Tempting Him (An Obsessed Novella)
By Jeanne St. James
Genre: Contemporary Erotic Romance, BDSM
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Blurb:
It’s not just a love story,
it’s an obsession...
Skylar:
Every
time my neighbor jogs past my house, I do my best to tempt him. Washing my car,
watering my lawn, doing yoga in the grass with my all my assets in the air. I’m
not sure if he notices me, but I sure can’t miss him.
Then
one day he falls... into my arms and into my bed. Surprisingly, we’re better
matched than I would’ve expected. But when he reveals who he is, my world comes
crashing down around me because if he finds out my secret we’re finished before
we’ve even begun.
Cade:
Three
days a week, I put myself through hell by jogging through my neighborhood. I suffer
through it simply to catch a glimpse of a woman I don’t know. Every time I pass
her house she’s outside tempting me. Until one day I fall... over my feet, over
my heart, over this woman and into her arms.
I
know nothing about her, but I want to discover everything. Even her deepest,
darkest secrets. However, little does she know, I have one, too. One that may
sever the tie that binds us.
Excerpt:
Chapter One
Skylar:
I
watch as sweat drips one bead at a time onto my over-priced yoga mat. The sun is
so freaking hot and here I am, like an idiot out in my yard, bent over in the
downward facing dog pose for the past million years. Okay, not years... maybe
more like a million seconds. But my body has decided it hates me (nothing new)
and is cramping while my head spins. Even better, my over-priced yoga pants have
clawed their way up my crack (as well as one other place). And still...
No
neighbor.
What
the hell?
Despite
my eyeballs’ attempt at bulging out of their sockets, I peek at my sports watch.
He should’ve been by here two-point-five minutes ago.
Shit.
The
man is usually like clockwork, jogging by my house on Monday, Wednesday and
Friday afternoons every week. For the most part, anyway. Though, thunderstorms seem
to discourage him from his cardio. (Not sure why.)
On
those days, I would be willing to recommend another type of cardio to get his
heart pumping. And maybe get his hips pumping, too.
Anyway...
look at me! Doing yoga on my front lawn, on the uneven grass, waiting like a
desperate woman. (I’m not, really, I promise! It just looks that way.)
But,
damn, the man is fine and when he jogs past shirtless, he’s shiny with sweat,
which makes me want to drag him inside and give him a sponge bath with my
tongue.
My
thighs start shaking as I peek between my spread legs, because, of course, my
ass has to be facing the street. I want him to get a good look at what I’m
offering.
I
may even wiggle it a little when he jogs by.
That
is if I don’t pass out into a heap first.
I
sigh.
Then
sigh again a little louder just for good measure.
Maybe
it would be easier if I just took up jogging. Wear one of those sexy sports
bras, put my hair up in a cute little pony tail, plaster a smile on my face and
follow him around the block at a perky pace.
I’ll
die first.
****
Cade:
Why
I ever started this shit, I’ll never know. No, I lie. I know. I thought, “Cade,
dude, wouldn’t it be great to up your cardio game and start running?”
I
answered myself with, “Yeah, man, that would be great and fun, too!” And
then maybe I won’t get so winded when I play basketball with the guys. I’ll
have more endurance, I’ll look and feel younger, and...
Fuck that.
Running
sucks. And I don’t even think what I do can be considered as running. No, it’s more
of a jog. Or a lope. Or trotting like a donkey with a lame hoof.
Inhell.
Exhell.
My
chest burns, my leg muscles spasm, my balls feel like they’re floating in a
puddle of sweat, and the crack of my ass...
I’m
not even going there. (Trust me, you don’t want to, either.)
So,
why don’t I just stop the torture? (Good question!)
I’ve
asked myself that for the past month.
And
the answer has always been...
Her.
I
sacrifice three days a week just to see a woman I don’t know.
Not
sure why, but she always seems to be outside at the same time of the day. For
that reason, I make sure that’s when I go running (jogging, trotting, limping)
by.
Am
I crazy to torture myself because I find someone attractive and I’d like to get
her attention?
Eh.
Maybe.
Why
don’t I just knock on her door and ask her out? (Another good question.)
Maybe
I want to impress her with my physique and athletic prowess.
But
honestly, something has to give and it has to be soon. Because this running
shit sucks balls and I’d rather stick razor blades under my fingernails.
At
least my slow trot is the right speed to observe her without being creepy.
Walking would be too slow and obvious. Driving too quick and useless, not to
mention dangerous when she’s clearly a distraction.
And,
of course, my pace always allows me enough time to enjoy the show she gives me.
On
Wednesday, she was out washing her car, her top soaked, her nipples pushing
through the thin fabric of her shirt, and when she bent over to scrub the hood
of said car, my boner just about popped out of my shorts. You know, those
little nylon running shorts. The ones with the mesh liner, clearly not made for
sexual arousal.
But
I digress.
The
week before, she was out watering her lawn. And, once again, her top was wetter
than her grass.
Here’s
the thing, the entire neighborhood has built-in sprinklers.
Maybe
hers are broken.
It’s
possible.
I
grunt as I turn the corner and try to push myself a little faster since I’m off
my game today. I’m later than normal, and I want my running to look as
effortless as possible. It needs to look as though I’ve got my shit together
and I’m not secretly suffering.
My
eyes swing to the left as I jog. She’s the fourth house up. The brick ranch home
with the two-car garage.
Two
houses to go yet.
One
house.
My
eyes widen as I see her ass in tight black yoga pants in the air. My step
stutters but I can’t stop my momentum.
My
mouth becomes an O, partly because
I’m falling over my own two feet, the other because she’s dropped to her knees
and is now arching backwards grabbing onto her heels, her generous tits straining
against her top.
Last
thing I see is her blinking upside down at me as her head hangs down her back.
Suddenly,
I’m staring at nothing but pavement (and my loss of manhood). The little bit of
oxygen I had sucked into my lungs is now gone.
Then,
what seems like seconds later, bare, cute, red painted toes come into view.
I
want to just die.
About the Author:
JEANNE ST. JAMES is a USA Today bestselling erotic
romance author who loves an alpha male (or two). She was only thirteen when she
started writing. Her first paid published piece was an erotic story in Playgirl
magazine. Her first erotic romance novel, Banged Up, was published in 2009. She
is happily owned by farting French bulldogs. She writes M/F, M/M, and M/M/F
ménages. Want to read a sample of her work? Download a sampler book here: BookHip.com/MTQQKK
To keep up with her busy release schedule check her
website at www.jeannestjames.com or
sign up for her newsletter: http://www.jeannestjames.com/newslettersignup
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