Con vibrato

When I shifted my left hand to Vi’s hip, I accidentally discovered that she was lying right on her velvet slacks. So I slipped my hand beneath the velvet and began using the pants to brush her ass cheek, causing the fabric to shh-shh-shh against her pleasure receptors in the voice of a maraca.

In my new story "Vi's Velvet Vibes," a jazz aficionado shares some of her favorite things with an old friend.

I had been eyeing the milky flesh of her inner upper arms, where they flowed out of her sleeveless lemon top. Now I couldn’t wait to get my fingers in there and produce five seconds of silky giggles. I couldn’t wait, and I didn’t wait.

She wanted this badly. Hell, she had dressed for it.

The story is now available in the Love Notes e-book, edited by Rachel Kramer Bussel and available from Ravenous Romance. And I'm in the excellent company of other music lust-ers like Heidi Champa, Emerald, and Craig J. Sorensen!

She began to run frisky hands over my torso and into my boxers, as the bandleader’s mallets scampered up and down the octaves.

“Tingle tingle tingle,” Vi chanted, echoing a ringingly repeated note—while stroking my cock.

I was tingling, all right. And I could see why the round, electrified tones of her favorite instrument glided across her sex like a lover. How was it that I had never registered what an erotic giddiness the sound of the vibraphone represented? Now, it evoked the slipperiness of pussy against thigh . . . the reverberations of orgasms off hotel-room ceilings . . . the glistening frenzy of a feminine silhouette riding a partner’s shoulders above a swimming pool, her crotch smooching his lucky face.