Undercover Lover (Siren Publishing Classic), page 1
Free spirited actress Liz Aspen can't resist masturbating to the fantasy of her gorgeous, hunky next door neighbor. If he were only there in the bedroom with her, she wouldn't need Mr. Fake-Nine-Inch-Cock.
Sam Bolt, loner and secretive undercover cop, gets an eyeful when he accidentally spies on his neighbor from his window to hers. It's a shame what she's doing to herself--when he could do it much better!
Their lives entwine when he saves her life, but she's in further danger when his past meets his present. Sam hates the pain he's caused, but can't stay away from her. He craves the promise of a normal life with a soft, willing woman like Liz who doesn't have to fight tortuously dark demons.
Addicted to his powerful lovemaking, Liz finds him as compelling as she is confused by the mystery of what he's not telling her. Will she still love him when he finally tells her the whole truth? Can Sam accept that his past actions don't need to destroy a future with a woman who has proven her strength--emotionally and physically?
Genre: Contemporary/Romantic Suspense
Length: 55,235 words
Jane Leopold Quinn
Siren Publishing, Inc.
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A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK
IMPRINT: Erotic Romance
Copyright © 2009 by Jane Leopold Quinn
E-book ISBN: 1-60601-324-6
First E-book Publication: May 2009
Cover design by Jinger Heaston
All cover art and logo copyright © 2009 by Siren Publishing, Inc.
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
Siren Publishing, Inc.
Thank you to Russ Lucas, former Chicago police officer, for his law enforcement expertise. Any liberties in accuracy are my own responsibility.
As always, thank you to my husband, Paul Quinn, for his loving support.
JANE LEOPOLD QUINN
Copyright © 2009
“Unhhh…Ohhh, God…” The sounds tore from her throat in deep, raspy growls. Liz’s hips undulated in time to her heartbeat as shudders rolled through her body.
She’d set the scene in her bedroom: glowing candles, fluffy pillows, the covers pushed to the bottom of the bed. She settled against the pillows to play with her toy and fantasize about her sexy neighbor. It was all his fault. His fault she had to resort to her vibrator.
Sweeping her lashes closed and swirling the tip of his imagined cock through the cream pooling in her cleft, the presence of Mr. Mysterious seemed to invade the room. The sight of his broad shoulders and chest dominated her mind’s eye. Arching her neck, she moaned, “God, yes…” He teasingly nudged himself into her sheath, pulsated, pulled out, and then did it again. She gasped, panted, drove herself mad pretending this ecstasy came from him, from the imagined wicked gleam in his eyes knowing he tormented her unmercifully.
Part of her knew the truth—that her dangerous, pretend lover wasn’t really here, his cock only plastic and batteries. But it felt so real, the rotating ridges and length stimulating all her innermost nerve endings. Concentrating on the sensations, she tortured her lower lip and thrust her new lover in as deeply as possible. The rotating tip polished over the ultra-sensitive knot of nerves inside and always brought her to orgasm. Always. Ah, yes.
In her illusion—her delusion—long, muscular, hairy legs rasped against her tender inner thighs. She heard his groan as he tracked the tips of his fingers along her skin from her knees to her drenched pubic hair.
“Baby,” he’d whisper huskily. “I’m gonna fuck you blind. I’m gonna eat my way down your body ‘til your luscious clit pops into my mouth like a ripe cherry.
Groaning loudly at the fantasy fucking, at first she tried to catalogue her feelings, to catalogue everything about him. The rakish flash of the gold hoop in his ear turned her on. So did his demonically-trimmed goatee, and she wasn’t usually fond of facial hair.
She stopped thinking and succumbed to the forces inside her body, squeezing her thighs together to keep the vibrator in place. Her hands slid over her belly and breasts, squeezing and twisting her nipples, the dual sensations heavenly. Oh, God, her clit throbbed. It needed…something. It wanted lips, the soft suctioning of a man’s lips feasting on the tender nub.
On a sob, she speared her fingers through the lubricant, stroked faster and faster on the sides of her clit, smoothly and rhythmically, until the added friction drove her over the edge. She arched her hips, grinding her heels into the sheets, groaning guttural sounds until the waves passed over her. Pressing her hand on her mound contained the electric aftershocks. She didn’t want to pull the vibrator out or even hit the off button. All she wanted to do was curl up and cry. How could such a profound climax—a good thing—make her feel so alone?
Because you are alone.
The euphoric orgasm inspired by the dark-haired stranger should have consumed her, but quickly cooling perspiration on her face and between her breasts reminded her that she was absolutely alone.
Self doubt and insecurity did not factor into Elizabeth Aspen’s usual repertoire of emotions. A popular and busy actress in local Chicago theater productions, she exuded confidence and enjoyed her sexy, flirtatious persona. She enjoyed her freedom, but sometimes she feared that very same freedom. It also meant loneliness.
Several months ago, she’d been callously dumped by her boyfriend, Fred Travis. At first she’d been shocked when he announced he’d been transferred to his Houston office. He’d accepted that move without even discussing it with her. Then he delivered the final coup de grâce. He didn’t want a small time actress going with him.
A small time actress? She considered the stage her life and was thrilled to be working. How could she have missed his contemptuous attitude? Both her sister and her best friend said she was well rid of him, but it hurt to have her career belittled by someone you thought cared. So, now, she would focus on her career, swearing off men and relationships.
A few weeks ago, she’d first noticed the hunky guy living in the Victorian next door. She’d been shocked at the intense jolt of carnal pleasure his dark, dangerous good looks had sent through her belly.
Sex on two legs. Worn jeans lovingly encased muscular thighs. His straight, black mane flopped over his forehead accentuating deeply set eyes and an angular face. A mustache and closely cropped goatee couldn’t soften his strong jaw line. And the glint of a gold hoop in his left ear did not, in any way, lead her to suspect he might be gay.
This afternoon she’d spotted him climbing the porch steps, gorgeous in jeans and black leather jacket. His long hair, broad shoulders, and tight butt, combined with a face like an ultra-sexy Jake Gyllenhaal, made him irresistible. It was absurd to compare him with the blond-haired, lithe Fred. Their features were as opposite as a clear, uncomplicated day and the sexy, preternatural night. A night promising breathtaking, sensuous passion and uninhibited, rough sex.
Rough sex? She’d never had rough sex in her life, but the thought of Mr. Hunkalicious holding her down, his fierce expression focused on her reactions as he sensuously tortured her body… She squeezed her eyes closed, forcing aside the lustful yearning. She’d surreptitiously watched that gorgeous butt take the steps two at a time. Flushing hot with imagining the bulge she’d glimpsed behind his zipper, her heart pulsed in her throat, her breath came fast, and her nerves tautened with a ravenous, sexual desire.
Nothing else would work but to employ the services of Mr. Fake-nine-inch-cock to get thoughts of the flesh and blood guy out of her system.
Sam Bolt felt like a snake for spying on the woman. He hadn’t intended to. He’d been prowling around his apartment, the only light the flickering TV. Saturday night and he paced his apartment, having no idea what to do. Beer and pizza? Beer and burger? There must be a game on TV somewhere, or something “tech” on the History Channel, but none of that really interested him. He lived with a stormy soul these days and didn’t give a flying crap what team played what game. Idly gazing out his window on this frosty October night, he got an unexpected eyeful.
He’d seen her entering the coach house when he came in and asked the landlord her name. He wondered what the sexy Liz Aspen had planned for tonight and chanced a glance across the short distance to her house.
“Holy Mother of God!”
There she was, naked as a jaybird. His cock throbbed, blood quickly stiffening the length. His forehead broke out in flop sweat. Christ!
“What the hell is she doing?” he muttered. Shocked, amazed anything shocked him any more, he couldn’t force his gaze away from the window. This was interesting. It had been what felt like centuries since he’d been interested in any woman. He had no time or place in his life right now for relationships. Other than with Jack Handy, he hadn’t had sex in way too long.
He’d seen her bundled in winter clothing, but what lay underneath blew his mind. She had the body of a goddess. Plump breasts, flat belly, and curvy hips whetted his appetite. He ordered himself to cease and desist his voyeurism, then gasped for air like a beached fish when she lay back on her bed. His mouth dried, jaw dropped, and his eyeballs popped when she spread her thighs and twisted her wrist back and forth to screw in the vibrator.
“You dog,” he berated himself, pressing his nose against the windowpane. Why had he never seen this before?
I shouldn’t be watching.
She pushed the thing in hard and lay still. His fingers itched to do something. To help. To pump that sucker in. To watch her sweet, wet cunt swallow it.
If he were there, she wouldn’t need the fucking vibrator.
Her other hand swept her body, trailing fingertips over her belly, up to cup a breast, to pinch a nipple. He couldn’t actually see the tight bud but could imagine the taste of it, taste the sweet, hard ball of it against his lips, against his tongue. He groaned aloud when she plucked her nipples in little frantic movements.
He panted. He forgot to breathe. Sweat formed beneath his mustache. His eyes burned dry from not blinking, not wanting to miss a thing. How long had it been since he’d even seen a woman’s nipples let alone pinched them? The sight of her like a flesh and blood Playboy centerfold in a porno movie knocked him flat on his proverbial ass.
Fisted hands balanced him against the window frame. He wanted to touch, desperately needed to touch something. One hand crawled to his belly, over the placket of his jeans until he grasped his cock and squeezed.
I really need to do this more often.
His breath came fast and sharp.
Her thighs widened. She reached down and pulled the vibrator out, then pushed it in again.
“Christ Almighty,” he muttered, the hoarse growl vibrating through his chest.
Her hips arched upward, her heels digging into the sheets. She was having a fucking whopper. He decided then and there that one day Liz Aspen would get another sort of fucking whopper. His kind.
His aching nuts tightened excruciatingly into his groin. He cupped them through his jeans with one hand and carefully released the stiff length of his cock with the other.
“Oh, God, she’s gonna kill me,” he groaned. She slid a hand over her pale belly, into the dark curls between her thighs, and into the slit. He could well imagine what she felt there. It might have been an eon for him, but he could never forget the secret parts of a woman’s body. He groaned again, squeezing his eyes shut but only for a second. Too much was going on, and he didn’t want to miss any of it.
He’d handled his share of clits, strummed and suckled them. He licked his dry lips in anticipation. Anticipation of what? He was here. She was over there. No way in hell could he do anything about it. He violently needed to be with her, he wanted to be on top of that naked, goddess body.
Her body shimmied and arched. Amazingly, he could see her with only a few candles in her bedroom for light. What he couldn’t see, he desperately imagined. Deliberately, he tightened one hand on his cock, bracing himself on the window frame with the other.
She stretched luxuriously, arched her hips, rubbed her palms over her nipples as if soothing them. She’d probably been pinching them too hard. If he had the chance, he’d torture them just enough to drive her as crazy as she drove him right now.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her, couldn’t stop stroking his dick. Shit! He imagined rearing over her spread thighs and plunging into her hot, wet…
Past the point of no return, his fist pumping his cock, he had no choice but to detonate. Watching her orgasm almost brought him to his knees as he spurted in blistering hot streams. “Jesus Christ!” Thick cum coated his hand, and he bonked his head against the glass. “Ow!” His breaths came shallow and sharp as he rolled his forehead back and forth on the arm balanced on the window frame.
He pressed his eyes shut at the force of his self-induced climax. Jacking off was the next best thing to being there. What wouldn’t he give to actually curl up around her, to feel that body, all that smooth skin spooned against his. Then they’d do it for real, in every way known to man. They’d trade off at being on top. Lord, he envisioned the sight of her straddling him, hair cloaking her shoulders, layering over her breasts. His big hands would hold her small waist, hold her speared hard on his cock. He’d even like to use the vibrator on her and watch her come. Up close and very personal.
What would it be like to have a normal relationship with a woman? A normal life with brightness and ha
The firefly, tinkling sound of her cell phone awakened Liz. It wasn’t quite the same as a fairy tale kiss, and definitely no prince hovered over her. “No, go away.” She just wanted to go back to sleep and dream about nine inch flesh and blood cocks. But the insistent ringing wouldn’t go away. She grabbed the phone, pressed on, and said, “Bailey, what’s up?”
“Hey, Liz, we’re meeting up at the Cedar Room. Aren’t you coming?”
Coming? Yeah, I’ve been coming all right.
She shifted her head on the pillow. The last thing she wanted to do was go out.
“Come on, hon. No pressure. Just fun.”
Bailey, her best friend, knew how to tempt her. Rehearsals didn’t start until next week, so she could sleep in. For God’s sake, she was only twenty-eight years old, much too young to stay home alone on Saturday night.
“Sure, Bail. What time?”
“Anytime you can get there. We’ll try to grab some tables, or be at the bar.”
Within twenty minutes, she’d changed into chic, black butt-hugging slacks, three-inch stiletto ankle boots, and a ruby-red sleeveless turtleneck sweater. She donned a leather blazer, locked her front door, and sprinted to the cab stand. “Damn, it’s cold,” she muttered. At least the cab was warm.
JANE LEOPOLD QUINN SERIES:
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