when I crawled into this space, which probably makes now around—I squint at the black on grey digits of the clock—five to eleven.
Hell, what!
That is not good.
That is so, so, not good.
I’m supposed to be vetting potential new hires today. Not that they’re needed.
I worked solo on the first season of Oldrich Hall, but the studio has doubled the number of episodes for season two, and they’re concerned I’m overcommitted between them and my film projects.
No one wants to hang around waiting for scripts anymore.
It’s all about landing a whole series in one go, so viewers can binge watch a whole season inside a weekend.
Two episodes in, and they’re already baying for the next season.
And the next… and the next.
What the studio execs don’t grasp is that genius can’t be rushed or amplified simply by putting more people in a room. I work best without irritating distractions.
I don’t need additional writers.
I need a Tardis.
Forty minutes it takes me to drag myself across my fleapit bedroom into the shower, where I stand under the torrent, glasses on and hopelessly fogged up, and my head still nodding.
What the hell did I pour down my throat last night?
I know it was Dare’s stag-do, and the first full gang reunion of the Sunsetters for… pfft… two years? But that doesn’t account for the nuclear bomb still threatening to detonate inside my skull. Were we doing shots?
Cocktails! I clap a hand against my head and immediately regret it when Big Ben dongs inside my skull.
We were on the cocktails. Something involving lime and ginger. Fucker… No, Pucker Up. That’s it, and some sort of game involving kisses.