Ripe
COVER © ALESSIA BRIO

978-1-4523-9064-2
APRIL 2010
10,500 WORDS
$0.99

 

Purple Prosaic is a self-publishing label featuring the nocturnal emissions of eroticists Alessia Brio & Will Belegon.

RIPE

When Josephine "Joey" Gray is yanked from her police academy class, she fears she's going to be expelled for a nightclub indiscretion. Instead, she's given a crash course in covert work and delivered to a small town at the other end of the state to help bust a vicious pedophile who's preying on a rural area's young women. In the process, she learns that love can blossom in the most vile situations.

 

Buy direct via PayLoadz. ZIPped file containing all formats. Pay with credit card, PayPal, Google Checkout, or Amazon Payments.   Smashwords   Amazon   OmniLit   All Romance eBooks   Barnes & Noble   Find on iTunes' iBookstore   Goodreads

 

M/F, ROMANCE, CONTEMPORARY, INTERRACIAL, EXPLICIT ADULT FICTION

[ VIEW CART ][ REQUEST A REVIEW COPY ]
Bookmark and Share

EXCERPT

The bass beat vibrated the wooden barstool under Joey's ass, amplified by the tight drum of denim that spanned its crack. She squirmed for a better position, bringing the thick seam of her jeans into contact with her clit, and sipped at her sixth umbrella concoction. The straw gurgled and sputtered as the last bit of fruity liquid made its way to her mouth, although it could not be heard over the music.

A combination of sweat and her juices wet the thong wedged into her slit. It felt deliciously wicked. Dancing always had that effect on her. Always. Joey looked around the club for another victim. She'd worn out two dance partners, and they'd moved on to other quarry when it became abundantly clear that she had no intention of continuing horizontally.

"Dance with me, jail bait!"

A meaty paw closed around her bare upper arm, causing a cube of ice to jump from her glass and land on the cocktail napkin. The glare she delivered would've decimated a sober man, but the oaf left sober several hours ago and was well on his way to hangover.

His breath smelled of cheap beer, and his grip had the cold clamminess of false bravado. Joey sighed. The jerk was about to learn a lesson she'd taught many: petite and sexy did not equate to helpless. She almost felt sorry for him. If wasn't fair, after all, to engage in a battle of wits with an unarmed opponent. Then, she spied the Confederate flag on his belt buckle and all sympathy vanished.

Adopting her most condescending tone, Joey said, "I'm only going to say this once, so pay attention. I am not interested in dancing—or doing anything else—with you. Now, take your hand off me and go away."

A malevolent expression flashed across his redneck features before being supplanted by slimy machismo. "I've got a feisty one, here," he called over his shoulder to a posse that had either vanished or never existed. "Let's go, doll."

Doll?

With a tug, Joey's ass left the stool. Rather than resist, as he undoubtedly expected, she allowed herself to fall into it. Her momentum and his inebriation combined to send him backward, over the adjacent barstool, and onto the floor. The remains of Joey's drink landed in his face as she hopped deftly over his supine bulk.

She waited for what inevitably came next, and he didn't disappoint.

"Bitch! I'm gonna teach your sweet round ass a lesson it'll never forget." He pulled himself from the floor using the padded edge of the bar and reached for her arm.

Outer forearm block. Palm heel strike to the diaphragm. The years of martial arts training her grandfather had insisted upon surfaced reflexively. Sometimes, it ended there. Knocking the wind out of their lungs tended to knock it out of their testosterone sails as well. Not this time.

He lunged at her, grabbing her hips and effortlessly tossing her over his shoulder. Joey winked at the startled bartender before extending her arms toward the floor. She lifted his untucked T-shirt to expose the sagging waistband of his jeans and the tidy-whities peeking from them. The caveman hadn't taken two steps when she gave him a wedgie he'd feel for a week.

Joey landed on her feet with a feline grace, her adversary writhing at them. Without sparing him another look, she turned toward the bar and ordered another drink, apologizing for the mess and the chaos.

"On the house." The bartender grinned as he pushed a fresh glass tinkling with ice toward her.

Joey extracted its cherry, downed the cold liquid in two gulps, and crooked her finger at the nearest suitable guy. "Wanna dance?" she purred, popping the cherry into her mouth and sucking the stem in after it. Rather than wait for a reply, she sashayed toward the dance floor, arms above her head like a beacon for him to follow once the crowd swallowed her frame. And she knew he'd follow. They always did.

Only after she carved her place on the crowded floor did Joey turn into the well-muscled chest of her chosen prey. They could do little more than grind in the press of bodies, but that was fine with her. The adrenaline surged through her veins, and she felt every bit a panther on the prowl.