A Taste Of Sweat (Book 3 of "PotErotica")

By Kethandra Wilde

Welcome to PotErotica, where marijuana and sexuality combine in intelligent erotica intended to entertain as well as arouse.

Summer heat, a power outage, and a misunderstanding bring together a fit young couple who have long yearned for each other. Clever teasing and word play, a plaid skirt, melted ice on sweaty flesh, and a very personal tattoo all weave their sexy spell.

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

Turning the corner a block from his new apartment, the images of Trixie and her slick-with-sweat, trim and tempting post-workout body, her bright smile and addictive laugh were all temporarily chased from his mind, by curiosity and a sudden rush of boy-sees-girl reflexive hormones. His attention locked in on a very different distraction, though still obviously trim, fit and feminine. One with shiny jet-black hair, bangs cut in a severe line.

She half sat, half leaned against one of the two short squat brick pillars marking his home, her bare legs stretching out from beneath pleats of red plaid. With her weight leaned back on her arms, a wide swath of tan midriff showed, flat except for the shallow shadows hinting at rippled muscles below.

Multicolored ink formed a swirl of Koi-ed colors trailing down one arm, a sharp contrast to the skirt and the crisp white button down shirt, tied high at her solar plexus. A matching plaid tie, much too small to be businesswear, and bright white sneakers over lace-topped short socks completed the look.

In the time it took him to cover the block, he saw two different men, plus a small boy holding his mother's hand, turn to gape at her as they passed. One of the men, the younger, paused and said something to her. Her reply was curt, without the slightest movement, and he stomped off, shaking his head.

Drawing close, she looked away from his direction, showing him her body’s profile. He could see the slightest curve of a small breast under the white cotton. His eyes dropped, pulled to the silent invitation of the shadows that gathered at the contour of each lean hip where the low-slinging skirt began and smooth belly disappeared. He thought of beads of sweat tracing down from a redhead’s tanned navel, years ago.

Just before he stepped past her to turn up his stairs, glossy black bangs swung out as her face turned to him, blue eyes bright and amused. Eyes that caught his rising too late from their gawking. Wide lips opened into a bright, broad metal-less smile. "Well, hi there. Right on time."

He stumbled, both his feet and tongue. "T...Trix?!"

"No. I am not trying to turn tricks." She sent the wig's fine hairs splaying out in a neat wedge when she shook her head. Her upper lip pulled higher, toward one nostril. "Yuck. How do girls put up with the jerks out here? I will never wear this skirt again. In public."

Turning tricks? His thoughts tried to adjust to her surprise presence, and her comment. 'In public?' Like she might wear the skirt again in private?

"Are you going to invite me in?" Bright upturned eyes flitted between his own, searching for an answer there, showing doubt, needing reassurance. "I'm tired of the leers. And it’s way too hot."

"Of course. Sorry. I was distracted. Come on up.”

She looked over at him as he held the door for her, near anger. "What gives them the right to assume I'm a prostitute?"

She continued before he could muster an answer. "They prolly wonder what I'm costing you right now. And giving you. But look at this skirt. I might not be a call girl at all."

She stood, hands flaring out plaid pleats. It showed him more bare leg, calling his eyes back to where the low-slung waist only accentuated her lean, lovely stomach. "Right?"

His thoughts had time to catch up, somewhat. He had no idea what exactly he was agreeing to. "Absolutely."

"Yeah. I could be a... a student, visiting her teacher to maybe earn some extra credit, raise my grade."

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boruma Publishing, LLC
• Release date: Dec 17, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463776193

Book preview

A Taste Of Sweat

Copyright 2019 Kethandra Wilde

Artwork by Moira Nelligar

All characters are over the age of 18

When people think of California they don’t think of rednecks, farmers, and ranchers: the people who pack thousands of ‘America’s happiest cows’ in a muddy, tree-less flatland to leave a clinging stench over miles of interstate 5 running up the center of the ‘Golden’ state.

Ron had been a teenager when his parents brought him West. He had heard ‘California’ and thought of beaches, ocean waves crashing on sand and giant rock formations. Forests of huge trees with trunks a car could drive through. Eastward from the coast, but west of the scenic Sierras, the reality is far different. From Bakersfield, through Fresno, all the way up past Modesto, Stockton, Sacramento, Yuba City, Chico and finally to Redding, it’s redneck ag land. It’s fertile and full of nut and fruit orchards, rice paddies, and those stench-filled miles of muddy cows.

Now he was back. Ron felt awake, finally. He had fought drowsiness for the last hour of his drive through the dark empty country roads but, nearing the backwards town he had hoped to never see again, he was alert, nervous, anxious.

The promotion to general manager, the opportunity to run the local distribution center should have been on his mind. It would be twenty-five grand more per year and a lot more responsibility, but his thoughts kept circling something else, someone else: the true reason he had accepted this job and the return to old hated teenage stomping grounds.

Trixie.

In high school, and until his father’s work had once again dragged the family to another destination, he had been in awe of her, and yet oddly companionable. He was supposed to be the smart one, the sophisticated one. But compared to everyone else in the school, she seemed so much quicker, sharper, wittier.

And prettier. Bright, intense blue eyes behind red bangs. Slim, toned and leanly muscular, with chiseled cheek-bones and braces hidden behind tightly closed lips, she was not a high school classic beauty, but she still filled his teenage thoughts with heart-racing, obsessive lusting.

Unlike the mediocre-to-godawful teachers, she made him stumble over his words, doubt himself, want to make himself better. But at the same time he had always wanted to spend more time with her. It was energizing to have her in his class, challenging, and yet so comfortable, so right.

Anything he could say she could immediately bounce back with some clever twist, though she always tended to be on the gentle side, on target but not cruel. It thrilled him when he earned her smile and, occasionally, a glance that held his eyes a moment longer than expected.

Then he had been approached in the hallway by Chrissie. She was blond, built, the popular cheerleader. Her bouncing chest leading the school fight song was the dominant talk of the boy’s gym class locker room. Now she needed help with Chemistry. His help.

She’d invited him to her house to study. Her mother had looked him over with sneer and without a word. He’d felt that he had already failed some parental test, looking too nerdy and thickly built, obviously not the son of one of the prominent land-owners who dominated the town’s society, or at least tall, athletic and likely to be homecoming royalty. The sneer deepened when Chrissie grabbed his hand and dragged him toward her room.

A familiar voice called to Chrissie.

Hey, Bubbles. Got a new tut...or?

The last sarcastic word dropped off in surprise. Ron saw red hair and a flash of metal, braces showing over teeth as a mouth hung open, stunned.

Don’t tease your sister, Rails. Mom finally spoke.

The blond pulled his hand. She huffed. Ignore the geek.

Ron’s mind whirled as he was led into a horror of over-cutesy teen bedroom decor. The bright, wide-open eyes. The exposed braces. The mother calling her ‘Rails,’ apparently ridiculing his own child’s orthodontia.

Chrissie leaned against her door as soon as it was closed, grinning at him. Did you see that look Mom gave you? Gotta love pissing the bitch off.

She laughed. Her voice pitched higher, imitating her mother. Why don’t you date that nice Lundberg boy, his father owns so much prime land south of town? Or Billy Rutledge. His family controls all the almond hulling business around here.

Your...Trixie is your sister!? Ron had stuttered the question out as Chrissie pushed herself away from the door, toward him.

A flicker of a cloud had crossed her face at the question. The geek? Yeah. My twin, actually. Not identical. obviously. But enough about my family.