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http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1445
Blurb:
Forty-one and recently divorced, Sherry has no idea where -- or if -- she'll find the courage to rebuild her life. She finds it in Belize, in the company of Rutger, a stunningly handsome pool boy who reminds her in every delectable way imaginable that life is an adventure to be savored to the last drop!
Excerpt:
Pool Boys Too
Sierra Dafoe
All rights reserved.
Copyright ©2010 Sierra Dafoe
This e-book file contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language which some may find offensive and which is not appropriate for a young audience. Changeling Press E-Books are for sale to adults, only, as defined by the laws of the country in which you made your purchase. Please store your files wisely, where they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.
I wish to God I knew what I'm doing here. I really do. Not that it isn't a nice place -- it is. In fact, it's gorgeous. Palm trees rustle over my head, and the air is thick with the scent of flowers. There's a mass of them just behind my chaise, some sort of tropical bushes with waxy, deep green leaves and wildly pink flowers that look a little bit like honeysuckle. I've got no idea what they are, but they smell incredible.
My knees are bent up before me, and my chaise is in this sort of outdoor alcove, surrounded on three sides by verdant growth. Shadows chase across the white plastic, and three feet past the end of the chaise clear sunlight beats down, making the stretch of cement beyond blaze like sand. Beyond that, a seemingly Olympic-sized pool stretches in turquoise splendor, its surface sparkling with refracted light.
Maybe it's a hallucination. Maybe I never made it to the divorce hearing at all. Maybe I suffered a lethal accident on the way and woke up in heaven. I could go for that theory, except I never heard of heaven having in-ground pools before -- or pool boys.
All I know is that for the past ten months, sitting still has been absolute torture. It's almost impossible for me to stay in one place anymore. When I'm at work, I want to be home. When I'm home (which is no longer home but a one-bedroom efficiency apartment; no way was I staying in that ugly, empty, faux suburban Tudor after Dwight left), I'm there maybe all of twenty minutes before this frantic little voice starts screaming at me to move, damn it, just move -- with the consequence that, after ten months of this, I am possibly in the best shape I've been in since my early twenties. It's a small consolation, but looking down at my reasonably flat belly in the blue-and-white bikini I'm inexplicably wearing, I decide things could be worse. Among other things, I could still be married. So, drawing a deep breath, I decide to try something different and make myself sit still.
The pool boys definitely help. I can see them from under the brim of my floppy straw hat. Jamar is just surfacing in the pool, coming up from beneath the water in a rush of smooth, powerful limbs. His beaded dreadlocks swing as he tosses his head, spraying water, and his skin glows in the sunlight like wet, polished mahogany. Girls flock around him, giggling, drawing him into a game of water volleyball with a big, striped, inflatable ball, and he indulges them with the same easy smile with which he introduced himself to me earlier, informing me I'm in Belize.
Under the spell of his rich, musical accent, all I could think was Well, at least I'm someplace new.
Paolo, who's Portuguese, brings me a drink, something cool and frothy with a wedge of pineapple. I sip it, tasting coconut, and tilt my head back to smile up at him in thanks. He's almost too pretty, with those thick black lashes and that mass of black curls falling down to brush his sun-burnished shoulders. He smiles back, a warm, lazy laughter lighting those Mediterranean eyes. I watch the muscles bunching in his calves as he walks away, the flex of that hard, full butt beneath his white shorts, and a heat as liquid and rich as the air around me floods my crotch.
Quickly, I look away.
Rutger, who's built like something out of a teenage girl's wet dream -- all hard, gleaming muscle and neatly-cropped blond hair -- sits in the lifeguard's chair at the far end of the pool. The heat inside me cranks up another notch, but it feels safer with him, somehow -- he looks like a god up there, stern and untouchable, those keen ice-blue eyes flicking over the girls splashing and squealing in the pool.
I'm tempted to throw myself in and drown myself, just to have him rescue me. It's a safe enough fantasy to indulge, I suppose, so I do, closing my eyes and picturing those massive arms lifting me out of the water, laying me down...
My whole body shimmers at the idea, and I yank my eyes open again quickly. I can't remember the last time I shimmered. Or glowed. Or giggled, for that matter, as three of the girls are doing, clustered together on the near side of the pool, glancing over at him. Pulling themselves out, their lithe bodies dripping, they egg each other over to his chair, simpering and preening as they gabble up at him. For a moment, I almost hate them.
Not because they're young, or pretty -- which they are; I'll give them that much -- but because I can't for the life of me remember how to do that. How to just walk up to a man and talk to him. Of course, they don't really know yet, either. They're just learning, their efforts transparent and awkward -- and annoying, I gather. Rutger's face, as he answers whatever inane questions they've come up with, is impassive. His gaze flicks to me, his expression slightly harassed.
Yep. This has to be a hallucination. Real men just aren't that gorgeous.
http://www.changelingpress.com/product.php?&upt=book&ubid=1445
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