This is the erotic story of college student Mia and the choice she was to make—does she love small town, hot guy Ryan or Jonathon, the billionaire’s son?

Excerpt

It’s only the first weekend in September, but it’s cold out here on the dock. I undo my jeans and wriggle to push them down, exposing my butt in thong underwear to the frigid night air. I can see my breath, even though last week it was still summer. Goosebumps race over my bared cheeks. They already sprinkle my arms and chest, since I’ve stripped down to my bra and my t-shirt is lying on the planks of the dock, on top of my shoes.

I stop and rub my arms, trying to warm up. Am I covered in bumps because I’m cold or because I’m nervous? When I’m finally naked, I’m supposed to jump into the lake. And that rippling, black water looks freezing. Waves slap against the side of the dock. The smell of smoke from the cabin’s fireplace fills the crisp air. Music sounds faintly from the cabin and laughter spills off the deck. The sounds of an end of summer party and I have to bite my lip because tears are burning in the corners of my eyes. I’m nostalgic at the best of times, and this weekend—my last before I leave for college—is killing me. In so many ways.

I have my back to Ryan, but I peek over my shoulder. In the pitch dark—clouds cover the sliver of moon—I can barely see him. I hear the boards creak under his feet and his fly unzip, and I hear his breathing. Ryan runs ten miles every morning and evening, and he never seems to be out of breath when he’s finished. But tonight, his breathing sounds fast and furious.

Just like mine.

"Whoa Jesus, that’s cold."

I take another peek and hear his footsteps as he walks to the end of the dock, out of my field of vision. I suppose I can’t ogle him until I get everything off and let him get a look at me.

I’ve never seen Ryan naked. That’s funny and strange, coming from me, but I promised I was going to be different—everything was going to be different when mom and I came here to Milltown to live. It was like starting over again. And by some miracle I found something I thought I’d never find, something I was too screwed up to ever have.

An amazing, sweet, decent—not to mention uber gorgeous—guy. When Ryan went west to do his tour of his future military college in the summer, he sent me a rose. A single, perfect red rose in a crystal vase, delivered to my front door by courier. Why? Because he was going to be away from me for two days and he missed me.

Even remembering it, standing freezing on the dock, I start blinking. Damn, the tears are starting. I promised I would get through this one night without crying. I’ve got lots of time to cry on the trip to Yardley College—two days to do nothing but think about Ryan.

Tonight I get to see him. I’m not going to screw that up by being sad a day early. Tonight I know exactly what I’m going to do. This is probably it for Ryan and I—he’s going to be in the state of Washington at a military school, I’m going to be at Yardley College, in New Hampshire. For tonight, I’ve decided to ditch the good girl thing.

I’m going to make love to Ryan for the first and basically only time.

I’ve got one night to throw away all my promises to be sweet and good—the exact opposite of what I really am. I’ve thought about sex with Ryan for months now, and I’ve restrained myself. But I don’t want to go the rest of my life wishing I’d taken the chance to make love to a guy I love.

So I commit. I shove down my jeans and kick them aside. Undies next or bra? I guess the bra, and it’s a fight to unhook it. Bras are my addiction. This one is candy pink with white lace and even though it’s dark, the bra practically glows. My breasts bounce as it comes off and tighten as a wave of goosebumps wash over them. My nipples go hard at once and I cup my boobs with my hands in the desperate hope to warm them.

Why—so the shock of the water hurts more?

I have to let my breasts go anyway to ditch the thong. At least I can see my bra, shining like a beacon in the night—like a lighthouse for crazy females about to skinny dip in frigid water. I know where to toss my undies.

Clouds part above me and shafts of silver-blue moonlight fall on us and the water.

"Mia—" Ryan’s voice, deep and sexy and low, stops abruptly. Nineteen—like me—Ryan possesses the hottest vocals of any guy at Hubert J. Rory High. Baritone tones and a deep, throaty laugh. The first time I heard him read a section of Shakespeare in English class, I swear I almost had a climax on the spot. And that was for MacBeth.

I turn quickly. A spike of fear—this is going to be it. We’re going to be a thousand miles apart. He’s going to break up with—

I forgot I’m naked. My breasts swing, nipples perky, the curves limned with silver. But I’m staring at Ryan. Seriously, I’ve seen David Beckham’s underwear ads, and Becks didn’t begin to look as good as Ryan. Bulging muscle define his straight shoulders, and his chest is broad and bronzed from the sun. A tattoo of a dragon perches on his left pectoral muscle. Just looking at his arm muscles makes me feel a tug deep inside. A hard, visceral tug telling me how much I want to wrap myself around him and take him deep inside me.

It is more intense when you’re in love. Now I know. The jolt of desire is so strong my legs shake with it. My gaze coasts down his amazing gut. His stomach is a flat plane, with an eight-pack instead of a six. Who knew there were
that
many muscles?

I let my eyes go a little lower—

“Mia, you’re beautiful.” Awe fills his voice. Awe that wraps around my heart and makes it feel warm and soft, like it did when I signed for my perfect rose.

He laughs. A rough, totally masculine chuckle that sends shivers through me.

“I—I’m freezing. You, however, are completely gorgeous.” It’s on the tip of my tongue to compliment him more. To say he’s huge. To gasp, or take another furtive look between his legs and marvel as though I’ve never seen a guy’s cock before.

I’ve never seen one like Ryan’s, I have to admit. It’s perfectly straight and points toward his navel. Blond hair skims down his stomach in an arrow then cuddles the hilts his erection with crisp curls.

He laughs, then sobers. “Do you really want to do this?”

I don’t know what he means. Get naked? We’ve just done it. Have sex? Oh God, yes I do. After all the times I’ve shut my eyes and pretended things weren’t happening, this time I want to open my eyes wide and savor every wonderful moment with Ryan.

“Are you sure you want to go swimming?”

Swimming. Oh yeah, almost forgot about that. “You did dare me,” I hedge. “I never turn down a dare.”

One Hot Fall Term is Book 1 in the Yardley College Chronicles series. Book 2 is One Hot Winter Break. Look for book 3, about Winter Term, coming in 2015.

Want it now? Want a longer excerpt? Check it out
here
.

An American Duchess

Sharon Page

A 1920s set romantic women’s fiction novel from Sharon Page and Harlequin HQN. For fans of Downton Abbey. Available in ebook and print.

Set on a crumbling English manor estate during the height of the Roaring Twenties, an American duchess must decide how much she's willing to risk for the life she truly desires…

It’s 1922, and New York heiress Zoe Gifford longs for the freedoms promised by the Jazz Age. Headstrong and brazen, but bound by her father's will to marry before she can access his fortune, Zoe arranges for a brief marriage to Sebastian Hazelton, whose aristocratic British family sorely needs a benefactor.

Once in England, her foolproof plan to wed, inherit and divorce proves more complicated than Zoe had anticipated. Nigel Hazelton, Duke of Langford and Sebastian's older brother, is as austere and imposing as the family's ancestral estate. Still reeling from the Great War, Nigel is now staging a one-man battle against a rapidly changing world—and the outspoken Zoe represents everything he's fighting against.

When circumstances compel Zoe to marry Nigel rather than Sebastian, their heated quarreling begets passion of another sort. But with Nigel unwilling to change with the times, will Zoe be forced to choose between her husband and her dreams?

Excerpt

When American Zoe Gifford meets the British Duke of Langford, Nigel Hazelton.

The duke sat on his horse, glaring at her—at least she believed he did since she could not see for the shadow cast by his hat—so she approached, putting out her hand. At this moment, she had no desire to curtsy. Not to a man who was peering down his nose at her.

The duke did not take her hand.

“Can you do anything about my car?” she asked, letting her hand drop to her side. “My mother is waiting there for me to return. She’s afraid she’ll be stuck in the car overnight.”

“You should take better care on these roads.”

“Aye,” the farmer added, with startling clarity. The man drew on his pipe, before stating, “Aye, said that to the lass meself, Yer Grace.”

That was news to her. But the duke nodded, as did the farmer, and the two men seemed to share some sort of quiet communication about her inadequacy behind the wheel.

She pursed her lips. “America has some bad roads, I’ll admit, but your roads are horrible. There are sheep everywhere. I had to pull off to avoid a flock as I came around a corner, and then we ended up stuck.”

“Then perhaps next time you will know to slow down.”

“I’ll keep that in mind, Your Grace. And while we’re discussing how things are done over here, doesn’t a gentleman tip his hat?”

The farmer let out a muttered sound of shock, but she didn’t care. It didn’t matter to her where the duke believed he was positioned socially—she put no stock in that kind of thing. If he chose to be cold and austere, then she would choose to point out where his behavior was at fault.

“My apologies, madam. I am no longer in the habit of doing so—the War left me with scars and my face is not pleasant to look at.”

The farmer let out a sharp whistle and both she and the duke jerked to stare at him. The man tipped his cap, then lumbered away across his field. Again he whistled and a small black dog raced to his side, scampering around him as he walked.

Suddenly she and the duke were alone, surrounded by a patchwork of small, sloping fields and a wind that threw misty rain on them. “I think I will survive,” she said gently. “I don’t faint.”

With an elegant sweep of his long leg, the duke dismounted. Holding the reins in one large hand, he lifted his hat and gave her a bow that spoke of a lifetime of dipping his torso in this old-world greeting. She had to admit: experience and schooling could make a man’s bow positively dreamy.

It was her invitation to respond with a curtsy, but Zoe found she just couldn’t do it, despite the training she’d received before leaving New York. The duke’s bow was not really intended to show any respect. It was a perfunctory thing, offered only after she’d insisted on some basic courtesy.

She watched as he straightened, curious now. She’d seen the ravages of war on young American men. Boys who’d come back with missing limbs, or some who were what they called shell-shocked; who shook all the time and jumped at loud noises.

The duke was not all that bad. Scars marred the left side of his face. But it wasn’t enough to horrify her.

He had Sebastian’s features, but on Langford, every plane and line was harsher, more angular, as if his face had been sculpted with hard slashes—abrupt cheekbones, a blade of a nose, straight, dark brows, and a strong chin with a deep cleft in its center. His eyes were a brilliant blue and his lashes were thick and black.

He obviously expected her to look away or gasp with shock.

Sympathy rose. Perhaps it wasn’t disgust with his brother’s inappropriate American fiancée that had led the duke to keep his distance. He put his hat on quickly, and for one second, he’d looked awkward and unhappy instead of condescending and annoyed, and she knew revealing his injuries had made him vulnerable.

“I lost a brother to the War,” she said simply. “It was a horrible thing.”

He said nothing for a moment. It was amazing he could look at her so directly without feeling any need to respond, as one would in conversation. Though, she had to admit—what could he say? She changed the subject. “What do we do now, Your Grace? Is it far to walk to Brideswell?”

“I will escort you back to your automobile,” he said stiffly. “You may wait there with your mother, and I will send the Daimler for your persons and your belongings.”

His expression was that of a man who had bit into a lemon.

Her heart sank. She was going to be trapped in a house with this man for a month. Perhaps the house was enormous and she wouldn’t encounter him very often. Hopefully, he had a dining table the size of one of the Olympic’s decks and he sat at the opposite end of it.

They walked in silence along the uneven, muddy road, stepping around piles of manure left by the sheep. Then Langford stopped, and she halted, too. The duke cleared his throat and glared down at her. He intended to say something but, just as with the farmer, it seemed to take forever for an Englishman to speak.

“Is there something you wished to discuss, Your Grace?”

“Sebastian tells me you are marrying so you can have access to your trust fund.” His words came in a rush, as if they’d burst out on a geyser of emotion he could no longer contain. “That you plan to divorce immediately after you have achieved that goal.”

“That’s right.”

“Good God, Miss Gifford, have you no breeding? Only the most appalling women get divorced. As for planning to end a marriage before you have even wed…this I will not allow.”

Zoe squared her shoulders, ready to do battle just as her father would have done when dealing with a cutthroat business opponent. What had Sebastian been thinking? They’d agreed not to explain their plan to either family, knowing it would just cause trouble.

“I have better breeding than you are displaying, Your Grace,” she answered, coolly. “Sebastian is a chivalrous gentleman. He’s saving me from a disaster, and he’s happy with the terms of our agreement. I have the contract drawn up, ready for his signature, and I don’t believe your consent is required at all. I assure you I’ll become Sebastian’s wife, just as we’ve planned. The settlement I am giving him is money he said your family desperately needs. We’re making a modern version of a transatlantic marriage—I need a marriage, he needs money, and we don’t need to make matrimony last.”

An American Duchess is available now! Check out a longer excerpt or buy it
here
.

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