Body Wisdom & Uncompromising Portraits by Lizbeth Dusseau
Two sexy, sensuous novels combined in this paperback duo...
Body Wisdom ... The prim librarian, Jessie, can't believe she's fallen in love with a leather-clad motorcycle bad boy. But with eyes that go straight to her heart, the dashing rebel has the town librarian mesmerized. Their spirited clash pits Kurt's reckless independence against Jessie's incurable stability for a sizzling erotic escapade. When disaster strikes, and their stubborn temperments collide will their passions triumph, or is their relationship doomed?
Uncompromising Portraits ... Forbidden desire drives Sydney to pose nude for an artist against her husband's wishes. Defying him, she begins a steamy affair with the artist and another model, Tomas, which threatens to tear her marriage apart. Breaking all taboos, this lusty menage a trois fulfills her in ways she never believed possible. Yet, for all her sexual freedom something is missing, with her heart still aching for the man she loves.
There was a fluttering in my tummy and a burning sensation between my legs whenever my mind wandered back to him. I sat on my stool at the library pressing myself into the cushion, squirming all afternoon. The picture of his face kept reappearing in my mind, that smile, those eyes, his hand with its simple caress. I could almost feel it again against my face.
By four thirty, I thought my body was going to burst apart. I locked the door of the library nearly ten minutes before the hour, not really caring that I was closing early. I had to get home. I might have walked by the cottage, but I avoided that. A strange obsession gripped me, so that I'm sure if I'd seen him, I would have blushed madly, and trembled, and said something completely stupid.
Why was I, now in my late thirties, having such thoughts for a man at least seven years my junior? I had resolved sometime ago, that I needed an older man, someone, graying, mature and stable, even though that sounded rather boring. Here was an artist/potter/landscaper, a latter-day barefoot hippie, and my skin was crawling, my body ready to jump from its boundaries.
At home I looked in the mirror at my eyes and the tiny crows feet around them; and at all the other imperfections I was so quick to find. They aren't too bad I thought. I dye my short hair a soft reddish blonde and it looks stylish. I refuse to dress in "librarian" clothes. The long silky skirt did cover my legs; but the shimmery tank I wore with it was cut low enough that a sexy cleavage showed, for those that bothered to look.
I would often play a game with myself at the library, counting the men that noticed my chest when I was sitting on my stool at the front desk, and who would look down the front of my top when I leaned over. I had most of the men in Shelter Bay pegged as shameless voyeurs, though some were more direct than others with their gazing.
Now, even with my bra on, I could see my nipples poking softly through the silk fabric. I once claimed them my curse, though nipples are suppose to be in style now.
As I viewed my reflection, I pressed my hand to my groin and moved on it. I'd planned to talk myself out of this obsession with one look at myself in the mirror, seeing all the signs of age I always noticed so readily, glaring out at me. Yet, it didn't turn out that way. The woman I saw reflected back was youthful, sensuous and aroused. The more I watched her move, the more she excited me.
I closed my eyes to imagine the young man approaching me from behind, with that smile and those eyes, with his hand reaching out to take charge of me and play with my heated body.
I slowly shed my clothes down to my cream colored panties and bra. The little lacy things made me look even better than I often imagine my body to be. What would my young man think if he was really here? My imagination was soaring. I could feel his hands on my breasts, fondling them with those decisive fingers. They would move to my abdomen, and then run between my legs. His hands would join mine playing there, where he'd rub me in the soft wet pink places, just as I rubbed myself. Those deft hands of his had a way of finding the most sensitive sexual spots, for I couldn't imagine him as anything but a very skilled lover.
Even when I peeked out, opening my eyes to see my gently swaying form in the mirror, I thought I could see him behind me - the smile, the eyes, the compact muscled body I imagined underneath his clothes. He moved against my back so I could feel his rising cock press against my rear end. The sensuous pulsing had the strangest effect. Darts of energy shot through me, where I could feel it deep between my legs, and in my cunt that pulsed madly with the provocative need quickly mounting.
When my head fell back, and fantasy fell away, I rocked against my hand, as a sharp grabbing jolt shook me. And then relaxing, it let go in a shower of sensations that poured from me, all around my body. I opened my eyes to see myself flushed, feeling almost as if I was floating, and then I collapsed back on my bed, letting the satin bedspread cool the heat.
c) 2004 Thomas Roche, www.skidroche.com