Touch of Heat: A Three-Part Erotic Suspense Serial by J.D. Foxx
Some guys sell stocks and bonds. Or cars and real estate.
I sell three things: My time. My body. And my cock.
I work for an exclusive escort agency in Los Angeles. The clients are wealthy women—single, married, divorced, lonely, lucky, sad and sultry. They’re all ages, from every part of the city, with every type of desire. Most importantly, they’re also ready, willing and able to pay $5,000 for safe, satisfying sex with no strings attached.
To the clients, it’s a fantasy come true. To me, it’s just a job. And I’ve got a plan. I’ve given myself five years to work hard, fuck hard and invest well. And then, when my mother and sister are set for life, I’m walking away from the grind to open a boxing club at the beach. I’ll be thirty at that point. And with just five years to go, my plan is working perfectly.
Until I meet Isabella. And then, with one smile, one choice and one twist of fate—everything changes.
Touch of Heat is a three-part erotic suspense serial.
Description
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About the author:
J.D. Foxx loves to read and write books filled with romance, passion, heat and intrigue. A lifelong reader, J.D. began to pursue her dream of being an indie author after her beloved Mike passed away in January 2013. She salutes all of the awesome and passionate readers as well as her fellow indie authors. Be good to yourself today!
What inspired you to write your book?
When my beloved Mike passed away in January 2013. Through the months of depression and numbness and sorrow, writing provided a lifeline for me. And now, after countless hours of toil and trepidation, I have finished TOUCH OF HEAT.
Here is a short sample from the book:
Chapter 1
Gage
“Tell me again,” the client says. “Tell me what I’m paying you for.”
We’re in the bedroom of a penthouse suite at the Chateau Marmont. It’s midnight on a Tuesday, ten minutes after I walked through the door, and the nonstop chatter is already getting on my nerves.
“C’mon,” she says. “Take off that shirt. Let me see the merchandise. I want a good look before you make love to me.” She smiles, raises one eye. “Or should I say before we fuck?”
“I’m okay with either,” I tell her. “This is your fantasy, not mine.”
The smile fades and she moves from the middle of the room to the bed. “And while you’re getting undressed,” she whispers, “I want you to tell me again how you’re going to kiss me and lick me and teach me some naughty new things.”
When Bebe called at ten with the assignment, she told me the client was the wife of a producer. She promised it would be easy money, triple the usual fee because it was my night off and the woman had refused to even consider one of the other guys. She’d heard raves about me from the redhead I was with on Sunday in Malibu, and demanded that I get to the hotel as fast as possible. “It’ll be a piece of cake,” Bebe had said. “A quick massage, minimal foreplay, a nice hard fuck.” And she was almost right; it would’ve been a breeze—except for the nonstop chatter. I don’t like talkers. I prefer clients who moan or whimper, maybe give a few brief words of direction. I’m rarely interested in actual conversation.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Walter Shaw is—and she’s paying.
“Mr. Heat?” she says. “I really want to hear you say it, okay? Can you do that for me, Mr. Heat?”
I hate the name that Bebe gave me when I started with Meretrix a few months ago. Hate the name, but love the cash, so they can call me whatever they want as long as I get paid. I tried talking her out of it during my interview, but Bebe insisted. “You can’t use your real last name,” she’d told me. “All of my guys and girls get new ones that fit their personality and appearance.” I was standing in her office wearing nothing but a smile and a pair of grey boxer briefs. “With your build and that amazing face, I’ve got something really perfect for you.” She’d given me a sly smile followed by a wink and a slap on the ass. “I’ll call you Gage Heat, the newest and hottest elite escort in Los Angeles. You’re on the way to being very fucking rich, young man!”
I’m thinking about Bebe’s throaty laugh and crooked smile, when the woman on the bed starts strumming her clit and calling my name.
“Gage?” she says, a bit louder. “Are you even listening to me?”
“Yes, Mrs. Shaw.” I slip off my boots. “I’ve heard every word.”
“Not every word,” she hisses coldly. “Because I already told you twice—call me Liza. I don’t want to hear my husband’s name on your lips. Because I want your lips on my pussy.” She smiles and moves both hands to her breasts. “But not until you tell me one more time what I’m paying you for.”
I focus on her face. She looks thirty, but I know she’s older. Her nose and cheeks and chin are as plastic as a Dairy Queen spoon. There’s something sad in her eyes, even as she gives me a grin and giggles like she’s got a secret.
“Is that what you want, Liza?” I unbutton my shirt and let it fall to the floor. “You want me to talk dirty and describe things instead of actually doing them to you?”
The grin widens into a smile, two perfect rows of milky white veneers glinting between plump cherry red lips. “Yes, tell me again,” she says. “I’ve got you for three hours and it’s my understanding that the client calls the shots.”
I unbutton my jeans, thinking about the fifteen grand I’m earning.
“Well, it’s my understanding that you’re paying me to fuck you,” I say, slowly lowering the zipper. “To drill you harder than you’ve ever been fucked before.”
Her lips form another drunken smile.
“And you want me to spank you,” I continue. “You want me to make your ass as bright red as your lipstick.”
She closes her eyes and leans back into the stack of feather pillows. Tan, slender fingers pinch her swollen nipples, tugging and twisting gently. Her mouth opens, beckoning and quivering, while her tongue glides along the lower lip. A muted, rasping groan comes from somewhere deep inside as she arches her back and grinds her ass into the mattress.
“And then you want me to go down on you,” I say, moving slowly across the room. “I’m gonna spread your legs and lick up the inside of your thighs. My tongue will be hot and wide and wet, inching its way along your legs as I reach up and tweak your tits. And after I tease your clit with the tip of my tongue, I’m gonna dig so deep inside your pussy that I’ll touch your fucking spine.”
“Hmmmmm,” she murmurs. “That’s it, Gage. Keep talking. Tell me more.”
Her eyes flutter open and she moans softly.
“I’m going to fuck you on the bed and the floor and the sofa,” I continue. “And then I’m taking you out to the terrace so the entire fucking city can see you writhe in ecstasy as you come and come and come again.” I narrow my eyes, squinting as she listens intently. “It’s gonna be one fucking wave after the next, leaving you drenched and breathless. Your heart will be pounding, your fingernails will be digging into my back, and it’ll be days before you want anyone to even think about touching you again.”
She turns away as the glistening red lips sink into a brittle frown. “When we were first married, my husband used to do all of that.” She reaches for the bottle of chardonnay on the bedside table. “We’d come here for hot fuck sessions and he’d stay hard for hours.” A shadow crosses her face and she looks toward the dark night. “But now he’s got a mistress,” she says. “And I have to hire trained monkeys like you to take care of my needs.”
She swigs from the bottle, swallows the wine and tells me to keep my eyes on her mouth. Then she circles the bottle with the tip of her tongue.
“Imagine that’s your cock,” she says. “And you’re hard as fucking granite, holding it carefully between your fingers while I lean down and swallow the head.”
I push the jeans off my hips and they slide down my legs.
“Very nice,” she says. “I love a man who goes commando.”
I touch my cock, pulling on it as she stares from the bed.
“Delia was right,” she says. “You are fucking perfect.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” I say. “That’s very kind of you.”
She laughs. “Don’t call me that either,” she says. “Call me Liza. And take off your watch. I want you completely naked when we get started.”
I do as ordered, propping the watch against the lamp on the table so I can keep track of the time. She paid for three hours. And I’m not in a generous mood. I’ll give her what she wants—in whatever order and wherever she likes. But when the time is up, I’ll be gone.
“Now come over here and kiss me,” she says. “And tell me again what I’m paying for.”
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