Dabbling in Debauchery

By Saran Torchre

Esther dedicates all her time to her career, but secretly she longs for more. On a night out, she decides to have her first one-night-stand with Duke, a delicious stranger. Their night together sizzles and leaves her wanting more until she wakes to find a note of thanks. . .  and nothing else.

A week or so later, when Esther reluctantly attends a family celebration, she is introduced to a member of the family by her estranged mother.

It's Duke?

Esther wants to run screaming into the night, but she's trapped on a yacht for the night, and he's is up for round two.

*When kinship takes a sexy turn, should Esther change direction or dabble in debauchery for a chance on love?*

• Language: English
• Publisher: Saran Torchre
• Release date: Mar 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781519927194

Saran Torchre

Saran Torchre is the pseudonym of a speculative fiction author who wishes to keep her genres separate. She hopes you will enjoy her erotic romance reads and get in touch. CONNECT: https://sizzlingromanceauthor.wordpress.com​ NEWSLETTER (inc. Loyalty freebies) http://tinyurl.com/q39sy86

Book preview

Chapter 1

Unlucky in love, that 's me. It's not like I can study for it—if only. There will be no acing this class, no graduating with honors. Nope, I must endure the try-and-fail dance of elimination like everyone else. But then, if I do find a man I don't immediately want to . . . eliminate, will I know if it's love? And if any flames of passion are ignited, how can I guarantee they burn as brightly forever?

The only dates I've ever been on, the only men I've ever had a relationship with, have been with my usual safe bets and so, tragically dull. More often than not, I don't even find them attractive. To reassess this pointless process, I've taken a break from dating altogether. My last sweaty session was over a year ago and after the obligatory four dates. Thomas was easy on the eye, if a little short, and clever, if a little geeky.

Sex was, however, a major flop, and he now acknowledges he prefers someone with a little more meat in their pants.

Still, when I walk to the train station to begin the short commute to New Community Bancorp, I feel blessed. Gardens where I live are green and floral and everywhere is clean. Birds sing and people wish me a good morning. Even the faces behind twitching curtains smile back at me when our eyes meet, promising an interest in the security of our neighborhood, nothing so low-class as gossip. Their cars may be gas-guzzling tanks, but they sparkle in the morning sunlight and say to outsiders, 'This area is for people who have succeeded in life.'

For some reason, these things matter to me. Perhaps because career success is the only thing I have full control over?

Singletons like me stick out awkwardly, like a broken rib, however. Or dare I whisper, an unkempt lawn. And although my job and life in general are in many ways perfect and the payoff of my academic achievements, it can be dull living in the suburbs for a twenty-four year old professional. Especially when working long hours five, sometimes six days a week. My nightmares have even begun to feature imminent spinsterhood, alcoholism . . . and cats!

One thing I know, I need to quit playing it so safe romantically, and take a risk on someone I actually fancy, for a change. Till then, blowing off steam now and then is essential and tonight, Kelly and I are off to Manhattan for an evening of culture and cocktails. Well, more cocktails than culture if I'm honest, and perhaps, if we are lucky, something hot.

THE EARLY EVENING SUN warms my cheeks on my way from the station to my house after another busy day at the bank, and I'm smiling. No, I'm grinning, especially when I find Kelly's battered old Mini Cooper parked on the drive, signaling she's home early from work. My best friend in the world, Kelly rents a room to help me with the bills. Well, she rarely pays rent actually, but she helps in other, more important ways. Living alone would be awful and hey, she makes me laugh, which is priceless.

The key doesn't want to fit in the lock for a second, and my tummy is a flurry of excitement. But when I finally open the door, I enter and shout, Kelly, I'm back. My shoes skid across the shiny wooden floors after I kick them off.

My keys clatter as they hit the appointed dish in the hall, and my briefcase and purse land on the sofa with a muffled thud as I pass through our cozy lounge, searching for Kelly. Where are you?

Up here. Her head pops over the bannister at the top of the stairs, her hair a wet blonde mop around her shoulders.

Hey, how's it going? I beam up at her, unbuttoning my blouse, wondering if it's too early to grab a quick glass of vino before I take a shower.

Fine I guess, although if Bryony Fisher gives me one more filthy look, I'll punch her prissy face. Kelly's cheeks are red and her jaw is clenched. Bryony doesn't appreciate the finer points of my bold and outspoken pal. If we weren't going out tonight, she'd be in ER and I'd be in cuffs.

Part of me loves the predictability of things, not least of all Kelly's way with words. Keep telling you to ignore her. I take my blouse off and shove it in the hamper ready for washing. As I pass the icebox, I lick my lips imagining the cool refreshing buzz of Chardonnay. She doesn't get you, which is her loss, and she's your boss’s daughter. You punch her you lose your job.

Ak, I know, I know. Allow me to fantasize. Kelly leans against the wall at the top of the stairs. Any chance I can borrow your black jeans tonight? Mine are in the wash. Projecting her lower lip, she adds, Pretty pwease?

Did I mention predictability? Course—I run upstairs, deciding to ditch the early drink idea for now—but only if you help me figure out what I'm wearing. Can you believe it's been almost six months since we had a night in Manhattan? Outrageous.

Tragic, you mean. Kelly slopes off, and I realize she's wearing my new black lace bra. I shake my head as she swings her hips, pouting at me from over her shoulder. We'll make up for that later.

Sure will. I stretch and open my wardrobe to begin the search for the perfect outfit. It has to say: I'm sexy, smart, available, but picky. Dickheads need not apply. Hello weekend, here we come.

Kelly takes my black jeans from my wardrobe and pulls them on. You should wear your indigo skinnies, show off your figure. Oh, and that cute white blouse your bought last week.

I imagine the outfit on and know she's right. God, you're good at this. You're wasted waiting tables.

Kelly blushes, smirks and turns on her heels. "Hurry up, I'm simply dying for cocktails."

THE CAB FARE COSTS way too much from Westbury to Manhattan, so we use the train part way, which takes just over an hour and introduces us to all sorts of alien life forms. Someone needs to clean those things. From there, we catch a cab to a favorite bar of ours—The Dove Parlour on Thompson Street—and arrive at around 8 p.m., only slightly worse for wear. The place is like a candlelit bordello with red velvet walls, a Victorian mold covering part of the ceiling, and artsy patrons who love Champagne cocktails, conversation, and flirtation. It's oddly romantic but cool, which suits us.

When we sit at the bar, apart from one barman, we find four women our age wearing business suits sitting at the bar and three cozy couples in the booths.

So much for getting lucky.

What are you lovely ladies drinking tonight? asks the gorgeous twenty-something, into-guys-not-girls bartender. He still flirts with us, of course. Kelly shoves a few twenties in his hand. Let's start with two rum teas. She winks. And make 'em strong.

I lick my lips. "Tomorrow’s