Are you a panster or a plotter?
Pantser. I want my characters to surprise me.
Do you believe in Writer’s Block? If so, how do you kick its arse?
Yes. I rarely have it. But reading a book is the best way to get my creative juices flowing.
What book is your comfort read on a bad day? The one you go back to reread over and over.
I don’t have any that I reread. I have too many good books on my TBR list to go back and reread any.
Describe your perfect writing space:
On a balcony overlooking the Caribbean Sea in a comfortable chair.
Do you write your title first or story first?
It just depends on the story. I’ve done it both ways.
Tempting Him (An Obsessed Novella)
Buy Link: https://books2read.com/TemptingHim
It’s not just a love story, it’s an obsession…
Every time my neighbor jogs past my house, I do my best to tempt him. Washing my car, watering my lawn, doing yoga in the grass with all my assets in the air. I’m not sure if he notices me, but I sure can’t miss him.
Then one day he falls… into my arms and into my bed. Surprisingly, we’re better matched than I would’ve expected. But when he reveals who he is, my world comes crashing down around me because if he finds out my secret we’re finished before we’ve even begun.
Three days a week, I put myself through hell by jogging through my neighborhood. I suffer through it simply to catch a glimpse of a woman I don’t know. Every time I pass her house she’s outside tempting me. Until one day I fall… over my feet, over my heart, over this woman and into her arms.
I know nothing about her, but I want to discover everything. Even her deepest, darkest secrets. However, little does she know, I have one, too. One that may sever the tie that binds us.
I watch as sweat drips one bead at a time onto my over-priced yoga mat. The sun is so freaking hot and here I am, like an idiot out in my yard, bent over in the downward facing dog pose for the past million years. Okay, not years… maybe more like a million seconds. But my body has decided it hates me (nothing new) and is cramping while my head spins. Even better, my over-priced yoga pants have clawed their way up my crack (as well as one other place). And still…
What the hell?
Despite my eyeballs’ attempt at bulging out of their sockets, I peek at my sports watch. He should’ve been by here two-point-five minutes ago.
The man is usually like clockwork, jogging by my house on Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons every week. For the most part, anyway. Though, thunderstorms seem to discourage him from his cardio. (Not sure why.)
On those days, I would be willing to recommend another type of cardio to get his heart pumping. And maybe get his hips pumping, too.
Anyway… look at me! Doing yoga on my front lawn, on the uneven grass, waiting like a desperate woman. (I’m not, really, I promise! It just looks that way.)
But, damn, the man is fine and when he jogs past shirtless, he’s shiny with sweat, which makes me want to drag him inside and give him a sponge bath with my tongue.
My thighs start shaking as I peek between my spread legs, because, of course, my ass has to be facing the street. I want him to get a good look at what I’m offering.
I may even wiggle it a little when he jogs by.
That is if I don’t pass out into a heap first.
Then sigh again a little louder just for good measure.
Maybe it would be easier if I just took up jogging. Wear one of those sexy sports bras, put my hair up in a cute little pony tail, plaster a smile on my face and follow him around the block at a perky pace.
I’ll die first.
Why I ever started this shit, I’ll never know. No, I lie. I know. I thought, “Cade, dude, wouldn’t it be great to up your cardio game and start running?”
I answered myself with, “Yeah, man, that would be great and fun, too!” And then maybe I won’t get so winded when I play basketball with the guys. I’ll have more endurance, I’ll look and feel younger, and…
Running sucks. And I don’t even think what I do can be considered as running. No, it’s more of a jog. Or a lope. Or trotting like a donkey with a lame hoof.
My chest burns, my leg muscles spasm, my balls feel like they’re floating in a puddle of sweat, and the crack of my ass…
I’m not even going there. (Trust me, you don’t want to, either.)
So, why don’t I just stop the torture? (Good question!)
I’ve asked myself that for the past month.
And the answer has always been…
I sacrifice three days a week just to see a woman I don’t know.
Not sure why, but she always seems to be outside at the same time of the day. For that reason, I make sure that’s when I go running (jogging, trotting, limping) by.
Am I crazy to torture myself because I find someone attractive and I’d like to get her attention?
Why don’t I just knock on her door and ask her out? (Another good question.)
Maybe I want to impress her with my physique and athletic prowess.
But honestly, something has to give and it has to be soon. Because this running shit sucks balls and I’d rather stick razor blades under my fingernails.
At least my slow trot is the right speed to observe her without being creepy. Walking would be too slow and obvious. Driving too quick and useless, not to mention dangerous when she’s clearly a distraction.
And, of course, my pace always allows me enough time to enjoy the show she gives me.
On Wednesday, she was out washing her car, her top soaked, her nipples pushing through the thin fabric of her shirt, and when she bent over to scrub the hood of said car, my boner just about popped out of my shorts. You know, those little nylon running shorts. The ones with the mesh liner, clearly not made for sexual arousal.
But I digress.
The week before, she was out watering her lawn. And, once again, her top was wetter than her grass.
Here’s the thing, the entire neighborhood has built-in sprinklers.
Maybe hers are broken.
I grunt as I turn the corner and try to push myself a little faster since I’m off my game today. I’m later than normal, and I want my running to look as effortless as possible. It needs to look as though I’ve got my shit together and I’m not secretly suffering.
My eyes swing to the left as I jog. She’s the fourth house up. The brick ranch home with the two-car garage.
Two houses to go yet.
My eyes widen as I see her ass in tight black yoga pants in the air. My step stutters but I can’t stop my momentum.
My mouth becomes an O, partly because I’m falling over my own two feet, the other because she’s dropped to her knees and is now arching backwards grabbing onto her heels, her generous tits straining against her top.
Last thing I see is her blinking upside down at me as her head hangs down her back.
Suddenly, I’m staring at nothing but pavement (and my loss of manhood). The little bit of oxygen I had sucked into my lungs is now gone.
Then, what seems like seconds later, bare, cute, red painted toes come into view.
I want to just die.
About the Author:
JEANNE ST. JAMES is a USA Today bestselling erotic romance author who loves an alpha male (or two). She was only thirteen when she started writing. Her first paid published piece was an erotic story in Playgirl magazine. Her first erotic romance novel, Banged Up, was published in 2009. She is happily owned by farting French bulldogs. She writes M/F, M/M, and M/M/F ménages. Want to read a sample of her work? Download a sampler book here: BookHip.com/MTQQKK
To keep up with her busy release schedule check her website at www.jeannestjames.com or sign up for her newsletter: http://www.jeannestjames.com/newslettersignup
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