Furtive

Furtive

Sommer Marsden

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Furtive encounters. Hot hurried hook-ups. Sometimes the best sex is intense, rushed, secret sex. At a crowded party, in a house packed with esteemed guests, it comes down to just a guy, a girl and her red dress. And he dress will never tell... ADULT TITLE. CONTAINS EXPLICIT SEX AND LANGUAGE.
 

 
PUBLISHED BY: Sommer Marsden
ISBN:
PUBLICATION DATE: 2009
WORD COUNT: 1550
SEXUAL CONTENT RATING: 4 4 4 4
EBOOK READER RATING:
CATEGORIES: Romantic Fiction, Contemporary, Erotica
KEYWORDS: secret sex, furtive encounters, hurry, rush, quickie, formal party, red dress, explicit sex, erotica, erotic romance, sex
 

EBOOKS BY Sommer Marsden

EBOOKS BY Sommer Marsden

 
EXCERPT
COPYRIGHT Sommer Marsden/2009

"We have to be quiet," he whispers and grabs my hand. His fingers tug at my wrist, trapping and pulling me all at once.

Am I really going to do this? My red formal dress demands an answer, rustling around my thighs and calves as I hurry after him up the steps.

But he's so handsome and charming and I've never quite met anyone else like him. He's one of a kind. We've spent the last hour drinking dry white wine and flirting. He's made me laugh so hard I had to catch my breath. My pussy pools a warm rush of moisture into my panties. My hose rub against my legs like an eager lover. My heart is damn near in my throat. I pause, drinking in the smell of him. The rush of adrenaline.

"Are you coming?" His big blue eyes are wide, pupils dilated, formal tux pants tented with a hard-on that makes me want to lean in and press my lipsticked mouth to his arousal and kiss him through the fabric. We are frozen on the grand marble steps like something from a fairy tale.

"Yes," I say. I nod and hurry up after him, my pulse so strong at my throat with its fluttery beat I feel lightheaded.

He turns down the wide open hall. I feel like everyone at the party can see us, and it's true. Anyone looking up right now will see me flying behind him, my dress swooped back like great red wings, my breasts threatening to spill out of my bodice. Tiny tendrils of hair escape my French twist and tickle my jaw, my neck. I shiver. "Hurry," he says over his shoulder, grinning.
That grin undoes me. I want him more than my next breath.

We slip into a smaller room. Small for this shiny new mansion, huge for an average guest room. He presses me to the wall, the plaster cool and some unknown color against my upper back. My dress is a swishy mass of a barrier and he laughs, dropping to his knees to raise the layers and layers of crimson fabric. I hold my breath. I know what he's about to do, but only holding my breath will do in this instance. As if not breathing can increase the slick heat of his mouth as he pulls my panties to my knees, parting me with his tongue...

 
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