By Reading This, You Are Stating That You Are 18 Years Of Age. If You Are Under The Age Of 18, It Is Necessary To Exit This Site.

Forbidden

BY

 Em Petrova

EXCERPT

Adventure One

Guy’s suntanned skin streamed with ribbons of water as he sloshed through the river toward the shore. His thick thighs stirred ripples in the water. His light blue boxers clung to his sculpted buttocks, and the shadow of his ass crack as he walked away made Ian’s cock clench and his balls draw up tightly.

As Ian stared at the wet cotton conforming to his best friend’s every crevice, a hot blush climbed his throat. He’d never actually looked at a guy this way, not even in the locker room after a college football game.

“I can’t believe you caught a catfish that size,” Ian said to cover his sudden confusion. He picked his way across the river after his friend.

Guy raised his fishing rod over his head and shook it like a caveman’s club. “Champion and winner of our bet,” he said. “Maybe we shouldn’t have thrown it back, though. I’m hungry.”

Ian scanned the sun-kissed columns of muscle on Guy’s back. What would his flesh taste like beneath his tongue?

He shook the thought from his mind and stomped through the water to the shore. He climbed up the bank and collapsed on the dry grass, leaning his elbows on his knees and cradling his head in his hands. If he didn’t look up at his friend, Ian wouldn’t feel his shaft pressing hard against his own boxers. He wouldn’t feel gooseflesh crawl over his skin.

“Shit,” Ian muttered.

Guy hit the ground beside him with a thud. Close. Too close. His broad thigh almost touched Ian’s. The scents of Guy’s personal musk mixed with bug spray and the outdoors filled his head.

Guy rested back on his elbows and looked up at the sky. “Listen to that. No horns blaring. No sirens. No neighbors fighting through your apartment wall.”

Ian stole a peek at his friend. If he saw Guy’s thick length pressing against the front of those thin cotton boxers, he might spill his load there and then. His cock was pulsating now.

But he saw only Guy’s smiling face. Ian’s gaze riveted to it, desperately trying not to drop his eyes to Guy’s chest, or lower.

“Yeah, the Andersons are at it again.” Ian’s fellow apartment dwellers fought incessantly and at all hours of the day. “I’ve never been so happy to escape. Besides, I was due for a vacation.”

“Definitely,” Guy said, rubbing the wetness from his hard jaw and smearing the droplets on his chest. “People in high stress jobs like yours need release often.” His dark eyes drilled Ian’s. “Besides, it was time to strip off that fire suit, ditch the fireman’s hat and commune with nature.”

Guy leaned forward, bringing his shorn head close to Ian’s. Ian watched from the corner of his eye. Small creases of amusement forked from the corners of Guy’s eyes, and a smile played about his mouth. The dark shadow of his hair was dry. But his boxers were not, Ian noticed with a blow to his gut. The bulging outline of his cock strained against the wet cotton so the flesh color showed through.

Ian struggled to stop the whirlwind of confusing thoughts, and also because he and Guy, after years of inseparable friendship, were on the outs. When Guy suggested they embark on a camping trip, Ian hoped to smooth the bumps between them, but he never expected to smooth that bump.

“Ian.” He realized Guy had caught him adjusting his package. A grin broke over Guy’s face, and then he said slowly, quietly. “What do you say we try something new?”

****

Adventure Two

The first blares of the alarm clock grated against Magnolia’s brain, waking her from a dead sleep. She bolted upright, threw off the covers and hurled herself across the room. Ten steps to her clock. She needed all ten to wake up. She’d tried five before, but turned around and climbed back into the warmth of her bed after shutting off the offensive beeps.

She leaned heavily against her antique walnut dresser and cradled her head in her hands. Too much champagne at that exhibit opening. It’s a wonder she slept so soundly and hadn’t been hugging the toilet. She never drank that much, and her tolerance was low. But a steady stream of amazing people had drifted through the doors, the conversation was stellar, and when someone passed her a flute of the delicious, crisp bubbly, she drank it without thought.

Her head wheeled, and she held it in place with her palms. Had she remembered to set the timer on the coffee pot last night? She lifted her head and sniffed the air, trying to detect the scent of her favorite Brazilian brew.

Nothing. Just the pungent odor of turpentine coming from the pile of paint clothes in the corner. Great. Not only was she without a steaming pot of coffee, but a trip to the laundromat with a hangover was in the cards.

Magnolia grabbed her silky wrapper from the foot of the bed and shoved her bare arms into it, shocked to find she hadn’t even donned a nightgown before falling into bed. In fact, where were her panties?

She stared at the rumpled crazy quilt on her bed, rifling her mind for an event she might regret. She distinctly remembered catching a cab to her townhouse, unlocking the front door and dropping the keys on the front table. After that, it was a blur.

Except…

No. That was a dream. Wasn’t it?

She crossed to the stereo in the corner of her bedroom and popped the CD. Locked Up’s latest slid into her hands, Sig’s face looking up at her with his signature badass rocker aloofness. The same look he’d used on her in his dressing room weeks ago.

The events of the previous night—or early morning, as it were—flooded her brain. The champagne had gone straight to her pussy, conjuring memories of her last sexual encounter, which happened to be with rocker Sig Locke. The memory of his warm skin beneath her hands and the blazing look in his green eyes drove her wild. She had fumbled open the clear CD case and slipped it into the stereo. The instant Sig’s dark, gravelly tone filled her ears, her sex released a flood of cream, wetting her thighs.

Yep, there was her expensive Nicole Miller dress wadded on the floor, along with her hose, which apparently she’d stripped off without removing her heels. The killer black Manolo Blahniks were trapped in the sheer smoky fabric.

After stripping nude, Magnolia had fallen into bed and slid her fingers into the slippery folds of her sex, stroking her hard nub the way Sig had, conjuring the feel of his lips against hers, the taste of his mouth. Drowning in the memory of his hard shaft poised at her love cavern, asking if she was ready, did she really want this?

She rubbed her fingers and thumb together, and then brought them to her nose. The scent of her juices on her skin was evidence enough that it wasn’t a dream. She’d masturbated to a memory.

****

Adventure Three

Noelle’s silver Audi Cabriolet crept through the double wrought iron gates of the Blossom Valley Estate. Shaped into the ironwork were branches speckled with blossoms like a spring cherry tree. As she guided the car down the narrow lane leading to the mansion, a shiver ran through her—part excitement, part apprehension.

Always a little uneasy with new people, she hoped she knew someone here. After all, she couldn’t have received the invitation randomly. And if she was truly without an acquaintance, she’d make the best of it. Most women were friendly, but if there were many, she was afraid there might be cattiness.

The building sprawled in all directions and stood three stories high, with heavy columns on the lower level supporting a wrought iron balcony. She could imagine a moonlit walk there, her hand warm and secure in her lover’s as the balmy breeze rushed over them.

The drive curved sharply to the left and led around the side of the building. She drew up under a car roof and a man in uniform came forward to open her door. Nervously, she swung her heels to the ground and alighted. She felt like a debutante or a film star already, and she hadn’t set foot inside the building.

“Ma’am.” He tipped his hat to her, and she looked at him hard. She’d forgotten there would be male servants here, maybe a pool boy or gardener she might hook up with.

But she wasn’t interested in a one-night stand.

Suddenly, a set of double doors opened and a gorgeous woman floated out. For a moment Noelle stood rooted to the pavement, unable to stop staring at her. She was medium height, with glossy dark hair creaming over her warm brown skin, and wearing a slinky ruby red evening gown with rows of sequins placed to accentuate her tiny waist and the soft flare of her hips.

Noelle met her eyes.

“Welcome to Blossom Valley. You’re Noelle. Come inside. You’re the last to arrive.”

“The invitation said two o’clock. It’s five minutes till.”

The beauty shot her a look. “The other ladies were very…eager.” She disappeared through the doors.

When Noelle reached for her small bag of clothes on the passenger seat, the servant said, “I’ll bring that. You go on.”

Inside, the dark-haired bombshell stood waiting for her. Her eyes were large and framed with the thickest lashes Noelle had ever seen, and her exotic beauty made Noelle feel like a pasty schlump in comparison.

Her full lips curved into a smile. “I’m Rosalyn. You look like a size eight. Follow me.”

Noelle didn’t have time to wonder at the discussion of her size, because the woman twirled on one strappy silver shoe and drifted down a long corridor, the small train of her gown swishing over the marble tile floor.

What kind of party was this? She’d dressed in a simple pair of dress pants and a blouse, expecting high tea with intrigue at this Murder Mystery Party. As they passed an open doorway, she spotted a small gathering of other ladies decked out in heels and gowns too, and she suddenly realized it was a costume party.

_______________________________

Red Sage Publishing, Inc. © 2011 All Rights Reserved