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About the author:
Hi, my name is Cammie Cummins, my friends call me C.C. Late at night when everyone’s gone off to bed and the house gets quiet, I brew a cup of hot tea and indulge in my favorite past time; writing erotica. As I sit and tap out my stories, my greatest hope is that what I write turns you on as much as it does me.
Here is a short sample from the book:
I never meant for it to happen.
It was a mistake. I know it. I knew it, yet I couldn’t stop myself.
But I don’t regret it either. Like an itch that’s driving you crazy because you can’t reach it and then, when you finally get it scratched, that feeling. You know it. It’s like heaven.
As was this.
It started that morning when I was straightening up Lacey’s room before going off to work.
Lacey’s my nineteen-year-old stepdaughter. She’d just finished her first year at college and was home for the summer. It was great having her back, because, well, living alone for me is hard. Lacey’s father, my husband of fifteen years, killed in a car accident two years earlier.
He died, but in a lot of ways my life ended that day, too.
Ironically, Lacey took losing her father a lot better than I had…have.
When she told me she wanted to go away to college, to live on campus and have the whole college experience, it devastated me. My heart felt broken all over again, but I didn’t try and stop her. I’d never stand in her way. If I did, what kind of mother would I be?
Her real mom wasn’t anywhere in the picture. She walked out on Brian and Lacey before the girl’s second birthday. A boozer and drug addict, the last we’d heard she’d hooked up with a drummer in a rock band, was touring the dive bar circuit out west as a singer while the two of them tried to get discovered.
I met and married Brian when Lacey was four and she accepted me as her mom ever since.
What I can say now is one thing she’s learned at college was how to live like a slop. Good lord, her room looked like a ransacked crime scene. Clothes were tossed everywhere. Her bed was unmade, the covers and sheets more off the mattress than on. Plates full of crumbs, half-full glasses of soda, and empty chip bags covered every available horizontal surface in the room.
I held a laundry basket under my arm and started picking up clothes. “She’s only been home a few days. These can all be dirty,” I complained dropping shirts, shorts, bras and other unmentionables into the basket. I picked up an impossibly small black lace thong. I put it to my nose and sniffed. “Yup. Wore these.”
I took another deep whiff before I dropped them into the basket.
When I yanked a sock draped over the top of her open laptop on the bed, the screen popped on. The machine been left in sleep mode, not properly shut down. Not a surprise. I knew she liked to watch it in bed, using it as background noise to fall asleep to.
A video on the screen started playing.
At first, I thought it was porn—and it was, yet also so much more.
She’s nineteen, I reasoned. Girls can like porn. I do. Some of it anyway.
As the video played, I sat down on the bed and watched—I know, I shouldn’t have—a woman on the screen. A closeup on her face. In profile. It wasn’t some porn star. It was Lacey!
“Oh my God!” My mouth dropped open. I covered it with my hand. “She made a sex tape.”
I thought, okay. It’s a sex tape. It’s stupid, but she’s a college kid. They do stupid things. Right?
And speaking of stupid things. What did I do? I watched it.
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