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, along with her newest release, Stay. 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!
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.
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Book Review: Stay by Moriah Jovan
