Twisted By Love, Reincarnation Tales, Book 1

by Jasmine Haynes

  Ruby was wet and ready before Bradley even licked her. She’d been wet all day planning the naughty little encounter.

  “I’m going to make you scream,” he boasted, then he put his tongue to her.

  And truly, she did want to scream. “Oh, that’s so right, baby. Clay never does it like that. He never finds the right spot.” Bradley always needed a little ego boost to get him going, and what better way than to tell him how much better he was than Clay, her live-in boyfriend, lover—whatever you wanted to call him—and most importantly, Bradley’s boss.

  Leaning back on her elbows, she drew her knees up so she could watch every move he made. His hair was a lustrous dark brown against the perfect white flesh of her thighs. His shoulders were wide, and she loved the sight of him in his white dress shirt as he went to town on her. Ruby enjoyed watching a man make love to her with his mouth. She loved the brush of soft hair against her skin, and the bristle of Bradley’s perpetual quarter-inch growth of beard. She relished each and every sensation.

  She especially loved cuckolding Clay on his very big desk at ten o’clock on a weeknight after the cleaners had all gone home. His second-floor office overlooked the parking lot and road, yet with the conference table between the windows and Clay’s desk, they were virtually unnoticeable from the outside. So Ruby had left the lights on, all the better to see Bradley down between her legs.

  “Ooh,” she crooned. “Clay hardly ever licks me.” She moaned. “And I so love the way you do it.” Bradley was twenty-nine and a mere financial analyst, so she had to find ways to coax the best out of him—young men still had so much to learn. One of those ways was to tell him how much more virile he was than his boss, or rather, his boss twice removed. Bradley worked for the finance manager who in turn worked for Clay, but really, it was Clay Bradley had to impress. To be honest, Clay didn’t always appreciate Bradley’s work, so Ruby had made it her mission to help the young man feel he was good enough in other realms. Like doing her nine ways to Sunday. On a Wednesday night.

  Then she stopped thinking and let sensation take over. “Don’t stop, lick me, baby, just like that.” The heat built inside her, ready to burst, yet she pushed it off a little longer, like riding a magnificent wave just before it crashes.

  Bradley put two fingers inside her the way she’d taught him, and found her G-spot right away. Oh, that boy was improving. She shuddered, then cried out, “Yes, yes, yes.” And the climax pulsed through her body.

  Before it could end, she grabbed Bradley by the hair. “Fuck me now.”

  Bradley grabbed her hips, and rolled her over, her stomach bare against the cool wood of the desk. She loved it from behind, pushed against a hard surface, taken, almost forced. Especially when Clay took her this way. He was so big, so tall, three inches taller than Bradley’s six feet.

  Behind her, Bradley made fast work of the condom. “It’s going to be so good, you won’t want to even go home to him.”

  She didn’t tell him that would never happen; better not to spoil the moment. “When he does me, baby, I imagine it’s you.” Actually, when Bradley did her, she imagined telling Clay about it later, how hot he’d get, how it turned him into a wild man. Her wild man.

  Bradley plunged deep. Glorying in the feel of him, she stretched out her hands, accidentally knocking over the photo of Clay and his two teenage sons. Oops. But oh, this was good, so very good. He was young and strong, his technique not better than Clay’s, just different. It still needed refining, but he was a fast learner, at least in the sex department. She adored teaching a young man new tricks. She was forty years old—a hot little number, if she did say so herself—and proud of her toned figure and that her face had only a smattering of age lines. She was better than she’d ever been. Bradley couldn’t get enough of her.

  “Oh my God,” she cried out. “You fill me up. You’re so much bigger and thicker than Clay.”

  At her words, Bradley went crazy, assured of how much more virile he was than Clay. These young men performed so well when you told them what they wanted to hear. Stretching out her arms, she curled her fingers around the edge of the desk and gave herself up to the moment, to the feel of a hard, young cock inside her and the second sweet climb to the pinnacle.

  * * * * *

  Jessica Murphy jerked, then snapped to a sitting position on the break room sofa. In the dark, the microwave clock flipped to ten-oh-five in bright blue letters. Good Lord, all she’d wanted to do was rest her eyes, a five-minute catnap; she’d slept for over an hour. The board meeting was on Friday, and she needed to review the March quarterly financials tomorrow with Clay Blackwell, her CFO. But there was an issue in CIP, the construction-in-progress account.

  A noise had woken her. It couldn’t be the cleaning staff; they’d left before her so-called catnap. She rose from the couch, crossing to the door by the illumination of the microwave clock. The hallway was dark. She’d turned out all the lights, not wanting to waste electricity, especially when she was accounting manager for West Coast Manufacturing, which meant she knew exactly how much the PG&E bill was.

  There it was again. Bracing herself against the doorframe, she strained to hear. A moan. Then she was sure she could make out voices, though the words were indistinguishable. She shivered slightly. The automatic thermostat turned the heating down at nine, raising it again at six in the morning. Despite being the beginning of April, the San Francisco Bay Area was still chilly at night.

  Stepping out into the hallway, which bordered all the cubicles in the middle of the large accounting department, she made out lights on the far side. From the CFO’s office. But Clay had been long gone before she’d crashed on the break room sofa. Obviously, he’d come back.

  What if he’d discovered her sleeping? Jessica fluffed her hair, which was curly and tended to get mashed after she slept on it. It must look like a rat’s nest. And her lipstick was probably smudged. She ran a finger under each eye to get rid of any mascara, then smoothed beneath her lips, hoping that was good enough to fix the lipstick. She hated the idea of Clay Blackwell seeing her at anything less than her best. He lived with the CEO’s executive admin, Ruby Williams, and Jessica didn’t have designs on him—she wasn’t a home wrecker—but she admired Clay immensely and...well...a woman could have her fantasies in the middle of the night when no one else suspected.

  All right, nothing could be done about her appearance now. She marched down the small walkway between the cubicles, and the sounds from the other side of the thin dividers grew exponentially louder with every step she took. Jessica’s heart started to pound, and she thought about turning around and getting the hell out. Because really, what was Clay Blackwell doing in his office? And just who was he with?

  She might have run, too, if she hadn’t heard distinct words in a female voice—“Clay’s never fucked me like this”—punctuated by a man’s low growl of pleasure.

  Turning the corner by the end of a cubicle wall, Jessica could see straight into Clay’s office. Her breath stopped in her chest.

  Ruby Williams was facedown on the desk, skirt pushed up over her butt, dark hair flowing around her shoulders, eyes closed, her red lips parted on a moan of intense pleasure. Behind her, Bradley Palmer slammed into her, each thrust shoving her across the desk.

  If you enjoyed this excerpt, you can find more information about Revenge Sex, West Coast Book 1, Submitting to the Boss, Book 2, and The Boss’s Daughter, Book 3 on www.jasminehaynes.com.

  Try a sample of Jasmine’s Prescott Twins series!

  Double the Pleasure

  Prescott Twins, Book 1

  Copyright 2011 Jasmine Haynes

  Cover design by Rae Monet Inc

  Previously published in 2005 in the Twin Peaks Anthology

  One night, one chance, but will she have the courage...

  Hitting the big 3-0 birthday like a brick wall, shy, reserved Kristin Prescott just has to break out of her sensible shoes and buttoned-up blouses and find herself a man. And the only one who wil
l do is Ross Sloan, her sexy boss. The problem is, she isn't Ross's type; he prefers sensual, seductive women like her identical twin. But, Kristin isn't sure she can let go of her inhibitions.

  Unless she pretends to be her sister.

  Ross Sloan has lusted after his secretary, Kristin Prescott, since the moment she walked into his office. When she seduces him while playing the role of her twin sister, he sees through her masquerade immediately. But Ross wants both sides of Kristin: the prim, efficient woman who runs his office and the passionate woman she exposes in the guise of her sister. Forcing Kristin to release her inhibitions and claiming the desirable woman beneath the facade becomes his ambition.

  But will the pleasure cost them their business relationship? Or can they have both?

  Excerpt

  Ross saw her the minute she entered the hotel bar. Miss Prescott. His Miss Prescott. In an exceptionally short red dress with an unbelievably gorgeous pair of thighs to match those calves, better even than he’d imagined. Reality certainly surpassed fantasy. Damn. That red dress...

  It didn’t matter. In the morning she’d still be his secretary. And he needed her.

  She turned, and her gaze traveled over the cluster of tables flanking the small dance floor. The bar was by no means full, and if she’d been looking, she couldn’t have missed him sitting at the far end of the counter.

  She never even looked.

  Just as well, it allowed him to observe every curve revealed by the brevity of her skirt. Her hair cascaded over shoulders covered only by the thin red straps of her dress. Oh, yeah, her hair was exactly the stuff of his fantasies, rich shades of reds and browns, curling softly over the tops of her breasts. Speaking of breasts, if he’d seen her like this in his office, he’d never have been able to keep his hands off her.

  His heart stopped as she touched the red-and-black beaded choker at her throat. Just a brief caress. His eyes tracked the brush of her fingers down the slender line of her throat, leading his gaze to the soft swell of a plump breast. Magnificent. His smart, efficient secretary was sexy as all get-out.

  His temperature rose by degrees as she moved to the bar and slid onto a free stool, crossing her legs. Endless legs. The red dress rode up her thigh. She signaled the bartender, and the man jumped to attention as if she’d handed him twenty bucks. Ross understood the feeling; he’d jumped to attention himself.

  She ordered and, when her wine came, lifted the glass to her lush red lips. She raised a finger and slid it across her bottom lip, trapping a droplet. He barely suppressed a groan, closing his eyes briefly just to keep his sanity.

  This couldn’t be his Miss Prescott. He opened his eyes.

  Oh, but it was. Beneath the chatter of voices, the laughter, and the thrum of elevator music, the soft chink of her nails against the glass floated down the length of the bar. His groin tightened. God, there was something about that sound. It sent him into orbit.

  He forgot his boredom of late. Miss Prescott in a sexy red dress was a breath of fresh air from the stuffy executive offices he’d been inhabiting, both professionally and personally.

  If you enjoyed this excerpt, you can find more information about Double the Pleasure, Prescott Twins, Book 1 and Skin Deep, Prescott Twins, Book 2 on www.jasminehaynes.com.

  Other books by Jasmine Haynes:

  Kinky Neighbors

  Kinky Neighbors Two

  Anthology: Beauty or the Bitch & Free Fall

  Take Your Pleasure

  Take Your Pick

  Past Midnight

  What Happens After Dark

  The Principal’s Office

  The Max Starr Series by Jasmine Haynes

  Dead to the Max, Max Starr, Book 1

  Evil to the Max, Max Starr, Book 2

  Desperate to the Max, Max Starr, Book 3

  Power to the Max, Max Starr, Book 4

  Vengeance to the Max, Max Starr, Book 5

  Jasmine Haynes also writes as Jennifer Skully, funny, sexy, poignant contemporary romances. Here’s an introduction to Jennifer Skully’s Cottonmouth series!

  She’s Gotta Be Mine

  Cottonmouth Book 1

  Copyright 2011 Jennifer Skully

  Cover design by Rae Monet Inc

  Dumped? For her husband’s high school sweetheart he hasn’t seen in twenty years? Roberta Jones Spivey isn’t going to lay down for that, no way. Instead, she decides to reinvent herself. The new Bobbie Jones—new haircut, new name, new attitude—will follow her soon-to-be ex to the small Northern California town of Cottonmouth. And there she’ll show him—and his sweetheart—what a big mistake he made.

  What better way to show him what he’s missing in the brand new Bobbie Jones than taking up with the town’s local bad boy—who’s also reputed to be a serial killer. Nick Angel is devilishly handsome and sexy as all get-out. In a word, perfect.

  It’s all going exactly according to plan...until a real murder rocks the little town of Cottonmouth. Of course, Nick didn’t do it...did he?

  ~Previously published in 2005 as Sex and the Serial Killer~

  Excerpt

  A mixture of red dye and sweat trickled down her forehead, hovered on her eyebrows, poised to drizzle into her eyes. Soon to be blinded by runaway hair products, Roberta Jones Spivey could force nothing more than a mousy squeak from her throat. She was about to go deaf, too, from the hairdryer blasting her eardrums, and still, she couldn’t open her mouth wide enough to shriek. Any moment now, her hair would spontaneously combust. They’d smell the smoke first, then the aroma of singed hair, but by the time any of the umpteen stylists scurrying about The Head Hunter’s main salon came to her rescue, she’d be bald. If not charred to a briquette.

  Help me before my demise becomes a fifteen-second slot on a tabloid show. Now was not the time for a panic attack.

  Drip, drip, drip, from her eyebrows to her eyelashes. In a last ditch effort to save herself, she squeezed her eyes shut. Burning tears leaked out to mingle with the caustic fluids. She clamped onto the chair’s arms, a death grip, terrified that if she touched the stuff, she’d end up rubbing her flesh off, too.

  Someone. Please. Notice me.

  The bowl of the dryer was suddenly jerked up, cool air from the overhead fans wafting across her scalp.

  “Bobbie, honey, why didn’t you tell me the color was running?” Mimi was the only person who’d ever called her Bobbie.

  Roberta dragged in a breath of air to explain, then collapsed in a spasm of coughing as the stench of chemicals, dyes, perm solution, and her own terrified sweat swooped down her throat.

  Mimi’s shoes clicked-clacked away, then back again. “Here, drink this.”

  Water had never tasted so good. All Roberta had wanted was a new look. Okay, so she needed a new life, too. Instead, she’d almost died, and her heart was still pounding like the Pony Express. She handed the empty paper cup back to Mimi, who crumpled it, executed a perfect free throw into the trash can, then tugged at a few squishy locks on Roberta’s head, and pronounced, “You’re cooked.”

  Roberta was cooked all right. Roasted, basted, filleted, flambéed. And limp as a wet noodle to boot. Residual quivers made her knees wobble as she tried to stand up.

  Mimi put a hand beneath her elbow. “Bobbie, honey, you okay?

  “I’m fine.” Well, except that Warren had walked out on her three weeks, six days, and seven hours ago. On April eighteenth. Three days after tax day. Two days after he’d left for his little mission up north. In Cottonmouth, California. He’d dumped her with nothing more than a phone call telling her he wasn’t coming back. Ever.

  Roberta blew out a breath. “Yeah, Mimi, I’m just fine.”

  “Good, for a minute there under the dryer you looked a little panicky.” Mimi patted her arm and led her to the rinse bowl.

  “I didn’t want to bother you while you were busy.” Her, panic? Just because her husband of fifteen years had left her for his long-lost, recently-located-through-the-Internet high school sweetheart? The love
of his life. The teenage bimbo who’d broken his heart, then disappeared off the face of the earth—or at least left the San Francisco Bay Area for parts unknown. Cookie. What kind of name was that anyway? It made her think of some hairy blue monster on a morning kids’ show. Warren was bound to see he’d made a mistake.

  Okay, so she’d made a mistake, too, by actually helping him search the Net. And mailing the hundreds of letters—because he was nervous about calling all those women looking for the right one. And letting him drive to Cottonmouth all alone that fateful weekend. She’d only wanted to help him solve his problem. Because his problem was her problem.

  Mimi pushed her head back into the bowl and began rinsing with warm water. Roberta closed her eyes. The water turned off, the soothing scent of citrus conditioner replaced the stinging dye in her nostrils, and gentle fingers massaged her scalp.

  “Bobbie, honey, you’re tense. Is work getting to you?”

  “No, it’s fine.” Except for those dreaded whispers of “restatement” trickling out of the audit committee, and her boss Mr. Winkleman’s finger pointing firmly in her direction, as Director of Accounting. But she wasn’t worried; she knew every balance, every detail, inside and out. Her numbers were solid.

  She gave herself up to the finger pads working her scalp and the little knots at the base of her skull. Her breathing relaxed, the whir of her mind’s gears slowed. Ahh.