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Push My Buttons — Janet Eckford
Control.
Esme Sanders wore that very thing in every fiber of her being. She had sex down to a guaranteed science. Not f***ing, not making love, but sex. A private matter to be handled in the missionary position, under the covers, with the lights out and a few slow puffs of air as a backdrop every now and again. So why exactly had she let her cousin drag her out into the den of iniquity that was the infamous sex club Munya? Why was she talking to some tall and burly, but extremely manly stranger? And why was she allowing him to put his mouth there...
Oh yeah, now she remembered...
EXCERPT:
She was operating on autopilot as she shook his hand, continuing to stare in amazement. It was taking her mind some time to reconcile the mundane conversation being delivered in a voice that by its sound alone, caused her hindbrain to perk up at the warning of danger. His grip swallowed her much smaller hand, but his gentle handling of her continued to dismantle stereotypes she'd formed.
“Esmé,” she replied, feeling her face heat at the look of pleasure he received at receiving her name.
She initially planned to give a fake name tonight. She promised Gemma she'd be open-minded, but there was no way she wanted anything to tie her back to this place once she was done. The shock of her honest reply was derailed at the feel of his thumb gently rubbing the top of her hand.
“Beautiful name.”
He continued to hold her hand in his large palm. His nails were short, clean, and well-kept, but they didn't have the manicured veneer she usually looked for in men. She could tell by the rough texture of his skin that he worked with his hands, and the thought of him laboring under a hot sun suddenly made her feel hot and bothered. It was her turn to respond, to volley back the conversational ball, but she was too entranced with watching him turn her hand over in his and explore the texture of her fingers. Esmé noticed that his lightly tanned skin contrasted with her own nut-brown complexion, but it wasn't as stark as she would have expected.
“You're really soft,” he whispered reverently.
Esmé shivered again, and this time instead of asking if she were cold, Davor smiled knowingly. It was one of the sexist looks she'd ever seen on a man. At the sound of his statement her breathing became exhilarated , and the more critical part of her brain that had momentarily gone on hiatus at the sight of such a rugged man, chastised her for panting. She was going to internalize her critical voice, turn away from the soft caress of rough fingers on soft skin, but the words of the fortune teller flashed like a bolt of lightning through her brain. She wasn't controlled by her past.
“Very,” she replied with a smile and a wink before she pulled him down for a kiss.
Esme Sanders wore that very thing in every fiber of her being. She had sex down to a guaranteed science. Not f***ing, not making love, but sex. A private matter to be handled in the missionary position, under the covers, with the lights out and a few slow puffs of air as a backdrop every now and again. So why exactly had she let her cousin drag her out into the den of iniquity that was the infamous sex club Munya? Why was she talking to some tall and burly, but extremely manly stranger? And why was she allowing him to put his mouth there...
Oh yeah, now she remembered...
EXCERPT:
She was operating on autopilot as she shook his hand, continuing to stare in amazement. It was taking her mind some time to reconcile the mundane conversation being delivered in a voice that by its sound alone, caused her hindbrain to perk up at the warning of danger. His grip swallowed her much smaller hand, but his gentle handling of her continued to dismantle stereotypes she'd formed.
“Esmé,” she replied, feeling her face heat at the look of pleasure he received at receiving her name.
She initially planned to give a fake name tonight. She promised Gemma she'd be open-minded, but there was no way she wanted anything to tie her back to this place once she was done. The shock of her honest reply was derailed at the feel of his thumb gently rubbing the top of her hand.
“Beautiful name.”
He continued to hold her hand in his large palm. His nails were short, clean, and well-kept, but they didn't have the manicured veneer she usually looked for in men. She could tell by the rough texture of his skin that he worked with his hands, and the thought of him laboring under a hot sun suddenly made her feel hot and bothered. It was her turn to respond, to volley back the conversational ball, but she was too entranced with watching him turn her hand over in his and explore the texture of her fingers. Esmé noticed that his lightly tanned skin contrasted with her own nut-brown complexion, but it wasn't as stark as she would have expected.
“You're really soft,” he whispered reverently.
Esmé shivered again, and this time instead of asking if she were cold, Davor smiled knowingly. It was one of the sexist looks she'd ever seen on a man. At the sound of his statement her breathing became exhilarated , and the more critical part of her brain that had momentarily gone on hiatus at the sight of such a rugged man, chastised her for panting. She was going to internalize her critical voice, turn away from the soft caress of rough fingers on soft skin, but the words of the fortune teller flashed like a bolt of lightning through her brain. She wasn't controlled by her past.
“Very,” she replied with a smile and a wink before she pulled him down for a kiss.
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