Sex. Love. Repeat. by Alessandra Torre
Publication date: December 1st 2013
Genres: Erotica, Romance
Publication date: December 1st 2013
Genres: Erotica, Romance
Synopsis:
I
love two men. I screw two men. I am in a relationship with them both,
and they are both aware there is another. That is all they need to know,
that is all I let them know. They don’t need to know a name; they don’t
need to know anything but that they are not alone in my heart.
They have accepted the situation. Stewart, because his life is too busy for the sort of obligations that are required in a relationship. Paul, because he loves me too much to tell me no. And because my sexual appetite is such that one man has trouble keeping up.
So we exist, two parallel relationships, each running their own course, with no need for intersection or conflict. It works for us, for them, and for me. I don’t expect it to be a long-term situation. I know there is an expiration date on the easy perfection of our lives.
I should have paid more attention, should have looked around and noticed the woman who watched it all. She sat in the background and waited, tried to figure me out. Saw my two relationships, the love between us, and the moment that it all fell apart.
She hates me.
I don’t even know she exists.
She loves them. I love them.
And they love me.
EVERYTHING else hangs in the balance.
They have accepted the situation. Stewart, because his life is too busy for the sort of obligations that are required in a relationship. Paul, because he loves me too much to tell me no. And because my sexual appetite is such that one man has trouble keeping up.
So we exist, two parallel relationships, each running their own course, with no need for intersection or conflict. It works for us, for them, and for me. I don’t expect it to be a long-term situation. I know there is an expiration date on the easy perfection of our lives.
I should have paid more attention, should have looked around and noticed the woman who watched it all. She sat in the background and waited, tried to figure me out. Saw my two relationships, the love between us, and the moment that it all fell apart.
She hates me.
I don’t even know she exists.
She loves them. I love them.
And they love me.
EVERYTHING else hangs in the balance.
Purchase:
--Kobo: http://store.kobobooks.com/en-US/ebook/sex-love-repeat
--Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/381374
--Smashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/381374
Excerpt:
I step from the bedroom a half hour later,
jeans and a tank top on, my wet hair twisted into a bun. I swing by the kitchen
on my way out, waving a goodbye to Estelle and snagging a red apple and bottled
water from the fridge.
I hop on Santa Monica Boulevard, moving
through lanes of traffic with ease, my car knowing the route as well as my
soul, my thoughts wandering as I drive. My Audi was a gift from Stewart, my
twenty-ninth birthday present, probably picked out by his assistant. Regardless
of who chose the vehicle, I love it. White exterior, blood red leather inside,
it is sleek, sexy, and just begs every degenerate in my neighborhood to steal
it. I am shocked it has survived for the last five months.
It’s fourteen miles between Stewart’s home
and mine, but it might as well be different countries. Stewart lives in the
fast-paced world of downtown Hollywood, rarely leaving the blocks of the city
unless jetting off for work. He doesn’t own a plane, he doesn’t spend his money
on much other than his home, his clothes, and me. He doesn’t have time to spend
money, and doesn’t believe in purchasing things just because he can. He works a
hundred hours a week, sleeps six hours a night, and fucks the hell out of me
the rest of the time. His needs are minimum: food, sleep, and sex. I take care
of one of those. Estelle and his bed take care of the rest.
I get off on Lincoln Boulevard, the road
traffic lessening, frustrated drivers continuing their zip along the freeway,
anxious to continue their painful life . I wish, for a brief moment, that I had
put down the car’s top, needing the wind in my hair and the sound of the surf.
Leaving Stewart’s, I sometimes need the wash of fresh air. A strong breeze to
release the intensity he carries with him.
I pull off the road, turning down our
street and press the garage release button, entering the dark space that is my
spot and killing the ignition. I step out in dim light, the overhead burnt out,
Paul promising for the last five months to get around to it.
The steps are worn concrete, this townhome
complex built before developers knew what they had, before they realized that
this close to the beach they shouldn’t build shit housing. Back before property
values hit ridiculous figures, and a six-figure income still puts you in the
projects, dodging street beggars and used needles. We don’t make six-figures.
Paul brings in anywhere from fifty to sixty thousand surfing. And I bring in
far less than that, running a bookstore that operates out of a bar on Venice
beach. For California standards, it’s practically poverty, but we don’t need
much. For Paul and I, we never did. We’re lucky to have this place, my
stepfather blessing us with a rent payment low enough to both piss our
neighbors off and ensure that we still can cover food and utilities.
We met at the Santa Monica pier, when we
were side by side in the singles line for the rollercoaster. We had all of six
minutes in line, the shuffle moving quickly, singles getting split up among the
empty seats in a bored and orderly fashion.
He flashed a smile at me, and that was
really all it took. Broad shoulders, tan skin that peeled a bit on his nose,
blue eyes that looked like a fucking turquoise magic marker. He was in board
shorts, a tee-shirt, and flip flops with muscular, track-free arms and no hint
of tattoos. It was like God plucked an Abercrombie & Fitch model from the
sky and injected him with testosterone and sexuality. I smiled back.
We spent those six minutes talking, our
words spilling out between laughs and chemistry. I instantly liked him, had one
of those at-peace realizations that ‘this is a good guy’. The type so good that
women run over him, the type so good that he is often best-friended. But this
guy? With his gorgeous looks and the I-will-fuck-you-in-this-line-right-now
vibe? No woman was stupid enough to best-friend this man. I wanted him, right
there in that line, my panties sticking to me in the best way possible beneath
my short cotton skirt.
We reached the front, our moment of
separation, but were seated together, two of us in one bench, a ridiculous,
never-should-happen moment, and I took the minute before liftoff to reach over,
tugging the back of his head, his wide smile and soft lips telling me that I
wasn’t crazy, that he wanted this every bit as much as I did. And I knew, in
that kiss, in that brief moment of hotness in which our mouths instantly knew
every part of the other’s soul, that I would fuck him. The minute, the second,
the ride finished. I needed him inside me, needed his hands to grip my waist,
his shirt to move off that beautiful chest and my bare breasts to replace it. I
needed every inch of him against and inside of me. Then the bar jerked down,
and we separated with a laugh.
“Ready?” he asked.
“Just prepare for screams.” I grinned.
I was, and still am, a dramatic rider. I
believe that there’s no point in doing something if you aren’t going to do it
with all of your heart. I raised my arms, I screamed bloody murder, and he
loved every minute of it. We swept through the loading bay after one cycle, the
operator amping the riders up before pushing the button and letting us ride
again.
The vibration of the seat underneath me,
the closeness of pure sex beside me, the anticipation of what was to come… I
attacked him the moment the ride ended, grabbing his hand and tugging him out,
the pounding between my legs reaching a fever pitch. I ran, pulling him along
with me, our bodies weaving around families, couples, giant stuffed snakes and
dollar games of chance.
We broke from the crowd and moved faster,
our flip flops slapping against the wood boardwalk, the tinny laugh of children
vaguely registering in my head. I broke right when I saw the opening and jogged
down sandy steps, glancing behind me to make sure he was there. He was, his
eyes bright and curious, his steps right behind mine, keeping easy pace with my
frantic steps. “What are we-where are we going?” he called out. I ditched my
sandals when I hit the sea of white and ran through hot sand, gripping his hand
and pulling him along, under the boardwalk, past a few homeless tents and down
towards the water, where the posts are thicker, the cover more enclosed,
privacy at a barely-there standard. I waded into calf-high water, pulling and
then pushing him against a square post, my hands frantic on his shirt, my mouth
fighting the movement of clothes for another chance at that gorgeous mouth.
His hands pushed my thin tee up, over the
curves of my bikini top, his firm fingers sliding the triangles of my bikini
over, my breasts spilling free, his hands cupping them and squeezing, his
breath catching in my mouth. He pulled away, looking down, staring at my
breasts in his hands, his head leaning down, his hands lifting me into the heat
of his mouth. His mouth was incredible, soft yet firm, pliable against my
delicate skin, his fingers’ brush against my nipples soft and sweet. I could
feel him, hard against my thigh, and I reached back, digging into my pocket for
what I always keep there – just in case. Just in case I meet a man who I can’t
resist.
He started at the touch of my fingers,
dipping under the nylon of his shorts, his mouth coming off of my breasts and
looking at me, surprised. “Here?” This close, I could see tints of green in his
blue eyes, the color of ocean water, glittering brilliantly against the brown
sand of his skin.
“Yes, here. I need you.” I met his eyes
confidently as I said the words, my hands already sealing the deal, pulling him
out *oh my god HARD* and sliding protection over him with one smooth motion.
His eyes darkened, intensity stealing over them, and he turned us, trading
places, pushing my back against the hard wet span of wood, his hands lowering,
gripping the back of my legs and sliding up, pushing my skirt higher, his hands
gripping the meat of my ass and lifting.
Then I was in the air, his pelvis
underneath me, supporting me against the post, and his fingers were skimming
the line of my bikini bottoms, traveling up the curve of my hip until he
reached the tie, yanking quickly, his hand moving back down once the material
of my suit is gone. His mouth left mine, a gasp in his tone as his fingers
pushed inside, one digit and then two. “Jesus. Are you sure?”
A stupid question as I hung before him, my
breasts exposed, legs wrapped around his waist, my need dripping a path for his
cock. “Give it to me,” I breathed. “Hard.”
He didn’t ask again, didn’t do anything but
prop me hard against the post, used his fingers to position himself at my
entrance, and then he fucked. Quick fast strokes, his breath hard against my
neck, his hands digging into the flesh of my ass, pulling and gripping the skin
as he made his mark on my body. His fucks were wild, out of control, and I
moaned against his neck, loving the fervor of his movements.
When I came, I cried out, his mouth quickly
moving to mine, muffling the sound, as my body shook around his, my legs
squeezing as intensity shook my body. It was too much, too great, the heat of
my orgasm and clench of my sex, and I felt him as he came, the twitch and raw
emotion that flowed through him, his breath gasping as he grunted, slowing his
fucks and giving me a few last, final, pushes.
“Oh my god,” he whispered against my neck,
his cock softening inside of me. “Oh my god. I think I’m in love with you.”
He wasn’t. He was just surprised, that a
girl with perfect teeth, and a bred-in-the-Valley smile, would fuck a stranger
under the pier in Santa Monica. And I really thought, as I dropped to my knees
in the water and peeled off the condom, taking him into my mouth and sucking
his cock dry, that I would never see him again. That it would be that one,
fuckable moment, and nothing else. But here we are, two years later and
incredibly in love.
That’s right. In LOVE. Yes, I am still the
hoochie who just got my brains fucked out on the weight bench. The one who has
dated Stewart Brand, one of the most eligible bachelors in downtown Hollywood
for the last two years. I know what you’re thinking. That dropped jaw and
disgusted look on your face? I’ve seen it before. But wait. Please. Don’t judge
me quite yet.
AUTHOR BIO
Alessandra
Torre is a new author who focuses on contemporary erotica. Her first
book, Blindfolded Innocence, was published in July 2012, and was an
Erotica #1 Bestseller for two weeks. The sequel to Blindfolded, Masked
Innocence, will be released in February 2014.
Alessandra lives in the Southern United States and is married, with one young child. She enjoys reading, spending time with her family, and playing with her dogs. Her favorite authors include Lisa Gardner, Gillian Flynn, and Jennifer Crusie.
Alessandra lives in the Southern United States and is married, with one young child. She enjoys reading, spending time with her family, and playing with her dogs. Her favorite authors include Lisa Gardner, Gillian Flynn, and Jennifer Crusie.
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