Dirty housework

This erotic story excerpt from A Doctor for the Cowboy by Amy Andrews is published with permission. Sexy inspiration for dirty housework!

Hotter15 minsAdult MFContemporary
Erotic sexy story excerpt from Troy by Amy Andrews

With an armful of linen, a bucket full of cleaning products and her earbuds pumping out Dixie Chicks, Joss climbed the steps to the loft. Gus had talked about letting Damien have the space in his senior year of high school and Joss had thought it a good idea but not unless he straightened out.

She wasn’t about to reward delinquency with freedom.

With her burden obscuring her view, she groped for the handle and twisted the knob. The loft was never locked and the door gave easily. She didn’t notice the boots at the front door as she hummed along to the music, crossing straight to the bed to dump her armload on the bare mattress.

She didn’t notice the partially fogged vanity mirror as she walked toward the bathroom, either—two thick fluffy towels in hand. Not until she was inside anyway and a pair of jeans and fringed leather caps tossed carelessly over the edge of the vanity came into view.

She almost dropped the towels as she spun around.

“Hey.”

The Dixie Chicks crooning, there’s your trouble, straight into her ear was a particularly ironic twist.

Joss yanked the earbuds out as she gaped at the man standing in the open doorway of the shower cubicle.

Thankfully he was wearing a towel—even if it was positioned sinfully low on his hips.

But that still left an awful lot to look at. An awful lot. Like the scattered droplets of water on his shoulders, and chest and abs. And his nipples. Flat and brown and so evenly spaced she wanted to get a ruler and measure them. Or possibly use her tongue.

He cocked an eyebrow, the tiny white scar stupid sexy in the daylight. “Finished?”

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“I….I…”

She swallowed but it was no good, the ability to talk seemed to have deserted her. He took a step toward her and Joss took a hastily step back, bringing her right up against the vanity. Her heart beat a frantic tattoo in her chest.

Sweet baby cheeses. He was big and it was a very, very small bathroom.

The aroma of soap and shampoo had replaced leather and rope and her stomach clenched. She’d always been a sucker for that man-just-out-of-the-shower smell. She clutched the towels to her chest as if they might protect her from it.

“I thought you’d gone with Gus?”

“He had to leave in a hurry and I really needed a shower.” He took another step toward her. One more and they’d be hip to hip.

“I was really dirty.”

She wanted him to come closer. To press his body along hers. To feel all his heat and hardness right up in her face.

And parts much lower. She shouldn’t want it. It was… pure madness. But she did. Her hands trembled with the effort not to touch him.

“If I’d known you’d be along,” he said, his voice low and lazy, “I would have waited for assistance.  It’s not easy showering one-handed.”

A slew of images all involving him wet and naked and soapy and the things he could do one-handed, cluttered up her brain-power.

“And yet, you managed.” Her voice was nothing more than a raspy whisper.

“Sure. I’m a self-sufficient kinda guy. But…” He took the last step, an inch of air separating his thighs from hers. “It’s much more fun with two.”

Joss’s heart was pounding so furiously she was sure he must be able to feel the vibrations hitting him in the chest. “I just came to give the loft a bit of a spring-clean. Bring some sheets and towels.”

She clung to the last bit of sanity she had and hoped like hell he’d do the right thing and back the hell up. He didn’t.

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Instead he spread his arms out—his injured elbow hampering the movement on the left. “I found one. As you can see.”

Which automatically dragged her gaze down. Down. Down. Down.

Over his back and his chest and his abs. Oh yes he had. And didn’t he wear the hell out of it. He reached for the towels she was using as a shield and prized them gently from her grasp, shoving them on top of his jeans and chaps.

“You smell great”, he murmured, his good hand sliding onto the vanity near her hip, his injured arm bent and skewed awkwardly out as his lips dropped to the side of her neck.

She smelled great? This from the man who smelled like a deodorant commercial.

Joss shut her eyes as his lips buzzed her skin. For a ridiculously light touch she felt it everywhere. In her breasts and thighs and deep behind her belly button.

“Like candy canes.”

Part of Joss recognized it was probably just her mouthwash he could smell but the other part—the part that was already tipping her head to the side to give him better access—was thinking maybe she should start bathing in the stuff.

His hand left the vanity and crept up her side and around to her back as his thighs pressed against hers, lean and hard.

His fingertips grabbed the end of her ponytail and gently tugged, angling her head back even further.

“I love candy-canes,” he muttered, his breath warm as his tongue stroked the sensitive skin at the angle of her jaw. “I love sucking on them.” His lips closed over her earlobe and tugged.

A sound came from the back of her throat. Something quite unholy—half wanton, half feral. It joined the jungle beat on her head and the rising urge to submit. Joss was powerless to do anything other than turn her face and seek the heat and oblivion of his mouth.

“Troy.”

“What, Joss?” His hand grabbed more of her ponytail, elongating her throat, his mouth taking full advantage as his body settled against hers, the hard jut of his erection pushing urgently against her belly. “What do you want?” he whispered against the thick thud of her carotid pulse. “Tell me what you want, baby.”

No one had ever called her baby. The fact that it had come from a guy seven years her junior should have been ridiculous. But it wasn’t. It curled her toes.

“Kiss me.”

Before even the next beat of her heart, his mouth was on hers. Not slow and sweet but fast and urgent. Joss moaned, her body flooding with the wild sexual thrill of it, her hands circling his waist to pull him closer.

Oh yes. She remembered this. The soft and the hard of a man’s mouth, the frenzy of tangling tongues, the pulse-fluttering excitement of a big, firm body unapologetically violating personal space.

The kiss deepened. Joss slid her hands to Troy’s butt, stroking him through the towel. His glutes tightened. Her nipples hardened. His hand fell to her upper thigh, slipping behind to where leg met ass. He squeezed and lifted, opening up her hips, stepping boldly into the gap, notching himself between her thighs, his hand urging her up onto the vanity before sliding to the base of her spine.

He held her there tight as he ground his erection into her, a bolt of pure pleasure striking her core. Joss moaned, tightening her thighs around his hips, locking her ankles around his ass, silently demanding more.

He gave it, grinding slow and deliberate against her center as his tongue slid down her windpipe. She shivered as his lips made their way to the spot just below her ear. “You’ve made me so hard, Joss,” he whispered.

She whimpered deep in her throat at the dizzying compliment. She wanted to see that. Feel it.

Even the thought of it tripped a switch inside, her lips seeking his in reckless abandon.

He took them, groaning into her mouth, his head twisting, his lips hunting, owning her and the kiss within seconds.

If anyone had told Joss last week that she’d be dry humping a twenty-seven-year-old she’d met only five days prior in the bathroom of the loft above her garage, she’d have committed them for psychiatric evaluation. But here she was and she could not get enough.

Her body throbbed with need. Maybe she needed committing?

But not before she’d kissed him a little longer, explored him a little further. It’d been so long since she’d been with a man, her whole body trembled with the need to touch him.

Touch all of him.

Of their own volition, her hands pushed between their bodies just above where his crotch was grinding maddeningly slow against hers. Her fingers found the knot of the towel, loosened it, pulled it open, revealing the hot hard length of him.

He gasped, breaking off the kiss as she wrapped her fingers around him. “Jeeeeesus,” he muttered, his lips at her neck, his breath ragged.

Joss’s eyes practically rolled back in her head at the catch in his voice and the way he filled her palm.

This.

This is what she wanted. What she needed. What she’d missed.

The feel of an aroused man thick and hard in her hand. Knowing she was responsible. Knowing she could bring him to his knees.

She’d forgotten how heady it was.

She glanced down between them, satisfied to see his plump head flushed with arousal and leaking fluid. It was as long and lean and hard as the rest of him and she squeezed, smearing the bead of liquid with her thumb.

“Joss.”

His voice caught, warm and husky on her neck, full of need. And damned if she didn’t want to hear him say it again. Just like that—low and throaty. She squeezed him again, taking her time to ease her loaded fist from root to tip.

He groaned her name this time. “Jossss.”

Another spurt of pleasure—of power—intoxicated her senses and she stroked him all the way down and all the way up again.

His jerky breath hit her system like a drug and she was in thrall. Of his potency. And hers. She didn’t want to stop. She wanted to keep going, keep touching him like this until he lost control. She wanted to bring him to his knees, this cocky young guy who called her baby and made her want things she hadn’t even realized she’d been missing.

Her heart hammered like a piston as she slid her hand up and down one more time, watching the movement, utterly transfixed by the intimacy of the act, by the petal softness of skin stretched taut over a steely girth. Her breath sawed in and out, hot and heavy in lungs that felt too big for her chest.

“You’re driving me crazy.” His ragged words were barely louder than a whisper but wicked hot against her neck.

And he didn’t sound cocky or so sure of himself now. He sounded completely at her mercy.

Like he might just die if she stopped.

He lifted his head, their gazes locking, the heated jade of his eyes revealing an agony of pleasure. His eyes fluttered closed for a second or two as she set a determined rhythm with her hand.

“I feel I have to warn you,” he murmured, his eyelids opening as if they weighed a ton. “If you keep that up it’s going to get real messy.”

Joss’s pulse leapt. Yes. She picked up the pace, drawing a grunt from the back of his throat. He reached for the hem of her T-shirt, peeling it up. “You have too many clothes on.”

“No.”

Joss shook her head. This whole thing was crazy. No need to make it crazier by involving her any more than she was. She could do this. Have this moment and walk away. But only if it was about him.

“Just this.”

“Just what?” His voice rumbled around her, his mouth brushing her neck and her chin and her mouth.

“This,” she muttered, sliding faster, squeezing harder. “I want to…watch you.”

It had been a long time since she’d held a man’s sexual pleasure in the palm of her hand. God…it had been a very long time since she’d been anything other than a mother or a doctor or a goddamned widow.

Since a man had looked at her with such frank desire.

He groaned in her ear as she worked him faster, his good hand planted firmly in the middle of her back. “Then do it.” His voice was like sandpaper against her skin.

“But don’t stop, baby. Don’t you dare stop until I’m done.”

Joss whimpered at the bald demand, wetness flooding between her legs, a roar of feminine power flooding her veins.

She wouldn’t stop. She wouldn’t stop until he begged her to.

She gripped him harder. Faster.

“Fuuuck, baby,” he whispered, his lips pressed to her throat.

His casual use of the f word was like a dose of accelerant to the inferno in her veins. It shouldn’t be. People in these parts believed you went to hell for cussing.

God alone knew where she’d end up after giving a hand job to a virtual stranger.

“Oh…God…yesss.” The words puffed against her skin, hot and desperate.

His hips rocked. Her pulse hammered. He thrust into her hand. Her lungs burned.

“Christ.” He panted into her neck, his glutes trembling beneath the firm hold of her calves. She stroked and stroked as he thrust and thrust. “Yesss,” he hissed, throwing his head back as his entire body trembled. “Fuck. Yes. Fuck. I’m coming.”

Joss almost came just from the dirty words he was using as a jet of warm ejaculate splattered his belly. “Jesus…baby.” He groaned deep and low. “I’m coming.”

“Yes.” A burst of feminine power, fierce and triumphant, ripped through her chest as a second stream spurted from his cock.

She’d done this to him. She’d made him come. She’d made him cuss and blaspheme and call out to Jesus.

She plowed her free hand into the back of his hair, gripping him tight at the nape, anchoring his forehead in the crook of her neck, as she finished him off. Stroking and stroking until there was nothing left. Until he wrenched her hand away, and begged her to stop.

*

Begging for more of this clean dirty story? You can buy A Doctor for the Cowboy here.

Amy Andrews is an award-winning, USA Today best-selling Aussie author who has written seventy plus contemporary romances in both the traditional and digital markets. Her books bring all the feels from sass and quirk and laughter to emotional grit to panty-melting heat. You can follow her on Twitter and Instagram or give her five stars on Goodreads.

If you enjoyed that, check out the review of Amy Andrew’s Playing by Her Rules on AAR.

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