Getting sexy: Obsession / Getting Some / Getting Even

Getting sexy: Obsession / Getting Some / Getting Even
Kayla Perrin

Getting Sexy: Three Erotic Tales

Getting Even

Getting Wild

Getting Some

Kayla Perrin

www.spice-books.co.uk (http://www.spice-books.co.uk/)

Getting Even

by

Kayla Perrin

FOOL FOR LOVE

Chapter One

Claudia

They say the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, but if you ask me, that’s a load of bull. Hands down, that gold-lined path travels through his libido.

I should know. Right now, I’m practically dying of embarrassment as I sit in a north Atlanta restaurant with the man of my dreams, Adam Hart. I’m trying to look nonchalant beside him in our booth, sipping a margarita through a straw, while Adam has his hand between my legs. His fingers tickle my skin as they inch farther up my thighs.

“Adam,” I admonish playfully as his fingers skirt my panties. “I’m trying to have a serious conversation.”

“Don’t I look serious to you?”

He does look serious—which is exactly the problem. He is entirely too serious about this naughty bit of foreplay. “Sweetheart, you know how much I love this, but—”

“What, this?”

My eyelids flutter as he strokes my nub.

“Mmm,” I moan softly. Then look up in horror as the waiter appears at our table. My face flames, and I wonder if my pale brown skin registers any blush of my embarrassment. I squeeze my legs together, but that does nothing to stop Adam’s fingers.

“Have you decided what you’d like?” the waiter asks. I’m not sure if there’s a knowing glint in his eye. If not, he must think Adam and I are so in love that we can’t bear to be physically apart from each other. Why else would we be sharing the same side of a booth, practically glued at the hip?

“Um,” I begin. I haven’t even looked at the menu. “I think we need a few more minutes.”

“I know what I want,” Adam says. He’s looking at me though, not at the waiter, and I want to smack him. No, that’s a lie. I want to take him outside and get busy with him in the back seat of his Mercedes SUV. I really do enjoy Adam’s obvious lust for me. I’m just not comfortable with how much he likes to display it in public.

“New York steak,” Adam continues. “Rare. I like it red.”

“I’ll have the same,” I say, hoping to hell that I’m not blushing. “Medium well.”

“Rice or baked potato?”

“Rice,” both Adam and I respond.

The waiter scribbles notes on a pad. “That comes with soup or salad—”

“Two house salads to start,” I interject, cutting off the waiter. “And an order of garlic bread. Also, a half liter of Chardonnay.”

“Make it a bottle,” Adam says.

My eyes meet his in surprise. His gaze is smoky, and as he bites down on his bottom lip, I feel an excited shiver dance across my shoulders. I know what he wants. To get me drunk so I’m more likely to be less inhibited.

I wonder what he wants me to try this time.

“That’s everything?” the waiter asks.

I have all but forgotten about the waiter. I look up at the college kid and grin. “That’s plenty.”

Thank the Lord, the waiter turns and walks away. He doesn’t know me, but still I let out a relieved breath. The reason I like to come here is that it’s far from the Buck-head neighborhood where Adam and I live. If I get caught doing something scandalous here, at least no one will know who I am. And because it’s a Monday night, this place isn’t as busy as it would be on the weekend.

“Now.” Adam smiles at me as his fingers explore my nether region. “Where were we?”

I push his hand away, feeling slightly annoyed at his one-track mind, considering everything we need to discuss. “Adam, seriously. We need to talk.”

He pouts a little but finally relents. “All right.” He sits back against the booth. “Let’s talk.”

Now I smile from ear to ear. I am absolutely crazy about Adam, but it’s possible, if only slightly, that I’m even more crazy about our upcoming wedding.

You see, I’m almost thirty, and for a while I wasn’t sure if I’d ever get married or die a spinster. What self-respecting woman still uses the term spinster, you ask? You haven’t met my high-society, Black-American Princess friends. Not to mention my mother, who has been dreaming of my wedding since the time I was in her womb. In most respects I have a fairly cushy life, but if I don’t get married, I’ll never live that one down.

But I am getting married. In six weeks, I will become Mrs. Adam Hart. For the past year, I’ve been busy planning every detail of our lavish wedding. As far as I’m concerned, it’s going to be the most spectacular wedding Atlanta society has ever seen.

Notice I didn’t say “Adam and I” have been planning the wedding. Unfortunately, Adam is a man—which is to say that he’s not the least bit interested in the intricate details that go into pulling off a wedding as elaborate as ours will be. He thinks the big day is more of a fairy tale for the bride, and I can’t say he’s wrong.

But I have to tell you, there’s nothing remotely fun about planning the fairy-tale wedding. It’s a lot of headaches and hard work. And there are things I need to know now, considering our big day is fast approaching.

I take my planner out of my Gucci tote and open it. “Diana needs to meet with us this weekend to go over all the wedding details. I made a tentative appointment for 10:00 a.m. on Saturday. Will that work for you?”

“Sure.”

“I know we had all the colors pretty much picked out, but I’m going back and forth over the bridesmaid dresses. I found out Rebecca Morrison’s bridesmaids will be wearing buttercup yellow, and considering our weddings are two weeks apart—” I stop when Adam begins stroking the inside of my wrist. “Are you listening to me?”

“You want to change the colors?”

“I’m considering it, yes.”

“Go ahead.”