Thursday, July 4, 2013

Read the First Chapter of Woman on Top--FREE

Woman on Top is available from Siren-Bookstrand HERE.  It's over on Amazon HERE.


McQueen Was My Valley 2


Copyright © 2013

Chapter One
Bird in Hand, Utah

Brooke had seen this man walking back and forth past her desk for four days now.

The most he’d done was nod at her, acknowledging her existence, that she sat behind a desk. Sat there day in, day out, doing nothing more than point to the complimentary lemonade, strawberries, and apples. Oh, sure, once in awhile there would be a newbie guest and Brooke would be required to actually get up and give them a tour of the mineral pool, whirlpool, dry sauna, wet sauna. This was the highlight of Brooke’s day, pointing at the thermostat, showing people where to hang their white terry robes. Sometimes old-timers would want to go sit on their noodles in the outdoor shiatsu pool, and she’d have to explain that it was too snowy and therefore dangerous out there. The outdoor area of the Triple Play Lodge was closed in January.

Of course, Brooke kept her e-book reader on a pull-out tray under the desk and read books between greeting guests. This was how the real highlight of her days became the redheaded man who passed by her desk a few times every day. With an exquisitely rounded ass and wide shoulders, he carried himself stiffly, erect as though alert for enemies. His peridot-green eyes reflected light from the skylights above, giving the impression of steely intelligence, a gritty courage.

Brooke concluded that he had a military background. She had nothing better to do, in fact, than to invent an entire background for the ginger fellow she’d heard the masseuse call Adrian. Never married, she concluded the hunk in his mid-thirties had been running black ops overseas. He’d come to Utah to ski and forget the horrors he’d seen. She knew he skied because once she’d seen him head out of the dressing room all decked out in ski attire. Brooke made excuses to walk by the mineral pool just to catch glimpses of his finely molded ass as he took a dip in his tight swim trunks. Adrian had several long, slashing scars across his back that Brooke romantically imagined were caused when he was held captive by insurgents. Of course the terrorists got no information out of him.

After a few days of this torture, Brooke talked to Adrian’s masseuse, Ashley. “That guy, Ashley. The redheaded one. What’s his story?”

Ashley’s face lit up. “Oh, Adrian Kinsey? He’s a mouth-watering morsel. He’s got game, doesn’t he?”

“What is his game, exactly? Is he married?”

“I don’t think so. At least, he’s never mentioned a wife. No ring.”

“And he’s not gay,” Brooke presumed. Her gaydar definitely hadn’t pinged.

“I don’t think so. He’s made some…remarks about women before. That he appreciates them.”

The next time Adrian showed up for his massage appointment—nodding ever so minutely to Brooke as he passed by her desk—Brooke took impulsive action. She just could not tolerate watching this delectable man walk by without becoming more intimate with him.

She waited twenty minutes before completely abandoning her desk and walking upstairs. She lingered outside Ashley’s treatment room, staring into her cup of chamomile tea, practically whistling with nonchalance. A couple other masseuses walked by and tried to engage her in conversation, but she cut them off abruptly. He’s got game. Brooke wanted to know more about Adrian’s game.

Then Ashley emerged, on time to give Adrian his ten-minute meditative rest listening to space music while lavender steam drifted through the room. Luckily, Ashley just nodded at her before continuing down the hallway, and Brooke slipped into the room once she was out of sight.

Adrian lay on his front, a sheet draped over his buoyant ass. His swim trunks hung from a peg on the wall. Ashley was a pert, vivacious young woman—just like every other masseuse at the Triple Play. It wasn’t supposed to be intentional, but it somehow turned out that way, probably because pert young women drew in more customers. So Brooke needed to have one up on Ashley and all the other Ashleys of the Triple Play. She needed to stand out in some way if she wanted to tempt this unusually gorgeous man.

She needed to be bold.

And since Brooke had fearlessness in spades, she snatched up Ashley’s bottle of massage oil and warmed some between her palms. She was loud about it, too, not stealthy. She smacked her palms together like a child playing patty-cake, appreciatively eyeballing the lovely slope of Adrian’s lower back. His beautifully shiny, scarlet-red hair looked to have been cut in a military style but had grown out for perhaps over a month, giving him a shaggy, boyish look. Lust surged through Brooke’s uterus, actually making her ovaries throb as she stood beside his prone body, rubbing the oil salaciously into her palms.

He didn’t jump one centimeter when she touched her palms to his shoulders. She didn’t know if she should avoid the scars, which didn’t seem that old. Is he asleep? My, his skin is as soft as cream. Sweeping her hands down his biceps, she squiggled each of his fingers in turn between hers. Several times she had to add more oil, and her eyes were fixed on his face. He had a pointed, aristocratic nose that gave him a very thoughtful, refined look. Of course, being redheaded, he had exceedingly white skin, flawless aside from the flogging scars that flared angrily across his milky back.

Brooke was shocked at how deeply this man had already affected her. Was she not accustomed to partying at nightclubs with many international, jet-setting men? Yes. That’s why I was dragged here to Utah kicking and screaming against my will. Too much partying. She had always been able to bag any man she wanted, on a whim, never a single rejection. She had a feeling this refined, aristocratic man might be her first. This made her want him all the more. Is that my problem? Do I need to conquer every man in my sights? Maybe.

She leaned against the massage table in order to prop his hand in her lap and squirm his fingers between hers. That was when his beautiful green eyes popped open and he noticed her for the first time. His face showed no expression. “You’re not Ashley.”

Brooke kept her composure. “I have a different technique. She sent me in because I’m very good with hands and…backs.” She looked meaningfully at the florid scars that decorated his shoulder blades.

“Backs,” he stated, supporting his chiseled chin on his fist. “You’re the receptionist.”

“I’m Brooke,” she conceded, letting his arm dangle toward the floor and grabbing the oil bottle, which sat in a warmer. She poured a good palmful this time, and did not rub it in, just let it pool in her hand. “Ashley told me you had a painful back, and that’s my area of expertise.” She was bluffing, of course. She just assumed that most people, especially men, had painful backs at one point or another. Before he could respond, she poured the palmful of oil into the delicious depression of his lower back, right where an angel had pressed her fingers to create two dimples.

Adrian went with it, closing his eyes as she smoothed her hands over his hips. His skin is soft as velvet—aside from these ropey scars. She also dared to brush her fingertips against the bottom edge of one scar, taking note that his nostrils flared in pain or sensitivity. She didn’t try that again but focused on his lower back, adding more weight behind each pass of her hands, keeping her eyes on his face for any signs of pain. This part was easy. What girl hasn’t given a hundred massages to men? Men were always demanding massages. At least, the type of demanding man she was accustomed to being around.

She tugged the sheet down lower to reveal the blindingly white rise of his ass. Oh, absolutely delicious. Brooke longed to bury her face between his thighs. When her fingers swept over one of the shapely rises, she spoke to take his mind off her fingers. “This is a Forbes five-star spa, you know. Utah’s only. Well, aside from that other spa.”

“It’s very nice,” Adrian muttered without opening his eyes.

She dared to undrape his ass further, lightly sweeping her fingers over the delicious globes then returning to the plane of his lower back. “And you enjoy skiing,” she stated, gliding her palms again over his rounded butt. This time her fingertips strayed over the very lowest slope of his ass, and Adrian lifted his hips to adjust himself. In doing so, he spread his thighs even farther apart, and she moved down to eyeball the rounded pouch of his ball sac that was exposed to view. I can tell he enjoys skiing. His haunches are muscled like a bull’s.

“I like it all right,” he admitted apathetically.

“And where are you from?” She really wanted to know where he’d obtained the scars, but of course that question was too direct, too personal. “You’ve got a sort of vague, British accent.” She knew she had him in the palm of her hand. She could tell by how swollen his testicles were, squished between his thighs like that. I’m turning him on. He’s never going to be able to forget me now. Her taunting and teasing of him would be seared in his memory for days, or until he could stand it no more and sought her out again.

He spoke all in a rush, his eyes squeezed shut now. “I grew up in Ireland until I was ten, then came to Hartford, Connecticut.”

She tried to laugh lightly. “That explains the accent. It’s music to the ears.” But really, the buoyancy of his ass under her palms was making her sweat. If she’d been wearing a skirt, for sure a trickle of pussy juice would’ve been dripping down her inner thigh by now. As it was, her soaking panties and even her leggings cloyed annoyingly at her, itching. She wiggled her hips to rub her pussy lips together. Adrian must have felt the jiggling in her hands that swept over his tailbone, for he wrenched his torso off the table, twisting his hips out of reach of her hands. Of course, this only displayed his massive penis even more prominently, and his erection bobbed in the air, purplish and delicious. His eyes flashed with ire, and he snarled, “That’s enough.” Leaping to his feet, he strode to the peg and stepped into his trunks.

“But…” Brooke protested feebly, holding her hands before her as though they were bombs. What the hell did I do wrong? She had only tugged the sheet down a few inches, to let his skin…breathe. Now he had his back to her, snapping the snug trunks over that stupendous ass, stuffing his hard-on into the crotch, stamping up and down like a marching soldier. “I’m not done yet.”

“Yeah? Well, I am.” He shrugged into the white robe and took three long steps to the door.

Why is he being so mean? Before she could utter another word, he was gone out the door in a swirl of musky lavender, and Brooke collapsed into a chair in a confused mess of limbs. That’s enough. Well, I am. He had vastly overreacted to her innocent teasing, especially considering he had been obviously aroused by her touch. His prick had stood out, stiff and proud. Proud, even if Adrian himself wasn’t!

But shame overcame her triumph at having stimulated him. Brooke leaped to her feet, too, and ran out the door. She didn’t stop until she reached her reception desk, where she yanked her radio from her purse and barked into it, “Brooke to Xandra. Do you copy? ” A bit more frantic now, her voice rose in pitch. “Xandra, come in!”

Xandra’s annoyance was evident when the radio crackled. “What, Brooke?”

“What’s your location? I need to talk to you.”

“I’m just leaving the Neon Cocktail,” said her sister.

“Good. Stay there. I’ll be right there.”

“But it’s not five o’clock yet,” Xandra started to protest, but Brooke was already on her way, quitting before quitting time.

Brooke’s beautiful older sister wore a look of frank disgust when Brooke entered the lounge and took a seat next to her by a window. Brooke knew she was being a burden on her capable sister, but it had always been that way—that was her destiny! True, Xandra had been sent out to Utah by their father in order to get her away from a questionable boyfriend in Charleston and his drug-dealing ways. Brooke herself had fallen in with Javier’s crowd, and following Xandra’s path, had traveled to the Triple Play Lodge. But this time it was Xandra yanking Brooke from the hard-partying Bolivian crowd in Charleston, demanding she come to Bird in Hand, Utah with a promise of a healthier life, safer surroundings, and a luxurious spa job.

“I need a new job,” Brooke panted, eagerly looking for a cocktail server.

“Already?” Xandra had just returned from her Hawaiian honeymoon, flaunting her bronzed, tropical tan in the frigid snowy Utah landscape.

Brooke knew she should’ve been settled into what they’d decided would be the best spot in the lodge for her, the spa. Xandra was already doing her no-good sister a favor by giving her the receptionist position. What else did Brooke know how to do? She’d only worked in a lingerie shop and done some modeling before, nothing terribly skilled. She’d been given one more chance by coming out here, only to blow it in her arrogance—what their father used to call her “high-spiritedness.”

Because of her impulsive nature and the fact that she’d pretty much gotten everything she ever wanted, she had automatically assumed Adrian would fall for her talented fingers, her bountiful figure, her seductive sex appeal. Brooke was beyond mortified to realize not only had he not fallen for her—he’d rejected her outright.

It was another aspect of her stubborn character that Adrian’s rejection of her made her even more determined to win him.

“I know, I know,” said Brooke, anticipating Xandra’s lecture. “But I blew it with a guest.”

Xandra rolled her eyes and hid them behind her hand. “What did you do, Brooke?”

“I…I sort of offended one of them.”

“Let me guess. A man. Which one?”

Brooke spoke hurriedly now. “Just this redheaded buffoon from Ireland. I’m sure he’ll be gone soon back to Connecticut, but Xandra, I just can’t go back to the spa. I can’t face him! I can’t go back there—put me over at the ski lodge, operating the chairlift, anything other than the spa! I’ve cooked before—put me in the kitchen with Leif.”

Xandra grabbed her wrists to calm her and spoke directly. “Redheaded buffoon? Dear Lord, Brooke. Was it that prisoner of war, Adrian Kinsey? Handsome, tall antiquities expert for the military?”

Holy shit. What have I done? “Yes, Adrian Kinsey, that’s it. I did get the feeling he was military. He was a POW?”

Xandra’s exasperation was threatening to overwhelm her. “Yes! He spent a frigging month being tortured in Damascus over some stupid frigging statue he was trying to recover.”

Brooke temporarily forgot to be mortified, becoming interested in Adrian’s story instead. “Really? That’s fascinating. So he’s some kind of spy?”

“I guess you could call it that,” Xandra said wearily. “He works for the same private military contractor that Nathan works for.” Nathan was Xandra’s new husband, a dashing, athletic man who looked as though he should’ve been cast as James Bond. Brooke didn’t know too much about Nathan other than that he’d given up the spy life, having some kind of PTSD after a traumatic event in Africa. He now ran around teaching fly-fishing to visitors and didn’t seem traumatized at all.

Nathan was absolutely drenched in virility, and Brooke was more than slightly jealous of her sister. Perhaps there was a bit of competition with her sister that she wanted her own virile commando, too. “So that’s how you know this about Damascus? Through Nathan?”

“Yes, Nathan had Adrian fly out here a few months ago to…to help Nathan with a case.”

“Some antiquities needed analyzing?”

“Something like that. Now listen here, my irresponsible sister. Adrian doesn’t need you stalking him, shoving your bosom in his face, or otherwise trying to seduce him. Word is that he’s avoiding women for now, and possibly for a long time to come. You’re just spinning your wheels with him. I’d prefer it if you didn’t stalk anyone, but I know that’s asking too much.”

Brooke slumped down in her seat. “I know. And the chairlift would be just as bad. Adrian skis, and I’d constantly run into him there. What about the restaurant?”

“Leif has all his little culinary friends working for him. How’s about you go and help Cass Cameron? Cass always needs help.”

Cass was the director of the front office and seemed to be Xandra’s closest friend—she had stood as maid of honor at Xandra’s recent wedding and had actually knocked down a couple of women in her zeal to grab the bouquet. “All right,” Brooke said timidly. “I’ll help Cass. Anything. Anything to avoid seeing that poor man again.”

Xandra nodded with approval and relaxed now that things were ironed out. “Good. It’s best you leave him alone for now, although you’re right. He is quite handsome. It’s horrific what happened to him.”
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