Setting up the money shot…
Quiet, sensible Ellie Smithson is a highly respectable photographer by day – but there are only so many wedding photo-shoots you can take without your mind wandering to what happens when the blissfully happy bride is swept off her feet and straight to the honeymoon suite’s sumptuous four-poster bed…
So after dark, Ellie takes pictures of a more…intimate nature – a dirty little secret she’s kept from her accountant Tom. Until now. It seems Tom is the subject of her next racy shoot!
It isn’t just the blurring of work and personal boundaries that’s the problem; secretly Ellie has always had fantasies of a most unprofessional nature about the almost illegally gorgeous Tom. With such temptation on display, how will she ever stay behind the camera?!
‘So do you do a lot of...’ He glances up at me. ‘What do you call this?’ ‘Erotic photography.’ ‘I was going to say porn, but that works.’ ‘Hmm,’ I say, not daring to tell him his version is closer to the truth than mine. ‘I’d prefer it if you didn’t tell anyone about it, though. It wouldn’t be good for business.’ I shift my weight from one foot to the other, shamefully aware of the deep, unsatisfied ache between my legs. ‘It might be,’ he says. ‘I can think of a few people who’d beg you to take photos of them with their dick out if it meant getting a little action from Amber Jones.’ I blurt out a laugh. ‘It’s her...’ I wave my hands in the general area of my chest. ‘Yes,’ he says. ‘There’s no denying they’re impressive.’ I laugh some more, but I feel a strange kind of pain, and the next words I say tumble out of me without me being able to stop them. ‘Why did you look at me?’ He glances down at the floor, rubbing his thighs again. I wish he wouldn’t do that. It’s...distracting. I mean, as if the blue eyes and the mouth weren’t bad enough, he’s got these bloody thick legs. And big hands. And thick forearms. And the mouth. Did I mention the mouth? All of which were fine before, when I thought he was distant and controlled and safe. He’s not safe now. He shakes his head a little, pulls in a breath. His hands still. Then he looks up at me. ‘Because Amber didn’t make me hard.’
Amber is a sexual adventurer. But at the wedding of two of her fuck buddies, she feels a little down. She cheers herself up with a quickie against a wall with one of the ushers, but when she’s caught in the act by her best friend’s handsome but uptight brother Scott – she gets a real taste for mischief.
Amber knows he wants her – and she tempts him into sexual explorations beyond his wildest dreams. But then Scott turns the tables, demanding something of her that’s way beyond her comfort zone. Something that frightens her. Amber likes being tied up… but can she be tied down?
He’s breathing a little faster now, and his grip on my arm is tighter. ‘I don’t like this,’ he says. ‘I don’t like it either,’ I tell him. ‘But there it is. I’m attracted to you. And after what
happened in your car the other night, I think you’re attracted to me too.’ I lay a hand on the front of his shirt. I can feel the strong thump of his heart against my palm. It’s calming,
somehow, reassuring. A reminder that in amongst all this mess, there’s something strong and constant and alive. ‘You’re not right for me,’ he says, and the conviction in his words hurts me, it does. I toss my hair back. ‘You’re not right for me either, you self-righteous prick. But it is what it is, and you either want me or you don’t.’ There. I can’t be any clearer than that. ‘It’s not about what I want,’ he says slowly. ‘It’s about what is right.’ I slide my hand lower, over the front of that pristine cotton shirt that is just begging for a good smear of lipstick on the collar. His abs are rock-hard, curved bumps of muscle that tense against my palm. ‘Screw what is right. All that matters is that it gets you off.’ ‘And did it get you off?’ His voice is low now, quiet. ‘Thinking about me when you were having sex with someone else?’
I want to throw out a smartarsed reply, something that will bring that flushed, angry look
to his face, but I can’t seem to find one. And his mouth is just there, right there, a straight,
serious line. I grab his tie, pull him down to me, and then I press my mouth against his. He
stiffens. And then he opens up to me.
By day, Meredith is a divorced, 30-something control freak, organizing the stationery cupboard and searching for her next husband and future father of her children from among the suited drones in the office. By night, she watches from her darkened bedroom as a 20-something Adonis pleasures himself at his window in the building across the road – following to the letter the instructions she has put through his letterbox. But when her sexy exhibitionist comes to work in her office, Meredith’s two worlds collide… and she finds there are other uses for the stationery cupboard.
‘Mr Brady,’ I begin. I fold my arms, find myself almost shaking. Why did it have to be him, invading my place of work, my space? Why did he have to move in across the road from me? Why did he have to enter my life at all? ‘We have certain standards here. A dress code, for starters, as well as a strict computer use policy. And the way you are behaving is really
most unacceptable.’ I stop myself then, horrified by how shrill my voice has become. I pause, waiting for the laughter, the comments about my bossy nature, but they don’t come. Instead, there’s more blushing. More hands tucked in pockets, more staring at the floor, more mumbled apologies. I’m about to let it go at that, when I find myself staring at his crotch again. My mouth goes dry and for a second I can’t hear. There, perfectly outlined against the fabric of his snug-fitting black trousers, is a huge erection. It is so blatant, so obvious, that I can’t stop looking at it. I don’t want to stop looking at it. There is something shockingly erotic about seeing the shape of his cock under the fabric. His trousers are pinning it in place, and my eyes trace the curved bulge of his testicles, then the wide length of his erection pointing down the left leg of his pants. As if he can feel the weight of my gaze on him, he places a hand over it, as if a hand can hide it. He’s touching himself. A sound escapes from me, a faint little thing. I look at him, and the wanting almost overwhelms me. ‘Oh, for god’s sake,’ I snap. And then, before I can do something completely insane, like drop to my knees in front of him and suck his cock until he comes on my tongue, down my throat, I march out of the cupboard, slam the door shut, and lock it firmly behind me.
I grew up in Yorkshire, surrounded by derelict mills, sheep and flat vowels , a stereotypical bookworm who ploughed through a novel a day (or should that be night) and tried very hard to do well at maths. After going to University (twice) I had a short spell as a teacher before leaving the profession when my first child arrived six weeks early. I emerged from a fog of nappies and no sleep when my second child was ten months old, realised that CBeebies didn’t really cut it entertainment wise and decided I was going to write a book. My first novel was set in my old school and featured a putrid ghost, lots of witchcraft and a Mary Sue heroine who had not one but two gorgeous boys lusting after her. It also featured lots of death. Fortunately I couldn’t find an agent willing to take it on. More manuscripts and more rejections followed ( I won't say how many) until I sold my fifth manuscript, a contemporary romance called Once a Bad Girl, a story about a woman who has to learn what trust really means. Within a year I had sold 4 more scripts to Harlequin and my career as a professional writer had begun.