Flesh For Fantasy. Joan Elizabeth Lloyd

      KENSINGTON BOOKS

       http://www.kensingtonbooks.com

      CONTENTS

      SLOW DANCING

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      MIDNIGHT BUTTERFLY

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Chapter 12

      Chapter 13

      Dear Reader

      Chapter

       1

      “Maggie mine,” Paul Crowley’s voice echoed through the phone, “please marry me.”

      Maggie Sullivan’s laughter warmed the miles of wire between them. “Paul, you’re so sweet and you know I love you, but be real.” She spread her voluminous purple silk robe out on the wide satin-covered bed and pressed the phone against her ear.

      “I am being real. Marry me. Or, if not, let’s run away together. We’ll find an island with no one there but the two of us. We’ll live on fish and mangos.”

      Maggie pictured Paul’s deep brown hair and could almost feel its softness. He was in his midthirties and had a body that told everyone he worked out and prided himself on his physique. “Lord, after a bad day that’s such a tempting offer.” Maggie tangled her fingers in her black curls. As she twirled one strand around her index finger, she remembered when her hair had been that color without the help of her stylist. “But sweet, you’re who you are and I’m what I am.”

      “That doesn’t matter, Maggie mine. Let’s forget all that and do what makes us happy for a change.”

      “Paul, we’ve been over and over this. I’m a prostitute. A hooker. Very high priced,” she added, tucking the phone between her ear and her shoulder and leaning back against her collection of primary-colored pillows. She flipped one Mondrian-print curtain from in front of the air conditioner with her toe so the fan blew more cold air in her direction. “But still a hooker. And you’re a banker. Very straight.”

      “I don’t care. I just want you.” She heard his sigh.

      “And what about our ages. I’ll begin to collect Social Security just about the time you reach forty.”

      “Sweet thing,” he moaned. “We were just born at the wrong time. Anyway, what difference do a few years make?”

      “What are you wearing, Paul?” Maggie purred, stretching her long, shapely legs and crossing her ankles. She spread the sides of the robe and looked at her body beneath it. Still slender, with muscular thighs from working out daily, and full breasts that sagged only a bit.

      “What difference does that make?”

      “I just opened my robe and underneath it I’m wearing a lilac teddy. It’s a smooth satiny material and I’m running my palms up and down my side right now.” Maggie’s hands were, indeed, rubbing the slick material.

      “Oh, sweet thing,” Paul groaned.

      “I had my nails done today, you know,” Maggie said, gazing at her hands. “They’re extra long and bright red now. The color’s from a series called Romance. This shade is called Slow Dancing. Like we do when we’re together. That’s why I chose it. Now I’m running my nails over the front of my thigh. It feels really good.”

      Maggie could hear Paul drag air into his lungs. “The inside of my thigh is so soft, but I’m making bright red marks with my nails.” She smiled. “Talking like this always makes me hot. I wish you were here.” Paul was on a business trip and was calling Maggie in New York from his hotel room in Denver.

      “I do too. But…”

      “What are you wearing?”

      “Jeans and a blue shirt.”

      “Take them off, baby. Please.” She could hear his resigned sigh. Again she had deflected the conversation. Maggie could hear the rustling of Paul moving around his room.

      “I’m pulling off my jeans and shirt even as we speak. You always do this. I propose and you reject me in the nicest way possible.” There was a pause, then Paul said, “Now I’m only wearing my shorts.”

      “What color are they? I want to be able to picture you.”

      “Black. With a white waistband.” Paul’s voice was ragged.

      “Is your cock big and hard?”

      “Oh, Maggie,” Paul groaned. “Why do you do this to me?”

      Her smile broadened. “Because I love to make you hot. It’s one of the things I do best and enjoy most. Now tell me. Is it hard?”

      “Yes, he groaned.

      “Do you want to touch it while we talk?”

      Silence.

      “Tell me, Paul. Do you want to touch it? Tell Maggie.”

      “Yes,” he whispered.

      “Wrap your fingers around it and I’ll slip my fingers under the crotch of this teddy and rub all those spots you know I love. Come on, baby, do it for me.” After a moment she continued, “Are you touching your cock through your tight black shorts? Does it feel good? Sort of muffled through the fabric?”

      “Yes.”

      “I’m sliding my fingers over my slit. I’m very wet.” Her fingertips danced over her skin as she pulled the thin strip of fabric aside and explored her wetness. “Ummm,” she purred, “it feels so good. And I love knowing that you’re touching yourself, too.” She stroked her clit with her index finger, listening to Paul’s heavy breaths. “Yes, baby. Do it to your hard prick while I rub myself.” There was a long silence during which the only sound was rapid breathing. “Do you know what I’m going to do?” Maggie asked, opening the drawer of her bedside table.

      “What?” His voice was raspy and hoarse.

      “I’m