If You Can't Handle the Heat

If You Can't Handle the Heat
Deliciously Naughty Erotic Romance for the Foodies!

Wednesday, 17 September 2014

Stop Resisting! #FreeRead The first 3 Chapters of SWAP #erotic #romance

 Stop Resisting!
It feels so good when you do...

 In love with one brother...married to the other...

A couple weeks ago, I shared some news, that I've asked my pub for the rights to SWAP back and for the last couple of Thursdays, I've been sharing a few chapters from what was my debut novel and first erotic contemporary romance. ( If you'd like to catch up or need a refresher find Chapter One HERE and  Chapter Two HERE )

Hailey has had a crush on her hunky brother-in-law, Mike, for years. In this chapter, things really heat up between the forbidden lovers, when Hailey discovers her feelings just might not be one-sided.
Here's the blurb:

 Hailey Hollinger has it all—a great husband, a fantastic career in journalism, good friends…and one hot brother-in-law that won't stay out of her fantasies.
When Hailey Hollinger was eighteen she thought her boyfriend, Brent, was the best-looking guy around. That was until he introduced her to his older brother, Mike. From that moment on she had the biggest crush on him and he became the star of all her teenage fantasies.

Hailey's all grown up now and has been married to Brent for three years. They have great careers, a nice house—they enjoy life and each other. Everything is supposed to be perfect. Except for that pesky little infatuation with her husband's brother has never completely gone away.

A crush, by nature and definition, is supposed to be short-lived and should diminish over time. But, unfortunately for Hailey, it hasn't, and it is beginning to mess with what she thinks should be perfection. And if her life is so great, why does she then find herself groping her brother-in-law in the cab of his truck like some sex-starved teenager? And the biggest question yet—why is he groping her right back?

Chapter Three

We sat across from each other in the restaurant. The waitress came over. “Can I start you off with something from the bar?”

“No, thanks. I’ll just have coffee,” I said, still cool from the night air at the track.

Mike paused.

“What?” I asked.

“I feel like another beer.”

“Really?” I was surprised. “Go ahead.”

“Bring whatever you got on tap,” he said to the waitress.

“Great. I’ll bring back menus.”

I watched him across the table. “I can’t believe you trust me to drive your truck.”

He sat back and looked over at me, his eyes seeming somewhat unfocused. “I trust you with everything I got.”

He shouldn’t. I’d jump all over everything he had if he gave me any indication he would reciprocate. And I wouldn’t think about the ones we were hurting until after.

It was official. I was going to hell.

“Brent hates it when I drive the car. Or the truck, for that matter.”

“It’s only a truck.”

The waitress returned with our drinks. We looked over the menus and ordered. We made small talk until the food came and Mike asked for another beer.

“So what are you working on this week, Hails?” he asked, digging into his lasagne.

“I have a deadline on Wednesday, a piece on the economy, and then Thursday I have an article due on the lost eighties.”

He laughed. “Wow, those two topics couldn’t be any further apart.”

“Yeah, I know. One’s for a political website and the other is for a women’s magazine. How ‘bout you? What’s your week shaping up like?”

“Same as every week.” He sounded dejected by the prospect. I could tell he was talking about his construction job rather than his photography.

I was about to ask him if he’d taken any good shots lately when he put his fork down.

“I registered a business name yesterday.”

“You did? That’s fantastic, Mike. I’m so excited for you! Do you have anything lined up yet?”

“Nothing important.”

“So what name did you settle on?” We’d traded names back and forth a couple of times trying to come up with the perfect fit.

He smirked. “Guess.”

I rolled my eyes. I figured he’d take the safe route. “Don’t tell me. ‘Mike’s Imagery’.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“No. You’re just…”

“Safe. Predictable. Not willing to take a risk?”

“That’s not true, or you wouldn’t have struck out on your own.”
He reached into his shirt pocket and handed me a business card.

I smiled as I read it. “Oh, you liar. ‘Mike’s Imagery’, my ass!”

He smiled back. “You came up with the name, my journalistic friend. Now I need a slogan for my website.”

“’Imagery Menagerie’,” I read out the name, and added, “Pictures for sale or rent.” I didn’t think it was very good. I’d have to work on a better catchphrase.

“Yeah, I like that,” he said.

“I hope you didn’t print up a whole lot of these. The slogan, whatever you decide on, should go on there too.”

“I only made that one. For you.”

“Really? Thank you.” I felt my face grow warm.

“I really have to photograph that blush,” he teased.

“Don’t bother. Besides you have all our wedding pictures.”

He sobered. “I haven’t told anybody about this but you.”

“Not Cheryl?” He shook his head. “Not Brent?” Negative again.

“No. You get it. I knew that you’d be just as excited for me as I am myself.”

“Just wait until you sell your first photograph.”

“I remember when you sold your first article. It was a big deal.”

I hadn’t even been aware that he knew when I’d sold my first article. I’d still been in college. I’d had things in the school paper and the local papers, but I was pretty proud of that first one I’d sold to a national publication. It had opened up a whole new world for me and got me some recognition.

“You know, you could do me a favour. If you have something on file that might work for my eighties article, I’d love to be your first paying client. Byline by Hailey Hollinger, Photo by Mike Hollinger. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

“Yeah, sounds great. I don’t know if I have anything on file that would work. I’ll have to look. Unless some lousy school pictures of me with bad hair will do.”

“Mmm, I’ve seen those. No rat-tail, no earring, no Mohawk or spiky hair. I was thinking more of leggings and lace, pop music, bangles and bows.”

“Then you’ll have to be my model. I’ve got nothing like that.”

I had a momentary flash of my latest fantasy—posing for him in barely-there lingerie.

“Yeah, that’s gonna happen,” I said sarcastically. “I don’t have anything eighties.”

“Yeah, you were more of a nineties meets the new millennium girl, weren’t you? More Coldplay, CDs and cell phones.” He shook his head. “You were so young when you started coming around.”

“I was not. I was an adult. Practically.”

He chuckled. “You were a baby. Compared to me at least, you were.”

“Seven years is not that big a difference.” I’d had this argument with myself many times.

“No, not now, it isn’t.” He drained his beer, caught the eye of the waitress and signalled for another.

Not now. What did he mean by that?

His gaze settled back on mine. “So we’ll hunt up some denim and some bangles, lacy crop tops and you’ll be my eighties model.”

I started to shake my head. I was awkward just trying to talk—I couldn’t imagine being in the centre of Mike’s viewfinder. The wedding pictures had been tough enough. But at least, then, I’d had a thousand other things on my mind.

“Oh, come on. Teased hair, tons of makeup—no one will ever even know it’s you. Don’t you want to be my first client?”

“Of course I do. But I don’t want to be a model.”

I stuffed some pasta into my mouth and chewed quickly, then scrambled to change the subject. “You know, I have a lot of contacts. If it’s all right with you, I can get your name out there. Depending how busy you want to be, I think I could drum you up a little business. Or a lot. Get some buzz around your name.”

“Anything you could send my way. My long-term goal is to quit my day job and do this full-time.”

“Done.” I smiled.

He reached across the table and touched the back of my hand, somewhat awkwardly at first, before he wrapped his fingers around my palm. My heart started to pound. “Thanks, Hails. You are my biggest supporter. I’m not sure I would have done this if you hadn’t pushed me.”

“Pushed you?” I felt a moment of alarm. “Did I push you?”

“No. No, not in a bad way. You encouraged me. You made me enthusiastic about it. You made me realise that my pictures might be as good as I thought they were. Cheryl only cares about the money. She doesn’t care how I earn it, just as long as I do. The more, the better. She doesn’t think I’m good enough to make a living at this. At least not the living we’re used to.”

“That’s not true. One photo could earn you thousands. And, once people see what you can do, I know you’ll be in demand. You have such an eye for detail.”

“See, my biggest fan.” He looked away. “Cheryl booked me a bunch of baby portraits for this week.”

“Oh, my God! Don’t do that. You don’t want to be known as a wedding or portrait photographer. Why would she do that? That’s not what your business is about!”

“And that, right there, is why I didn’t tell her that I registered a business name—and why I did tell you. You get it.”

“I don’t understand her. Doesn’t she want you to be happy in your work? I mean, money isn’t everything. I can’t imagine going to work every day to do something I hated.”

“So how do I get out of these portraits?”

“Are they paying?”

“Fifty bucks a sitting.”

“Fifty bucks? Well, I’ll pay you fifteen hundred for the eighties photo and I need it before Thursday.” His eyes widened. “And I have another project I was hoping you could help me with. It’s more of a favour than a job, but I’ll pay for it, too.”

“That seems like an awful lot, Hails. Are you just feeling sorry for me?”

“No. Some photos can get six-digit figures, Mikey.”

“So what’s the other project?”

“Well, you know Brent’s birthday is coming up. And I’ve really no idea what to get him.”

“Yeah, I remember the little shit’s birthday. I went from being an only child to having to pick up after him. Why is it the oldest kid is the one that gets blamed for everything?”

“Little bitter there, Mikey?”

He laughed. “No, not at all. So what can I help you get the young prince?”

“I was hoping you might take some shots of the car, put together some kind of layout he can put in the garage or take to car shows with him. But not a calendar. I don’t want you known for that, either.”

“Yeah, that sounds doable. But can I go in on it with you? I don’t have anything in mind for him, either.”

“Sounds good, but I will pay for any supplies you might use or need. Deal?”

He gave his head a slight shake. “You’ve done enough for me.” Before I could speak, he said, “You ready to go?”

“Yeah.” We paid and headed for the truck. He handed me the keys in the parking lot.

In a moment of sheer insanity on my part, I threw my arms around his waist and gave him a squeeze. “I really am proud of you, you know.”

His arm came around my shoulder and he pulled me closer. I felt his chest rumble. “Thanks, Hails.”

We slowed our progress, as if neither one of us was in any hurry to get to the truck. I laid my head back against his shoulder.

We walked to the passenger’s side of the truck and I hit the remote on his key fob, unlocking the doors. I opened it for him.

He laughed. “I’m supposed to get the door for you.”

“Oh, I thought that was just a shotgun thing, not a chivalry thing. A lady can open the door for a dude, ya know,” I said with mock impatience. “Just get in.”

He turned to face me and, to my surprise, he reached out and tucked my hair behind my ear. “You’re really lame, ya know?” He laughed at my expense.

“And the eighties lines are alive and well. I know I’m lame, but you love me anyway,” I tossed his words from earlier back at him.

His smile slipped. “Yeah. I do.”

Something in his voice made every body part I owned turn liquid. In my head, I rushed to tell myself that he meant ‘like a brother’ and that he’d had a few beers, but his next words stopped my thought process cold.

“You might be the only thing I’ve ever envied about my little brother.”
He moved his hand to the side of my neck and grazed my cheek with his thumb. Then his lips were there, hovering in front of mine as if he were seeking permission. My senses swam with the possibilities. I pounced, seizing what might be my only opportunity to kiss him. I didn’t hold back—he experienced the full-on, ravenous impact of years of worship and sexual fantasies that had run the gamut from sweet, innocent, eighteen-year-old’s kisses to the tantalising nocturnal fantasy that I‘d created just the night before.

I flattened my chest against his, trying to get inside his coat. He spun me around and nudged me onto the seat of the truck. I didn’t want to separate from his lips, afraid that, if we lost contact, he would call a halt to this. So I fisted my hands into his shirt and hauled him in after me, opening my legs and welcoming him towards my heat. I crabbed towards the driver’s side, hitting the steering wheel, then released his shirt long enough to grope for the tilt-steering lever and pushed the wheel up to give us a little extra room. He was not a small man. The thought shot another little thrill through my already highly sensitised body.

He reached backward with one arm, trying to close the door, but I pulled him towards me with all my strength. I wanted to get as much as I could before he put a stop to this. I knew he would. He was too nice a guy to let this happen. What did that say about me?

“Let me get the door,” he said against my mouth, his breathing choppy and heavy.

I released him for long enough that he could reach behind him. The door clicked and I didn’t even have to coax him back—he was there and kissing me as I strained to get closer to him. I could feel his erection digging into my wet heat through my jeans. I rubbed my aching cunt shamelessly over his rock-hard cock. I couldn’t stop the sounds of need that kept erupting from the back of my throat. I wanted him more than I’d ever wanted anything, and at that very moment I didn’t care about anything else. Not Brent. Not Cheryl. Not even the fact that I was probably making a fool of myself. There was one thing on my mind, and that was getting him into my body.

I pulled at the bottom of his T-shirt, moving it up his chest as he pushed at mine, his large, warm palm passing over my ribs. Skin met skin, but it wasn’t enough for me. I let him push my T-shirt all the way up, exposing my bra. He smoothed his hand over me, cupping my breast. I pushed myself into his hand. My nipple pearled in his palm. He gave me a soft squeeze as he hunted around back for the hooks, but the bra had a front clasp. I made a protest into his mouth as I directed his hand back around to the front. He undid my bra, setting my breasts free, and he moved his mouth from my lips, down my neck, finally fastening around my nipple.

I moaned at the sensation, arching my back, giving him full access. He growled in return and I wanted to laugh out loud. This was incredible. He swirled his tongue, making me tighten even more—not only my nipple, but deep down inside me. The sensation of his lips and tongue around my breast coupled with his erection pulsing between my legs. I could almost imagine he was inside me. If not for the goddamn clothes between us, he would be. I wanted it. I wanted it now. I was going to come, and I wanted him inside me when I did it.

I reached down between us and undid the button holding his jeans closed. I smoothed my fingers over the tip of his cock with one hand while unzipping his pants with the other.

He blocked my hands and released my breast. “Hails!”

And there it was. He was too good a guy to let this happen.

“What are we doing?” he asked, and the anguish in his voice broke my determination to push him over the edge.

I made a disappointed, frustrated noise and closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see the guilt on his handsome face. He sat up. I slid my leg out from behind him and pulled my shirt down over myself, then struggled to refasten my bra. My fingertips shook with need as I fought against the hot tears that threatened to cascade down my cheeks and make us both more miserable than we already were. I knew my tears would only double his guilt, so I tried not to let them fall.

I fumbled to put the key in the ignition. I wanted to get the hell out of there before he tried to talk to me. I only had a thin hold on the tidal wave of emotion that was threatening.

“Hails,” he said, taking the keys and fitting them into the ignition for me. He took my hand in his.

“I’m fine,” I blurted, snatching my hand away.

I started the truck and tried to drive through the haze of stinging, shameful tears. It wasn’t even shame that we were both married people that I was feeling. It was deep disappointment that I hadn’t got what I’d wanted. Maybe I’d feel the right kind of guilt tomorrow. We drove all the way to his place without a word.

I pulled into the drive and prayed he would just get out and go in. He looked anywhere but at me, I knew that much. “What the hell was that?”

I gave an impartial shrug. “Maybe you’re just one of those drunks that loves everybody.” I tried to joke at the not-so-funny situation we’d found ourselves in. My voice was raw and raspy, and I knew he caught it.

“Yeah, that must be it.” He pulled on the handle and got out of the truck. I looked over at him for the first time since he’d called a halt to our wrestling match. “But we both know I’m not drunk. And what’s your excuse?” He looked at me for an extra ten seconds or so, then shut the door and walked slowly to the house. I didn’t wait to see if he looked back before he went inside—I threw the truck in reverse and beat it down the street.

About a block from our house, I pulled over and let loose with the tears. I couldn’t face Brent like this. I had to get it out before I went home.
I pulled myself back together and drove the rest of the way home. It was in darkness, and I was thankful. I went to the bathroom and washed my face, then slid into a tank top and some panties. I knew I wouldn’t be able to rest.

I checked on Brent, who was sound asleep. Again, I was grateful. I made my way into the den and worked on my articles. I finished the economy piece and sent it in early. Their editors would be pleased—I normally took things right to the deadline, using every last second to make every word perfect.

I moved on to the eighties, rattling off ninety per cent of it before I finally thought I could lie down and sleep. I made my way quietly to the bedroom, hoping I could sneak into bed without Brent pulling me against him. He was still sleeping soundly. I tried to make my mind stay blank and will myself to sleep.


If you've been enjoying the walk down memory lane with me and you'd like to read the entire novel before it is no longer available, you can find it at the vendors below for a limited time. Until next week, take care, all. 

No comments:

Post a Comment