Wednesday, 31 October 2012

Buy the book...

Love between a white woman and a Cherokee warrior is forbidden in Virginia in the 1820s. After killing her brother in self-defense, Lyrissa Murphy escapes to the shelter of Crazy Woman Cave. When Gray Horse Redhand tracks her there, he realizes their survival depends on joining forces and traveling to the west. Before they have the chance to leave, their encounter with a dangerous enemy leads to the discovery of an ancient burial and a beautiful spear.

Fleeing deadly pursuit from her unbalanced father, Lyrissa and Gray enter a new, unknown world. There they face threatening encounters with vicious warriors and strange animals, discover a magical future, and fall deeply in love. Their shared desire sustains and encourages them as the mysterious, enchanted spear points the way to the Dragon Fort of the Tuatha where they finally accept their new, unexpected home in the heart of Cabhán Geal.


Tracking down a white woman who murdered her brother was a fool’s errand. A warrior of the people had no business meddling in the whites’ affairs. Yet, here he was, crouched beneath a narrow, rocky shelf jutting from an ancient, granite cliff, patiently waiting out the storm’s fury. Gray Horse Redhand shook his head as he stared out at the deluge.

Wind whistled through the fall woods, snagging dying leaves and hurling them to the forest floor as rain poured from the dark, roiling clouds. Thunder rolled across the hills, punctuated by lightning zigzagging from the black sky to dance on the mountaintops. Crazy Woman Cave, a well-hidden shelter on the trails that crisscrossed the backside of the Smoky Mountains, wasn’t very far away. He calculated he could walk to the cave well before sunset if the rain stopped.

His own people, the ones the whites called Cherokee, usually shied away from using the cave. There were slyly whispered tales of encounters with the Nunnehi, the spirit people, and the Yunwi Tsundi, little people, who lived near the cave. Gray wasn’t worried about meeting the Nunnehi or the little people. If he should meet them there, he would ask for their help in finding Lyrissa.

Those who used the cave made sure they replenished the supply of dry firewood before they moved on. He decided he would stay overnight at the cave and continue his search for the missing preacher’s daughter from the settlement at Twin Brooks in the morning, though he was afraid he wouldn’t find her in time.

The men who stopped at his village looking for her had blurted out a wild tale of murder and insanity. Gray rejected the story, positive in his heart it was a pack of lies, but he kept his mouth shut. Once they were gone, he’d exchanged a long, silent look with his uncle before slipping off to the cramped willow hut he shared with his father. There he put together a small hunting pack, gathered his weapons, and set off to find the missing woman.

As he squatted on his heels with his back against the shallow shelter and watched the storm lash the trees, he wondered what circumstances would drive a woman out into the wild. Already frost was heavy on the ground in the morning. It was a foolish time of year to flee hearth and home. Only something extremely threatening would send her on the run.

Slow burning anger twisted in his belly when he recalled the last time he’d seen her. He was a young man then, filled with arrogance and pride and she—well, she was a fragile, beautiful, young girl poised on the brink of womanhood. Among his people she would already be considered ready for marriage, but the white men had a different measure of time.

Lyrissa Murphy. He remembered the day long ago—a steamy afternoon filled with summer sunshine and the first hot claws of desire. Their encounter was innocent enough. He smiled, recalling how he lurked in the cattails watching her, wondering what it would be like to lay with the girl gathering mint from the banks of a shallow stream that bordered the cleared land near her home. As she bent to break off another stem, the sharp scent filled the air. Her pert, young breasts pressed and shifted beneath the soft, faded fabric of her dress.

Then, without lifting her head or otherwise signaling her awareness, she asked, “What is your name, boy?”

Boy. His fists had curled at the insult.

“I am not a boy,”he sneered from his hiding place. “I am a man.”

“Oh. How old are you?” she inquired as she moved farther away from his hiding place.

“I have eighteen winters,” he declared proudly. “How old are you?”

“I’m fourteen.”She sighed softly. “If I’m seen talking to you, my father will lock me in my room again. He doesn’t allow me to talk to men.” She tucked her skirt beneath her backside and squatted on the bank. “Actually, he doesn’t allow me to talk to anyone.”

He slithered closer to the stream. He was ready to ask her why her father treated her so when a shout from the house startled her. She scrambled up, grasping the mint stems in trembling fingers as a young man raced across the small clearing. When he was close enough, he grabbed her shoulders and shook her. “What do you think you are doing out here, Lyrissa? You know you’re not allowed out of the house unless I’m with you.”

Gray silently urged her to protest when the other man touched her, but he wasn’t surprised when she ducked her head submissively and remained silent. He’d observed more than one white woman suffering far worse treatment.
“Who were you talking to?” the young man demanded.

“There is no one here, Neal.”

“I heard your voice.” Angry accusation was thick in Neal’s voice.

“I was talking to myself,” she replied quietly. “I do that when I am alone.”

Though Gray burned to burst from his hiding place and knock Neal away, he lay still, barely breathing, listening to Neal berate her as he dragged her back to the house. Why would anyone treat her like a dog? When the door slammed shut, he slithered from his hiding place into the dark woods, returning to his village, angry and shamed as he recalled the rough treatment of the gentle Lyrissa. And yet, he knew his interference would have made things worse. Reality was harsh. She was white. He was Cherokee.

Tuesday, 30 October 2012

Just another mandarin day...

So, I got a phone call saying did I know the head high pooh-pah-doo-dah was arriving in the office tomorrow? Yes. I did. I actually read that email. Was I prepared for this VIP? Uh, what’s to prepare? He'll walk…probably float…through, nod to the plebiscite and then spend a whole hour talking to a bunch of engineering type men while I write a story… very, very hard at whatever I’m supposed to do and then he'll leave and I expect gold dust will be left in his wake as a trail of his magnificence at being in the office. Other than making a note to sweep up the gold dust for assaying later I can’t think of anything else I have to do. Apparently I’m not appropriately impressed enough. Well, no…unless he can turn water into wine he’s not much use to me. Yes, I expect I’ll get into trouble. I also expect I’ll eat a mandarin…same old same old really… 

Monday, 29 October 2012


So, I was talking to a friend at lunchtime and the conversation came around to bras and no, I’m not sure how it did but we have conversations that can go from aardvarks to bras to metaphysics and end with “is zoot really a word?” Anyway, back to bras…this is a good male friend…no - just a friend…yes, men make good friends… I know…its weird right…and we came to the discussion of undoing them…the bras…not the men. Men are easily undone…but that’s another blog to do with lips, tongues and sucking. 

I once worked at an all-female office where one of the biggest and most controversial discussions we had was about doing up a bra. Do you shove your boobs in first and then bend your arms around behind your back to do up the hooks or do you put the bra around your waist at the front, hook it up on your midriff, then twist it around while shoving your boobs up? The debate raged for days. A lot of names like “freak” and “weirdo” were thrown around at the women who were flexible enough to do the behind the back thing – those women in turn called the midriff fasteners “boob-less wonders” because the theory was only the flat chested did that as they didn't have as much to lift. Yes, I think we did get some work done eventually but it was a tense filled couple of weeks. The boob-less wonders are still wrong by the way…

Back to my friend…he said it can be very hard sometimes to unhook a bra. I can see that especially if your bra has three or more hooks at the back. You know, I never consider the hardship a man is faced with when it comes to a bra. Women? Bras are like breathing to us. On. Off. Boobs up. Boobs down. In. Out. Maybe bra removal should be added to the school curriculum.  Maybe men have to learn patience and better ball holding skills. Maybe do it yourself is the thing.

Anyway, I still think zoot is a word… 

Looks like we're overly bloody picky...

So, I was listening to the radio on the way home in the car the other day when the announcers started talking about redheads. They asked people to call in if they had dated a redhead or would they date a redhead. It turned out a lot of people were not attracted by redheads and the main issue seemed to be that they didn't want to have a redheaded kid. I don't know. In a world where so few people find real love and we all crave it, we're awfully bloody picky about how we want someone else to look when in reality none of us are that bloody good looking and we're all flawed in some way. I want real. I don't care about what colour it comes in. 

Oh, and by the way it's pukeable Monday... 

Wednesday, 24 October 2012

The Sock Wanderers...

Of late I’ve been walking around the office in my socks. Why? I dunno. The urge to go shoeless is upon me. Is it an act of rebellion? A cry for freedom? The need for new Docs? Or do I like being an inch shorter? Are short women cuter? Are short women without shoes wildly mysterious? Is an extra inch relevant in the scheme of things? What is relevant? Is there an actual scheme of things or is it propaganda to make us think there is a point to life and therefore we should be wearing shoes and not be sock wanderers instigating anarchy and calling upon others to abandon their shoes in defiance? What would happen to shoe makers then? Would sock makers rise to be the nouveau riche? Would generations to come study the sock wanderers and ponder why? What spark of madness set them off? What did it achieve? Probably not…    

Tuesday, 23 October 2012

Two things I learned today…

One…I’m a lot shorter than I think I am when I kick off my docs and walk around the office in my socks. That sudden loss of an inch surprised me. Typical it’s easier to lose it in height than in width. And two, after thirty odd years of not playing netball…back then I was a part of the mighty, albeit constantly losing, Snowflake team in primary school when I was 8  to 12 years old…that when faced with desperate strangers needing ring-in players or they forfeit, I can don the bib once more and be as pathetic now – albeit enthusiastic – as I was then. So, in reality, I’m shorter and I played netball - ipso facto I’m in my second childhood.      

I Hate My Job...

Maud Croker leaned against the back wall of the conference room and blew out a sigh. I swear to god I have heard all this corporate bullshit so many times before. Wayne Nelson had just announced that he was resigning from Cacoffeeny, a company whose slogan was bringing ‘coffee to the chaotic’ and looking forward to moving on to ‘new challenges.’ The interpretation of that was he was being shafted out of the company. Everyone knew that. They were aware Wayne had a knife at his back and was being made to go. While it was true he was about as effective as a chocolate fireguard, the staff liked him because he let them do what they wanted. That was a huge bonus to Maud. She liked to spend her days at work doing anything but work. Besides, if they didn’t want her to use the internet or the printer then they shouldn’t have put those temptations in her place. At least that’s how Maud saw it.  
She looked at the new guy as he walked over to take Wayne’s place in addressing the twenty-odd staff who had turned up to the meeting. There would have been two more but for the fact Angelo and Clarissa were off sick today. Maud smiled. Sick my ass. It was a well-known fact they were shagging each other senseless due to the fact Clarissa’s live-in girlfriend Amelie was out of town and Angelo had a dick and Clarissa craved it. She had confided in Maud that a tongue would only get her so far, a fist was too big but Angelo was ‘just right’. Maud had to agree about the tongue. The fist, she wanted to try before condemning it. And as for Angelo? I could so do him.   
Thinking about dick, she looked over at fellow employee Craig and wondered what he looked like naked. Maud often wondered that. He was tall, lean and lithe. ‘Panther-like’ the cleaner, who came in every Thursday at three o’clock, described him. Maud nodded absently, her gaze running from his jet black, razor-cut hair down to an ass she wanted to grab and hold onto as he pounded into her. Yep, he was sleek as. Not that he ever noticed her. He was only interested in the accounts bitch, Marian, who was ugly as sin, but reportedly liked to be tied up, whipped and humiliated by the multiple men Craig was known to associate with. Maud heard someone refer to them as ‘Craig’s six-pack.’ Whipping? Humiliation? No thanks. Tied up with multiple dicks at the ready? I could do that.      
It had been six months, twenty-four days, sixteen hours, thirty-seven minutes and nine seconds since Maud had been with a man. Yeah. She had been counting. Frustration did that to you and while her glittery, thrusting jack rabbit lavender dildo was good, it wasn’t the same as hot, sweaty male flesh and sticky cum coating your skin.   
Someone laughed and her attention went from cum to the new bloke who was taking over. The best that could be said of him was he looked like a Muppet. He had a bland shaped oval face with a nose and ears that looked like they had been stuck on. The ears were too small and the nose was too big. Maud pondered the theory it wasn’t just big feet in a man that indicated a large dick. Lordy, I have dick on the brain

Urban Angel - All Romance Ebooks

Urban Angel - All Romance Ebooks

Whatever - All Romance Ebooks

Whatever - All Romance Ebooks

Monday, 22 October 2012


I’m pretty damn lucky that as someone who dabbles in writing that I can do what I want, be who I want and write what I want. I was reminded about that yesterday when another writer came under some criticism from her family for showing her other side in a graphic way. Her other side? Sexual. That scares and confuses people. Writing it? What? Are you mad? What will your Auntie Joan, Cousin Billy-Bob and Great Grandma Sally let alone the people at church or the neighbours think? Orgasms are to be had quietly in the bedroom and not on the pages of a book and for god sake keep your legs together and write something nice.

Sometimes I forget how free I am as a person, how giving those who know me are and how fearless I am because of it.

Freedom of thought, speech, action and belief…don’t take it for granted.      

Sunday, 21 October 2012

Mental slap to the head...

So, I was having this moment where I was pissed off and depressed about something – god, please, no cyber hugs – people are allow to feel down without having that extra, ooky crap thrust on them…anyway I went to meet up with a friend who is just about to undergo chemo due to breast cancer. She was telling me how scared she was and unsure how she would react and if it would change her as a person. I said she was one of the stronger, more positive people I knew and couldn't image her not being able to get through chemo nor could I see her change because  strong people dealt with stuff and moved on better for it. Yeah. Uh-huh. I thought about what was getting me down before seeing her and I gave myself a good, hard mental slap because my worries were minuscule compared to hers. Sometimes you just have to hear yourself talk to realize that you don’t always talk crap and maybe it’s worth blanking out the dark side for a moment to listen to your own advice. 

Saturday, 20 October 2012


So, the last manager at work resigned – actually he was pushed because he screwed up in monumentally, superbly stupid, inane, fuck-wit-ish ways and we have a new interim manager dude looking after the place until they get all their ducks in a row and employ someone else to oversee the circus known as our office. The interim-dude pulled me aside, shut the door and said ‘what’s with the bell on the wall?’ Well, if you have been following my blog/facebook on Quasimodo and his need to ring a bell or  have read Accidentally in Love, you’d know the guy who got sacked absolutely insisted on having a frigging bell he could ring in the office to generate excitement. No, he wasn't 6 years old… at least I’m pretty sure…anyway we had some knock-down-drag ‘em out fights over this bell. So, I explained the situation to interim-dude. He looked at me like I was mad, and that’s a fair call in many ways, however his basic line of thought is the bell is wrong, wrong, wrong and we’re all grown ups and this is not kindergarten. Correct.

So, riddle me this, why did it take over a year  before the corporate dudes, where interim-dude comes from, realize that the shit-fest that had become our office had become a dangerous, business situation? The answer? If you’re a man in business where other men are in charge, they look after their penises and other men’s penises and refuse to believe someone who has a penis can be as useful as a chocolate fireguard. Penises – very useful things in the right hands…that's why a woman need to be in charge. She knows how to direct a penis. 

Friday, 19 October 2012


I cannot work out June 2011, July 2011 and August 2011 royalty spreadsheets from Noble Romance Publishing.  At all. One of them has the picture above on it. It doesn't inspire confidence does it?

Answers? I have asked…a lot. Apparently there are none. Apparently I’m stupid.

Wednesday, 17 October 2012

Expendable my arse...

So, I got an email from someone saying they were interested in pubbing a story of mine because they were looking for someone who wrote about heroines with an expendable income. Ah, no…I don’t, not unless we’re talking about average working women whose money goes towards paying bills, eating and the odd treat here and there. You know like me – like you – that kind of expendable. I was kind of surprised by their request especially when they named Accidentally in Love as one of the expendable women stories. Ah, no…it’s not. The heroine is based on me. An Office Manager who has issues with a nitwit manager who has a bell ringing fetish. She works for a living. She pays bills and stuff. Write what you know I say.

I started to wonder what ‘expendable income’ means to people. I would think it means disposal and superfluous. It also sounds pretty damn shallow in a blonde heiress way. But then I wonder if some people see a strong, independent woman making it on her own as someone who is considered successful and ipso facto has money to burn. I gotta tell you that being single doesn’t mean you have any more money to burn because you have no dependents. It doesn’t. Don’t even go there. Single women will be reading this and thinking ‘yep, exactly.’ But maybe some people with limited vision see it like that.

Can I help you with a book about an airhead with an expendable income? No. I write about women I know. Ain’t no one I know got money, sister.   

Call me crazy…

 …but I don’t want to write porn with a dash of romance in it. Love is not porn. Oh sure, you can love porn in the fact that you may find it exciting but it’s still just body parts going in and out, up and down. That doesn't equate to romance. It uses another body part – the brain. That’s all about needs, feelings, strength, insecurity and belief in a kindred soul who you could probably live without but you don’t want to because you love them and being apart would be madness.

So, no thanks – I don’t want to change my style to write porn and fit in with those ‘romance writers’ who are nor do I want to fit a demographic of ‘edgy women’. And yes, personally, I’m edgy as all get out but demographically I fit me and my thoughts and if someone wants to read that – great. If not, I’ll still be edgy and me and writing what I want. To be successful in life you have to be yourself.   

Call me crazy but I like romance with my sex. 

Tuesday, 16 October 2012



Monday, 15 October 2012

Forge on...despite 'em...

If I have learn nothing else in life I know that like air I will always rise above stupidity, hatefulness, sexism, bullies, limitations, cowards, ignorance, convention, fashion, greed, need, apathy, sycophants...the list is infinite…

Can you?

Yes you can. If you choose to.

Sunday, 14 October 2012

My story: Struggling, bullying, suicide, self harm

So terribly sad. RIP Amanda. 

Friday, 12 October 2012

So, I bunked off…

 …early from work this arvo. I was bored and it’s Friday. I just said that I had to do 'that thing' and when that was done I’d go over and 'get the stuff 'I need for next week 'when they arrived.' I said it all with a sense of purpose, car keys in hand and everyone nodded because they have no idea what I do and to be honest there are times I really don’t either. Basically, I just left early and bought sushi…that’s technically stuff…

Judgments against women...

The flight attendant scanned her ticket and she moved on towards the plane. "Then he stopped and came over to me, holding up the whole queue, and said: 'Excuse me, ma'am, do you have a medical certificate to fly?'

Offended ... Kelsey Hughes was asked if she had a medical certificate for her "pregnancy". 

"I said: 'A medical certificate? No, why?', and he said: 'You need a medical certificate to fly with your pregnancy.'"

Mortified, Miss Hughes explained that she was not expecting. "He said: 'Oh. Really? Oops. Sorry!' then just turned around and walked away. He just brushed it off as though it was a simple mistake that anyone could make."

Ignorant sod. As if women don't have enough bloody judgments made about their appearance....epic fail Jetstar...

Thursday, 11 October 2012

Him. Me. Sex. Go....

My god, it’s hard to write sex at your desk at the day job when the phones keep ringing and people want to know stuff and all you really know at that moment is what he is doing to her on the word document before you. I find writing sex mechanical. You have to pay attention to where everyone's hands are and what they're thinking and feeling and if you had to do that in real life you'd never have sex because he should know where his hands are and she should - like any real woman - know what she's doing because sex is a feel-good no brainer. Him. Me. Sex. Go. I'm a doer not a writer nor am I one of those authors who wait for their 'muse' or their characters to talk to them. God damn it you're having sex - now go! Tell the muse to piss off and be all sensitive and validated somewhere else. 

I think you see my point. It’s valid to write sex at the day job because all work is equal and if you don’t get caught it’s all justified. And if you're dumb enough to get caught? Lie, burst into tears or fainting might be good. 

I rest my case.  

Tuesday, 9 October 2012

Protection by multiple men with enormous penises isn't everything...

So, other writers always say to me that going Indie and speaking your mind means that no epublisher will EVER want you and aren’t you afraid of that? The short answer? No. The long answer? It takes a lot to scare me and publishers are not god. No really. They’re not. However, the thing is, I do get emails from regular publishers who want me to write stuff for them. Why? I think it’s because I’m very direct about what I want and where I’m coming from and negotiations should always start that way. I’m not going to be all Susie Sunshine and beg them to have me because I don’t have to. I also find it interesting that publishers write what Indie authors read. That tells me that maybe they’re looking for something that doesn't toe the company line like the multiple-every-single-story-is-the-same-virgin-menage-five-cowboy-we’ll-protect-the-heroine-with-our-dicks-sex. Being Indie means you can write whatever the hell you want without some publisher telling you there is not enough sex and can’t the heroine be shagged in each chapter by different men with enormous penises so the reader has to wonder how she will walk each time.  But seriously, that has happened to me…er, the editor thing not the being shagged by enormous penises...

So…want to go Indie because you’re tired of the epublishing bullshit? Do it. Protection by multiple men with enormous penises isn’t everything and Indie writers are getting read by publishers. Got the tits to do it? 

Sunday, 7 October 2012

Of sex and car washing...

So, I went to a country market at Gordonvale, 20 mins from Cairns city, yesterday and found out about chooks from a young, dedicated chook bloke.  I learnt probably more than I will ever want to know about chook sexing. I do now know that most types of chooks can hang out together – no matter creed or colour – lesson for the mankind there and that they must have a perch to sit on as they like to contemplate their world. Fair enough. That sounds like something I would do. I made a mental note to knock up a perch when I got home. I also know that I bought two golden something or other chooks and a black speckled Hamburg and all will lay in approx two months. I found out they’re very placid creatures – somewhat a paradox to the budgie crew - and that they’re happy to sit in a box in Verity, my car, with the radio on loud and they didn’t blink when I stopped to take Verity through the laser car wash. So far they’re still alive after a night in the new digs. See? I’m not completely useless. 

Saturday, 6 October 2012

Nipples? Not so much…

 So, I’ve been trying to work out why people read my blog as it’s not really riveting stuff yet people keep coming back. It’s more a random thoughts of the day blog. So, every so often I put tag lines like ‘nipples’ on to see if people read because of the titillation factor…no, I’m not pardoning the pun. I did it a while ago with ‘pointy penises in pink panties’ and I have to tell you that nipples and penises do not attract substantially any more  readers to said blog. They are on par with ‘goat track’, ‘pay attention stupid’, ‘sauté a wildebeest’ or ‘cellulite.’ Of course with other writers  reading the blog, the big tag lines are ‘non payment of royalties’ and the ever popular Noble publishing debacle – and I have to absolutely thank Anom – remember her? She went on every ex-Noble writer’s blog and stamped her feet, vented her spleen, pretended to be someone she wasn’t when we all knew who she was and basically vowed she would ‘purse’ people instead of pursue them. Now she attracted, and still does, a bucket load of attention to the blog. Sad thing is I never heard from her again but I hope you still read the blog, Anom. I miss you. No really, I like the insane.

So there. Nipples. Not so much. Penises? Sure, they’re out there. Why do people read stuff? I don’t know. I expect if we did know we’d all do better.      

Thursday, 4 October 2012


....just testing a theory...

Wednesday, 3 October 2012


Someone called me a vein today. No, not vain…an actual know, the type that's filled with blood. Yes, that’s a bit different isn't it? It made me smile as it was said by a blokey bloke – you know – big, brawny and would eat barbed wire on a dare then scull 7 bottles of beer and wrestle a croc afterwards with no sign that it was unusual to do. Anyway, it was said as a compliment because without veins the heart and legs don’t function. Isn't that sweet? Call me beautiful? Nah, leave that to the fluffy, useless women. Real women are veins.    

Let me eat cake...

Someone got fired at work yesterday. The response from the office IT dweeb who has never held another job, still lives with his parents and thinks women should be submissive towards men?  Are we getting cake? I looked at him and thought how do socially inept people like this twit get through life? He is frankly disgusting in every thought and action. That he could not see that the person who got sacked was dazed was beyond him. Is it a sign of the times we have these people in the world? The ones who don’t care or see or want to because it’s not happening to them so ignorance means safety? No, I wasn't surprised or upset the person got his marching orders but I’m sensitive enough to realize his world had collapsed and I helped him pack up.    

No, we’re not getting cake.
Why not? Someone’s left. We always get cake.

I promised him I would get the biggest and grotesquely overblown cake when he left.

No, he didn't get it. He never will. 

Monday, 1 October 2012

Accidentally in Love - All Romance Ebooks

Accidentally in Love - All Romance Ebooks

“Here’s the thing. I just want sex.” Amarette Flinders was not in the mood to pull punches. It had been a shit of a day and all she wanted to do was lose herself in something, be it alcohol, chocolate or a warm, male body. She tossed back the last sips of her glass of white wine and looked the man in the eyes. He was tall, dark and if not exactly handsome, there was a raw edge to him that made her stomach flutter in anticipation of what may be.
“Are you serious?” His eyebrow arched in surprise.
Yeah, she was. This was no accident. She had planned to come to this bar and find a man. For the first time in her life, she was about to pick up a stranger in a bar. Admittedly she hadn’t given it a lot of thought. This was more a spur of the moment to-hell-with-being-a-good-girl kind of thing and she needed that. Of late, she had been thinking too damn much and she was over it. Life was meant to be lived and not worried over or be pissed off at.
“Deadly serious. Interested?” She uncrossed and re-crossed her legs. Amarette was aware they were her best feature. Although they were pudgy they were long and a good shape. She hoped they would deflect from the orange highlighter pen stain on the front to her white work shirt that mixed badly with the coffee she had dribbled down the front earlier that day. It was hard to look sexy when you were inherently clumsy.
His dark brown eyes followed the line of her legs. “I’m waiting for the catch.”
Smart man. Not many women, unless they were dumb and desperate or working the room for the price of dinner, would throw themselves at a man. Color me a little of both. “There is none. I need. You want. Correct?”
“Well, yes.”
That he was interested made her feel not only better in herself but weirdly empowered like she was suddenly in control. This beat the hell out of the lack of control and careening off a cliff feeling she had been enduring. “It’s mutual sex without strings.” Amarette had never done that before. Normally she had to feel something for a man other than horny desperation. But damn it, I need this. There was no other man she could think of she wanted to be with. Besides, sex with a stranger she would never see again had a certain thrill to it. Added to that, he wasn’t the first man who approached her. She was needy, but she wasn’t dumb. Well, not totally dumb. While it was normally true that you couldn’t judge a book by its cover, Amarette had already repelled the usual slimy Lotharios and drunken backpackers who were looking to get laid. Maybe that sounded like double standards coming from a woman with a specific sexual agenda, but Amarette wasn’t particularly worried about being normal right at that moment.
“Can you do that?” He sounded skeptical.
“Yes.” She could do just about anything after enduring the month from hell in the office.