Sex Objects Read online

  Sex Objects

  Erotic Romance for Women

  Edited by Delilah Devlin

  Cleis Press

  Copyright © 2016 by Delilah Devlin.

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, radio, television or online reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the Publisher.

  Published in the United States by Cleis Press, an imprint of Start Midnight, LLC, 101 Hudson Street, Thirty-Seventh Floor, Jersey City, New Jersey 07302.

  Printed in the United States.

  Cover design: Scott Idleman/Blink

  Cover photograph: iStock Photo

  First Edition.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-94055-021-3

  Contents

  Foreword Kallypso Masters

  Introduction

  Taste Test — Michael M. Jones

  Rushin’ Red — Megan Mitcham

  As Pretty Does — Tenille Brown

  The Masseur — Flora Dain

  Butled — Delilah Devlin

  Red Line — Kathleen Delaney-Adams

  Erection — Tim Rudolph

  Vivify — Cashmere S. Jackson

  Charlotte’s New Toy — Lavender Daye

  Just One Night — Emma Jay

  Hush — Cathy Gold

  Potential — Heather Day

  Game Night — Anne Lange

  Dark Circus — Roxy Stone

  Concerto for Cellist and Maestro — Michael Bracken

  Slap Happy — Rachel Kramer Bussel

  About the Authors

  About the Editor

  Foreword

  As a writer of edgy contemporary BDSM/Military Romance novels for adults, I was honored when fellow USA Today Bestselling author and Military Romance writer Delilah Devlin asked me to write the foreword for this anthology. While I tend to write epic-length novels where sex isn’t the primary journey for the characters, many of the sex scenes in my books play on popular fantasies with the man on “top,” with heroines such as the secretary or the harem girl.

  However, in my most recent book, Somebody’s Angel (Rescue Me #5), one of the most popular scenes with readers is the role reversal in which submissive Angelina becomes Mistress A to break down her Dom’s resistance to trusting her. Another character in my series, Karla, also turned the tables on my uber-Dom, Adam, by tying him to her bed in Nobody’s Hero. Okay, she was punished for it later, but readers know he secretly loved it, and I’m sure there will be similar scenes to come when she reasserts her authority over him in the upcoming Somebody’s Hero.

  Ask any woman if she understands the meaning of the term sex object and, with only slight variations on the theme, her response likely would be: a woman being used by a man for his sexual gratification.

  But what happens when the tables are turned and the woman steps into the man’s shoes, so to speak, and uses her position of power and authority in the same way men have done since time immemorial? In our society, men are thought of as titans of business and their worlds, while women in similar roles are deemed sluts if they overstep society’s gender-role expectations. Well, not anymore. What the men have done for eons, women can do better and with more class and sass. This Cleis Press anthology will introduce you to a number of strong women who, while not necessarily Dominant will definitely be in the power position in these stories. Brava!

  One of the things I love most about the stories Delilah chose for this collection is that these women are titans of their worlds. However, the men are no less alpha when they drop to their knees for these women they love or admire, which makes them all that much hotter, in my opinion. And these women thrive on the challenge of having power over an equally strong man, so both partners enjoy the struggle in the power exchange.

  Whether they are cast in the submissive or Dominant role, I want to read books about women who hold at least equal power in the relationship. My brand’s motto is “Dominant men and the women who bring them to their knees.” Each of my heroines is strong enough to walk away from the relationship if she isn’t getting what she needs or deserves from her man—but more often it is her steadfast love for him that provides the catalyst for him to change and push himself to be the best he can be—the best man for her. You will find equally strong women in the pages of this collection.

  Kallypso Masters

  Introduction

  The term sex object brings to mind a curvaceous starlet on a casting couch or an iconic, bee-stung-lipped beauty being pursued by a powerful, capable man. Turn that concept upside down by allowing the woman to objectify a handsome, sensual man, using the concepts of role reversal and power play but from a female perspective, and you have the makings of something evocative and fun.

  High powered, high ranking…and in high heels… That’s what I asked for from authors when I sent out my call for submissions. Imagine powerful women unafraid of going after the men they want… The seventeen authors in this collection rose to the occasion!

  In this collection you will find a wide variety of stories following that theme. You’ll enjoy watching a food critic being seduced by an inventive chef; a world-famous surgeon joining the Mile High Club with a sexy, younger pilot; a famous photographer bringing a hard-bodied hockey player to his knees and so many more exciting scenarios. I won’t tell you about them all. The pleasure will be in the surprises you’ll encounter along the way. When a strong woman takes the reins, expect a sexy, bumpy ride.

  Delilah Devlin

  Taste Test

  Michael M. Jones

  The card read, You are cordially invited to a special sneak preview of Exquisite’s menu, in advance of our Grand Opening. Below that was a date, time and address, all rendered with elegant delicacy, black ink on creamy white paper. A final P.S. added, Tell no one. Come alone. This is for your eyes (and palate) alone.

  Hamilton May glanced from the details on the card to the restaurant in front of him, confirming details that needed no confirmation. Exquisite had been on the lips and minds of every restaurant reviewer, food blogger, and culinary critic in town since its initial announcement months ago. With the majority of details kept under careful wraps, only a few things were known for certain. The owner and head chef was Annabel St. Croix, whose profile had skyrocketed in the past few years as she made a name for herself in the constantly evolving discipline of molecular gastronomy, or kitchen science. She’d roamed, Gypsy-like, across the globe, doing short but memorable stints at some of the world’s strangest and finest restaurants, before announcing her intention to open her own place here in Puxhill. She’d studied with the masters, absorbed their teachings and left a cult following in her wake.

  And she’d issued Hamilton a private invitation. He’d discreetly poked around; no one else had received such an honor. No one had even head rumors about such a thing. Exquisite was the best-kept secret in town at the moment. You couldn’t even bribe a busboy or dishwasher for information, and those were usually Hamilton’s best sources.

  Exquisite awaited, silent and inscrutable with its simple black-and-white façade. Hamilton couldn’t quite explain how the glass and chrome exterior managed to look seductive, but even the gentle curves of the front door suggested intimacy. Good lord, he thought, reaching out to test the handle, am I really turned on by a restaurant?

  But it wasn’t just Exquisite’s outside that had him intrigued. It was the mystery of what lay within. For years, he’d followed Annabel St. Croix’s career, marveling at what he’d heard and seen, practically salivating at the descriptions that had come out of Paris, London, Seattle, Toronto. He’d even, once
or twice, made plans to investigate in person and try her food for himself, but something had always come up. It was as if she was always one step ahead of him, vanishing from one place only to end up halfway across the world a month later. So he’d resigned himself to reading about her exploits. Until now.

  The door swung open with a touch, granting him access to the enigmatic Exquisite at long last. It was a small space, designed to hold a hundred or so at most, with a mixture of small tables and booths. They’d gone for something of a minimal, monochromatic tastefulness, all black and white with startling occurrences of red breaking up the monotony. It could have been oppressive; instead it felt comfortable. Even from the entrance, Hamilton could detect a certain plushness to the carpet and seats. The lights were dimmed to an almost intimate level, and classical music softly played in the background, one of those ubiquitous inoffensive pieces that served as white noise.

  He was alone. No maitre d’, no waitresses, not even one of the unbribable busboys. Curiouser and curiouser, he thought. Clearly, the invitation he’d received was serious about this being a private affair. He cleared his throat. “Hello?” he called.

  “You’re on time,” came a voice from the back. It was a sweet, dulcet voice, which Hamilton recognized from Annabel’s rare appearances on television, such as when she’d served as guest judge for some reality cooking competition or another. “I’m so sorry, I’m running a minute behind. Literally, like a minute. I had everything timed perfectly, but…” She emerged from the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel. “You don’t want to hear the exacting minutiae of how everything must be just so, or else it explodes,” she said with a throaty chuckle.

  Hamilton’s pulse jumped as the chuckle hit him straight in the libido, his cock stirring to life. He’d already known that Annabel St. Croix was a beautiful woman, but in person she radiated a confidence and warmth that turned the beauty up to almost unmanageable levels. She was unapologetically curvy, her chef’s uniform unable to hide the lushness of her body, the fullness of her breasts, the sway of her hips. The stark white of the double-breasted jacket stood as a contrast to the rich darkness of her skin, a legacy, as Hamilton knew from interviews, of her Louisiana Creole father and Gullah mother. Kissable lips curled into a warm smile, and mahogany eyes sparkled with a private joke. She’d taken off her toque before coming out, allowing a mass of dark curls to tumble past her shoulders. Several untidy wisps framed her face defiantly.

  She extended a hand, and he took it. “Annabel St. Croix,” she said unnecessarily. “Welcome to Exquisite.”

  “Hamilton May,” he replied, just as unnecessarily. “Thank you for having me. It’s an honor and a privilege…if an unexpected one.” He straightened and sucked in his gut a little as she looked him over. Not knowing what to expect but figuring better safe than sorry, he’d gone for the business casual look: lightweight suit without the tie. It usually served him well. In his midthirties, of average height and build, with light-brown hair, blue eyes and a tanned complexion, he was just average enough to blend into a wide variety of situations with the appropriate clothes. Sometimes, it helped to cultivate anonymity when visiting restaurants, as any experienced reviewer soon learned.

  Annabel just grinned. “I have a madness behind my methods, Mr. May, and if you’ll just place yourself at my mercy, I guarantee you’ll have an experience you’ll never forget.”

  Her accent was decidedly Southern, though the Midwestern born-and-bred Hamilton was at a loss to pin it down. A little bit New Orleans, a little bit Georgia, he figured. It was the sort of accent that could lull a man into a false sense of security. It was like warm honey. “Please, call me Hamilton,” he said. “Hammy, if we’ve had a few drinks too many.”

  “Then I’m Annabel. Never just Anna,” she offered in return. “Come with me.” She led him to one of the booths lining the bar wall, a cozy spot which offered a view of the room while still affording a measure of privacy. Hamilton was pleased to see that booth was comfortable, with plenty of room between seat and table. He hated the ones where you had to suck in your gut before squeezing in. He kept in good shape—a foodie at heart, he had to balance his eating habits with a lot of exercise—but some restaurants were more concerned with stuffing in as many people as possible, to the detriment of the seating arrangements.

  As Annabel slipped in across from him, she pulled a Smartphone from her pocket and checked it. The screen showed a series of timers, all counting down. “I’ve only got a few minutes before I have to rush back to the kitchen. I do apologize, Hamilton. I’ll be coming and going all during meal. For reasons you’ll understand, I didn’t want anyone else here.” As she spoke, she poured them both drinks from a bottle of red wine already waiting on the table.

  “That’s fine,” he said. He sipped the wine and then smiled, recognizing it as a local product, one he’d always rather enjoyed. “You have good taste.”

  “I try to go with locally sourced ingredients and products.” Annabel smiled, her eyes bright, cheeks subtly flushed. “Let me get to the point. You’re here because I’ve been a fan of your work for years, Hamilton. Gour-May, Gour-Maybe Not is one of my favorite food blogs. I knew that if anyone could appreciate everything I have to offer, it would be you.”

  Hamilton blinked, feeling an odd mixture of surprise and satisfaction course through him. “Thanks,” he said. “I’m glad you like my work.”

  Annabel reached out and rested one warm hand on his.

  Hamilton’s breath caught. He thought he saw something flash through her eyes, but then it was gone.

  She stood. “I’ll be right back. If you have any questions, now’s the time to get them in order.” He couldn’t tear his gaze away as she moved across the room, hips swaying. She had a magnificent ass. And that, he told himself, is not relevant to the occasion. This is a professional dinner.

  A professional dinner with unspeakable amounts of intimacy. Oh, he had questions. Getting them in order, that was a different story. And what sort of story was he here to tell? Was this supposed to be an interview? A review? A dinner date for one?

  Before he could make up his mind, Annabel was back, bearing a warm plate. “I thought I’d start you out with these. Sweet corn glass chips with a tomato foam.” She put the simple white dish in front of Hamilton, before taking a step back to watch as he carefully picked up one of the ever-so-light, transparent delicacies.

  In a word? Bliss. The complex flavors wrapped themselves around his taste buds, and refused to let go, delivering a taste sensation even he, the veteran of a thousand meals and hundreds of restaurants, couldn’t quite describe. Hamilton opened his eyes, surprised that he’d shut them, and found Annabel regarding him with an expression somewhere between wary and smug. “I…” he said.

  “Your face says it for you,” she replied. She turned on her heel, and again Hamilton watched her walk away. She moved like a great cat, graceful and confident; he suspected that maybe, just maybe, he was out of his depth. He realized with some amusement that he’d failed to ask any questions, and she’d neglected to volunteer any more information.

  Just as he finished the last of the sweet corn glass chips, she was back, bearing a different offering. As she presented the new dish, explained as “sous vide egg yolk croquette with gruyere foam,” she bent over, coat gaping at the neckline where a button had been undone, offering a tantalizing bit of dusky cleavage. Hamilton wondered just what she was wearing under the heavy white, again mentally kicking himself for letting his thoughts drift in an unprofessional manner. As she straightened, she gave him a smoldering gaze that had him shifting in his seat while his cock again roused itself.

  Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. “Enjoy,” she told him.

  For another half a dozen offerings, each plate but a small sampling of her culinary mastery, the pattern repeated itself. But something was going on, and Hamilton was no longer sure he was misreading things. Every time Annabel came out, her hair was a little less tidy, her breath a litt
le heavier, her stride that much more fluid, her skin flushed with…arousal? It had to be; Hamilton could feel something coming from her, something that couldn’t be explained just by the act of cooking and bringing the food out. Another button had come undone on her coat, and when she again bent over to refill his glass, it granted him a hell of a look at her increasingly tempting cleavage.

  This wasn’t a dinner, he realized. It was a seduction. And he was falling for it, hook, line and sinker. Because in between bites of the best and strangest food he’d had in years, all he could think about was having Annabel St. Croix for dessert. She served up a morel mushroom pasta, seared scallops with lemon air, banana with parsley dust, each dish more wonderful and delicious than the one before. Exotic textures melted on his mouth, teased his senses, warmed his stomach, drowned him in a sense of wonder. And yet…

  “What is going on here, Annabel?” he finally asked, catching her after the latest dish. “Not that this isn’t wonderful…hell, it’s one of the best meals I’ve ever had, but what’s really going on?”

  She gave him a smile designed to melt his bones, and leaned down to plant a soft kiss on his cheek, just barely missing his lips. “I told you, I’m giving you an experience you’ll never forget.”

  “By driving me crazy?”

  Her look was one of wounded innocence as she drew back. “Why, whatever do you mean?” She laughed. “I was going to draw this out a bit longer, but it sounds to me like you’re getting ready for the final course. Lord knows I’m getting there myself.”

  “I…look, Annabel.” Hamilton wasn’t sure what he was going to say. Protest that he wasn’t that sort of reviewer? Deny the undeniable attraction? Lie about his burgeoning desire for her? He did none of those. Instead, he grabbed her hand and pulled her toward him.