Filthy Feature Friday: THE CHRISTMAS GAME by Alyssa Linn Palmer #excerpt #hotread #nsfw #holidayromance

Kittens! What I have for you today! Courtesy of the brilliant and talented Alyssa Linn Palmer, we have a 5000-word HOT HOT HOT excerpt that you should not read in your cubicle at work. So what I want you to do is treat yourself to a nice, quiet SOLO lunch in a secluded corner and dive into The Christmas Game:

BLURB: Alone in London on business just before Christmas, Marc Perron meets an intriguing young woman working at a bookshop. A light flirtation seems to lead nowhere, but the night before he returns to Paris, she knocks on his hotel room door.

Madelaine’s taking a risk, but no one’s ever looked at her the way Marc does, and she’s not about to pass up a chance to get to know him better. When he suggests a game of wagers, she can’t resist challenging him. And herself.

Their matchup is a fiery one and each wager tops the last, the sexual heat between them crackling. Neither want to lose the game, but Madelaine fears she might be losing her heart as well.

This novella is a part of the Le Chat Rouge series, but can be read as a stand-alone story.

BUY LINKS for all platforms/devices via Alyssa’s site

excerpt
THE CHRISTMAS GAME
by Alyssa Linn Palmer

No calls.

Not a one.

Marc slipped his phone back into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and sat back in the black London taxicab. Sera rarely called him now; their relationship, such as it was, had deteriorated to this. But he would be back in Paris for Christmas, and he didn’t want to spend it alone. He’d hoped she would return his call, at least this once.

The cab idled in the heavy traffic of the early evening, the chill rain lashing its windows. Marc glanced outside. They had nearly reached Charing Cross Road, but in this traffic it would be another fifteen minutes before they could make the turn. The red double-decker bus ahead of them inched forward. He buttoned his trench coat and took his umbrella from his bag. Even if he had a broken leg, he could walk faster than this traffic.

“I’ll get out here,” he told the driver, handing him enough for the fare, plus a generous tip.

“Stay dry.” The cabbie laughed at his own joke.

Easier said than done. By the time he reached the sidewalk and could raise his umbrella, he was thoroughly damp and just about chilled through. He walked briskly to the intersection and waited for the light to change. When it did, he crossed over Oxford Street and cut down Soho Street and across the square. The rain seemed to ease as he reached the glass doors of the bookshop on Charing Cross Road, and he took down his umbrella, shaking the rain from the nylon before he closed it up completely.

A clerk greeted him as he entered and he returned her smile. Pretty, with her short, pixie-blonde hair, but far too young. Barely old enough to vote. He turned his attention to the books, what he’d come for.

The first floor held fiction, and though Marc was famished and ready to go back to Claridge’s for supper, he took his time among the shelves. An English bookshop this size didn’t exist in Paris and he didn’t intend to pass up this opportunity. But though the shop seemed to have miles of shelves, he couldn’t find anything to his taste. He was impatient, particular, and the damp had crept down his collar and soaked through the seams of his black brogues and into his socks.

He found the stairs to the upper floors, noting the white A4 taped to the elevator door: Out of Order. An older man squeezed past him, wearing tweed and a navy raincoat. He went up to the next floor and turned a corner, finding the shelves of French novels and books in translation. Much better. He skimmed the titles, but still nothing appealed. A pink-printed spine caught his eye and he pulled it out. Histoire d’O.

The cover was sensual; a woman’s bound wrists in black and white, a teasing glimpse of flesh.  It reminded him of Sera, her slender body, the last time they’d been together, the silver handcuffs securing her wrists. He put the book back on the shelf, then paused, his hand still on the volume. It could be her Christmas gift. Decided, he continued on, the book in hand. He had one more stop before he could go back to the hotel.

He went up another floor to the Art section, one he knew well. Aside from a specialist bookshop, this was as diverse as he would get. A new art criticism text had been published recently by one of those obscure university presses, a book Sera would roll her eyes at and declare fit for putting her to sleep, and he hoped they had a copy. Keeping up on current academic work helped his business. No one wanted an art dealer who thought Pop Art was the newest thing.

A search of the section brought up nothing. Marc sighed and looked at his watch. He’d have to order it when he got back to Paris. He walked through the aisles, intent on going back to the hotel. When he turned a corner, he came upon a young woman standing on the top step of a gently listing stepladder, reaching up to shelve a small stack of books, one after the other. A Santa hat perched on her head and her ginger hair fell in softly curling waves down her back, and her slim-fitting black uniform trousers highlighted her curves. He could wait a minute or two.

 

Madelaine stretched up to place a book on the shelf, pushing a stray lock of hair from her eyes. The stepladder wobbled underneath her but stayed put. The final book, a weighty historical trade paperback, had to be shelved slightly further along, but she didn’t want to shift the stepladder that few inches further. She’d just stretch as far as she could manage, and then she’d be done.

Too late.

The stepladder tilted precariously and she felt herself sliding forward. The hat fell from her head. She tensed, knowing it was going to hurt. The book slipped off the shelf and hit the floor with a thump.

A strong hand caught her waist, bracing her, and her world tilted upright once more. Madelaine let out a breath of relief, grasping at the shelves in front of her. The hand stayed at her waist and she glanced over her shoulder. Her words of gratitude died on her lips as she came face to face with the most intense dark blue eyes she’d ever seen.

“All right?”

For a moment, she was speechless. The French-accented English washed over her and her cheeks warmed. Of course she couldn’t meet a man like him when she was dressed to the nines and out at a club; it had to be when she was in her unflattering work uniform and making a clumsy fool of herself.

“Yes, thank you.” She managed a smile, and he stepped back to give her space to climb down to the floor, though she left her hat where it lay on a lower shelf. Hideous thing. He picked up the book from where it had fallen and smoothed out the crumpled pages, reaching up to place it on the shelf. While he did that, showing the glint of silver cufflinks at his wrists, his damp trench coat falling open to display his well-cut dark suit and tie, she drank him in. His blue eyes had dark brows to go with them, as well as a strong jaw and a nose that was almost too perfectly straight. He was smiling faintly, but unlike most of the men she’d known, there was no arrogance. Instead, his body language evinced a confidence and surety, a casual ease that most of the investment banker types in central London could learn from. When his attention returned to her, she didn’t shy away. He probably had women looking at him all the time anyway.

“De rien,” he said, retrieving a book from where it rested on a nearby shelf. Histoire d’O. The corner of her mouth quirked up.

“You came to London to buy a book in French?” she remarked, stifling the giggle that welled up in her throat.

“It was an impulse.”

“Your impulses have good taste.”

His gaze caught hers; his stance changed and he seemed to look at her with new interest. “I’m glad you approve. I also came to find another book, but I’ve had no luck.”

“I’d be happy to check for you.”

“I’d hoped you would.” He followed her to the nearest computer terminal.

“What’s the title?” she asked, keying in her information. He recited it for her, giving her the author’s name, something Eastern European with more consonants than seemed reasonable, spelling it when her fingers paused on the keys.

One copy. Supposedly. She wasn’t familiar with the book, but for this man, she’d find it. Perhaps then he’d forget about her clumsiness.

“You’re lucky today.” She saw the corner of his mouth turn up and bit back her own smile. “We do have one copy. I didn’t think we would, but sometimes this place still surprises me. I didn’t think anyone actually read books on art criticism. They’re meant to impress, aren’t they?”

“I must be one of the few,” he quipped. “Are you impressed?”

“Only if you actually read it,” she replied, leading him over to the Art section. He chuckled.

“I’ll read it. Is art criticism not to your taste?”

“I prefer philosophy, when I’m not reading fiction.”

“Really? Any philosopher in particular?”

Madelaine scanned the shelves. “Several. You know, you’re probably the art equivalent of me going in and asking for a copy of Sartre’s ‘Les jeux sont faites’.” She shook her head. “Not that I’d be able to find it in English, since it’s long out of print.”

“I’m not very fond of Sartre, with the exception of some of his plays.”

Madelaine glanced to the book he held. “At least you have good taste in erotica.”

“Bien sûr. Though this will be a gift for a petite amie.”

Lucky woman. He didn’t wear a wedding ring, but any man who would buy a copy of The Story of O for a woman was obviously spoken for.

“It’s a good book, but parts of it I always found silly.”

“Which parts?”

“A chateau? Really? And loads of women willing to service Sir Stephen? As if.” Madelaine rolled her eyes. The man chuckled.

“But the prose is good, and it has some other redeeming qualities. It’s quite the fantasy.”

“I’m sure your girlfriend will love it.”

A shadow passed over his face. “Ex, I’m afraid. But she might like it all the same.”

“Sorry.” An awkward silence descended and Madelaine returned to her search, though inside her heart thrilled at the news. “We do have the book. I wonder if it’s been mis-shelved.”

“Finding it would be a needle in a haystack, if that’s the case.” The man’s good humour returned. “Unfortunately I can’t stay while you look. I need to get back to my hotel.”

Madelaine’s thrill subsided. Of course. He’d be heading home soon, too. “If you want to leave your information, I could keep searching. Unless you won’t be in town?”

“I’ll be here until the day after tomorrow,” the man said, pulling out his wallet. He extracted a business card and then took a pen from the inside pocket of his suit, turning the card over and writing a number on the back. He gave it to her and she glanced at it.

Marc Perron

Perron & fils, Art Dealers

There was a Paris address and phone number. Naturally. As if she’d ever be able to look him up in Paris. She could hardly afford to leave the city. “Where are you staying?”

“Claridge’s. If you do find the book, let me know. I’d pay to have it delivered to me before I leave.” Mr. Perron began to button his trench coat. “I appreciate your help,…?”

“Madelaine,” she supplied. He held out his hand and she took it, expecting him to shake her hand. Instead, he brought it to his lips, a move she’d thought cheesy when she’d seen it in films. Except here, now, it sent shivers down her spine.

“Enchantée,” he said, letting her hand go almost reluctantly. “I hope to see you again, mademoiselle.” His gaze met hers and she saw the desire there, the invitation, should she choose to accept it. But she couldn’t, not tonight. She worked until close, and had to be up early to open, thanks to a sick colleague.

“I hope so too,” she replied, feeling the embossed letters of his business card under her fingers.

“Trés bien. À demain.” She watched him go, and as he reached the stairs, he glanced back at her, the hint of a smile on his lips as he caught her staring. When she didn’t break her gaze, he winked at her and mouthed, “Don’t forget your hat.” Then she did giggle, and saw him laugh.

She had to find that book.

 

Marc tucked Histoire d’O into the front pocket of his rolling suitcase. Hopefully Sera would like it, though whether she’d even accept it from him…he didn’t know. He turned on a lamp; the sun had just set and the hotel suite was dim. In the morning he’d return to Paris, and to an apartment just as empty as this suite. Though he’d called her during a break in his meetings, Sera still hadn’t spoken to him. So be it. He would leave her be. Better to forget her altogether, if he could.

He glanced at his watch. Too late to go back to the bookshop and see if they had that text he’d wanted. Madelaine hadn’t called; likely she hadn’t been able to find the book after all. A pity. Seeing her again would have brightened his mood. He’d loved looking at her, watching her pale skin flush when she talked about erotica, her grey eyes flashing with amusement. Her breathing had quickened when he’d kissed her hand, though she might not have noticed it herself, and he’d felt the slight quiver. Perhaps he’d read her wrong and it was just a silly flirtation.

In the sitting room, he went to the Art Deco-style desk and lifted the receiver of the phone, calling for room service. After he ate, he’d do some more work and then get an early night. He had files to review and send to his secretary Aurore to deal with in the morning, and needed to make notes on the catalogue of an auction being held the following week in Lyon. Not the most exciting of things to do on a Thursday evening in London.

There was a knock at the door and he went to open it. The butler, Edwards, waited with a room service cart. “That was awfully quick,” Marc said, opening the door wide. Edwards pushed the cart into the sitting room.

“I made sure they rushed it for you,” he replied, setting up a dinner service on the desk, laying out a placemat, napkin, glass, and cutlery. He took the covered plate and placed it in the centre of his arrangement.

“What would I do without you?”

“Let us hope you never have to find out.” Edwards chuckled, accepting the tip Marc gave him. “I brought a pinot noir to go with your roast beef,” he said, lifting the bottle. “I hope it is to your taste.”

Marc watched as Edwards took a corkscrew from his pocket and deftly opened the bottle of wine, pouring a small amount into the glass. Marc reached forward and plucked the glass from the desk, swirling the wine before smelling it. Raspberries and cherries, and a hint of an earthy scent teased his nostrils. He took a sip.

“Very nice,” he said, placing the glass on the desk once more. Edwards filled the glass.

“I shall leave you to it,” Edwards said. “Ring if you need anything else.”

 

 

Madelaine walked briskly from the tube at Bond Street towards Claridge’s, the book Mr. Perron had been looking for wrapped in brown paper tucked under her arm. She held an umbrella with her free hand and was glad the rain had slackened from earlier in the day. She felt like an impostor in this part of the city, an ugly duckling among swans. Everyone passing through the glass revolving door of the hotel was many thousands or millions of pounds richer than she was. She felt conspicuous in her knee-high black boots and her somewhat worn pea coat, bought at a charity shop last year.

A kindly doorman ushered her inside with a tip of his hat after she’d closed her umbrella and she pushed through the revolving door and into the lobby. Even though it was bustling with people, it seemed as though she’d stepped into a different sort of world. Everything seemed brighter, more beautiful than was possible. The light from the enormous chandelier reflected off the mirrored pillars and gilded accents, and the polished floors glistened. For a moment she forgot entirely her reasons for being there; instead she drank in the beauty of the building, and of the Christmas tree, rising tall and majestic by the curving staircase, seeming to reach to the sky. It glittered, the shining ornaments in silver catching the light, seeming to shimmer and dance to the quiet carols being piped in on the sound system.

“Can I help you, madam?” A porter stood beside her, a sprig of holly acting as the boutonniere on his crisp uniform. She tore her gaze from the tree.

“I have a parcel for Mr. Perron. He’s staying here.” She held up the wrapped book and took a deep breath. If she insisted, she could deliver it to him personally. Her stomach fluttered and she lost her nerve. She’d just leave it at the desk and that would be that.

The porter led her to the main desk and left her in the hands of a cheerful young woman. “I’ll just call up,” the woman, whose name tag read ‘Emma’, said. She dialled a number and after a moment, spoke in fluent French, to Madelaine’s surprise. She paused, said another few words, then put her hand over the receiver. “Are you Madelaine?”

Madelaine nodded, and Emma spoke into the receiver again.

“Oui, monsieur.” She set down the phone and waved over a butler who had just come from another hallway. “Please show our guest to Mr. Perron’s suite, would you, Edwards?”

“Of course.” Edwards grinned at her. “He’ll welcome an interruption from work, I’m quite sure. Please, come with me.”

Madelaine followed Edwards towards the elevator. As they waited for the lift to arrive, he asked, “Have you been to Claridge’s before, madam?”

“Never,” she admitted, her gaze wandering back to catch another glimpse of the Christmas tree. “It’s lovely.”

“I think this year’s tree is my favourite,” Edwards confided. The elevator arrived and he held the door for her. “It’s beautiful, but simple, too.” They went up several floors and the lift dinged and the doors slid open. Madelaine stepped out into a quiet hallway with thick, dark carpeting. She swallowed. It wasn’t too late to turn back. She could give the book to Edwards and just leave.

Mr. Perron had been charming in the shop, flirtatious even, but that didn’t mean it would be anything more. She’d give him the book, take payment of the £65 cost, and say good night. Resolved, she followed Edwards down the corridor. He stopped in front of a door and knocked. Before she could prepare herself, the door opened and all she had eyes for was him. He looked relaxed, in his shirtsleeves, one hand on the door frame. His gaze fixed on her, even when Edwards said, “Good evening, sir.”

“Thank you, Edwards,” Mr. Perron replied, handing the butler a folded bill.

“Sir.” Edwards gave a respectful nod and withdrew. Madelaine shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Give him the book and go, she reminded herself.

“Would you like to come in, Madelaine?”

She stepped forward into the room tentatively, moving past him as he closed the door behind her. She found herself sandwiched between him and the door before she could say a word. Her feet tangled between his; she could feel the texture of his trousers against her thin-stockinged legs, and the heat of his body. The moulding on the back of the door dug into her spine, but it didn’t matter. He ran his finger down her jawline and under her chin, tilting her head up. He paused, and when she didn’t object, his mouth descended on hers. She’d fantasized about this moment all afternoon in the shop, but it was happening more quickly than she’d ever expected. He was demanding, bruising, devouring her mouth until she was clutching at his shirt, nearly faint.

All she could manage to say was a breathy, “Hello,” when they drew apart.

“Bonsoir, chérie. Would you like a drink?” He took the wrapped book from her hand and placed it on the table in the entry. Madelaine unbuttoned her coat.

“That would be lovely.”

He held her jacket as she slipped out of it, then hung it in the closet, as if he’d been expecting her all along.

“How did you know to kiss me?” The words slipped out. Her surprise was wearing off, leaving only the tension of anticipation.

“Because you told me.” He laid a hand on the small of her back and escorted her into the sitting room. She glanced up at him.

“But I didn’t say anything.”

“You didn’t need to. You’re here. Not a courier, or the Royal Mail. And you’re out of uniform.” He traced the neckline of her dress, the barely visible shadow of her cleavage.

“But how could you be sure?” She sank down onto the dark beige sofa, not sure her shaky legs would support her much longer.

“I knew from the moment we met in the bookshop. Didn’t you?”

She thought of when he’d kissed her hand, of his touch at her waist, keeping her from falling, and she flushed.

 

She’d known. Marc knew it when she blushed so prettily. She could hide little with such alabaster skin. Freckles sprinkled her nose and dusted her collar bones. He wondered where else she had them, and he wanted to find out. He went to the desk, where a small decanter of Scotch sat on a silver tray along with a pair of tumblers. He poured a measure into each.

“Now that you are here,” he said, replacing the stopper in the decanter and picking up the glasses, “what shall we do?” He brought one to her where she sat, and lowered himself to the club chair nearby. She seemed uncertain and he didn’t want to scare her off. He’d fantasized about her last night and he didn’t want this to end before it had truly begun.

Madelaine sniffed the Scotch and took a small, experimental sip. Her lips pursed and he thought she might ask for something else to drink, but she didn’t. Instead, she took a second sip, and a third. “Not bad,” she said. She looked at him. “I was re-reading The Story of O last night, by the way.”

“Did it give you any ideas?” He leaned forward in his chair, his elbows on his knees.

“A few,” she replied, her mouth curving up, the reddened lips lush and damp from the alcohol. “But also an idea of what I don’t want.”

“Direz-moi. Tell me.” He held out his hand to her and she took it, sliding cool fingers into his.

She regarded him levelly, her expression serious. “How much does that sort of thing interest you?”

“Unlike Sir Stephen, I would never do anything to a woman against her will.” It was a simple answer, an easy one. He had no desire to force his attentions on anyone. “Beyond that, I’m open. Do you want to play?”

She laughed, a rich, delighted chortle. “And where better to play than a luxury hotel. I’ll be spoiled.”

“Let us start slowly, chérie,” he suggested. “We have all night.”

“We do,” she agreed, taking another sip of her Scotch. She still held his hand, loosely, casually. “What sort of game shall we play?”

“A game of wagers. Not Truth or Dare, but challenges. Whomever loses will pay a forfeit of the winner’s choosing.”

“Within reason.”

“Bien sûr. If you wish to stop, give me a word so that I shall know.”

Madelaine thought for a moment. “Chateau,” she said, “after The Story of O. What about you?”

“I won’t need one,” he replied. She squeezed his hand.

“Still…”

“Sorbonne.” A painful memory. He’d only use the word if he absolutely had to, and he doubted he would have to, not with her.

“Then let’s begin.”

He knew already what his first challenge would be. “I’ll wager that I can make you tremble without even touching you.”

She let go of his hand. “Good luck with that, Mr. Perron.”

“Call me Marc,” he said, rising to his feet. He stood by her, being careful not to even touch her toes in their boots. Bending low, he let his warm breath brush her ear, his voice a low, steady whisper. “Last night, alone in my bed, I thought of you, wishing you were here, but mostly wishing I had done more in the bookshop. I would have found a quiet corner and kissed you as I did tonight, until your knees went to jelly. And if we hadn’t yet been found out, I would have pushed up your shirt and sucked your nipples, keeping my hand over your mouth so you couldn’t cry out.”

Her breathing had slowed as he spoke, her eyes closing to picture the scene, and now her breath hitched, and she quivered, just slightly. But it was enough. He chuckled, and she opened her eyes, shaking a finger at him. “You don’t play fair.”

“Oh, but I do,” he replied, taking a seat next to her on the sofa, purposely letting his leg brush against hers. “And for your first forfeit of the evening, I only want to know one thing. Would you have let me?”

 

Would she?

Madelaine took her time answering, debating it in her mind, picturing it. If he’d kissed her then, after she’d come down the ladder, yes, she would have welcomed it. But more than that? She didn’t know.

“In part,” she replied.

“Which part?”

“I would have let you kiss me.”

He smiled and his eyes glinted with amusement. “Tres bien. Your turn, chérie.”

Madelaine looked down into her glass, pondering. “I’ll wager,” she said slowly, swirling the Scotch in the glass, “that you wouldn’t be able to undress me without using your hands.” She glanced at him from under her lashes and saw that he was already calculating.

“Where would you like me to start?”

Madelaine presented her back to him, drawing her hair over her shoulder to bare the tab of the zipper at the top of her dress. Then, she waited.

His lips brushed the nape of her neck, a delicate kiss that made her shiver. She felt the slow, even tug as the zipper came down, the back of her dress parting, his warm breath tickling her skin.  She took another sip of her Scotch to hide her smile. Her dress was the easy part.

“Stand up,” he requested, and she set down her glass and rose to her feet. The sateen of her dress slid from her shoulders of its own volition, leaving her clad in her underwear, stockings, and boots. It was the boots she wanted to see him attempt; she couldn’t imagine how he could get them off her otherwise. She felt the flick of his tongue on her spine, the feathery touch of his kiss, and then he stood up behind her, pressing against her back, sharing his warmth.

Marc’s fingers traced up her sides and he nibbled on the exposed skin of her neck.

“No hands, remember?” she chided him.

“When I undress you, there won’t be,” he replied, turning her to face him. “I want to enjoy this.” The cool metal of his belt buckle pressed against her belly, the fine wool of his trousers lightly scratching her skin. He cupped her cheek. “After all, you didn’t set a time limit.”

“I didn’t,” she conceded, “but I’ll remember that for next time.”

“I plan to make sure that you come so hard tonight that you won’t even remember your own name,” he replied, kissing her once, gently, parting her lips for his darting tongue.

“That sounds like another wager.”

“Maybe it is. But later.” His mouth came down over hers, ravishing her as he’d done when she’d arrived. Madelaine wrapped her arms around his neck, rising on her toes to get closer, pressing herself against his length. When they broke apart, she sagged against him, her head resting on his shoulder. He manoeuvred her back to the sofa, lifting her so she sat on his lap, facing away from him.

“I don’t see how you’re going to undress me like this.”

“Only for one part,” he replied, and bent her forward, her hair spilling over her face and tickling her legs. His teeth worked at the clasp of her bra and with a quiet click, fell loose. The right bra strap slipped off her shoulder first, tugged by his mouth once more, and then the left. Madelaine let it fall from her arms to rest on top of the dark puddle of her dress.

Marc brought her up against him, cupping her breasts in his hands, stroking and teasing her nipples. She tilted her head back, resting it on his shoulder once more, watching his hands on her, feeling the heat between her thighs. She squirmed on his lap. “You’re taking too long,” she said. “If you take much longer, I’m going to declare you the loser by default.”

“As you wish, chérie.” He set her from him and she wobbled on shaky legs. “Come around the table, where we’ll have more room.” He took her hand and led her into the centre of the sitting room.

“What next?”

Marc knelt before her. “Spread your legs, if you would be so kind.”

Madelaine shifted her stance, giving him enough room to take the zip of the boot in his teeth. He carefully undid the zips on both boots and she watched, fascinated to have a man willingly at her feet. To her surprise, Marc stood without having removed the boots from her legs. Rather than tug fruitlessly, which was what she’d expected, he stepped forward, putting light pressure on her toes, then he stooped and lifted her under her buttocks, pulling her up and free of her boots. She laughed in surprise.

“That’s cheating!”

“It’s well within the letter of the law,” Marc replied. He waggled his hands, neither of which were touching her in any way. He’d only used his arm to lift her. “Voyez?” Her stockinged feet touched the soft carpeting as he lowered her to the floor.

“I’ll get you back for that,” she said, pinching his arm.

“Promises, promises,” he teased, lowering himself to his knees once more. “Turn around.”

Marc made short work of her garter belt, undoing the clasp in less time than it had taken him with her bra. It fell from her waist and the weight of its clasps helped her lace top stockings slip down her thighs to pool just below her knees.

“Have you done this before?” she asked, watching as he helped the stocking slide further, until it pooled around her ankle.

“Once or twice,” he replied, dropping a kiss on the inside of her thigh. “But it’s been a long time.” She ran her fingers through his hair, tousling the dark strands and he looked up at her.

“Do you like it?”

“Being on my knees in front of a beautiful woman? Bien sûr. It’s a position of such promise of pleasure, chérie.”

WANT MORE?

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ALYSSA LINN PALMER writes romantic noir, lesbian romance, and a variety of short stories. Her novelBetting on Love was a finalist for a Rainbow Award in 2015, and in 2016, her novel Midnight at the Orpheus won a Rainbow Award for Best Bisexual Fiction. Find her works at alyssalinnpalmer.com, and all the usual online retailers. Want to chat? She’s on Instagram and Twitter as @alyslinn, and on Facebook as herself.

GENRES: SULTRY romantic noir, lesbian romance, LGBTQ romance

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About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance Tell Me, the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) Consequences (of defensive adultery), the award-winning rom-com (she's versatile) Cherry Pie Cure, and the just released TEXT ME, CUPID--a (slightly dirty) love story for 21st century adults who don't believe in love... but want it anyway. A sought-after speaker and present, Colette is also the author of the non-fiction collection of essays Rough Draft Confessions: not a guide to writing and selling erotica and romance but full of inside inside anyway, and the curator of the fab YYC Queer Writers anthologies Queer Christmas in Cowtown and Screw Chocolate. Coming in 2019: Once Upon A Queer Summer Night's in Cowtown.

3 comments

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