A bunch of us authors at Decadent Publishing got together to give away a Nook, crammed full with lots of sexy stories. Want a chance to win?
One of the steamy stories on the Nook is my very own Gigolo Seduction!
Long in passion’s service, confident Asif enjoys his life as a thirty-something escort, bringing romance into the lives of metropolitan socialite cougars. Gifted at seducing wealthy white MILFs and bringing them endless pleasure, the arrogant Persian eschews investing in a personal life. A chance meeting with young artist, Cass, while on the job at a gala event, changes his perspective on women forever, and unleashes desires Asif never knew he had.
From Gigolo Seduction
“Are your works always so intricate?”She shakes her head, again scanning the tower, though my eyes stay on her. “Frescoes are always detailed and hard work, but this is way above and beyond. Layering in kinetic elements to give moving light and dimensional depth is my dream project come true. Most of my projects are just frescoes.”
“Just frescoes.” I laugh. “They’re noble and valiant relics in the art world.”
“They’re actually in high demand.” Her tone is matter-of-fact. “Though few people can afford them.”
“Well, you’ve outdone yourself here,” I affirm. Her smile is sincere, her pride evident, elegant, enchanting.
“It’s taken quite a long time to come together, and I’ve left the plasterer more than a little frustrated on several occasions.”
“I can’t imagine him staying angry for long….”
“They’ve given me deep creative license over the project, so that’s saved my ass a couple of times. It’s kind of mind-blowing to work on something so limitlessly funded.”
Our eyes lock for mere seconds and the silence is disturbing. “I was just going for a bite to eat. Would you care to join me?”
Cass nods. “I’d like to, but I need to finish this section. This medium doesn’t wait well.”
She’s genuinely interested and I want her to be. I want her to be as affected as I am. Before I can prod further she asks, “Maybe another time?”
Reluctantly, I follow her to the elevator. She opens it with a pass card attached to a cord coiled on the drawstring of her pants. My eyes linger on the brilliant green gem in her navel.
“What’s your name?”
“Asif,” I reply without hesitating. The sound is bare, like a secret revealed, though I don’t understand why. I always use my real name.
“Another time, Asif.”
The doors slide closed, and I agree.
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