“I’d say they were whores because men like you taught them how to wield the power of sex when they were nothing more than little girls.”
“Oh please, Max. That whole child abuse thing is so politically correct these days, don’t you think? We should excuse serial killers and other murderers because of their terrible childhoods. The abuse excuse.”
“What’s your excuse?”
He raised a white brow. “I don’t need one. I’m very proud of what I am.”
“And I’ll be proud of bringing you down.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned against the doorjamb. “Did you ever consider that by becoming my lover, you’d be privy to all my dirty secrets?” He held out his hand.
She stared at it as if it were an alien appendage. “I’d rather fuck a dead rat.”
“You don’t give up. I admire that. It will make my eventual win so much more pleasurable.”
“And here I was thinking it was good that triumphs over evil in the end.”
He laughed again. A chill settled in her chest. “Good versus evil, is that it, my lovely little Max?” He looked at her as if he pitied her. “Haven’t you outgrown fairy tales? The truth is that a master gamesman always wins. And you aren’t even in my league. You’re like a hummingbird beating its wings against an eagle.”
“You mean a vulture.”
He gave her a heavy-lidded look, seductive, ageless, and terrifying. “I look forward to our next battle. I look forward to you in my bed.” He wagged a finger as she curled her lip in a sneer. “And you will be there, Max. In fact, I predict you’ll be begging me to take you. Despite your knight errant, Detective Long.” One side of his mouth curved in a barely perceptible, deadly smile. “By the way, does he know how close you were to letting me fuck you the other night?”
“Only in your own mind, Traynor.”
He laughed.
The man wielded words like a sword. Good versus evil. Good was supposed to win every time.
Except when it came to this man.
Max looked Bud Traynor, evil incarnate, straight in the eye and knew her nightmare visions were far from over.
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Enjoy the following excerpts and meet the author!
Desperate to the Max, Book 3
Invitation to Seduction
Revenge Sex
About the Author
Desperate to the Max Excerpt
When phone sex operator Bethany Spring is murdered, the brutal slaying plunges Max into the woman’s kinky after-midnight world. Barely surviving this crash course in Phone Sex 101, Max turns once again to her late husband Cameron and hunky detective Witt Long to help her crack the case.
Needing Witt for his detecting skills is one thing, but meeting his mother is scarier than facing down a cold-blooded killer. What commitment is the irresistible detective going to extract from her next? Max almost prefers being possessed by a spirit.
Excerpt from Desperate to the Max
Copyright 2011 Jasmine Haynes
Cover design by Rae Monet Inc
Excerpt
She luxuriated in a perfumed tub, silky water lapping at her breasts. Caressing her nipples into tight buds, she dipped beneath the surface to cup herself. The warmth of the bath, her body’s redolence, her own light touches, all drove her close to orgasm, but she held back. It wasn’t time yet. Orgasm required perfect timing to reach that ultimate pinnacle.
Drying off with a fluffy towel fresh from the wash, she blotted the droplets, then buried her face in the clean, sweet scent. The rich aroma of sesame oil tantalized her nose as she smoothed it into her skin, softening her thighs, her belly, her breasts. She imagined a man’s big hands kneading the oil into the sensitive spot where neck met shoulder. A moan fell from her lips as she savored the delicious sensations. Next she dabbed her favorite cologne. At the back of her knees. The crook of her elbow. Behind her ears. The hollow of her throat. Between her ample breasts. They were her best asset, the kind that filled a man’s cupped hands, the kind a man could pillow-fuck and feel like he’d driven himself deep inside a woman.
The peach robe slipped along her arms, then caressed her shoulders like velvet. She slid her feet into forties-style mules, the boa-like feathers across the strap tickling her toes, then sat in front of the vanity for half an hour, primping, pampering, rouging her cheeks, turning her lips ripe and full with liner and red lipstick. A beauty mark at the corner of her mouth was the crowning touch.
She rose, descended the stairs, and once in her living room, lit two peach candles for scent and four votives for mood. The wine she poured was a sweet, white dessert variety which perfectly complimented the plate of succulent Belgian truffles. She allowed herself twenty; they’d have to last the whole night. She knew she could do it.