I Love My Healed Heart: 4 Book Box Set/Omnibus (Erotic Romance)
Read I Love My Healed Heart: 4 Book Box Set/Omnibus (Erotic Romance) Online
Authors: Sabrina Lacey
I Love My…
Healed Heart
Jessica’s Story ~ Books 1-4
By Sabrina Lacey
Cover Image © Ollyy
Licensed through
Shutterstock.com
© Sabrina Lacey
All Rights Reserved.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses,
places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s
imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons,
living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored
in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic,
mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the express written
permission of the publisher.
I Love My…
By Sabrina Lacey
Contents
1 Tonight
2 The Next Day
3 A Half Hour Later
4 Seventeen Min. Later
5 Forty-Five Min. Later
6 The Next Morning
Tonight
I never
thought I’d be the type of girl to answer a sex ad. They were gross, laughed
at, ridiculously disturbing even. But then there are those posts tonight that
cause my mind to question the masses, the ones that beckon me, like: “Use me
like I’m him” and “I’m free of judgment - and in New York for only one night.”
The latter one really catches my attention.
Why am I
looking? Because I am at the height of my sexual prime and even though my heart
hurts from the loser boyfriend that just under two months ago ended our
relationship without my consent, I want it. Sex. I want a man’s body on top of
mine.
I want the pressure of his
chest against me - the weight of him, the smell of him, on top of me. Behind
me. Underneath me. Next. To. Me.
I want
it.
So I answered one.
Will I
tell anyone I answered the ad?
Hell, no.
While I’m
sitting on my couch with my glass of Pinot Grigio, watching an episode of
So You Think You Can Dance
, I hear
it…the unmistakable sound of an email alert on my phone.
It could be more spam from my credit
cards.
It could be a notice that
someone liked my post on Facebook (I really need to turn those alerts off), or
it could be my ticket out of this boredom and anger. I consider waiting for the
commercial break to check it… Yeah, right.
I reach for the phone.
The email
reads, “I loved what you had to say. You’re really funny. And if those pics you
sent are real, I’d love to meet you. Where are you now”
My heart
starts to race. That’s not the credit card company. Thank God I put up real
pics, but now that he’s brought it up, did he put up real ones? I never even
thought of that. I’m too honest. I really should try to lie more often. But
then I’d be more like my ex. And that jerk is such a lying sack of… but who
cares? There’s a man waiting for my email and I know how it feels to wait. Boy,
do I.
I start
to type, but stop to take a sip from my wine. Do I have more wine in the
fridge? This is going to take more than one glass. “I’m home. East Village.
Where are you?” I hit send and already feel the wetness building. My mind
starts to race with the “pleases.” Please be cool. Please be handsome. Please
have posted your real picture.
How many
women answer these ads, I wonder. Who knows? How many of them had been dating
David, my ex? Well, with him, the possibilities are endless. I smile at my
ability to laugh at the situation. I can joke still, I tell myself. Nice. Well
done. You’re still in there… I think. Let’s see if everything still works. With
the phone still in my hand, wine glass half-drained in my other, the vibration
and tone signals a hasty response. Email alert! He didn’t make me wait long. He’s
excited, too? I giggle like a teenager, alone on my couch, and open it.
“I’m in
the East Village, too… just below 7
th
. Lucky me, huh?” He included a
happy face. Nice. I like a guy who can use a properly placed emoticon. It’s an
art.
I think
quickly. I want to make sure to be funny in return. Keep his interest.
Spark the fire. Did I just say, “Spark
the fire?” Oh my…someone help me. Okay, here goes. I type fast, without
censoring myself.
“No…
Lucky me.”
I hit send and wait.
The next
minute goes by with my heart pounding like there’s House music playing in my
chest: bam bam bam bam bam bam. Maybe I’ve had enough wine. Nah. I take a gulp.
This calls for a glass…or five…of courage. If you can’t be honest with
yourself, who can you be honest with?
Vibration
and tone go off again. I can barely stay seated on the couch because I am
FREAKING OUT. I check the email. It’s not from him. It’s one of those stupid
alerts from Facebook. Don’t get me wrong - I love Facebook - but hearing from
it now is like hearing from my Aunt May. Not sexy. Focus on the kids dancing on
the TV, I tell myself. They’re so talented. So gifted. How are they all able to
do the splits? Riiiiing tone! Woop!
I check the email and this time… it’s him.
“I can be
there in ten minutes.”
Holy
what? Where? Here?!! He wants to come here?!! I hadn’t thought this through. Do
I have him come here? To my home? Am I that crazy? No way. No way!
Never gonna happen. I cannot be so
stupid as to invite a man I do not know back to my apartment. I don’t even have
a dog. I do have neighbors, though. I could tell them to watch out for any
weird screaming. This is crazy. Don’t be ridiculous, Jessica, I tell myself.
You’re an intelligent woman who went to college and had a healthy childhood
(for the most part) and has good friends and an okay job and WHO KNOWS
BETTER.
“On one
condition,” I write, and hit send. What the hell am I doing?
I look at
the TV and turn it off because now all that dancing is annoying the f- out of
me all of a sudden. I look at my almost empty glass and chug what’s left.
Looking around my place I realize how messy it is and consider writing back,
with something like: “Never mind. I can’t entertain anyone right now until I’ve
had my maid clean up.” Only I don’t have a maid, so that would be a cop out.
Not like he would know, though. He doesn’t know I don’t have a maid. Yeah,
maybe I could cry “maid!” and get out of this. But the tingling in my panties
is telling me otherwise.
Email
alert! I tuck myself into a ball, open up the email, and read it.
“I will
meet any conditions you have for me,” he wrote. I read it again and again, not
believing what I’m reading. And then another alert sounds and I look to find
he’s already written me, before I’ve had chance to reply. I open it and read:
“And I’ve already started walking.
Which direction am I heading in? Don’t leave me out here all alone. And,
yes, I’m still waiting to hear your condition, which I promise to uphold.”
My heart
nearly bursts out of my chest. I jump off the couch and fly to the bathroom
where I turn on the sink, start running the water, and search for my
toothbrush. I grab for my toothpaste, almost miss and knock it onto the floor
before I catch it and squeeze some onto the bristles, reminding myself once
again that I need to buy more toothpaste. There’s only a little bit in there,
but by great effort on my part, I manage to get enough out to make my mouth
appealing, and hopefully hide the sweet wine taste as well. Men prefer red,
right? I’m losing my mind.
He’s on
his way! I’m not ready. Holy crap. Holy crap. Holy crap. What am I going to do?
Wait, I have to email him back. He doesn’t know where he’s going.
What am I doing? I’m
totally
losing my mind!
I should
call a girlfriend and confess to her my insanity in hopes of rescue. I think of
Amanda and know that, without a doubt, she would talk me out of this. She would
tell me that I am rebounding from the pain of the breakup from David and that I
should invest in a big jug of ice cream…and maybe more wine. But I did that. It
didn’t work. And she’d probably ask me to come out and join her and her casting
director co-workers who are no doubt listening to that new band “The
Coke-Heads” at the ultra-hip bar, one stop off the L Train. Which is right by
my place, but still.
I don’t
want to call her.
Instead I
type my response with one hand as I’m straightening my hair with the other, “My
condition is this: No speaking. I don’t want to talk.” I look at my words and
yelp aloud. Do I dare send this?! It’s exactly what I want. I don’t know this
guy. If I’m going to do this, I don’t want to chit-chat because, let’s be
honest – any talking could change my mind, easily. Hi I’m Tony, he could
say.
No! Not Tony. I can’t sleep
with a “Tony” without dinner first because what is this, “The Godfather?” Are
you a hit man and I’m on the way to a… This is how my mind works. I know this.
So I have to prepare, right? Right. Okay.
I hit
send and I wait.
My hair
looks pretty good. It’s a miracle. I mess with it some more. Now it doesn’t
look as good. Damn. I mess with it again. It looks pretty good. Not
as
good, but pretty good. Okay. Stop
messing with it and put on some lipstick. No, no lipstick. David hated lipstick
because it tasted funny. Screw David. He’s not coming over. Mr. In-Town-For-A-Night
is, and I get to do what
I
want. I
put on my favorite lipstick and nearly smear it all over my face as another new
email alert spazzes me out of my reverie.
“You’ve
got it. I won’t say a word,” it says. I nearly scream from excitement. I cannot
believe it…but I am typing my address to a stranger who may or may not look
like his photo. His beautiful, sandy brown hair, fiery brown eyes, gorgeous
ripped chest and a face that looks like he could be Ryan Gosling’s brother,
photo. Oh… please look like your photo!! I send him the address and my
apartment number. I tell him that the lock is broken on the building so he
should just come on up.
I squeak
like an excited mouse and run to the bedroom where I grab out of habit a dress
that David loved. As soon as I realize this is David’s favorite dress in my
hands I throw it like it’s got a cobra coming out of it, and relegate it to a
pile of his things that are on the floor, waiting for a trip to Goodwill. I am
cleansing the place of him. It has to be done.
Time to
go shopping – so there’s an upside to getting your heart broken? This makes
me smile and I decide, wait…why do I want to wear a dress? I think this
occasion calls for only bra and panties. Dare I? I dare. Searching through my
underwear drawer I find a Brazilian bra and panty combo I bought, but never
wore, for David. It’s light pink and super flattering against my skin tone. I
catch sight of myself in the mirror and am surprised at how good I look. Take
that, David!
I’m a
little mid-west looking, even though I live in the city. Red hair (dyed).
Nice smile. Brown eyes with long lashes
I inherited from my grandma. My hips have some girth in a very feminine, sexy
way. I reach down and touch myself, just a little. I can feel that from the
excitement, I’m getting really wet.
This was
such a good idea, I tell myself.
Screw
what Amanda would say.
The knock
at the door makes me jump and my heart beats like it’s going to explode. It is
pounding so hard in my chest. I tiptoe to the door and unlock it very quietly.
I don’t want to open it myself, because I have a better idea. This guy might be
a nerd pretending to be a stud, and that’s fine because I am going through with
this if it is the last thing I do. But I’m going to do it in a way that
excites
me.
I walk
away from the door to the wall at the opposite end of the room and I lean
against it, wearing just my pink bra and panties. I give my hair a little
tousle and touch myself between my legs because my pussy is screaming for
attention now. I can feel the arousal building a delicious slow burn.
“Come
in,” I call, my voice only loud enough for him to hear, and I may have raised
the timber to sound
extra
appealing.
I watch the door open and see his arm enter the room, his hand on the knob. His
body follows and his head, his face, his sandy brown hair. He looks exactly
like his photo, except that in person - when he smiles - my panties want to
fall right off.
“Hi,” he
says, closing the door.
“Shh,” I say,
gently pressing a finger to my lips.
No
talking, remember
, my smile reminds him. He locks the door, looks me up and
down and I can tell he loves what he sees, (which is exactly what I need after
the rejection of having been cheated on. In my own home). He stands there and
looks at me. My heart is beating so loudly, I’m sure he can hear it. I cannot
believe his height. He’s gotta be 6’2” or more. Then he walks to me, and I lean
my back against the wall, wordlessly waiting for him, my eyelids half-closed,
and his gorgeous caramel brown eyes are locked on my mouth as he clears the
distance between us.
Standing
in front of me, he leans in and puts his hand on the wall by my head. He just
looks at me; his mouth, his face, inches from mine. I breathe in the
intoxicating scent of him. With his free arm, he reaches around my neck, runs
his fingers up into my hair and brings my mouth to his, kisses me hard, the
electricity between us ridiculous as my legs threaten to give out beneath me. I
feel his kiss all the way down to my toes and I can’t remember the last time
that’s happened.
Our
bodies press together and the warmth of him - the strength and size of his body
against me - makes me feel so tiny, so delicate, so hot. This is what I need. I
can feel the throbbing hot bulge in his jeans growing, as he presses himself
against me, so warm, so encouraging, so appreciative. I feel beautiful and
desirable again and fuck that David and his cheating and stupidity. Oh God,
would my mind please shut up???!!
I force
myself to focus on the moment, to listen to my body. Kissing, our mouths mold
onto each other’s, become one, our breaths short and heated with longing. He
pulls me back by my hair and searches my eyes. What is he looking for? What the
fuck is he waiting for?? Oh... he wants to make sure I’m okay. He wants the
connection real. He’s asking me without words, because I forbade them, if he
should keep going. If I want him to.