Passion/Retribution/Love began its existence as Undercover Lover
Free spirited actress Liz Aspen can't resist masturbating to the fantasy of her gorgeous, hunky next door neighbor. If he were only there in the bedroom with her, she wouldn't need Mr. Fake-Nine-Inch-Cock. Sam Bolt, loner and secretive undercover cop, gets an eyeful when he accidentally spies on his neighbor from his window to hers. It's a shame what she's doing to herself—when he could do it much better!
Their lives entwine when he saves her life, but she's in further danger when his past meets his present. Sam hates the pain he's caused, but can't stay away from her. He craves the promise of a normal life with a soft, willing woman like Liz who doesn't have to fight torturously dark demons. Addicted to his powerful lovemaking, Liz finds him as compelling as she is confused by the mystery of what he's not telling her.
Will she still love him when he finally tells her the whole truth? Can Sam accept that his past actions don't need to destroy a future with a woman who has proven her strength—emotionally and physically?
Reviews for the original Undercover Lover
Blue Ribbon Rating: 5 from Romance Junkies - "With an excellent cast of supporting characters, a villain that adds just the right element to the story, and a romance that is smoking hot, (Undercover Lover) is an excellent read from start to finish."
4.5 Cherries from Whipped Cream - "Ms. Quinn writes a fascinating novel. Her characters are rich with intrigue and are easy to root for. The situations are ripe with detail. They pull you into the story from page one."
4 Stars from Just Erotic Romance Reviews - "The sexual chemistry between the two is great - between the instant lust they felt and the constant danger they found themselves in, the sex was just HOT!"
Beware! Triple X-rated first chapter --
"Unhhh…Ohhh, God…" The sounds tore from her throat in deep, raspy growls. Liz's hips undulated in time to her heartbeat as shudders rolled through her body.
She'd set the scene in her bedroom: glowing candles, fluffy pillows, the covers pushed to the bottom of the bed. She settled against the pillows to play with her toy and fantasize about her sexy neighbor. It was all his fault. His fault she had to resort to her vibrator.
Sweeping her lashes closed and swirling the tip of his imagined cock through the cream pooling in her cleft, the presence of Mr. Mysterious seemed to invade the room. The sight of his broad shoulders and chest dominated her mind's eye. Arching her neck, she moaned, "God, yes…" He teasingly nudged himself into her sheath, pulsated, pulled out, and then did it again. She gasped, panted, drove herself mad pretending this ecstasy came from him, from the imagined wicked gleam in his eyes knowing he tormented her unmercifully.
Part of her knew the truth—that her dangerous, pretend lover wasn't really here, his cock only plastic and batteries. But it felt so real, the rotating ridges and length stimulating all her innermost nerve endings. Concentrating on the sensations, she tortured her lower lip and thrust her new lover in as deeply as possible. The rotating tip polished over the ultra-sensitive knot of nerves inside and always brought her to orgasm. Always. Ah, yes.
In her illusion—her delusion—long, muscular, hairy legs rasped against her tender inner thighs. She heard his groan as he traced the tips of his fingers along her skin from her knees to her drenched pubic hair.
"Baby," he'd whisper huskily. "I'm gonna fuck you blind. I'm gonna eat my way down your body 'til your luscious clit pops into my mouth like a ripe cherry."
Groaning loudly at the fantasy fucking, at first she tried to catalogue her feelings, to catalogue everything about him. The rakish flash of the gold hoop in his ear turned her on. So did his demonically-trimmed goatee even though she wasn't usually fond of facial hair.
She stopped thinking and succumbed to the forces inside her body, squeezing her thighs together to keep the vibrator in place. Her hands slid over her belly and breasts, squeezing and twisting her nipples, the dual sensations heavenly. Oh, God, her clit throbbed. It needed…something. It wanted lips, the soft suctioning of a man's lips feasting on the tender nub.
On a sob, she speared her fingers through the lubricant, stroked faster and faster on the sides of her clit, smoothly and rhythmically, until the added friction drove her over the edge. She arched her hips, grinding her heels into the sheets, groaning guttural sounds until the waves passed over her. Pressing her hand on her mound contained the electric aftershocks. She didn't want to pull the vibrator out or even hit the off button. All she wanted to do was curl up and cry. How could such a profound climax—a good thing—make her feel so alone?
Because you are alone.
The euphoric orgasm inspired by the dark-haired stranger should have consumed her, but quickly cooling perspiration on her face and between her breasts reminded her that she was absolutely alone.
Self doubt and insecurity did not factor into Elisabeth Aspen's usual repertoire of emotions. A popular and busy actress in local Chicago theater productions, she exuded confidence and enjoyed her sexy, flirtatious persona. She enjoyed her freedom, but sometimes she feared that very same freedom. It also meant loneliness.
Several months ago, she'd been callously dumped by her boyfriend, Fred Travis. At first she'd been shocked when he announced he'd been transferred to his Houston office. He'd accepted that move without even discussing it with her. Then he delivered the final coup de grâce. He didn't want a small time actress going with him.
A small time actress? She considered the stage her life and was thrilled to be working. How could she have missed his contemptuous attitude? Both her sister and her best friend said she was well rid of him, but it hurt to have her career belittled by someone you thought cared. So, now, she would focus on her career, swearing off men and relationships.
She loved acting, and, after a hectic day, she loved coming home to her adorable yellow stucco coach house. Inside, the peaked roof gave her enough height to stand upright in the loft bedroom. The main floor had just enough room for her cozy furniture. A glamorous, spa-like bathroom and large walk-in closet completed the perfect home, a slice of snug normalcy in contrast to her chaotic life as an actress.
A few weeks ago, she'd first noticed the hunky guy living in the Victorian next door. She'd been shocked at the intense jolt of carnal pleasure his dark, dangerous good looks had sent through her belly.
Sex on two legs. Worn jeans lovingly encased muscular thighs. His straight, black mane flopped over his forehead accentuating deeply set eyes and an angular face. A mustache and closely cropped goatee couldn't soften his strong jaw line. And the glint of a gold hoop in his left ear did not, in any way, lead her to suspect he might be gay.
This afternoon she'd spotted him climbing the porch steps, gorgeous in jeans and black leather jacket. His long hair, broad shoulders, and tight butt, combined with a face like the ultra-sexy Jake Gyllenhaal, made him irresistible. It was absurd to compare him with the blond-haired, lithe Fred. Their features were as opposite as a clear, uncomplicated day and the sexy, preternatural night. A night promising breathtaking, sensuous passion and uninhibited, rough sex.
Rough sex? She'd never had rough sex in her life, but the thought of Mr. Hunkalicious holding her down, his fierce expression focused on her reactions as he sensuously tortured her body…
She squeezed her eyes closed, forcing aside the lustful yearning. She'd surreptitiously watched that gorgeous butt take the steps two at a time. Flushing hot with imagining the bulge she'd glimpsed behind his zipper, her heart pulsed in her throat, her breath came fast, and her nerves tautened with a ravenous, sexual desire.
Nothing else would work but to employ the services of Mr. Fake-nine-inch-cock to get thoughts of the flesh and blood guy out of her system.