“Strange Bedfellows” is on sale now!

26 08 2011

Awesome cover design by Joy Argento

“Strange Bedfellows” is for sale in e-book at Amazon.com and BN.com. A print version is coming in about a month.

Summary: What happens when the queen of the ex-gay movement decides to come out of the closet? The person who helps Frances Dourne with this enormous task is a call girl Frances hires. A call girl with a secret of her own. Can they learn to trust each other enough to find the love they seek in each other’s arms?

Buy it at Amazon: http://tinyurl.com/3kg7c9x

Buy it at Barnes & Noble: http://tinyurl.com/3hegq8f

Here is an excerpt:

“We need to figure out how we’ll introduce you to my family.”

The prostitute undid Frances’s ponytail and moved her hands into Frances’s hair. “I like your hair down.”

“I like yours down, too.”

“Strawberries and cream?” Her breath tickled Frances’s ear and neck. Goosebumps prickled and swayed on Frances’s arms, legs and stomach. The prostitute again smelled of watermelon, but that did not bother Frances. Not now.

Frances felt soft lips nibbling her neck. Her thoughts spun. Her insides spun. The prostitute continued nibbling. Her hands curled around Frances’s waist, coming to rest on her stomach. Her hips and her breasts pressed into Frances’s back.

“Your name,” Frances managed. “We need a name to tell my family. Make something up.”



“I don’t want to lie to you. Not tonight, anyway. We have time to think of a name.”

“It’s not lying if I tell you to do it.”

“I suppose.”

“Tell me something about you.”

“I want you, Frances Marie Dourne. Let me please you.”

Damn, she was good. You don’t want me. You want my money. The next time Frances was with a woman would be right. True. She wanted deep, heartfelt kisses, excited, eager tongues. Gentle caresses, maybe whispers of: “I love you.” Not a prostitute’s rules, such as no kissing, no touching here or there, no this or that.

“Tell me something about you,” Frances insisted.

“I brought you the necklace.”

Frances’s heart thudded. What?

The prostitute reached for her briefcase and presented the necklace. The necklace did not have sand in it, not technically. The “sand” was pieces of fake green crystals. No matter. The necklace was lovely, and Frances traced its smooth, gold surface. It’s not the same necklace. She bought a look-alike. I hope. “I couldn’t. I really couldn’t.”

“Yes, you can. Turn back around so I can put it on you.”

She’s angling for a big tip. She’s doing her job. Well.

Frances imagined for a moment that the woman before her was her lover, not a prostitute. She pretended that maybe they would make love that night. Her need to open herself up like a flower to another woman, to taste another woman, to kiss her, have their juices mingle, was great. Perhaps too great.

She had never tasted another woman. Pathetic.

The other prostitute–Frances had never asked her name–had been utilitarian. Workmanlike. She went down on Frances mechanically. Frances had not been tempted to touch her. Contempt shone in her eyes. Yet Frances returned week after week, until shame got the better of her. Frances was not sure why she had kept returning. Perhaps to spite the prostitute. Two could play that game. If the prostitute was not going to respect Frances, Frances was not going to respect her, either. Stupid. Petty. Chicken.

This new woman, this new prostitute, was different. She would be good. Frances longed to feel the heat of bare, female skin on her. One hotel room. One night. Maybe even just one hour.

She needed this. Deserved this.

“Let’s get the necklace on you,” the prostitute urged.

“I really couldn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

“Is it yours? Or one you bought today?”

“It’s mine. I want you to have it.”

“Tell me who gave it to you.”

“I hardly wear the necklace. You’d wear it. It’s beautiful and deserves to be worn. That’s all there is to it. Okay?” The prostitute guided Frances to the mirror on the wall. The prostitute’s breath on Frances’s neck was hot. The area between Frances’s legs clamored to be addressed. Three years was a long time. Too long.

The prostitute put the necklace on Frances. The combination was Christmassy, with the green close to Frances’s red bra. Frances met the other woman’s hazel eyes in the mirror. “Thank you.”




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