Sexy Stories
Sexy stories feature writer Moriah Jovan and are excerpted from her novel, The Proviso. The Proviso is available from B10 MediaWorx (electronic versions) and the print book is available from Amazon.
Moriah Jovan writes romance with a few unexpected twists and turns, usually involving sex, religion, money, and politics-all the things your mother told you not to talk about in public. She lives in Kansas City, Missouri, and, when not involved with her kids or her day job, spends her time listening to the voices in her head conversing with imaginary friends. You can follow her on Twitter - she's pretty interesting, we promise!
An ancient white wrought iron full-size bed, still neatly made from the day Justice had left for work and unexpectedly had to get married, was on the only wall it could be on.
"That," she said, pointing to the table, "is where I found my voice and made my name. It's also where I sat and looked at the wall and fantasized about a law professor I once had."
She felt Knox start, then relax behind her, his hand plowing through her hair. "Oh?" he purred.
"Yes," she said briskly as she took her gun out of her waistband and laid it on the desk. Then she grabbed the hem of her sweater and pulled it over her head. She heard his quick intake of breath as she threw it in the corner. She turned and sat on the bed, lifting her feet one at a time for him to pull off her boots; he obliged and tossed them over his shoulder where they landed out in the hallway.
"I fantasized about him coming to my room in the middle of the night. Sometimes he'd sneak in the front door or the back door and magically miss all the stairs that squeaked. Sometimes he'd climb in my window. But he always found me in bed and would slip in with me."
Justice pulled her jeans down and she slid a look between her legs at Knox to see that he'd kicked off his moccasins and taken off his own sweater. Gun on the dresser. He unbuttoned his fly, and she tried not to smile.
"And it was a secret affair, you see, because, while he had to have me, he was protecting me and my good name. My father couldn't know because this man had a baaaad reputation, but I knew better." Knox chuckled.
Justice shimmied out of the barely-there lingerie Knox did appreciate oh, so much, and went to the bed, turning it down. She gasped a teensy gasp when she felt Knox's naked body against her naked back, his arousal hard against her, and his mouth on her neck and shoulders, one big hand splayed out over her belly to hold her to him and one cupping her breast. But she pulled away from him and climbed into the bed, slipped down under the covers, and pretended to be asleep.
"And I would wake up," she whispered, "with him beside me, kissing me awake. He would say, 'I love you, Justice' over and over again while he kissed me."
Justice smiled when the bed depressed and creaked under his weight and the covers floated down over both of them. He wrapped his arms around her and pulled her tight, their naked bodies entwining. "I love you, Justice." He kissed her softly, slowly, deeply until her eyes fluttered open. "I love you, Justice."
"I love you, Knox."
"Okay, and then what?"
She snickered. "And then what I don't know. He took over from there."
Knox laughed outright, then stilled. She watched him as he studied her reverently. Finally, he murmured, "Miss McKinley, you haven't been a very good student this semester."
"I'm so sorry, Professor Hilliard," Justice breathed. "What can I do to make it up?"
"Come to my office for a conference after class. I may be able to find a way for you to earn some extra credit."
"Very nice," Sebastian drawled with appreciation when Giselle emerged from her bedroom on the evening of Fen's exploratory fundraiser.
The strapless dress, reminiscent of 1950s Hollywood glamor, had two layers. The pencil underskirt of white brocade was beaded and sequined along the edges of its floral motif and the hem just kissed the toes of her black sling-back heels. A long slit up the side allowed Giselle her full stride and relatively quick access to her gun without marring the skirt's narrow lines.
The full black silk taffeta overskirt had a slight train. The front of it parted in an A shape from waist to floor and flared out like a cape when she walked. It framed the white underskirt with stark elegance. A small decorative pouch hung from an inconspicuous strap on the inside of the skirt to function as a pocket or, should she care to wear it on her wrist, a reticule.
Above her skirts, a lightly silver-embroidered and jet-beaded black velvet corset hugged her torso well enough to guarantee that just the right amount of bosom blossomed over its top so as to tease without being vulgar.
She'd dressed her hair in a modified, messy chic Gibson girl style. A diamond and ruby bracelet, borrowed from Sebastian's mother, sparkled loosely on her wrist and Giselle's own diamond earrings dangled from her earlobes.
"Rubies," Sebastian said once he'd carefully assessed the details of her presentation. "Wear your ruby drops. Are you sure about going strapless?"
Giselle glanced down at the gunshot wound in the soft hollow just under her left shoulder. "Fen needs to see it so he can commence kissing my ass."
"Make sure you don't let Kenard wheedle the story out of you."
"Pffftt."
"I've heard he's clever like that."
* * * * *
Absorbed in watching the play of light on the surface of his sparkling water, Bryce thought he saw a head of honey-colored hair in his periphery and his gut clenched.
Only one person he had ever met had hair that color, subtle in its blondeness and its redness at the same time. No hairdresser, no matter how talented or expensive, could duplicate the complicated highlights of commingling blonde and red strands.
He turned and looked for her, unable to credit that she might be here. His breath caught in his throat when he saw her. When she turned a bit, he realized that she went about on Sebastian Taight's arm and a pain struck him behind his sternum as she chatted amiably-almost familiarly-with Fen and Trudy Hilliard.
Bryce drank in her appearance more fully, able to take his time and notice small details that pleased but did not surprise him. She had such an air of understated elegance, he had to wonder if she had a gun strapped to her thigh.
Her black and white dress showed off her pale shoulders to exquisite advantage and gave her hair a subtle brilliance. He liked the red earrings.
The slight plump of her breasts above the black corset caught his attention. His mind filled with images of them bare, flushed with passion, her nipples begging him to lick and suck them. He drew in a sharp breath and his erection strained against his fly. She turned away from him then and he studied the delineation of well-developed muscles in her arms and upper back. He remembered her legs the night of Leah's visitation.
Collier's Lilith was soft, round, lush.
Giselle Cox was most definitely not.
Sebastian wandered around the exhibit drinking a punch that was slightly less offensive than the cheap champagne, brooding over why Miss Logan hadn't wanted to be with him tonight.
Bored and only happening to catch a glimpse of a very tall blonde entering the gallery long after the unveiling, he ambled along behind her to see what he could see. When she turned, his breath caught in his throat and he nearly dropped his glass.
She had one green eye and one blue eye, and they sparkled merrily as she looked around her. Her mouth was full and curving in a generous yet sensual smile. She had soft, straight butter-blonde hair to the middle of her biceps where it curled at the ends and lacked the harshness of any chemical coloring.
Her body was lush, shown to perfection in a shimmering iridescent dark copper gown cut like a double-breasted tuxedo jacket that flared out into a long bell skirt to her ankles. Her lapels were iridescent black. Her sleeves stopped just below her elbows and were turned up in French cuffs that matched her lapels. She had high heels on, which made her stand head and shoulders above everyone else.
She was stunning, a Viking goddess, and he smiled, looking down into his glass and shaking his head. Whatever he'd expected Eilis Logan to look like under all that badly fitting Chanel, pancake makeup, brown contact lenses, and hair-darkening gel, this was not it.
He walked over to her, hooking her elbow in his right hand and gently pulling her away from the paintings. She gasped in protest and then stilled when she saw who he was, angry that she'd been caught.
"I have an eye for detail, Miss Logan," he purred in her ear, not having let go of her and, in fact, pulling her even closer to him. Any excuse-he'd take it. "I will admit you have a very good act; you even have Knox fooled and it's not easy to do that when he's actually paying attention."
She looked straight at him, no shorter than he in four-inch heels. Her two different-colored eyes blazed. "Let me go," she whispered hotly, and he was very pleased to know there was passion and fire under that luscious skin-and that he really could get to her. "I didn't come here to be 'on.' I came here to enjoy myself without being reminded of my humiliation by every mogul in the room."
He could see how that would be distressing to her, now that she mentioned it. "I'm sorry," he said and released her, stepping back and into cool King Midas once again. "I didn't think."
"No, you didn't," she shot back, though still quiet. "I would like for you to figure out when it would be most convenient to let me have a vacation. I need one. Badly. If I must take it up with the prosecutor myself, then I will do so. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'd like to go look at this man's work in peace."
"Wait," he said, unsure what he was going to say. She had barely turned and she stopped, looking over her shoulder at him. "I- May I accompany you through the exhibit?"
"Why?"
His mouth tightened. "Because I would like to, if you would allow me the pleasure."
Her eyes widened at his sudden formality, but he was pretty impressed with himself for not actually looking like a complete buffoon. He'd actually said what he meant to say.
"Pleasure? You don't even like me."
He looked at her, confused. "Why would you assume that?"
She stared at him for what seemed like hours, then finally said, "Well." Her mouth twitched indecisively for a moment. "All right. I suppose I can't stop you."
It wasn't much, but it was a start.
"Did you do this, Eilis?" Sebastian asked. "This garden?"
"Yes."
"I'm- This is- Breathtaking."
"Would you like a tour?" she asked, hesitant, as if she didn't trust that he was telling her the truth.
"Yes, I would love one."
She didn't seem inclined to talk and neither did he. He took in every bit of color and he knew she was watching him. At this point, he wasn't sure if he wanted more to stare at Eilis or Eilis's garden.
In the back of the house was a swimming pool. Winding around the property, there were cobbled paths that served as a simple framework for its various beds of autumn flowers that, around trees, were built with stacked stone and, on the hills and in the dales, with no banding whatsoever. One path diverged and meandered through the lawn, then turned and disappeared into a small glade. Mourning doves and other evening birds called; frogs croaked.
Around the bend of the path, there was a very wide stone bridge over a creek. In it, she'd planted lemon grass to keep mosquitoes away and rushes, and had strategically placed rocks so as to get a gurgling sound that she could probably hear on a still night, to clean the water as it went through, and to keep mosquitoes at bay.
"Eilis," he said suddenly, earnestly, his attraction to her only increasing exponentially at this display of artistry and skill. "You are a master gardener. I might not know much, but I do know that. You've done this magnificent work yourself and I-" He stopped and looked around. "I'm awed. I could spend days lost in here."
She sniffled and he went around her to find her with her hand to her nose and tears streaming down her face.
"What? What did I say?" he asked, almost panicking because he must have said the exact wrong thing.
"My-" She gulped and tried to squelch a hiccup. "David- My ex-husband. He thought it was a waste of time."
"Eilis, look at me." He knew she didn't want to because she was crying, but she did anyway. "The man embezzled almost a hundred million dollars from you, half of which Knox wasn't able to recover. Why would you care about his opinion?"
"I don't care, exactly," she said. "But I had to redo my entire garden to get rid of the sound of his mocking in my head. I still don't bring anybody here in case they... I don't know why I let you see it."
"Eilis, this is a work of art," he murmured. "I've been to the best gardens in the world and this-this work you have created with your own two hands-rivals them all." He could see that she wanted to believe what he said, but didn't really. "Eilis." He loved her name and said it every chance he got. "I speculate in art. I know greatness when I see it."
This time he didn't ask permission first. He enfolded her in his arms, the back of her head in his palm, and kissed her. Lightly at first, he felt her acquiesce; deepening the kiss, his tongue teasing hers, pleading with her to come play with him, he felt her melt into him. If he thought Knox wouldn't crack his head open for it, he'd lay her down in a bed of dying wildflowers and make love to her right then and there, amongst the wonder she'd built.
Bryce had arisen before Giselle awoke. She smiled as she grabbed his pillow and sniffed deeply. Once she had showered and dressed, she went downstairs to find him.
She couldn't and the house was quiet. Then she heard water running, possibly from a garden hose, and the sounds of squishing and metal on metal. She followed it out the back door to the long verandah and saw Bryce, clad in short denim shorts and steel-toed boots, most of his body exposed. His back to her, he mixed mortar in a wheelbarrow with a hoe. Nearby were two pallets of flat stones.
The muscles of his back and arms bunched and unbunched under all those beautiful battle wounds. So. He was a stonemason in his free time. She leaned against the column of the porch, her arms crossed, and just watched him work.
He never turned around, never saw her watching him while he worked the cement and sand and water, and she wondered if he used this to exorcise some demons or frustrations. Troubled then, as if she had peeped at something private, she went back into the house to see what she could see and make herself useful.
She knew he had lemons because she'd made the hollandaise sauce with juice she'd squeezed. She found some strawberries to puree and use as sweetener. They'd sweeten it enough for her, but probably not enough for Bryce, so she poured a quart of the lemonade for herself, then dumped a cupful of sugar into his jar and hoped she'd estimated well enough.
When she finally went outside with the glasses, she saw him up to his elbows in mortar, having begun his project while she'd made the lemonade. He barely glanced up at her before finishing his first course. She sat down on the top step of the porch and sipped her lemonade, watching him heft stone with one hand, butter with the other, set precisely, and then tap gently, patiently, until satisfied it lay perfectly.
No wonder his hands were so rough, so calloused. No wonder he could lift her so easily and put her wherever he wanted her.
Her arousal crept up on her as she watched him twist and lift, set and level stone. She studied his hips and his ass and the outline of his penis where it nestled in his groin, all covered by a mere scrap of very tight, very revealing denim. She took a long look at his musclebound legs that disappeared into white socks, then the brown high-top boots. She sighed when she thought of what that body could do to her and had done to her and what more she'd like for it to do to her. What she wanted to do to it. She couldn't stop staring.
He was beautiful. And he was hers.