You’re never too old for some holiday naughtiness
Widowed author Emma Granger has reconciled herself to spending Christmas Eve in snowy Boston, with a nice bottle of Pinot Grigio and her cat Vronsky. Her daughters have their own lives on the West Coast. Emma knows she can’t expect them to visit every holiday.
A loud crash from the apartment above her overturns her plans for a quiet evening at home. When she investigates, she meets Nick North, an energetic iconoclast with a gray ponytail, a silver earring and bright blue eyes that kindle feelings she’d thought were gone forever. Nick is her own age, maybe older, but his lean body and impish grin affect her as if she were a horny teenager.
Although Emma makes her living writing spicy romance, sex with a stranger seems ludicrous when you’re an arthritic grandmother in your sixties. Still, the attraction she feels for her charismatic upstairs neighbor appears to be reciprocated. A Christmas fling might be just what Emma needs to brighten her holiday.
A bit of gray frizz peeked out from the neckline of his tee. I wondered if he was hairy all over, then blushed when I realized he was looking at me. Did he know what I was thinking? God, I hoped not! How embarrassing it would be if he realized a horny old grandmother was lusting after his body!
I nibbled at my cheese, glancing out the window so I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. “It’s snowing harder.”
“Good thing we’re warm and cozy together in here.” Something in his tone made alarm bells ring. When I turned my attention to him, though, he was studying his cracker.
“So—um—what about you? Are you married?” Might as well take the bull by the horns.
“Was.” He wiped his elegant fingers on his napkin. “She left me for a younger man. About ten years ago.”
“Ouch! That must have hurt.”
“Yeah, especially since I was in the hospital recovering from heart surgery at the time.” His manner was nonchalant, as though we were still discussing the weather. My chest grew tight in sympathy. “She was a selfish bitch.”
“I think you’re being too kind.”
“I’m lucky she’s gone. I’m better off without her.”
“I think I’d have to agree.”
“Though I have to say she was great in bed.”
For that, I had no reply. I fumbled with a piece of flatbread, trying to hide my confusion, but I could feel my cheeks were flaming red.
“What about your husband? Was he a good lover?” I couldn’t look at him. I knew there’d be a saucy grin on those enticing lips, and a brash twinkle in those eyes.
How could I explain about Tom and me? All the great years we had together, so many erotic adventures, and then the pale, bland final decade, when he’d lost interest in fucking. Not that it had been his fault. Between menopause and arthritis, sex simply stopped being fun for me. He hated knowing that penetration caused me pain, so he pulled away, and God help me, I was almost relieved. But now I missed the days when we both loved my body, almost as much as I missed Tom himself.
I could hardly share all that with a stranger, though.
Lisabet Sarai became addicted to words at an early age. She began reading when she was four. She wrote her first story at five years old and her first poem at seven. Since then, she has written plays, tutorials, scholarly articles, marketing brochures, software specifications, self-help books, press releases, a five-hundred page dissertation, and lots of erotica and erotic romance – nearly one hundred titles, and counting, in nearly every sub-genre—paranormal, scifi, ménage, BDSM, GLBT, and more. Regardless of the genre, every one of her stories illustrates her motto: Imagination is the ultimate aphrodisiac.
You’ll find information and excerpts from all Lisabet’s books on her website (http://www.lisabetsarai.com/books.html), along with more than fifty free stories and lots more. At her blog Beyond Romance (http://lisabetsarai.blogspot.com), she shares her philosophy and her news and hosts lots of other great authors. She’s also on Goodreads and finally, on Twitter.