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.
“So, where’s your husband taking you for your birthday?”
Roberta’s eyes flew open, and all that lovely mellowness fled through the soles of her low-heeled pumps.
“He’s picked out this new restaurant he heard about on Nob Hill.” The lie just sort of slipped out. Roberta believed in little white lies to keep everyone comfortable. Except that there wasn’t anything comfortable about turning forty. Or about being dumped. What was next? Menopause. Old age. Death. “It’s very exclusive, very dressy, and very San Francisco, he says.”
She wouldn’t have had a thing to wear because she’d lost ten pounds since Warren left. But if Warren was taking her out for her birthday, then she wouldn’t have lost the ten pounds because he wouldn’t have left, and then she would have had something to wear. Her temples throbbed. Everything was so confusing.
“You’ve really got yourself a prince there.”
Yeah, a prince. She just hadn’t realized that princes needed Prozac. Or that a good psychiatrist cost upwards of two hundred dollars an hour—excuse me, fifty minutes—just to say, “Mrs. Spivey, you must realize that antidepressants will have a negative impact on your husband’s sex drive.”
He had no sex drive. That’s why he’d gone to a doctor to begin with.
Tears suddenly pricked the corners of her eyes. “Yes, Warren’s a wonderful man.”
At least she’d thought so. But he’d gone off the drugs for the Cookie Monster, for God’s sake. And the woman was married. Another dumpee in the making. Maybe Roberta should call Mr. Cookie Monster to commiserate.
Maybe she should sue Warren’s psychiatrist for putting the idea of finding closure with his high school sweetheart into his mind in the first place. Instead, she’d dyed her brown hair red.
“Maybe I need a new haircut, too.”
Easing her to a sitting position, Mimi wrapped a white towel around Roberta’s head and squeezed the water from her hair.
“Something bouncy and short?”
Her head enshrouded in terrycloth, Roberta nodded.
“Thank God, Bobbie. I’ve been telling you your hair is naturally curly, the length and weight just pulls it all out.”
Mimi tugged Roberta to her feet and guided her to a chair. The towel came off. What she’d thought would be red was merely a darker brown. Richer maybe, but still brown.
“Don’t pout. It’ll look red when it dries. Now, how short shall we go?” Mimi fluffed the drying strands.
Roberta pointed to her shoulders.
Mimi grimaced in the mirror. “That’ll drag your face down. As we get older, we need to make sure our faces don’t drag.”
Who was this we? Mimi was a pert, perpetual twenty-nine-year-old with lively black hair, wood-nymph brown eyes, and unlined skin. Without opening her mouth, Roberta skimmed the bottom of her ears with shaky fingers.
Mimi beamed. “Perfect.”
Then she started snipping, clipping, drying, and poofing. Roberta squeezed her eyes shut amidst the cacophony of voices, laughter, running water, and blow dryers.
“You can open them now.”
A scintilla of the hysteria she’d felt under the dryer tingled along Roberta’s nerve endings. Then she looked in the mirror.
“Oh my.”
Behind her, Mimi bounced with expectation. “Whad’ya think?”
Roberta didn’t recognize the face framed in silky red hair just brushing the tips of her ears, hugging her nape, gently curling across her forehead. Her hazel eyes looked greener, lush, like new spring grass. Her lips looked fuller. And the tired lines pulling at her mouth seemed to have vanished.
“It makes you look like you’ve lost weight. I think you need to buy a new outfit to celebrate.”
The woman in the mirror needed a whole new wardrobe. Business suits and tailored blouses just wouldn’t go with that face. That face needed vibrant colors and short skirts. Four-inch spike heels.
The hand in the mirror touched the full lips. Lipstick. Something overstated. “Maybe I need some new makeup, too, Mimi.”
“I’ve got just the thing.” Mimi disappeared from the mirror, click-clacking across the linoleum.
Yes, she needed new makeup. Because fixing your whole life couldn’t be accomplished simply by changing your hairstyle.
No, that new hair needed new makeup, new clothes, new shoes. And a new name. Like Bobbie. Bobbie Jones. Without the Spivey, which had always made her think of the word spineless. Spineless Spivey. Warren? Or herself?
And Director of Accounting would never do for Bobbie Jones. Bobbie needed something...exciting. A job where she’d meet new people every day. Doing something she’d shine at. Where she couldn’t help but be noticed.
Where there were no Mr. Winklemans pointing their fingers and saying, She did it. Fire her.
God, could she really do it? Could she really quit, try on another career like a new outfit?
What on earth was standing in her way? There was no Warren. And there was money in the bank to tide her over until she found just the right job.
Could she? Would she? She stared at the familiar yet changed woman in the mirror. That woman could do anything she set her mind to. That woman would find a new goal in life.
Roberta sat straighter, squared her shoulders, put a hand to the brand new curls that overflowed the top of her head. Bobbie Jones wouldn’t have to worry about negative impacts on a man’s sex drive. Bobbie Jones would have her pick.
Roberta Jones Spivey could stick with a job she hated and grovel at the feet of the Winklemans of the world. Roberta Jones Spivey could have panic attacks under a hair dryer because she’d decided to change the color of her hair. Bobbie Jones had better things to do. Important things to do. One all-important thing.
Bobbie Jones was going to Cottonmouth to show Warren what he’d thrown away when he drove off into the sunset to find the Cookie Monster.
Oh yeah, and one more really important thing. Bobbie would have sex for the first time in...much too long.
* * * * *
Bobbie Jones—she’d tossed out Roberta along with her job, her tailored suits, and her frilly blouses—tapped her brilliant crimson lip with the tip of a matching manicured nail. A new woman with a new attitude. And no ugly, painful thoughts.
“I must have that cottage.” No, no, we can’t possibly do this. Bobbie quashed another annoying little Robert-whine. She was getting so much better at doing it, since that day in the salon, a little less than a month ago, when she’d decided every page of her life story needed revising.
Top selling real estate agent and self-proclaimed Cottonmouth maven, Patsy Bell Sapp’s mouth opened so wide, the wrinkles marring her tanned face vanished. Almost. “You don’t want that.”
Bobbie smiled. “Yes. I do.” No, we don’t. Buzz off, Roberta.
The house, little more than a cube tucked into a postage-stamp lot, was the antithesis of the pristine residence on the stately San Francisco street. Warren had chosen the property over having children, a plan she’d, no, Roberta had gone along with because being a parent was too awesome a responsibility.
“But the serial killer lives right across the street.” Patsy hacked out a cough, her penciled-in eyebrows disappearing into t
he fringe of her bouffant hairdo. With a vigorous shake of her head, multiple shades of gray sparkled in the sunlight.
“Excuse me?” Was the woman serious? Probably not. If she was, why would she even bring Bobbie by the rental?
Still looking at her, Patsy pointed at the shaded, two-story house across the street. “He’s a serial killer,” she mouthed.
The title had a ring to it, even if it was most likely a town joke. Serial killer. Didn’t that fit her mood to a T? Her mood, not Roberta’s. She itched with a mixture of danger, disbelief, and anticipation. Heavy on the disbelief part. But still, he must be a real bad-boy type to fuel such rumors. Back home in Head Hunters salon, she’d sworn to herself she was going to have sex with someone. And sex with an alleged serial killer sounded risky. Edgy. Exciting.
Just the kind of thing a Bobbie Jones, not a Roberta Spivey, would do. It would tweak Warren’s nose right out of joint.
And that’s what this whole excursion to Cottonmouth was about. Right?
If you enjoyed this excerpt, here’s where you can find She’s Gotta Be Mine, Cottonmouth Book 1 and Fool’s Gold, Book 2. Look for Can’t Forget You, Book 3 in 2014
Other Books by Jennifer Skully
Baby, I’ll Find You
Drop Dead Gorgeous
Sheer Dynamite
It Must Be Magic
Audiobooks:
She’s Gotta Be Mine
Fool’s Gold
Baby, I’ll Find You
Kinky Neighbors Excerpt
Here’s a taste of one of Jasmine’s steamy romances. Be warned, this one is pretty darn naughty!
Kinky Neighbors
A naughty little foursome tale
Cover design by Rosemary Gunn
Two couples, two very hot wives, two husbands who don’t mind a little swapping...
The Mitchells and the Harts have been next door neighbors and friends for the past year. They have loads in common; double incomes, professional careers, no kids,...and a kinky streak.
Now they’re about to become very good friends...with kinky benefits.
The sex between them all is hot, naughty, and unbearably exciting. It isn’t merely swapping partners and moving to another room; it’s true foursome sex, same room, same bed, all four involved. For Drew and Cat Mitchell and Logan and Alexis Hart, it’s about barreling through boundaries none of them have ever crossed before, doing kinky things they’ve only fantasized about. But when they begin to exchange not just sex but emotional connection, the problems start; a little jealousy, feeling left out, wanting more from the wrong partner. Can two couples really share everything without losing it all?
Excerpt
Copyright 2011 Jasmine Haynes
Her body was lithe, strong, and she worked him from the inside, milked him, turned him mindless. Cat had taken belly dancing lessons a few years ago, and though she’d stopped the dancing, she’d never lost the ability to use those muscles on his cock when he was deep inside her.
“I want to be fucking you just like this,” she whispered, “straddling your hips, riding you”—she laughed softly, a naughty, sexy sound that tightened every muscle in his groin—“while you’re licking her.”
Drew squeezed her breast, pinching her nipple hard. She moaned, liking sex with a nibble of pain, loving it when she was spinning him a fantasy at the same time.
“I want to look down and watch you devouring her pussy.” This time she groaned. Fantasies about other people always made her engine purr louder. But fantasies about their next-door neighbors made his wife come harder than even in the first blush of love when they couldn’t get enough of each other.
She threw her head back, her gorgeous brown-sugar hair falling over her shoulders. “Oh, Drew, she loves it, moaning, pinching her own nipples.” Cat took him with a faster rhythm, a harder pump, working herself up with her fantasy of their pretty neighbor. “She wants your big hard cock in her, Drew.”
When she was like this, Cat simply dragged him along. His body quaked and trembled, rising almost on its own to drive hard into her. He grabbed her hips, pistoned deep as she leaned back to give him the best angle for her G-spot. With sharp little stings, her fingernails broke his skin as she braced herself on his thighs.
“Fuck her,” she cried out, “fuck her hard.”
Christ, he loved her hot and out of control like this. Then her inner muscles clamped down on him as her orgasm began to ripple through her. She panted, moaned, tightened her thighs along his hips and bucked on him.
Her climax wrenched his from him, and he shot high inside her, shouting out her name.
Moments later, his limbs still jerking, he pulled her down, wrapping her in his arms. “Jesus,” he muttered against her fragrant hair.
“That was so hot, baby. I want us to do her just like that, me on your cock and you with your face buried in her pussy.
Drew laughed. “God, you’re filthy.”
She tipped her head back, grinned at him. “And you love it.”
Yes, he did. “You amaze me.” Cat was special, gorgeous, with a slim, athletic body that made him crazy and a kinky, naughty attitude toward sex that was more male than female. They’d once hired a Las Vegas call girl to watch them have sex. Cat was an exhibitionist. They’d been married for ten years, Cat was thirty-eight, he was seven years older, and their sex life was still fantastic.
She nuzzled his neck. “I know how much you love licking a woman, and that’s what I want to give you.”
“You’re too good to me, sweetheart.” He kissed her forehead as if she’d just made him a great meal instead of offered up another woman to him. She honestly did not have a jealous bone in her body. They did a lot of fantasizing, imagining sex with other couples they’d met, threesomes, foursomes. He knew she’d done a threesome before he met her, two men and her, but neither man was her boyfriend. She claimed that doing it with him, her husband, would be entirely different, taking things to a whole new level.
She stroked his cock to life again. “I just want to make sure you don’t get tired of having sex with me. Men need spice.” She needed spice, and her imagination was fertile with ways of getting it.
She loved role playing. She’d had him try to pick her up in a bar, pretending they didn’t know each other. He’d practically had to go to blows with another guy that was hitting on her. She’d loved the attention; then she’d fucked him in their car with the bartender having a smoke not ten feet away. She liked it risky, the fear of getting caught, public sex, in the back of a car, a dark bar, once on the hood in a parking garage. She thrived on anything edgy, always coming up with ways to keep their sex fresh. Cat needed to push her sexual limits; she needed fire.
Six months ago, they’d moved from fantasy into reality. At least they’d tried, meeting a couple off a personal ad Cat saw online. Unfortunately, nothing came of it. The couple was nice enough, married for twenty years, both in their early fifties rather than the mid-forties they’d claimed, and their definition of height-weight proportionate was not quite the same as Cat’s. Ultimately the attraction wasn’t there. Either you felt it, or you didn’t.
Lying in his arms, Cat plucked at the hair on his chest. “I told Alexis that we always hot-tub in the nude.”
Drew chuckled. “What did she say to that?”
He felt Cat’s shrug. “She just gave me a look.”
Tomorrow they were heading out for Tahoe where they’d rented a house close to the lake for a week. And they’d invited their neighbors. Logan and Alexis Hart had moved into their Saratoga neighborhood a little over a year ago. Alexis was a controller for a Silicon Valley microwave radio manufacturer, and Logan was CEO for a San Francisco-based Fortune 500 company. Like Drew and Cat, they had professional careers, double incomes, and no kids to tie them down. They’d gone from backyard barbecues to dinner and card games that lasted long past midnight. Now this, a week-long Tahoe vacation for some hiking, lake fishing, relaxing. And, if Cat had her way, some very kinky games.
/> “I’m dying to see how you’re going to bring up the subject of sex,” he mused.
Cat puffed a breath across his chest. “We’ve talked about sex before.”
“Sexual innuendo and jokes. It’s not the same as asking her if she’d like me to...”
“Make her come with your tongue.” Trust Cat to finish the thought. “Don’t you worry. I’ll find the perfect opening to get the ball rolling.”
“I’m sure you will.” His wife was out there, known for saying exactly what was on her mind. “What about Logan?”
She outright snorted. “He’s not going to be any problem at all.”
Drew had to agree. He didn’t believe Logan was a player, but the man had certainly gotten into the sexual innuendo thing with vigor. When Cat suggested strip poker instead of their regular game of Hearts on one of their card nights, Logan had jumped at the idea. It was Alexis who nixed it. She was a petite, pretty, blue-eyed blonde with sexy curves and mouth-watering breasts, but she was on the shy side, far more reserved than Cat. Drew liked her well enough. She was smart, funny, your basic all-around nice girl next door with the ability to really listen to what a man said, not just lip service. So to speak.
If Alexis didn’t want to play strip poker, there wasn’t a chance in hell she’d get down and dirty in the hot tub. Therein lay his main reservation about the whole idea; it could backfire and screw up a damn good friendship.
Cat tweaked his nipple, getting a rise out of his cock. “What if Logan wants a taste of me if you get a taste of his wife?”
Drew had always known that any kinky play they engaged in wouldn’t be just Cat watching him. She had a downright insatiable appetite for more, more, more. He had no illusions about what he was agreeing to. She would be doing whatever he did and probably a hell of a lot more, but when they finally had sex with another couple, he knew she’d make it totally hot. Maybe he was being led around by his dick—Cat usually managed to get exactly what she wanted—but he’d do it. And suffer the consequences, if any, later.
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