Dead to the Max is still free, but it will soon be going back to its regular price.
I’m very pleased to announce the start of my new West Coast series. No, it’s not about living on the West Coast. West Coast Manufacturing is a Silicon Valley manufacturing company where the executives are exceptionally hot and sexy. Just the kind of company I would have liked to work at in my old accounting days, where the view in the boardroom is breathtaking.
There’s swinging, wife swapping, and now there’s hotwifing, so let me tell you what hotwifing is, in case you’ve never heard of it, because I certainly hadn’t. In a hotwifing relationship, the woman has lovers with her husband or boyfriend’s approval. Usually she comes home from a “date” to tell him all about it. Often they plan the “date” together. Of course, what every couple does will vary greatly, but here’s the most important thing about hotwifing: the man does not have other lovers. Nope, he’s monogamous. And he loves it that way! I didn’t realize I’d written hotwifing stories, but there were a couple of them in my courtesans tales, Dax and Nicole in Yours for the Night being one of them. Past Midnight is also involves hotwifing. I didn’t know what I was writing about until another writer, Cody Alston, pointed it out to me. And defined it for me (thanks, Cody!). So I figured I’d dedicate a whole series to it!
So today I’m introducing the first book in the series, Revenge Sex. Each story is novella length, about 40,000 words (150 pages) and in ebook format only for the time being. Thanks to Rae Monet for the sexy cover! I’ve got a very naughty excerpt from the book, so please be over 18 if you choose to read it.
A brand new series about sexy hotwives and the men who want them
A man, the hotwife he can’t control...and the woman who wants to fix what’s wrong with him.
Tough, autocratic CFO Clay Blackwell strikes both fear and loyalty into the hearts of his employees. But he’s got one quirk no one at West Coast Manufacturing knows; he loves the idea of his live-in girlfriend Ruby being with another man...then coming home to him for the best sex of his life as she describes every naughty detail. He’s only got three stipulations: no sex with anyone from work, no sex with another man in their own home, and she always has to tell him when she has a date. The problem? What to do with a “hotwife” who has all the freedom any woman could want, but still can’t follow three simple rules.
Jessica Murphy has the utmost respect and admiration for her CFO. She also has wild sex fantasies about Clay every night. Not that she’d ever tell anyone. Until she walks in on Clay’s girlfriend Ruby screwing Bradley the financial analyst right on Clay’s desk.
All bets are off and a little revenge sex is the name of the game. Ruby thinks she’ll placate Clay by telling him to have sex with another woman to pay her back for all her rule-breaking. When Jessica learns about that, she makes up her mind to seduce her boss for keeps, not just one night of revenge.
But can she become the more-than-one-man woman Clay Blackwell wants? Or will his desires tear them apart?
West Coast Series, Book 1
Copyright 2011 Jasmine Haynes
Hoisting her onto the desktop, Bradley spread her legs and yanked on her pretty purple thong.
“Oh yeah, baby, that’s it, rip them off.” Ruby loved Bradley’s he-man act. Of course, the panties didn’t tear, but so what, he still managed to slide the thong down her legs and toss it into the corner.
Ruby was wet and ready before Bradley even licked her. She’d been wet all day planning the naughty little encounter.
“I’m going to make you scream,” he boasted, then he put his tongue to her.
And truly, she did want to scream. “Oh, that’s so right, baby. Clay never does it like that. He never finds the right spot.” Bradley always needed a little ego boost to get him going, and what better way than to tell him how much better he was than Clay, her live-in boyfriend, lover—whatever you wanted to call him—and most importantly, Bradley’s boss.
Leaning back on her elbows, she drew her knees up so she could watch every move he made. His hair was a lustrous dark brown against the perfect white flesh of her thighs. His shoulders were wide, and she loved the sight of him in his white dress shirt as he went to town on her. Ruby enjoyed watching a man make love to her with his mouth. She loved the brush of soft hair against her skin, and the bristle of Bradley’s perpetual quarter-inch growth of beard. She relished each and every sensation.
She especially loved cuckolding Clay on his very big desk at ten o’clock on a weeknight after the cleaners had all gone home. His second-floor office overlooked the parking lot and road, yet with the conference table between the windows and Clay’s desk, they were virtually unnoticeable from the outside. So Ruby had left the lights on, all the better to see Bradley down between her legs.
“Ooh,” she crooned. “Clay hardly ever licks me.” She moaned. “And I so love the way you do it.” Bradley was twenty-nine and a mere financial analyst, so she had to find ways to coax the best out of him—young men still had so much to learn. One of those ways was to tell him how much more virile he was than his boss, or rather, his boss twice removed. Bradley worked for the finance manager who in turn worked for Clay, but really, it was Clay Bradley had to impress. To be honest, Clay didn’t always appreciate Bradley’s work, so Ruby had made it her mission to help the young man feel he was good enough in other realms. Like doing her nine ways to Sunday. On a Wednesday night.
Then she stopped thinking and let sensation take over. “Don’t stop, lick me, baby, just like that.” The heat built inside her, ready to burst, yet she pushed it off a little longer, like riding a magnificent wave just before it crashes.
Bradley put two fingers inside her the way she’d taught him, and found her G-spot right away. Oh, that boy was improving. She shuddered, then cried out, “Yes, yes, yes.” And the climax pulsed through her body.
Before it could end, she grabbed Bradley by the hair. “Fuck me now.”
Bradley grabbed her hips, and rolled her over, her stomach bare against the cool wood of the desk. She loved it from behind, pushed against a hard surface, taken, almost forced. Especially when Clay took her this way. He was so big, so tall, three inches taller than Bradley’s six feet.
Behind her, Bradley made fast work of the condom. “It’s going to be so good, you won’t want to even go home to him.”
She didn’t tell him that would never happen; better not to spoil the moment. “When he does me, baby, I imagine it’s you.” Actually, when Bradley did her, she imagined telling Clay about it later, how hot he’d get, how it turned him into a wild man. Her wild man.
Bradley plunged deep. Glorying in the feel of him, she stretched out her hands, accidentally knocking over the photo of Clay and his two teenage sons. Oops. But oh, this was good, so very good. He was young and strong, his technique not better than Clay’s, just different. It still needed refining, but he was a fast learner, at least in the sex department. She adored teaching a young man new tricks. She was forty years old—a hot little number, if she did say so herself—and proud of her toned figure and that her face had only a smattering of age lines. She was better than she’d ever been. Bradley couldn’t get enough of her.
“Oh my God,” she cried out. “You fill me up. You’re so much bigger and thicker than Clay.”
At her words, Bradley went crazy, assured of how much more virile he was than Clay. These young men performed so well when you told them what they wanted to hear. Stretching out her arms, she curled her fingers around the edge of the desk and gave herself up to the moment, to the feel of a hard, young cock inside her and the second sweet climb to the pinnacle.
* * * * *
Jessica Murphy jerked, then snapped to a sitting position on the break room sofa. In the dark, the microwave clock flipped to ten-oh-five in bright blue letters. Good Lord, all she’d wanted to do was rest her eyes, a five-minute catnap; she’d slept for over an hour. The board meeting was on Friday, and she needed to review the March quarterly financials tomorrow with Clay Blackwell, her CFO. But there was an issue in CIP, the construction-in-progress account.
A noise had woken her. It couldn’t be the cleaning staff; they’d left before her so-called catnap. She rose from the couch, crossing to the door by the illumination of the microwave clock. The hallway was dark. She’d turned out all the lights, not wanting to waste electricity, especially when she was accounting manager for West Coast Manufacturing, which meant she knew exactly how much the PG&E bill was.
There it was again. Bracing herself against the doorframe, she strained to hear. A moan. Then she was sure she could make out voices, though the words were indistinguishable. She shivered slightly. The automatic thermostat turned the heating down at nine, raising it again at six in the morning. Despite being the beginning of April, the San Francisco Bay Area was still chilly at night.
Stepping out into the hallway, which bordered all the cubicles in the middle of the large accounting department, she made out lights on the far side. From the CFO’s office. But Clay had been long gone before she’d crashed on the break room sofa. Obviously, he’d come back.
What if he’d discovered her sleeping? Jessica fluffed her hair, which was curly and tended to get mashed after she slept on it. It must look like a rat’s nest. And her lipstick was probably smudged. She ran a finger under each eye to get rid of any mascara, then smoothed beneath her lips, hoping that was good enough to fix the lipstick. She hated the idea of Clay Blackwell seeing her at anything less than her best. He lived with the CEO’s executive admin, Ruby Williams, and Jessica didn’t have designs on him—she wasn’t a home wrecker—but she admired Clay immensely and...well...a woman could have her fantasies in the middle of the night when no one else suspected.
All right, nothing could be done about her appearance now. She marched down the small walkway between the cubicles, and the sounds from the other side of the thin dividers grew exponentially louder with every step she took. Jessica’s heart started to pound, and she thought about turning around and getting the hell out. Because really, what was Clay Blackwell doing in his office? And just who was he with?
She might have run, too, if she hadn’t heard distinct words in a female voice—“Clay’s never fucked me like this”—punctuated by a man’s low growl of pleasure.
Turning the corner by the end of a cubicle wall, Jessica could see straight into Clay’s office. Her breath stopped in her chest.
Ruby Williams was facedown on the desk, skirt pushed up over her butt, dark hair flowing around her shoulders, eyes closed, her red lips parted on a moan of intense pleasure. Behind her, Bradley Palmer slammed into her, each thrust shoving her across the desk.
I hope you enjoyed this excerpt. Here’s where you can find Revenge Sex in e-book format: Amazon, Smashwords, and soon to be on B&N (it's still processing in their queue).
Monday, December 5, 2011
First a reminder that Dead to the Max, Book 1, is free on most major e-book retailers. It'll be jumping back up to regular price soon, so now's your chance to try the Max Starr series, http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003XRE4XG.
Last week I told you all about She's Gotta Be Mine, Cottonmouth Book 1. This week, I’ll give you an excerpt of Fool’s Gold, Cottonmouth Book 2! Both of these books are reissues from 2005, but they’re updated, and available for the first time in e-book, with wonderful new covers by Rae Monet Inc!
When I was writing She’s Gotta Be Mine, I actually fell in love with Sheriff Tyler Braxton. I wanted Bobbie Jones to fall him love with him, too, but since Nick Angel was such a misunderstood hottie, she went and fell for the bad boy instead. Which meant I had to write another story so Brax could find his happy ending. Now as I was thinking about Brax, I visited my brother-in-law in Goldfield, Nevada. If you’ve ever seen the old classic Vanishing Point with Barry Newman (rent it if you haven’t!), all the town scenes were filmed in Goldfield. Now that movie was made in the seventies, and I swear to you, Goldfield looks exactly the same. And there are some very odd characters there. My brother-in-law told me a ton of stories, about outhouse excavating and the “twinkie” caper. So when I was making up my fictional town of Goldstone, well, it looks like Goldfield, and it has a lot of my brother-in-law’s tall tales (thank you very much, Jonny)! I made some stuff up, too (there’s no whorehouse called The Chicken Coop, swear it).
So, let me introduce you to Goldstone and Sheriff Tyler Braxton in Fool's Gold:
Goldstone, Nevada: It’s not your typical vacation getaway.
Sheriff Tyler Braxton hightails it out of Cottonmouth to Goldstone for a little R&R, when his sister puts out a distress call. Suddenly, instead of vacationing, Brax is offering advice to the lovelorn! And to top it off, he has to start his own investigation on his sister’s behalf: Is his brother-in-law having an affair with the local erotic author?
Simone Chandler has found her haven in Goldstone; she loves the forsaken town and its lovable but somewhat beleaguered residents. With a thriving Internet business penning made-to-order erotic fantasies, some of her friends in Goldstone just happen to be her clients, too. The problem: The hunky sheriff from out of town wonders if she’s not only writing stories for his brother-in-law, but acting them out with him, too.
Then murder comes to Goldstone, and Brax is suddenly hip-deep in small-town secrets, with sexy Simone Chandler at the head his suspect list.
Is Simone the real thing, or, as with everything else in Goldstone, is she Fool’s Gold?
You can find Fool’s Gold at Amazon, B&N, Smashwords, Sony, and Apple. Here’s an excerpt. In this scene, Brax has been forced to attend a tea party at the local rest home called Our Manor of the Ladies. Be sure to read all the way to the end because I’ve got a special surprise for you!
Cottonmouth Book 2
Copyright 2011 by Jennifer Skully
Brax shot the table at large a winning smile. “May I have one of those delicacies?”
“Scones. I made them myself. They let us use the kitchen here, you know,” Rowena said in her quaint British accent. “I’ve always loved baking, but with my chosen profession, I never had much time. Since I came here, why I bake to my heart’s content, don’t I, girls?”
“You should taste her trifle,” Nonnie added. “Delicious.”
“Trifle isn’t baked, you silly woman,” Divine burst in. “It’s custard and whipped cream.”
“Don’t forget the sherry on the ladyfingers,” Agnes trilled. “Rowena always puts extra sherry. It’s simply orgasmic.”
Brax almost knocked his water tumbler over. He cocked his head and stared at Agnes as if he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. Then he grinned, which Simone determined to mean he’d decided he’d imagined the word. After all, Agnes, her pile of gray hair knotted and confined in a silvery hair net with tiny sparkles of glitter, certainly didn’t look as though she’d say orgasmic. Simone covered her mouth to hide her smile, though it would have been terribly embarrassing if Brax had understood exactly what their former chosen profession had been.
He came out with “I’d love to try it sometime.”
“And then there’s her nut torte,” Nonnie added. “It’s made with crushed nuts, no flour or anything. It’s amazing. And there’s—”
“Pass him a scone, Nonnie, before he expires of hunger,” Rowena admonished.
“Ladies first,” Brax said politely.
“Oh no, you’re the first man we’ve entertained since Chloe opened the place,” Agnes revealed. “Gentleman callers first.”
“Oh yes, yes. And jam and butter.” The plate of scones rattled against the jam pot as Nonnie passed them to Brax with slightly palsied fingers.
“I can’t wait.” Brax took the offering, but his glance shot speculatively to Chloe.
Our Manor of the Ladies had been Chloe’s brainchild, and she’d funded a goodly portion of it, then chided town dignitaries to raise the additional monies. It had taken almost a year, but finally, the Manor had opened to its first residents, the four women now seated at the table.
“Here’s your tea,” Agnes said, passing the cup. Lukewarm liquid sloshed into the saucer. “And you must have milk and sugar, the way the British drink it. Rowena taught us that.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Brax poured milk, stirred sugar, and spread jam and butter as the ladies tweeted around him like birds.
“Oh my, would you look at the size of his hands.” Eyes wide, hand over her mouth, Agnes was agog.
Brax stopped with a bit of scone halfway to his mouth. Then he extended his arm to look at the aforementioned hand. He quirked an eyebrow. “Is there something wrong with my hands?”
“Oh no,” Nonnie chirped.
“They’re so large,” Agnes went on with awe in her voice.
His gaze flashed left to right, from one lady to the other, his question shouted in his glance.
“You know what they say about a man’s hands, don’t you?”
Oh my God. Catastrophe was coming. Simone opened her mouth to divert it just as Brax said, “No, what do they say?”
Agnes let the words burst forth. “Why, that the size of a man’s hands is directly proportional to the size of his penis.”
If he’d been drinking his tea, Simone was sure he’d have spit mouthfuls across the table. As it was, his pupils dilated, and the scone dropped to his plate, landing with a splat, jam side down.
“Is it true?” Nonnie asked with wide-eyed innocence.
Simone’s cheeks flamed. Why, the old jokesters.
“You two stop that right now. My mother always says the tea table isn’t the place for discussing”—Simone searched for an appropriate euphemism and fell back on—“tallywhackers.” Brax was going to think that’s all they talked about in Goldstone.
Agnes hid behind pouring tea for everyone else and passing out the cups as someone—maybe Divine—snickered. Nonnie blinked behind her jeweled cat’s-eye glasses and said, “It isn’t?”
Rowena sampled her scone and pronounced it “Magnificent, if I do say so myself. And, my dear, in our profession, penises are always the first thing we wonder about.”
“Former profession,” Chloe corrected.
Rowena sniffed. “If men realized the virtue of an older, experienced woman, it wouldn’t be former, darling.”
“Here, here.” The ladies clinked cups, china tinkling in the dining room.
Brax had yet to pick up his teacup or his upside-down scone. Now that was a squirrel-in-the-center-of-the-road look if Simone ever saw one.
Divine tapped Maggie’s arm. “You didn’t tell him, honey?”
Maggie, silent and morose up to this point, twisted her paper napkin until it fell apart in her fingers. “I didn’t think I needed to.”
“Tell me what?” Brax croaked. His voice probably hadn’t cracked like that since he was thirteen years old. He had to know what was coming. In fact, Simone could have sworn he ducked slightly as if to ward off the blow.
“Our Manor of the Ladies is a home for former ladies of the night,” Divine explained.
“Chloe built it for us,” Rowena added.
“Sadly, many of us aren’t terribly good at saving our money for old age,” Agnes admitted.
“We never thought we’d reach old age,” Divine scoffed. “What with AIDS and all that.”
“Speak for yourself.” Rowena tipped her head with a queenlike gesture in Divine’s direction. “I always insisted on protection even before it was fashionable.”
Brax made an odd sound, either horrified laughter or he was choking on the bit of scone he’d just popped in his mouth.
“But Chloe came to our rescue.” Nonnie acknowledged credit where credit was definitely due.
“Isn’t she the most wonderful person?” Agnes said on a grateful sigh. The others nodded their heads like bobbing apples.
Simone couldn’t agree more, but Chloe, flustered by the glowing compliments and admiration, busied herself with buttering a second scone.
That’s why Chloe was the only one in town who wanted Jason’s resort. Most thought it was because she wanted increased traffic through The Chicken Coop. Which was true, but Simone suspected she wanted the extra cash flow to support the Manor. Fifteen ladies now lived in the small rest home, but she constantly received new petitioners. Chloe had a hard time saying no.
Brax finally swallowed the scone. He raised his dainty teacup, which looked ridiculously fragile in his big hand, and saluted each one. “Here’s to the most gracious quartet of ex-ladies of the night I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.” Then he inclined his head toward The Chicken Coop’s madam. “And to Chloe for her generosity.”
They all drank to his toast.
What a sweet guy. He could have run screaming from the room.
Agnes pointed to the hand still holding his teacup aloft and said, “So, don’t keep us in suspense. Eight inches? Or more?”
I hope you enjoyed the excerpt! Here’s my special surprise. My quaint British mother makes the trifle described in the excerpt. The recipe follows! It’s divine!
Mom’s English Trifle
2 packages lady finger cakes
Raspberry jam as needed
4 to 6 T sherry
2 bananas sliced
1 package thick custard
2 half pints whipping cream
Place lady fingers around edge and center of dessert bowl, covering the whole bowl. Spread raspberry jam over top of cake (thin layer to individual liking). Drizzle sherry on top to soak into cake. Layer bananas on top of cake and sherry. Make thick custard from package and spread over bananas and cake. Whip cream and top over cooled custard.