Friday, June 15, 2018

#FirstChapterFriday: TEMPTING HIM (An Obsessed Novella) by Jeanne St. James #BDSM #Excerpt

Tempting Him (An Obsessed Novella)
By Jeanne St. James

Genre: Contemporary Erotic Romance, BDSM

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It’s not just a love story, it’s an obsession...


Every time my neighbor jogs past my house, I do my best to tempt him. Washing my car, watering my lawn, doing yoga in the grass with all my assets in the air. I’m not sure if he notices me, but I sure can’t miss him.
Then one day he falls... into my arms and into my bed. Surprisingly, we’re better matched than I would’ve expected. But when he reveals who he is, my world comes crashing down around me because if he finds out my secret we’re finished before we’ve even begun.


Three days a week, I put myself through hell by jogging through my neighborhood. I suffer through it simply to catch a glimpse of a woman I don’t know. Every time I pass her house she’s outside tempting me. Until one day I fall... over my feet, over my heart, over this woman and into her arms.
I know nothing about her, but I want to discover everything. Even her deepest, darkest secrets. However, little does she know, I have one, too. One that may sever the tie that binds us.


Chapter One

I watch as sweat drips one bead at a time onto my over-priced yoga mat. The sun is so freaking hot and here I am, like an idiot out in my yard, bent over in the downward facing dog pose for the past million years. Okay, not years... maybe more like a million seconds. But my body has decided it hates me (nothing new) and is cramping while my head spins. Even better, my over-priced yoga pants have clawed their way up my crack (as well as one other place). And still...
No neighbor.
What the hell?
Despite my eyeballs’ attempt at bulging out of their sockets, I peek at my sports watch. He should’ve been by here two-point-five minutes ago.
The man is usually like clockwork, jogging by my house on Monday, Wednesday and Friday afternoons every week. For the most part, anyway. Though, thunderstorms seem to discourage him from his cardio. (Not sure why.)
On those days, I would be willing to recommend another type of cardio to get his heart pumping. And maybe get his hips pumping, too.
Anyway... look at me! Doing yoga on my front lawn, on the uneven grass, waiting like a desperate woman. (I’m not, really, I promise! It just looks that way.)
But, damn, the man is fine and when he jogs past shirtless, he’s shiny with sweat, which makes me want to drag him inside and give him a sponge bath with my tongue.
My thighs start shaking as I peek between my spread legs, because, of course, my ass has to be facing the street. I want him to get a good look at what I’m offering.
I may even wiggle it a little when he jogs by.
That is if I don’t pass out into a heap first.
I sigh.
Then sigh again a little louder just for good measure.
Maybe it would be easier if I just took up jogging. Wear one of those sexy sports bras, put my hair up in a cute little pony tail, plaster a smile on my face and follow him around the block at a perky pace.
I’ll die first.

Why I ever started this shit, I’ll never know. No, I lie. I know. I thought, “Cade, dude, wouldn’t it be great to up your cardio game and start running?”
I answered myself with, “Yeah, man, that would be great and fun, too!” And then maybe I won’t get so winded when I play basketball with the guys. I’ll have more endurance, I’ll look and feel younger, and...
Fuck that.
Running sucks. And I don’t even think what I do can be considered as running. No, it’s more of a jog. Or a lope. Or trotting like a donkey with a lame hoof.
Inhell. Exhell.
My chest burns, my leg muscles spasm, my balls feel like they’re floating in a puddle of sweat, and the crack of my ass...
I’m not even going there. (Trust me, you don’t want to, either.)
So, why don’t I just stop the torture? (Good question!)
I’ve asked myself that for the past month.
And the answer has always been...
I sacrifice three days a week just to see a woman I don’t know.
Not sure why, but she always seems to be outside at the same time of the day. For that reason, I make sure that’s when I go running (jogging, trotting, limping) by.
Am I crazy to torture myself because I find someone attractive and I’d like to get her attention?
Eh. Maybe.
Why don’t I just knock on her door and ask her out? (Another good question.)
Maybe I want to impress her with my physique and athletic prowess.
But honestly, something has to give and it has to be soon. Because this running shit sucks balls and I’d rather stick razor blades under my fingernails.
At least my slow trot is the right speed to observe her without being creepy. Walking would be too slow and obvious. Driving too quick and useless, not to mention dangerous when she’s clearly a distraction.
And, of course, my pace always allows me enough time to enjoy the show she gives me.
On Wednesday, she was out washing her car, her top soaked, her nipples pushing through the thin fabric of her shirt, and when she bent over to scrub the hood of said car, my boner just about popped out of my shorts. You know, those little nylon running shorts. The ones with the mesh liner, clearly not made for sexual arousal.
But I digress.
The week before, she was out watering her lawn. And, once again, her top was wetter than her grass.
Here’s the thing, the entire neighborhood has built-in sprinklers.
Maybe hers are broken.
It’s possible.
I grunt as I turn the corner and try to push myself a little faster since I’m off my game today. I’m later than normal, and I want my running to look as effortless as possible. It needs to look as though I’ve got my shit together and I’m not secretly suffering.
My eyes swing to the left as I jog. She’s the fourth house up. The brick ranch home with the two-car garage.
Two houses to go yet.
One house.
My eyes widen as I see her ass in tight black yoga pants in the air. My step stutters but I can’t stop my momentum.
My mouth becomes an O, partly because I’m falling over my own two feet, the other because she’s dropped to her knees and is now arching backwards grabbing onto her heels, her generous tits straining against her top.
Last thing I see is her blinking upside down at me as her head hangs down her back.
Suddenly, I’m staring at nothing but pavement (and my loss of manhood). The little bit of oxygen I had sucked into my lungs is now gone.
Then, what seems like seconds later, bare, cute, red painted toes come into view.
I want to just die.
So much for impressing her. That’s been completely shot to hell. I just want to crawl away on my hands and skinned knees to go hide in a bush.
“Are you okay?” she asks, her hand on my shoulder, sounding concerned. Which touches me. But, that’s not the touch I need from her.
I raise my eyes from the toes I want to suck, up those snug yoga pants, and I hesitate when I get to the V of her legs.
I have a feeling she’s not wearing panties.
“Can you stand?”
Jesus. I should respond. I can’t just pretend none of this happened. Or could I?
“Yeah,” I say, but it sounds more breathless (and unmanly) than I’d like. Like I’m out of shape or something.
Can’t be. I run three days a week.
Suddenly, I realize I’m still staring at her crotch. Not cool. I reluctantly lift my eyes over the snug sports top she’s wearing and hesitate for a brief, pervy second on the hard beads of her nipples. I finally continue on, no wait... one more peek. Okay, I lift my gaze to her face and notice she’s biting her bottom lip and her eyes are crinkled at the corners like she’s trying hard not to laugh.
Because me falling over myself is a laughing matter, right?
Maybe I should start laughing and we both can guffaw, and then I can go limp home and lock myself inside until I find my lost manhood again.
“Need a hand?”
A hand. A mouth. A...
“No, thank you,” I answer and try to prove it by pushing myself back onto my feet. This time I want to stay vertical.
When her gorgeous sky-blue eyes travel over my body, I have to assume she’s searching for injuries. And I stand there like a dummy as she studies my chest (which I’m hoping doesn’t appall her), runs her gaze over my shorts (I hope my chubby is not detectable) and then down my legs, which are my best feature (if I say so myself) since I do a lot of squats (hey, at least it’s not running).
When she gasps, I look down. Maybe she’s impressed with my monster cock. But no... she’s staring at my knees. Without warning, she squats down and puts her hands on my thighs. “You’re bleeding.”
I stare at the top of her blonde head, which is way too close to my package. If she doesn’t get to her feet and take her hands off my legs, she’s going to get a face full of my unruly erection.
 But she’s right, my knees are bleeding, though it’s nothing life-threatening. “It’s nothing. I can go—”
She suddenly pops up, eyes wide. “Oh no, let me take care of that for you. I have a first aid kit in the house.”
Suddenly, I picture her in this white, tight, short nurses uniform (the old style with the skirt – remember those?), with white stockings and everything. (Well, except for the matronly shoes. She’s wearing three-inch stilettos in my little fantasy.)
Then BAM...
My half-mast becomes a full-blown hard-on.
“Come on,” she urges as she lays a hand on my arm. I stare at her delicate fingers wrapped around my bicep and discover her fingernails are painted the same color as her cute little toes.
I realize how badly I want those nails to be raking my back and digging into my ass while she’s encouraging me to fuck her harder.
Holy hell, I have just fallen into a deep well of depravity.
I follow her anyway. She’s tempted me for weeks. And I finally have an “in,” even if it’s me being a klutz.
As she guides me toward her front door, she tosses her blonde hair over her shoulder as she says, “I’m Skylar.”
It fits her and her sky-blue eyes.
I clear my throat, because when I answer her, I want to sound much manlier than earlier. “Kincade.”
She smiles over her shoulder at me and I just about trip again.
Now, why did I just give her my full name which I never use? Ah, because all the blood in my brain has now pooled in my cock, that’s why. “Please... just call me Cade.”
“Cade,” she murmurs as she pushes open her front door and, letting go of my arm, she steps inside and moves out of the way enough to let me pass.
It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the change in lighting, but while I’m doing that, she shuts (and locks!) the door behind me.
When I glance around the foyer, I discover her house is set up just like mine, as is probably most of the houses in this neighborhood since they were all built around the same time, by the same builder.
Because of that, I know exactly where her master bedroom is. Which doesn’t help the blood flow to my cock. Not to mention, the lack of vital blood to my brain.
Then I realize neither of us have moved. I glance over my shoulder and she’s leaning against the door, eyeing me up like I’m a medium-rare filet mignon at a Ruth Chris steak house.
“You’ve got a really nice ass,” she murmurs.
I slowly turn to face her, trying to keep the shock of her comment from my face.
Ah fuck it... “So do you.”
“Do you like ass play?”
I blink. “Sorry. What?” A pain shoots through my brain as it explodes.
“Ass play.”
Holy shit. Am I hearing things? I shake myself mentally, and it seems maybe I need to clean out my ears.
I try to swallow, but my Adam’s apple sort of sticks in my throat. “Ass play,” I repeat, trying to keep my cool.
 Here I thought she was going to clean up my skinned knees. However, ass play sounds so much better than alcohol wipes, antibiotic ointment and Band-Aids.
She’s waiting for my answer.
“I... uh... I don’t not like it,” I respond, wondering where she’s going with this conversation.
“Giving or receiving?” She pushes off the door and I automatically step back. Though, I have no idea why. She looks harmless...
“I’m not sure why—”
She tilts her head toward my shorts. “You must be having the same thoughts that I am since you’re as hard as a rock under those silky short shorts of yours.”
I stop my hand from heading in that direction since I don’t need to feel it to know how hard I am at that moment. I don’t need to see it. And, apparently, I can’t hide it, either.
 No matter what, my first thought was not the same as hers. Ass play certainly hadn’t entered my brain until she mentioned it.
However, I must admit, now it’s stuck there.

“Come with me.” Her words come out so huskily that I’m suddenly willing to do any ass play she wants. Even if I’m on the receiving end.

About the Author:

JEANNE ST. JAMES is a USA Today bestselling erotic romance author who loves an alpha male (or two). She was only thirteen when she started writing. Her first paid published piece was an erotic story in Playgirl magazine. Her first erotic romance novel, Banged Up, was published in 2009. She is happily owned by farting French bulldogs. She writes M/F, M/M, and M/M/F ménages. Want to read a sample of her work? Download a sampler book here:

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