Hot To Trot Hotwife

By Alana Church

Amanda is a trophy wife and her husband isn't the man she needs in the bedroom. When she finds out that Clive is planning to sell her prize racehorse, she decides to get revenge! Can the lure of a horny hotwife inspire the men of Weatherstone Stables to victory? Find out in "Hot To Trot Hotwife!"

~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~

She slipped back into the owner’s lounge, above the second tier of stands, trying to be inconspicuous. Her stomach roiled with a combination of fear, excitement, and...

Arousal?

Yes, arousal, she decided. She hadn’t been laid in weeks, hadn’t had a climax which hadn’t been provided by her own fingers or her vibrator in even longer than that. If the price for breaking free of Clive and his cronies was screwing Bowie and Greg, then she could deal with it.

It didn’t hurt, she admitted with a wry smile as she asked the waiter for a rum and coke (heavy on the rum, light on the ice, please) that both men were good looking, albeit in completely different ways. Bowie, with his iron-grey hair, tanned face, and long, lanky body, reminded her of a cowboy out of an old western. All he needed was a hat and a six-shooter strapped to his narrow hips. Greg was all tightly-coiled energy, needing only a nudge to set it loose. The question was whether it would be in a fistfight, and all-night bender, a horserace, or with one of the squealing women who clustered around the track, drawn to danger and fame.

Bowie would be slow in bed, she thought, sipping her drink dreamily. Greg...would not. She closed her eyes, her mind spinning up fantasies. Could she bring them to the house when Clive was away on one of his business trips? He seldom invited her along these days, which suited her. He claimed it was work, but sitting in on a meeting of a board of directors in a conference room, sipping on Perrier, while someone gave a Powerpoint presentation, was not her idea of a tough job.

Cheating on her husband. It gave her a naughty, delicious thrill, deep in her belly, and she found herself growing wet. Under her dress, her thighs rubbed back and forth, setting up a wonderful friction.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boruma Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Oct 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463335765

Alana Church

Born and raised in Illinois, Alana attended the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign, graduating with a degree in Education in 1994. She soon found out that the teaching life was not for her, and after a series of adventures has settled down in the Chicago suburbs, where she works for a telecommunications company.Alana lives alone, surrounded by books, pictures, a pile of story ideas, and a turtle named Pedro.

Book preview

Hot to Trot Hotwife

By Alana Church

Artwork by Moira Nelligar

Copyright 2019 Alana Church

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~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~

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Chapter 1: Early Morning Regrets

Amanda woke up with a raging hangover, a mouth that tasted like the inside of a gym sock, a queasy stomach and a headache that threatened to split her head wide open.

Also, she had no idea where the fuck she was.

She closed her eyes against the bright morning sunshine pouring through the open curtains, and rolled over, pulling the blankets over her head. That helped with the headache, but her stomach threatened to rebel. She swallowed and breathed carefully through her nose, fighting down the sudden surge of nausea.

Fuck. What did I do last night? How did I get here?

She frowned. And where the hell is ‘here?’

The club. Oh, God, the club. Slowly, dim fragments of memory returned. Bored and restless, she had gone out the night before, anxious for something to fill her empty life. Loud music. Sweaty bodies. Drinks. Way too many drinks.

Slowly, she pushed the blankets away, blinking against the pain in her head as she sat up. A pair of spikes seemed to drill through her eyeballs and straight through to the back of her skull.

Closing her eyes, she groaned. This wasn’t the bedroom she shared with Clive. The walls were the wrong color, the room too small, the bed in the wrong place, the tasteful walnut furniture missing.

She swallowed sickly. Christ. I didn’t let some guy pick me up, did I?

Getting out of bed was a challenge, but she somehow managed it. Trying to keep her steps quiet, she walked to the doorway, not missing the fact that she was naked. Her clothes were scattered from the door to the bed, as if she had been too tired or wasted the night before to fold or hang them up properly.

Or as if she had been in a hurry to take them off for another man. A man who was not her husband.

On the other hand, her body didn’t have any of the lingering pleasure it usually had after sex. Even in her hungover state, she thought she would be able to tell if she had gone to bed with some rando the night before. Instead, underneath the headache and the roiling stomach brought on by loud music and too much alcohol, was the same tense, keyed-up stress she had been dealing with for months; the stress of a woman who had not been getting nearly enough sex.

Amanda cracked open the door and peeked out, then let go a huge sigh of relief as her mind snapped into focus. In front of her was one of the upstairs hallways in the house she shared with her husband. And now that she had a point of reference, she recognized the room she had slept in as one of their guest bedrooms. Either she had been too drunk to find her way to her own bedroom, or her booze-addled mind had decided she shouldn’t wake Clive up when she came staggering upstairs.

Not my fault I didn’t recognize it. This place is so huge I could get lost.

Holding her discarded blouse in front of her chest, she padded down the hall to their bedroom. Thankfully, Clive was nowhere to be seen. Tossing the blouse in the hamper, she turned towards the bathroom.

But she didn’t meet her reflection’s eyes in the mirror. These days, she didn’t much like the woman she saw looking back at her.

An hour later, hot water, soap, and aspirin had taken the vicious edge off of Amanda’s hangover. Wrapped in a light robe, she sat in the breakfast nook just off the main kitchen, as Isabel brought her hot coffee, cold juice, and a tastefully assorted array of fresh fruit and pastries. She sat and nibbled, her headache receding, her mind a thousand miles away from the gorgeous mansion and the manicured lawns clinging to a cliff above the Pacific coast. Breakers