Rachel Cooke loves sex, but doesn't give it away to just anyone. When she meets Scott at the club where she sings, sparks fly. They flirt, they drink, they laugh, and go dancing. After several dances, Scott suggests they go someplace quiet and talk, but having just ended a disastrous relationship with her boyfriend/agent, Rachel isn’t ready to trust herself, let alone some new guy.
When an innocent comment from Scott leads to a crazy test of his character, Rachel finds herself spending a hands-off night with him in her hotel room—naked.
Barely surviving the night, the next morning all bets are off. Their passion knows no bounds, and the two of them become inseparable. That is, until Rachel's ex-boyfriend shows up, attempting to get her back by Dangling a series of lucrative engagements in front of her. Now, Rachel must decide if what she's found with Scott is love or lust, and if it's love, is he worthy of her trust?
Situated on the Strip south of Circus Circus Hotel, Pussy Cats was the in club of the moment. Its ultra modern stainless steel motif catered to the beautiful people of Vegas and adventurous, well-heeled tourists. The drinks were expensive, the music loud, the mood seductively dark and the women…As always, the women were hot! But none that night hotter than Rachel Cooke.
Gyrating with the best of them to the sexy rhythm driven beat, Rachel in her scanty attire with her lissome, sexy frame was a show within a show on Pussy Cat’s dance floor. Drinking in her marvelous undulating form, visions of her transferring those sexy dance moves with my cock buried in her, teased my brain. Goddamn! Can she move. I’ll bet she’s a fucking nympho in the sack.
The only thing preventing my libido from tenting my pants was the energy I was expending keeping up with Rachel's wild moves. Out of breath and near passing out from exertion, the ending of the third heart pumping, high tempo dance number was going to be the death of me. And then, salvation. Taking pity on the sweaty dancers, the band played a slow song.
A frenzy of excitement settled in the pit of my stomach as I trapped the hot little minx in my arms. Damn, she feels good, as she wrapped her arms around me and nuzzled in close. A few inches below me in height, everything seemed to line up to erotic advantage.
Cradled against my thighs, her breasts against my chest, the music created a sensual rhythm that no longer moved our feet but swayed our bodies tighter together. She nestled in even closer and my erection surged between us. I slid my hands down and grasped her shapely ass, feeling the seams of her skimpy panties through the flimsy fabric of her mini-skirt. She exuded sex—raw sex. I was hard as a hammer and with the subtlest of movements, pressed it into her abdomen to feel her response. She pressed back. Oh, yeah!
Feminine hands slid from my back and moved around to my chest. For a few seconds they rested on my upper chest and she snuggled her pretty face into the crook of my neck, but as I continued to press my hard groin into her, and squeeze her buttocks, her right hand moved up behind my neck. Long graceful fingers pulled my face toward her upturned lips and as our mouths clashed, I nibbled on her warm, pliant lips. A charge of voltage ran clear to my toes as her tongue parted my lips and brushed across my teeth. She was the aggressor and I the all too willing recipient. A groan escaped me as her greedy tongue darted in and she responded to my grinding hardness by matching my thrusts and pushing her hot pussy into my rigid cock. My body was shaking, boiling up and on the verge of losing control. Carol never affected me this way. Damn, I want what she’s offering! This pretty piece of flesh must be mine.Biografía del autor:
Dee Dawning has been writing saucy romance stories and novels for six years. At this time he has over thirty-five titles available. The Bastard Preacher is his first foray into mainstream fiction. Dee & his lovely wife currently reside in Scottsdale, Arizona, where he writes a novella every two or three months or a new novel every six months.
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