Provocative Professions Collection by S. E. Hall & Angela Graham

Author:S. E. Hall & Angela Graham [Hall, S. E. & Graham, Angela]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, romance. anthology, Erotica
Amazon: B00SIJ4FCY
Published: 2015-01-27T05:00:00+00:00

I should've called a cab. By the time I close and tri-lock my apartment door, I'm psychologically certifiable. Tripping over my own feet, crashing into things left and right, chasing every shadow in the place.

So he's not the louse from the bookstore, didn't kill or hurt me when he had the perfect opportunity (secluded closet, party drowning out my screams), though now there's the more worrisome concern. Being cocooned in his impressive arms, held protectively against his colossal body, felt like shelter.

Disheartened, I slump down on my couch, throbbing head dropped in my hands. I just got finger fucked by my sometimes sadist fan, sometimes intelligibly poetic stalker!!!

And I loved it. In the moment, at least.

Worse than the humiliating burst of panic, was the ride home with Mabry, which sent me straight over the edge. The person who gave her crazy never looks at the road, hands used to "talk" rather than, say, hold the wheel a license should be fired. What'd she used those hands to ramble on about? The two "mind blowing, we truly connected" rounds she'd gone with FedEx, or uh, Shaw, in her office during the party.

I wasn't compelled to mention the two mind explosions of my own. One being the drought-ending, non-self-induced, psyche-bending orgasm, and two, who gave it to me. Rather, I focused on Mabry's favorite target—herself. Apparently she and FedEx are "good" again, the fight and awkward "aftermath" I'd witnessed in my office long forgotten. Why is it that Mabry's affairs are always sexy and normal? Surely, between Ms. Flighty and myself, she's the one sending out "I want freaky, possibly dangerous flings?" In fact, Mabry's likely to ask for that verbatim, out loud! Yet she got deliciously adorable FedEx and I got the Phantom.

Oh well, at least one of us left the party with a happy ending.

I peel off my costume, take a scalding shower that does little to wash away my doubts, questions, and confusion, then crawl into bed. My pile of books on the nightstand calls to me as they always do, so I reach over blindly, any one I grab fine, and gasp when I look what fate chose. Justine. Figures, after tonight's revelations, this would be the one I come up with. The back sleeve's elusive as to what I'll find between the covers, so I curiously dive in.

After thirty or so minutes of reading, skipping ahead, then bravely skimming some more, my earlier freakout begins to resurface. What I've gathered thus far, is that this book is appalling. I'm mortified and absolutely grossed out.

The Marquis de Sade is not for me and feeling particularly dirty, I march to my balcony, slide open the door, and fling it as hard as I can, aiming for the giant trash receptacle nestled just to the side of the building. I watch as it misses the mark and hits the ground a few feet over.

Close enough.

Perhaps the trash man has a tolerance for perverse reading material.

When I'm climbing back into bed a few minutes later and my phone dings, I actually cackle.

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