Newly divorced Lacey Meyers wasted too many years yawning through sex in the missionary position. Now she's looking for a hookup with a man who can make her shatter. What she gets is a hot younger cop with handcuffs...and he's not afraid to use them.
Hunter Anderson knows the score--though classy, successful women like Lacey might play with guys like him, at the end of the evening, they walk. But when one night leads to another and then another, he finds himself getting too attached to a woman he can't have.
Lacey knows Hunter--gorgeous, hard-edged and eight years younger--won't want anything permanent. No matter how hot and daring he makes her first public sex, quickie, backseat encounter and secret fantasy role-play, she can't mistake adventurous sex for emotional involvement.
They both know it's got to end, and soon, or someone's going to get hurt. But can either of them go back to life without the other?
There are no customer reviews available at this time. Would you like to write a review?
Ellora's Cave Publishing, Incorporated
November 13, 2009
Number of Print Pages*
Adobe DRM EPUB
* Number of eBook pages may differ. Click here for more information.
Excerpt from Liberating Lacey by Anne Calhoun
"I'm Hunter," he said, surprising her.
"Lacey," she replied and held out her hand.
He shook it with a firm, calloused grip, then said, "What brings you to Buff, Lacey?"
There was no point in wasting his time if he laughed at the thought of doing more than talking to a woman closer to forty than thirty. She tucked her hair behind her ear and said, "I'm looking for someone to take home."
"What's a class act like you doing here, looking to hook up?" He asked his questions like he expected to be answered, with a hint of suggestiveness under the matter-of-fact tone.
This was not good. Surely barely-there jeans and half a top masked twelve years of private school and a classics degree from a women's college. "Class act?"
"Honey, you can't hide class under those fuck-me clothes," he said.
She finished her wine in an effort to hide her chagrin. "I'm new to this kind of place, this scene," she admitted. "I didn't think anyone would look beyond the clothes."
"It's the way you hold yourself," he said.
That was intriguing. "How do I hold myself?"
"Straight back, direct gaze to cover the nerves. You're checking things out, seeing how they work, getting a feel for the scene, but you're not desperate. Some women come in here and make fools out of themselves trying to score a guy. Any guy. You know exactly what you want and you'll go home alone if you don't find it."
Sixteen years of private education kept her jaw from dropping, but only just. "You give me more credit than I deserve."
He gave her a knowing look. "I'm not that far off. Lawyer?" he asked as he signaled the bartender for a second glass of wine for her.
"Commercial mortgage broker," she said absently. "What do you do that makes you so observant?"
"I'm a cop."
Her eyes swept over his body again, taking in the way he held his ground at the bar without effort. Heat spread through her as she flashed back to his firm grip, how he easily controlled her body.
"Thank you," she said when the bartender set the glass of wine in front of her. "That must be an interesting job."
"Ninety-five percent routine, five percent pure adrenaline rush," he replied.
"You don't shoot people regularly like television cops?"
"Too much paperwork," he said.
His off-hand delivery startled a laugh out of her. "Of course, the paperwork," she agreed with an arch smile and earned herself a slight lift at the corners of his mouth.
"So, Lacey, what are you looking for in a hook-up?"
This was familiar, the negotiations dance. The trick was to know when to reveal your hand and when to hold back. Against all odds this extremely fine man was hanging around when the bar was full of younger, more flirtatious women. If he'd checked out every woman who walked by she'd know he was just marking time until a better prospect came along, but his gaze was all over her, striking sparks with each quick glance.
Time to lay her cards on the table. She copied his attentive stance, leaning in to speak into his ear rather than shouting over the driving beat of dance music. "Someone who can show me what I've been missing for the last decade. I'm recently divorced and spent my marriage having sex in the missionary position once a week. I want to broaden my horizons."
He pulled back and looked at her, his green eyes slumberous. "What do you have against the missionary position? It's one of my favorites."
She frowned, refusing to get distracted by one of his favorites. "Oh? Why is that?"
It was his turn to lean in. Each warm breath riffled the hair at her temple and tantalizing heat radiated from his body. "Because there's nothing like the feel of a woman's body under mine, all tight and hot and wet as she slowly comes apart."
In fifteen years of marriage, not once had she ever "slowly come apart" under her husband. She stared at him as her heart knocked hard against her ribs, stopped for a moment, then restarted at a rabbit's pace. His eyes, moss-dark and blatantly sensual now, held her gaze with a bold challenge and she couldn't look away.
"But you don't want missionary, so we'll think of something else. What do you want?"
Words failed her. Hunter's assessment of her standards was dead-on. She knew exactly what she wanted, him, but she simply couldn't articulate the unfamiliar ache throbbing just below the button of her jeans.
Hunter's eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. "Come on," he said. "Let's dance."