Caroline Reynolds has a fantastic new apartment in San Francisco, a KitchenAid mixer, and no O (and we’re not talking Oprah here, folks). She has a flourishing design career, an office overlooking the bay, a killer zucchini bread recipe, and no O. She has Clive (the best cat ever), great friends, a great rack, and no O.
Adding insult to O-less, since her move, she has an oversexed neighbor with the loudest late-night wallbanging she’s ever heard. Each moan, spank, and–was that a meow?–punctuates the fact that not only is she losing sleep, she still has, yep, you guessed it, no O.
Enter Simon Parker. (No, really, Simon, please enter.) When the wallbanging threatens to literally bounce her out of bed, Caroline, clad in sexual frustration and a pink baby-doll nightie, confronts her heard-but-never-seen neighbor. Their late-night hallway encounter has, well, mixed results. Ahem. With walls this thin, the tension’s gonna be thick…
In her third novel, Alice Clayton returns to dish her trademark mix of silly and steamy. Banter, barbs, and strutting pussycats, plus the sexiest apple pie ever made, are dunked in a hot tub and set against the gorgeous San Francisco skyline in this hot and hilarious tale of exasperation at first sight.
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Enjoy an Excerpt:
This guy was going to be the death of me. “Get over there, handsy, and behave,” i instructed.
he smirked and turned away, which gave me the opportunity to mutter, “oh my Jesus lord,” to no one in particular before meet- ing him back at the apple bowl.
“okay, you do what i tell you, got it?” i said, sprinkling sugar into the bowl.
“Got it.”
i started tossing the apples with my hands and simon followed my instructions to the letter. when i asked for more sugar, he sugared. when i asked for more cinnamon, he complied. when i asked him to squeeze the lemon, he lemoned so well i had trouble keeping my tongue in my mouth and off his throat.
I tossed and tasted, and when they were finally right, i lifted a wedge to his mouth. “open up,” I said, and he leaned in.
i placed an apple on his tongue, and he snapped his mouth shut before i had a chance to remove my fingers. he let his lips close around two, and i slowly withdrew them, feeling his tongue wrap around them delicately and deliberately.
“delicious,” he said softly.
“Gah,” i answered, eyes crossing a little at the sex on two legs displayed in front of me.
he chewed. “sweet. sweet, Caroline.”
“Gah,” i managed again. Brain knew this was bad; heart was beating out of our chest.
“Good for you?” he asked, that knowing smile treading danger- ously close to smirk territory.
“Good for me,” i answered, on fire after the fingerlatio. Truce schmuce, harem schmarem. who cared if there was no actual o? i needed to be in contact with this man in the very worst way.
My sexual wall had been hit, and as i prepared to rip the clothes from his body, throw him to the ground, and ride him amid a pile of apples and cinnamon with only a rolling pin to guide us, my phone rang.
Thank you, Jesus.
Alice Clayton is a novelist with an unholy love for her KitchenAid mixer. Her latest novel Screwdrivered is a return to her trademark comedic erotica, or funny smut, that Alice has become known for.