Invitation to Pleasure: Open Invitation, Book 2 Read online

  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.

  Trailing a hand down her abdomen, he delved between her legs, stroking her clit. She was wet and warm. “I’ll be jealous as hell,” he muttered.

  Logan was a couple of years younger than Drew, a few rungs higher on the corporate ladder, CEO of a billion dollar company to Drew’s VP of Engineering for a medium-size software maker. With reddish hair, green eyes, and a gym-toned body Cat had mentioned a lot more than once, Logan was a good-looking guy.

  Cat pushed him aside. “Oh baby, you make me so wet when you get all he-man.” She masturbated for him. He loved to watch. “But if you get her, he’ll insist on having me.�
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  “Yeah. He’ll beg to spread your gorgeous thighs.”

  She moaned, getting herself worked up again with her fantasy scenario. He knew Cat. It was kinky sex, not the man himself that she needed. She wanted the package deal, a foursome. Drew didn’t have to be jealous, but he knew a little jealousy added to her sexual high.

  The real truth? He didn’t know how he’d feel. Fantasizing about other men fucking Cat made him explosive in the heat of the moment. In reality, there might be a whole different set of emotions. He couldn’t be sure which ones he’d succumb to until they actually did it.

  He started down her body, kissing her belly, her mound, then crawling between her legs. “Is this what you want him to do, baby?” He put his tongue to her.

  “Oh yeah.” She moved sinuously. “I want your cock in my mouth at the same time. I want to come on his tongue while you come down my throat.”

  She rose swiftly to climax, her body trembling. Cat loved her fantasies. She cried out, clamping her legs over his ears as she came hard. Drew loved how hot she made herself. He had no doubt that soon, very soon, she was going to make the fantasy into reality.

  He just hoped it wouldn’t mean the end of a good friendship with their neighbors.

  If you enjoyed this excerpt, don’t miss the sequel, Kinky Neighbors Two

  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.

  “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.