Hello 69ers! I'm Molly, and I might have killed Mia. A girl has to do what a girl has to do—when she wants to takeover Teasetastic Tuesday. Right?
Wrong. I didn't kill Mia. Seriously. I'm a lover, not a fighter. And Mia is easy...to bribe. So she's off somewhere eating Ben & Jerry's while I do my thing on her blog.
Now, you may be scratching your head (or other things) and wondering, Who the heck is Molly Grayson? Well, the simplest answer is: I'm a writer of smut.
Before anyone gets their panties in a wad, I mean no offense by using the word smut. In fact, smut is a term of endearment for me. Strange, I know. But it reminds me of a person I loved and lost. Growing up, my aunt and I bonded over our love of reading. We started out with kiddy stuff like the Little Golden Books and as I aged, we shifted to more "grown up" things like Double Standards by Judith McNaught. My mother, who wasn't much of a reader, used to tease us incessantly about our smut. Now, my beloved aunt is gone, and my mother still teases me. So when I say I write smut or I read smut, it truly means something to me.
Alas, I am getting off topic, which I often do. And I apologize in advance for that.
Again, I am a writer of smut. I currently have no published books. But I am working on a trilogy entitled: Tales of the Taken Bridesmaids. The first story, Torn Between Twins, is not quite finished. Though, it is not too far off. That's why I am here—to share an unedited "tease" of my work-in-progress. I hope y'all don't mind but as Mia would say, "Someone's cherry is getting popped tonight!"
I'm a good southern girl. I drink sweet tea, bake pecan pie, fry batches of chicken, put butter in everything, and eat gravy on my biscuits. I say things like "Bless your heart," "God love you," "Well, pardon my french," and "Y'all ain't right." My mama still scares the daylights out of me and my manners are impeccable. I smile and wave to my neighbors, and I catch lightning bugs in mason jars. I love like crazy, kill people with kindness, and count my blessing. And on occasion, I do shop with a buggy.
But as good as I am good, I am bad. I write saucy, sultry, smutty stories with sassy ladies and men who share. My mind is dirty. My mouth is sinful. And everyone who knows me say they wouldn't have me any other way.
Twitter Handle: @MollyEGrayson
Twitter Link: https://twitter.com/MollyEGrayson
Blog (Will Launch Soon): http://www.southerngirlsdoitsexier.blogspot.com
* * * *
I sigh as I lounge on the bench seat at the back of Derek Fuller’s boat. My head reclined, arms behind my neck and legs straight out in front of me, I stare up at the cloudless sky. The mid-day sun is hot on my face and every other inch of skin my black bathing suit doesn’t cover. Still, I feel more relaxed, more alive, more everything than I ever have in my life.
A second sigh, this one more content than the last, slips past my lips as my head lifts. I stretch languorously, my body moving and extending like a woman whose just been fucked within an inch of her life. Only I haven’t been fucked all damned day. Derek is—and has been—too busy navigating his Four Winns bowrider across the muddy waters of Watts Bar Lake to give my body the attention it craves.
And boy, does it crave.
Not to worry, though. Derek will get on the stick soon. The man just can’t keep his hands, feet, or any other part of his body off me for long. And once anything of his touches anything of mine, both of us go off faster than a bundle of firecrackers to an open flame. Until then, I’ll have to be patient—which I rarely, if ever, am—and simply enjoy our time together.
Not that spending time with Derek is a hardship, especially on days like this. It’s all sunshine and sweet, sweet summertime in East Tennessee. Sure, it’s August. So it’s hotter than blue blazes. But the humidity reminds me of dirt and sweat and gritty, filthy sex. And let’s all face it, that’s exactly how I like it…with Derek.
Speaking of Derek, my gaze goes to him like a moth drawn to a porch light. The handsome devil is sitting in the captain’s chair, one large hand resting on the throttle while the other is curling around the wheel. Titanium eyes, alive and carefree, are looking somewhere off in the distance as beautiful brown hair blows casually in the breeze.
I ogle him openly, shamelessly. He seems to sense my attention and shoots a glance my way. The smile he blesses me with would have charmed the pants right off me, if I’d actually been wearing them.
“Time to drop anchor,” he says.
I think I mumble, “Okay.” Though, I’m not positive because his big, buff chest is delectably bare, and the sight is frying my brain faster than the okra my mama—may she rest in peace—scorched at her last Sunday Dinner.
“Stupid naked chests,” I mutter.
Derek grins as he cuts the engine. “What was that, baby?”
My eyes slide away. I’m not touching that question with a ten foot pole. “Nothing.”
Nervously, I reach for sunblock. While I squirt the lotion in my hand, lather it between my palms, and coat my skin, Derek works with the anchor. By the time I’m done, my body glistens and he’s casting the anchor off the side of the boat. “There,” he says. Then he turns…to me.
The wicked glint in his eyes has my breath catching, my hands sweating. Holy crap on a cheese cracker. That look should be illegal.“Get. Naked. Riley.” His demand is soft but deadly serious. I love the way the command sounds on his lips, all gruff and gravelly, and I find myself fascinated by how my name leaves his mouth with the reverence of a prayer.
That voice, those words, his eyes, and the look—fuck me naked and steal my clothes, the look. It’s too much hotness all at once and a fire begins to burn inside me. The blaze is born in my veins. It bubbles my blood. But blood turns to lava and lava streaks through veins until all I know, all I feel, is the inferno that used to be my body.
Dear God in Heaven or Satan in Hell, does this man have a clue what he’s doing to me?
One glance, that’s all it takes to answer my question. Derek is not only aware of what he’s doing but he’s also relishing every second of my torment. It’s in the smug smile he doesn’t conceal and the way his stunning body strains toward mine.
“I…” My words dry in my throat. All the moisture in my body goes to my pussy and pools there. I shy away from the slickness and shift to evade the ache growing in my womb.
Derek’s eyes smolder as they drop to my chest. His stare penetrates my one piece, going straight through the bathing suit as though I’m wearing nothing at all. My nipples feel exposed. They tingle. They tighten. They need touched, need kissed. They need him.
Derek’s intent gaze slides lower, gliding over me as intimately as a caress. I shiver. He continues his descent, and I squirm. When he reaches my lap, he grins that charmingly boyish grin I adore, and my heart clenches. “See, baby. You need to lose the suit. You’re getting it all wet.”
As though it’ll hide my response from him, I snap my legs closed and squeeze my thighs together. This seems to amuse Derek, who chuckles. And again, I gulp. Frantic, I glance around, searching for a nearby boat, praying one isn’t there.
“No one can see us, Ry.” Derek strides toward me. I watch him, rapt with desire. His swim trunks ride deliciously low, drawing attention to the defined muscles of his hips, and I hope against hope that the damned things will fall off already. “I wouldn’t want anyone to see what’s mine. And Camden Riley Evans, you. Are. Mine.”
My heart flies fast and furious at Derek’s fierce announcement, for I know I am his. Truly.
“I wouldn’t do that to you either. I know how you feel about spectators.”
I exhale. With relief or regret, I don’t know, and I don’t care. All I know, all I care about, is this man. I want him. I want to please him, to touch him, to kiss him, to love him. And yes, by God, I want to fuck him.
“Now, lose the suit. And don’t make me tell you again.”
Breathe. I have to breathe.
Unsteadily, I rise. With one last check for voyeurs, I offer him a hesitant smile then lift my arms. I reach behind my neck and loosen the ties holding my bathing suit in place.“Like this?” I ask as I release both ties at the same time, letting them fall forward and dangle down the front of my body.
Derek licks his lips and shakes his head. “More.”
A throaty chuckle comes from some unknown place inside of me. “How about this?” I go for the bustline, snaking two fingers beneath it. “Is this better?”
No answer. Just piercing gray eyes worshipping me, worshipping my body.
I slither my swimsuit down until I’m bare from the waist up. “Or this?”
Another lick of Derek’s lips. “More.”
I exhale in a rush, pushing out all my nerves with the air. Then with my pulse pounding, I shimmy the material down my hips until its a hairbreadth from fully exposing my pussy. “Now?”
Derek’s eyes flare. His body tautens. His tension is palpable, so visible I feel as though I can reach out and touch it. “Riley…” The warning in his tone hits home. I take it to heart and shove my suit to the ground then step out of it.
“Good girl,” he croons. His approval is as clear as glass, and it wraps around me tighter than a lock. Proudly, I smile.
“Come here,” he orders then softens his command by confessing, “I want to hold you.”
What kind of girl would I be to turn him down?
Panting, I prowl toward Derek, infusing each footstep with a sensuality only he and one other arouses within me. As I move, my hips sway. My breasts jiggle. Yet I don’t feel the least bit self-conscious. His adoring eyes are too open, too honest, too damned scorching for me to doubt his want of me or my less than perfect physique. In fact, his desire is so blatant, so deep and intense, that I can’t deny it. And my courage is bolstered.
I flash Derek a suggestive smile. Then I lift one hand and slowly slither the ponytail holder out of my hair. The rubber band drops to the boat’s floor, already forgotten, and I shake my head seductively. Waist-length, wild as the wind tresses swing free. They flow around me in a whirlwind of honey brown locks.
Derek groans. He reaches for me and grabs me by the waist. Then he hauls me flush against him. As our bodies collide, his steely shaft confined in swim trunks meets my pussy, and a moan whispers across my lips. After that, breathing is a battle because his killer abs and my fleshy torso are packed too tight. His rock hard pecs and my heavy breasts are crushed too close. Even his stiff nipples are at war with my tingling ones and our legs are a turbulent tangle of limbs.
“Derek,” I sigh as his hands lower to my hips and anchor themselves to my skin. His hold is impenetrable, his touch masterful, and I never want it to stop. He has me. All of me.
Derek drops his head forward. His nose finds a home in the curve of my neck. I hear him mumble something unintelligible, and I have to know what he’s saying, what he’s thinking but most of all, what he’s feeling.
“Hmm?” I glide my hands up his arms, slow and deliberate, my touch light and teasing. When I reach his shoulders, I pass them up and keep going until I wrap my arms around his thick, corded neck. “What’d you say?”
Derek doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he nuzzles my neck, his breath hot and so very, very humid. I moan again, this time louder and more wantonly. My hips start to move. Of their own volition, they pump and grind my pussy against the bulge in his trunks.
Derek chuckles. His husky laugh vibrates through my flesh. He tightens his grip, hindering my movements but not stopping them altogether. “Like that, do you?”
“Mmmm.” He has no idea.
“How about this?” He gifts my skin with the smallest, sweetest, most unsatisfying kiss of its life.
“More,” I beg as my lower body continues its fight to gain purchase between his crotch and mine. “Please,” I add.
“I don’t know…”
“I know.” God Almighty, I know.
I cock my head to the side, granting him better access to my neck. I pray he takes the hint. He doesn’t. He smiles. I feel it, an entity on my overheated skin. “My, my, you’re getting awfully demanding, Ry.”
“Demanding? You haven’t seen demanding. Yet.”
I go up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his. Derek doesn’t give me the upper hand. He instantly takes over. His lips, so soft, pry mine open. His tongue, so skilled, delves between them. And he sweeps into my mouth, all dominance and possession, his kiss claiming me as surely as if he’s branded a stamp of ownership onto my very soul.
I shiver. From what, I am not sure. It could be the way he is kissing me—as though I’m the beginning and the end—or it could be the animalistic sounds erupting from his chest. It could even be his hands leaving my hips and landing possessively on my bottom. But it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters because he is cupping one cheek and then swatting the other.
His mouth swallows my surprise. Then for the second time, he brings down his disturbingly—yet somehow delightfully—adept hand on the curve of my ass. This smack is swift and substantial, so much so that it cracks against my skin. And again, he swats my bottom. This time though, his fingers are further apart, the tips closer to the crevice.
Suddenly unsure, I attempt to wriggle away. But Derek doesn’t have that. His lips firm. His kiss deepens. His hold strengthens. He doesn’t give me an inch. There’s no stopping him, no saving me. He spreads my ass cheeks apart and opens me wide. I gasp into his mouth as a small gust of wind blows across my back entrance. A flush steals across my face. I freeze.
I don’t want…
Oh fucking shit. I do.
Instantly, I stop moving and melt into Derek as easily as sugar into a pitcher of fresh brewed tea. I dig my fingers into his solid shoulders, using my hold to keep myself upright. He groans and breaks our kiss. Staring down into my eyes, he murmurs in his smoother than Jack Daniel’s Number 7 voice, “Riley, I’m going to take that hole. I’m going to fuck it. Hard and fast. And you’re going to love it.”
My breath stalls. I have no doubt he’s right. He will fuck my ass. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. And I will love it. Why? Because I love him.
Derek’s fingers drift inward. “You’re going to scream my name…over and over…and over again.” He punctuates each of his promises with a peck to my lips.
Hypnotized, I nod, saying nothing.
“When I’m done with you, you won’t talk for a week.”
Barely able to breathe, I’m incapable of speech. I feel disconnected but somehow manage to shake my head.
“You might not sit for a while, either. But it’ll be worth it.”
“Very worth it,” I croak as Derek’s fingers get closer. So much closer. C’mon. Almost there. And then, out of nowhere, Derek’s hands stop. Another set joins them on my body. Another pair of lips find my skin. Surprise ripples through me.
Gasping, I whip my head around. There, standing behind me, is Logan Fuller. Derek’s mirror-image is grinning, his smile so sinister I have the urge to drop to my knees and pray for his fallen soul. “Miss me, Riles?” he asks, and I realize in that second, I did.