“I WANT TO LIVE MY LIFE AS UNAPOLOGETICALLY AS A MAN…”
Entertainment columnist Yves Santiago leads a delightfully filthy life. Her day job keeps her flush with men and by night, she details her exploits on her anonymous blog, The Lust Diaries.
Until her blog is discovered by Creative Nonfiction editor, Elijah Weinstein.
Dark green eyes.
Broad, sun-kissed shoulders.
A mouth so sensual that it should come with an NC-17 rating.
This Fifth Avenue prince is everything she never wanted but can’t resist. Just his mere existence in her life lays waste to the walls she erected to protect herself. With the promise of a fairytale turned real, can Yves shake out the skeletons in her closet and accept what Elijah has to offer?
CW: domestic abuse
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FIRST KISS EXCERPT:
The bourbon made me bold. All that talk of his abstinence had only served as foreplay to my drunken brain. I swung my leg over him and straddled his lap. His hands clamped around my waist to push me away, but it was a minute too late. My mouth was already on his, and oh…it was as magical as I’d dreamed. That obscenely sexy pout with its too-full lips was made for my kiss. I traced my tongue along the seam of his lips and coaxed it to open for me. He gave a soft moan, and I took advantage of it—covered his mouth with mine and slid my tongue inside. Dios….Never should’ve done that. That sound, the taste of him—malty with beer and bourbon—the rough, tender flesh of his tongue surrendering to mine. His hands tightened, fingertips pressing deep into my hips.
“Yves,” he breathed over my lips, tongue lapping out for another taste.
If I was questioning if I was “that woman” before, I wasn’t now. He wanted me just as much—if not more—than I wanted him. I could feel that want growing against my parted thighs. With fingers spread wide, I pushed my hands into his thick, silky hair, grabbed it in fistfuls, and drew him deeper into the kiss. One of his hands slid up to the middle of my back, pulling me closer. This time I was the one who gave the drunken moan.
“Yves,” he said again.
“Yes, Elijah?”
“You’re not respecting my boundaries.” The hand on my back splayed, cradled me. The other drifted lower to cup my ass. Clearly, he wasn’t as concerned about his boundaries as he wanted me to believe.
“Just tell me, no, and I’ll stop.”
He growled in response and kissed me again. The hand in the middle of my back pushed into my hair. He grabbed a handful and yanked, separating our mouths. I gasped as his mouth found purchase on my neck, sucking and then nipping lightly. My pussy clenched every time I felt the edge of his teeth on my skin. He tipped me back a little further, and the room spun.
“Whoa…” I slurred, holding him tighter.
He pulled away and took a good, long look at me.
“What?”
“You’re drunk,” he said evenly. “We shouldn’t do this.”
“Don’t worry about it. I totally want this. You don’t have to be a gentleman. In fact, the less of a gentleman you are, the better it’ll be.”
Something about that statement rubbed him wrong because he stood up abruptly and set me on my feet. I swayed drunkenly and looked up at him.
“I’m gonna go.”
“Don’t,” I said and sank to my knees.
Elijah froze. My hands were on his thighs, and they felt as solid as stone under my palms. I looked up into his eyes. Apprehension conflicted with the clearly evident desire there. I reached for the waistband of his jeans, curled my fingers over the thick leather belt. His hands grasped mine, stilling them.
“Don’t,” I said again. But even to my own ears, it sounded like begging. A strange feeling welled in me. Maybe it was because I was already on my knees, or maybe it was the bourbon, but when I looked up at him, his hair falling over his forehead to hide his eyes, his mouth slack and wanting, I felt…worshipful.
“Get up,” he said, his voice tremulous.
Getting up was the last thing I wanted to do. I wanted to unbuckle his belt. Get him out of his jeans and into my mouth. The whole scene unfolded in my mind like it had already happened — his fist wound in my hair, forcing my open mouth onto his dick — me gagging to accommodate him, tears blurring my vision. But the moment my hand closed over the buckle, he hauled me to my feet.
“You’re drunk, Yves. Go to bed. I’ll call you in the morning.”