It’s Brooke’s twenty-first birthday and she’s celebrating at a hot Manhattan night spot. But when her bitchy friend Kimber throws down a coming-of-age gauntlet, she feels obliged to take it up – to hit on the ‘James Bond type’ at the bar. He’s a businessman from London, England, named Gavin McClain – and Brooke has no clue as to the kind of man with whom she’s tangling. Will the evening turn into a scary rite of passage, or will it be the sexy night of her young life? The answer is quite possibly … both.
Precisely, it transpired, until the elevator doors had closed behind them. Gavin spun her around before she had properly taken in her ornate surroundings and put her roughly up against one of the reflecting walls. She took in a great gasp of air as his massive frame pinned her relatively slight form, his face an inch from hers and one massive hand reaching around to grasp her ass-cheek.
“Floor eighteen,” he said, having stabbed one of the buttons on the panel. “How many dirty things do you think I can do to you between here and there? In the event that we don’t acquire any company along the way?”
Brooke gulped. She sensed some kind of answer was required. Or maybe the question was rhetorical. “I don’t know. A… A few?”
His palm flexed to envelope the side of her face and he’d put his lips on hers before she’d had time to react. She could taste the Scotch, fresh and sour on his tongue, and his aftershave was sharp in her nostrils. The kiss was firm, slow and rhythmic, drawing from her a full-mouthed response as her scared body melted into his Armani-wrapped frame. His restrained hunger absorbed her senses and blotted out all sensible thought till his mouth broke from hers.
“I think,” he told her, fingers still caressing her face, “that that was a good-girl kiss. Very pleasant, but good-girl nonetheless.”
Her response was instinctive. She hadn’t set out on her birthday evening to be labelled a ‘good-girl’. Gripping his face with both hands she kissed his hard mouth, plunging her tongue and lapping at his, her body pressing close and the taxi guy look all he damn well like. Her heart-rate surged from her boldness with this great strong man. When she let him go she was panting with the rush, but bit her bottom lip to disguise it. “What about that one?”
“Definite bad-girl potential,” he said, voice heavy with approval. “Tell me, Brooke, what’s the baddest thing you’ve ever done?”
Jake Malden is a freelance journalist and writer based in London. He has been experimenting with erotica both on the page and off for some years and has a growing number of titles available. His interests, aside from the staringly obvious, are theatre, cinema, literature, fitness-training and travel (particularly back to his native Ireland). He is an enthusiast of juicing, in every possible sense.
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