Perky by Julia Kent
One hundred years ago when I was young and impulsive (okay, it was five, alright? Five years ago…) I let my boyfriend take, let’s just say… compromising pictures of me.
(Shut up. It made sense at the time).
Surprise! The sleazy back-stabbing jerk posted them on a website and, well, you can guess what happened. That’s right.
I’m a meme. A really gross one.
You’re seen the pictures. And if you haven’t – don’t ask. And don’t look!
As face recognition software online improves, I get tagged on social media whenever anyone shares my pictures. You try getting a thousand notifications a day, all of them pictures of your tatas.
So. I’m done.
It’s time for revenge. Let him see how it feels! But how do you get embarrassingly intimate pictures of your jerkface ex who double-crossed you five years ago?
Especially when he’s a member of the U.S.House of Representatives now?
Getting sweet between the sheets with a congressman is pretty much every political roadie’s dream, right? I’m one in a crowd.
Except to this day, he swears he didn’t do it. Pursued me for months after I dumped him five years ago. Begged me to take him back.
And I almost did it. Almost. I was weak and stupid and in love a hundred years ago.
Okay. Fine. Five.
But I still have the upper hand. Second chance romance has all the emotional feels, doesn’t it?
I can’t wait to punch him in the feels.
All I need to do is sleep with him once, take some hot-and-sweaty pics of him in… delicate positions, and bring him down. That’s it. Nothing more.
Pictures first. Revenge after. And then I win.
At least, that’s how it was supposed to happen. But then I did something worse than sexting.
I fell in love with him. Again.
Excerpt Perky by Julia Kent
I am kissing my ex-boyfriend, Parker Campbell–yes, Congressman Parker Campbell–and I have no idea how the hell this is happening.
But I really like that this is happening.
Yet I hate Parker for what he did to me five years ago. He’s my ex.
And his tongue is unbelievable.
One of his hands sinks into my hair, fingers threading through it, tugging just hard enough to make all the blood in my body rush between my legs, a tidal wave of–
No! No! I can’t let this happen!
I break the kiss. Parker’s eyes are still closed. Most guys would look stupidly awkward with that face, but not him, with blond hair cut fashionably close, enough wave to the bangs to make him, um…
His close shave makes his cheek so soft, but his jaw is strong and hard, the scent of aftershave and his natural musk making me weaker than I should be.
He’s kissable and hot and one thousand images of his naked body mashed against my naked body run through my mind until they suddenly stop, like a slot machine going Ping! Ping! Ping!
And the final ping! is a picture of me, naked on a bed, with my boobs on display.
And two dogs humping on the pillow above my head.
I’m not making this up. You’ve seen the damn meme.
What would you do to the guy who posted that picture on the web? The one who ruined your life by turning you into an object of worldwide mockery?
I do what any sane woman would do.
I punch Parker in the gut.
That’s right. And you’d do it, too.
Parker’s grasp as we kiss is masterful, his hips pivoting until we’re in a tiny closet, the door shutting behind us, our bodies surrounded by coats. At any second, someone could walk in, find us, interrupt and embarrass us, but I don’t care as my fingers grasp his thick, hard chest. He doesn’t care as his hand slides between my thighs, my need to be touched so great that I moan into his mouth, biting his lip. He makes a sound that says he needs this, too, his erection pressing into my hip, the centering of his thickness as he nudges my legs wider with his knee making me hold my breath as he rubs up, just once, just right, just there.
“I’ve missed you,” he hisses as his mouth takes my earlobe, sucking gently, then hard, the tip of his tongue flicking and laving, my clit spasming as it imagines him doing this between my legs. My fingertips dig into his shoulders, one hand diving down the length of his abs until I cup his sac, then ride the ridge of my palm up his long, thick, engorged–
“What are we doing, Parker?” I gasp.
“Whatever we want,” he says, so steady, so sure, so unabashedly here.
“SKIP?” someone calls out from behind the door.
“PERKY?” Mallory whisper-yells, her voice breaking through as I clench, my whole body going tight, the core of me shivering with an orgasm that crashes over me as Parker’s leg, his mouth, his very presence, make me lose my everloving mind.
And all my self-control.
Every shred of it.
Being near him is oxygen.
Being beside him is power.
Being with him–oh, how we moved mountains together. We explored universes without ever leaving our bed.
And he explored me, in full, as if I were an uncharted land waiting patiently to be discovered.
Once you’ve been loved so thoroughly and centered so swiftly by another soul, how do you live without that?
The last five years have been a sad experiment for me.
One with no acceptable outcome.
Parker’s hand presses my rib line, one of his thumbs in the divot where my spine rests between two thick lines of muscle. My nose brushes against his lapel. He’s still wearing his suit jacket, the light wool infused with old cologne, woodsmoke, and the scent of a man who once took his time letting me learn how to be me, wholly me, in his orbit.
While he revolved around me in return.
We’re twinned by circumstance, by gravity, by some unnamed force that makes me breathe him in. His charged air is a nutrient I’m so deficient in that now–as I take him in freely, his foot moving surely, his thigh brushing mine, his belly beckoning–I see how much I need him.
How weak I am.
Giving in to what he’s told me would be so easy.
Dropping over the edge of the precipice of his truth would be the surrender I need.