Melted
and Whipped
Cleo
Peitsche
Genre: BDSM, Contemporary, Erotic
Romance
Publisher: ARe Books
Date of Publication: December 1,
2015
ISBN: 978-1-943576-47-0
ASIN: TBA
Word Count: 28,000
Cover Artist: Erin Dameron-Hill
Book Description:
She’ll need more than a safe word
to survive Porter Loughton.
Too broke to fly home for the
holidays, ski instructor Emily is stuck on the slopes, giving lessons to the
rich and the privileged. She doesn’t expect to see Porter Loughton, a former
friend who broke her heart in college, ten years later and half a continent
away. The mesmerizing billionaire suggests dinner, and Emily soon discovers how
it feels to be bent across his knee, to be dominated by him. Their chemistry is
hotter than in her dirtiest fantasies.
Emily knows it would be foolish
to let him get too close after what happened before. She’s broke, her career
nonexistent. The last thing she needs is to be in love with a man who doesn’t
feel the same way. But when she receives distressing news, Porter is there to
soothe her, and he won’t leave her side. Soon she has no control over her
feelings.
Excerpt:
I’m so stunned
that I don’t even realize what’s happening at first, but then Porter’s tongue
traces the closed seam of my mouth.
My lips soften,
opening to him.
In response, his
large palms cup my face even tighter, and his body rocks a little, inching
closer.
A moan of
longing rises in my throat. Embarrassed, I try to pull away.
Porter releases
me. “Are you okay?”
All I can do is
nod.
“Good.” He steps
in close. His warm breath caresses my lips. “Because I’ve been thinking about
doing this ever since…” He shakes his head and the next thing I know, his
tongue is sliding over mine.
He tastes like
the wine. Strong. Powerful. I’ll never be able to drink red wine again without
remembering this, without getting turned on.
Because I am
turned on. Pulsing heat throbs in my core, and I feel my pussy getting slick
with desire.
I’m about to
reach for him, to finally feel his perfect body under my fingertips, when he
breaks our kiss.
Eyes closed like
he’s savoring the moment, he continues to hold my face, then brushes his lips
over mine, which are throbbing like the rest of my body. They feel swollen,
lightly bruised.
“I think dinner
is ready.” His voice is husky and raw.
Dinner is the
last thing on my mind, but I think it would be rude to suggest we skip it in
favor of doing more of the kissing thing.
When he releases
me and turns his attention to the pan on the stove, I flee to my glass of wine.
I don’t bother with the polite dance of asking if I can have more; it’s not
like he’s going to say no.
I fill my glass
and take a long swallow. Heaven help me—the wine tastes like his kiss.
“Can you carry
these?” He slides two plates, two red cloth napkins, and two sets of silverware
onto the counter. “It’ll save me a trip. This way.”
I follow him out
the open side of the kitchen, toward the window. We enter a dining room with a
table long enough to comfortably seat the entire U.S. Olympic alpine ski team.
A fancy centerpiece
of candlesticks surrounded by holly adorns the end closest to us. Porter lays
down two red cloth placemats and a trivet, on which he places a glass bowl of
stir-fry.
I begin to
distribute the place settings while Porter returns to the kitchen. He makes
about six trips in all, and even though he tells me to sit, I hover
uncomfortably to the side, my mind still buzzing from that kiss. Why did he do
it?
The answer seems
obvious: because he wanted to.
He’s not the
same as he was in college. He’s even more self-assured, which I hadn’t thought
was possible. It makes me unsure of myself, like there’s a predetermined amount
of confidence that can exist between two people, and Porter has taken it all.
I learned a lot
about men through my twenties, and while a big part of me only wants to know
what Porter is like in bed, another part of me already knows I’ll be
disappointed with just a one-night fling.
After all these
years, it’s possible that the fantasy is better than the reality could ever be.
I never thought of it in these terms before, but Porter is the perfect man in
my memory, an unattainable ideal that no one could possibly live up to. What if
he’s bad in bed? What if he’s a selfish lover?
Worse, what if
he’s amazing, but then he disappears? He’s successful, rich, powerful. It’s
insane to think his interest in me is anything more but casual. Really, with so
many tourists in town with their families, and so many of the transplanted
locals out of town, it’s not like there’s much choice for a man looking for fun
between the sheets.
The wine isn’t
helping me sort through my jumbled thoughts. As soon as I reassure myself on
one front, the assault starts again from another angle.
If only this
weren’t Porter, but some other gorgeous millionaire. No, billionaire. He was
already a multimillionaire before college, thanks to the family fortune.
I snort. There
aren’t many gorgeous billionaires to be found, and why can’t I enjoy the
evening? I wish I weren’t buzzed.
About
the Author:
If Cleo Peitsche isn't writing
(or reading) erotica, she's probably sitting on her balcony, watching the wind
blow through the trees. She loves horses, snowstorms, and piña coladas. If she
won the lottery, she would hire an assistant to take care of the technical side
of e-publishing so that she could write all day.
Some random facts about Cleo: 1.
Thinks life's too short to forgo HEAs and HFNs; 2. Sprained an ankle joining
the mile-high club. (Never again!); 3. Favorite writers include Cormac
McCarthy, Junot Diaz, and Rachel Caine.; 4. Gets weak-kneed for bookish guys
who know how to fix things with their hands. *swoons*
For more information on other
books by Cleo, visit her website: www.cleopeitsche.wordpress.com
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