September 25, 2015
Erotic Contemporary Novella
It’s so nice to have a hunk around the house…
As a recent transplant from New York, Bree’s certain her company transferred her to the London office because she wasn’t model-thin like the American staff. To rectify that, she bought a home gym. Now all she needs is someone to put the bloody thing together so she can sweat herself into a micro mini.
David has muscle to spare. Tall, dark, and sinfully handsome, he’s doing odd jobs until he gets his start-up off the ground. As far as David’s concerned, Bree’s lush curves don’t need improving, just a man who can appreciate them. He’ll definitely give her all the exercise she needs.
Bree Winters needed a man. Well, muscle actually, since having a guy for the usual purpose—companionship, intimacy with a capital I, and wild monkey sex hadn’t happened, with the prospects looking dimmer each year. At twenty-seven, Bree felt time whizzing by in her personal and professional life, and was finally determined to do something about it.
On the floor of her studio flat were about a million pieces of the ExerMax Eight Hundred, the ultimate home gym that could do anything, except put itself together. She had that covered, having hired a man to whip it into shape. Once he arrived and did his thing, Bree could tone her body to a size zero from her current twelve, which converted to a fourteen in the UK. Lovely. Without having enjoyed one extra bite of pizza or even a thimbleful of chocolate cake, she was even bigger now than she’d been in the States.
If that wasn’t proof that she shouldn’t have moved to London from New York, then what was?
A rap on her door caught Bree’s attention. Her man no doubt, remarkably on time. Now, if only he and Jennifer Archer’s service proved as fabulous as Bree’s neighbor had gushed about, everything would be perfect.
“Jennifer won’t let you down,’ the neighbor had said last night, her eyes bright. ‘When my laptop needed a fix, she sent someone right over. He was the absolute best.”
Bree had never heard anyone rave like that about a computer geek. Could be he’d actually had a personality and did more than grunt like a surly teen when her neighbor had spoken to him.
Hopefully, Bree’s man would be middle-aged, sweet as could be, and non-judgmental. At this point in her life, Bree didn’t need a lecture about accepting herself for who she was or anyone nagging her to look better. Her last boyfriend had done that before he dumped her for a co-worker in their office.
On that happy memory, she stepped around the various guts of her home gym and went to the door but didn’t open it. Her New York wariness was still on full alert. She’d seen enough slasher movies to know that a seemingly innocent knock could lead to all kinds of crap. ‘Who is it?’
“David Shaw, from the service, for…” He paused as if checking his notes then continued, “Ms. Winters.”
Bree’s heart did another funny twist. Even through the barrier of the door, David Shaw’s voice was decidedly deep, nicely male, and nowhere near middle age. She glanced at her tank top and compression running shorts, both in black to make her look slimmer. Yeah, right. Sucking her lower lip, Bree chanced a look through the peephole and didn’t see much except David’s full head of hair—dark, wavy and thick—along with his impossibly broad shoulders that strained against his white tee. Hmm. Given her view of him, he appeared tall, six-two or better. He kept his face down, his attention on something in his hand. The work order? His smartphone? A mirror because he was so gorgeous?
A nice head of hair didn’t make him a god. He was probably average at most, as Bree was, which meant it didn’t matter if she looked like hell, her hair in a sloppy ponytail, face moist with perspiration. The extreme July heat had turned her cramped flat into an oven. Too bad she hadn’t thought to buy any fans, having believed the landlord when he’d insisted air conditioning wasn’t necessary during the city’s mild summers.
“Are you still there?” David called out.
Bree smiled, liking his easy-going tone and elegant accent. It not only sounded British but also had an educated air, like Prince William’s. So why was he—David not Wills—doing temporary work like this? She wondered if the rotten economy had hurt him as it had so many others. “Yes, I’m here,” she called out finally. “Sorry for the delay. I need a sec to open the locks.”
She’d installed five, the New Yorker in her ever mindful of home invasions. After she’d thrown the last lock, Bree took a deep breath and opened the door.
David lifted his face.
Three things happened at once. Bree lost her breath on a wanting sigh, she gripped the doorknob needing it for support, and she stared, unable and unwilling to stop.
He was beyond gorgeous, the stuff of female wet dreams. Most likely in his early thirties with masculine features, dark silky brows, deep blue eyes surrounded by unspeakably lush lashes, and stubble that made him one-thousand-percent male.
Bree’s nipples peaked so quickly, the tips stung. Her pussy continued to cream as her gaze prowled over him. He had a tat on his right arm, some kind of bold tribal design that trailed from beneath the sleeve of his tee to just below the bend of his elbow. Gripping the knob even tighter, she kept herself from stroking those black swirls or his faded jeans. Those babies rode low on his lean hips. Given the size of his running shoes, he had big feet. His hands were nicely large too with long, long fingers.
Every woman knew what that meant.
Powerless to resist, Bree glanced at the prominent ridge behind his fly, the promise of his thick, rigid cock and tight balls. She forced down a swallow.
After slipping his smartphone into the back pocket of his jeans, he offered his hand and a smile. “Hi.”
Bree wanted to speak but couldn’t form words. He had a deep dimple in his left cheek.
God help her, Bree wanted to kiss his dimple and lick the blunt tips of his fingers then suck them into her mouth along with the best parts of him. Dizzy with longing and lust that had been denied too long, she really didn’t want to admit she was his customer, not when she looked so bad, but there wasn’t much choice. No time now to lose a couple of dress sizes, take a shower, and fix her hair or face. Bravely, she slipped her hand into his and just about died at the wonderful warmth of his calloused palm and firm yet gentle grip. A man’s way of saying, “I’m powerful as all hell but I’ll never hurt you, baby.”