TWO WEDDING CRASHERS
I don’t know what love is anymore.
Well, that’s not entirely true, but I’m going to tell you a little secret: I’ve lost the spark.
You know the kind of spark I’m talking about?
Where butterflies take flight in your stomach from two hands innocently colliding. Or catching your breath when you first meet someone attractive. Yeah, that spark.
Except I haven't felt that feeling in forever; there is nothing left inside of me.
Normally, this wouldn’t be a problem--but I’m a writer on a serious deadline, and my editor is breathing down my neck for a romantic, Nicholas Sparks type love story. No pressure, right?
That's how I find myself flying across the country to crash a wedding in the name of research, dress and heels stuffed into my small suitcase.
It should be the easiest book research ever. Drinking some free champagne, basking in the love of two strangers, and tapping into my romantic side. That will be a breeze. I'm a pro. I can handle this.
Excerpt
Chills scream
their way down my arms and legs, my nipples pucker, and just like that, with
one word, all humor vanishes from our little conversation and awareness of this
all-consuming man wrapped around me hits me hard.
Gathering
myself, I say, “Tell me something Chris and Justine know about you.”
“Hmm.” His
thumbs hook under the waistband of my shorts, playing with the lower part of my
hipbones. His touch spurs on my pelvis, needing to rock, begging for him to go
lower. My toes curl in my sandals and my back slightly arches, reaching for
more. “Something they know about me.”
His mouth
doesn’t stray from its position against my ear, and his hips start to slowly
move underneath me, his legs tangling with mine. Involuntarily, one of my hands
hooks the back of his neck as I hold on tightly to him, feeling like I need
support from the onslaught of sensation I’m feeling.
I hear him
say something, but it doesn’t register in my brain, which has turned to mush as
his thumbs stray from my hipbones to right above my pubic bone.
There is no
denying how turned on I am, how wet I am from his mere touch, how much—despite
my reservations—I want this man.
With each
stroke, my head turns farther and farther to the side until our noses are
touching, Beck’s head bends forward to meet me halfway. My eyes flutter shut
for a brief moment before I open them and am captured by those flecks of green
and gold.
The air
stills around us, our breath mixing, swirling between us, our lips so close.
One swipe of
this thumb.
Another one.
I can’t
breathe.
I can’t
focus.
Another
swipe, my head leans even closer, my tongue wetting my lips.
One more
swipe . . .
My heart
hammers in my chest, my skin prickling with awareness.
Beck brings
his mouth even closer, only a whisper away now, and he waits.
Holding
still.
His breathing
feeling erratic beneath me.
One.
More.
Swipe.
And I’m gone.
I bring my
mouth to his, slowly parting my lips ever so slightly, just enough to maneuver
my mouth across his.
A low,
provocative moan escapes Beck as one of his hands snags the back of my head and
holds me in place, almost as if he lets go, I’ll disappear.
Needing more,
I shift on his lap so I’m straddling him once again, my hands on his bare
chest, feeling the powerful sinew that holds him together.
Our lips
press and mold, mingling, taking, begging . . .
Desperate.
Beck’s
tongue runs against my bottom lip, eliciting a moan from deep within me,
lighting a fire so hot, so wild, my hands start to travel up his neck to his
cheeks where I grip him, positioning his head so when I open my mouth, I can
expertly dive my tongue onto his.
He groans,
his lap shifting against mine now, his hard-on pressing against my wet and
throbbing center. I match his rocking, using my position on his lap to take
advantage of his length I can feel through his board shorts.
This is
exactly what I didn’t want to happen, but God, am I happy it has. Maybe I
really should live in the moment, maybe I should take advantage of the
opportunity, maybe I should…
About the Author
Born in New York and raised in Southern California, Meghan has grown into a sassy, peanut butter eating, blonde haired swearing, animal hoarding lady. She is known to bust out and dance if "It's Raining Men" starts beating through the air and heaven forbid you get a margarita in her, protect your legs because they may be humped.
Once she started commuting for an hour and twenty minutes every day to work for three years, she began to have conversations play in her head, real life, deep male voices and dainty lady coos kind of conversations. Perturbed and confused, she decided to either see a therapist about the hot and steamy voices running through her head or start writing them down. She decided to go with the cheaper option and started writing... enter her first novel, Caught Looking.
Now you can find the spicy, most definitely on the border of lunacy, kind of crazy lady residing in Colorado with the love of her life and her five, furry four legged children, hiking a trail or hiding behind shelves at grocery stores, wondering what kind of lube the nervous stranger will bring home to his wife. Oh and she loves a good boob squeeze!
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