Text Me, Cupid

Title: Text Me, Cupid

Author: M. Jane Colette

Genre: Steamy Contemporary Romance/Romantic Suspense

Release Date: December 6, 2018

HOLIDAY STRESS HAS NEVER BEEN THIS HOT

Meet Florence: I’ve done this before, looking for a partner or soul mate or someone-to-grow-to-love, and you know what? I’m done with that. Honestly. I’m just looking for some casual sex. All I’m interested in is a one-night stand, or several—not all of them with you. Just making it clear that I’m interested in playing with multiple partners. I don’t want to get attached and I don’t want you to get attached. 

Meet Will: I’m reeling from a recent divorce and incapable of having a meaningful relationship, possibly even a meaningful conversation. The only upside to my situation is that after fifteen years of monogamy I get to chase all the strange I want.

He’s freshly divorced and in denial. She's twice-burnt and prickly. They’re a terrible idea. They know this. But every time their eyes meet, their clothes come off. Still—they’re not going to fall in love. They are not.

Not even if this one night stand has 365 days.

“I couldn't stop reading this! The waiting, the need, the want, the desire... the story is a rollercoaster and I love it. Will and Florence are so vivid on the page, I was in agony with them from the start.” Alyssa Linn Palmer, author of Midnight at the Orpheus and Le Chat Rouge series 

“No one does angst, family drama, hilarity, joy and eroticism better than M. Jane Colette!” DIANA SOBOLEWSKI, author of The Desire & Luxury Wine Series, (on Messy Christmas, Episode 1 of Text Me, Cupid)

“Text Me, Cupid was the first story I'd read by M. Jane Colette, and I love her fresh, taut style. Every word, every sentence counts. It's smart and sexy. I can't wait to read the rest!” Michelle Orloff, GoodReads + Amazon.com ARC Review of Delayed Valentine, Episode 2 of Text Me, Cupid

One Night Stand Gone Wrong (Episode 1, Scene 3)

She was gorgeous. Much better looking than her photos, which were typical online tease—half-profile, sunglasses, hat. They had made it clear that she had a lot of a red hair—fuck, a lot of red hair—and a very triangular chin. But they didn’t make it clear that she was… outrageously, ridiculously hot.

Will tried not to drool. He allowed himself to feel a twinge of regret that she was already in the cafe, sitting down, so that he wouldn’t get to see her walk, move towards… flow towards him? Dance? She sat as if she knew how to move. How could a woman convey that much promise in the way she crouched on the edge of a chair? 

He smiled again. Tonight was going to be a good night.

“Hi,” he said. “Will.” He extended a hand and she took it while standing up in a graceful, fluid motion. In his head, she was already naked. Was she going to be covered with freckles? Fuck, yes—freckles everywhere. He would find every single one.

Best thing—she looked nothing like his ex-wife. The first four or five women he went out with—the first women he attempted to date since Amanda asked him to move out—were his ex’s clones. The worst thing was, he didn’t realize he had dated Clone Number One until he found himself sitting across a coffee shop table from Clone Number Two. They could have been sisters.

And then, he hooked up with Clone Number Three. And Four. And then Five…

“You have a type.” Niko, his sponsor, laughed when Will told him. “Nothing wrong with that.”

Everything wrong with that when that type’s your ex-wife, right?

Anyway—Florence. Red-haired. Gorgeous. Not Amanda’s clone. Fuck, yes. And she was probably covered with freckles, everywhere. He was going to kiss every single one.

Maybe bite a few too…

She was standing and shaking his hand and he was getting hard.

Fuck. 

“Florence,” she said, letting go of his hand but not of his eyes. He liked them too, and her gaze. Her eyes were a delicious shade of hazel. She smiled. Her bottom front teeth were a little crooked. He felt his cock twitch again.

Anticipation. 

Thank you, God, for this December present.

“You’re sitting in the guy’s spot, you know,” he said, sitting opposite her.

She smiled.

It was delicious.

She was delicious.

“It’s the spot of control,” she said. “Nothing to do with gender. Back to the back to the room, eyes to the front—you see who’s coming and going—it’s the place of control.” She paused, tilted her head a bit. 

“And safety,” she added, just as Will said, “That’s why it should be the guy’s spot.” 

She laughed.

Pink tongue.

Will fought the impulse to put his hand on her hand. Or his cock. He was already putting her tongue places. Imagining his in others…

“Is that where you usually sit?” he said instead. 

Florence nodded.

Smiled.

“Are you going to get a drink?” she asked. “This is a very fancy cafe. As I suppose you know if you live upstairs. They serve beer and wine. Ooh-la-la.”

Will paused for a split second. He didn’t want to think, or talk, about drinks.

He swallowed.

Where were they?

Right. Control.

“See, I’ve only known you for five minutes, and I already know you like to be in control,” he said. “We’re going to change that.”

She laughed. That fucking tongue. Will leaned forward and saw freckles on her throat.

“You’re fun,” she said. “But you know what this means? Even though I desperately need to pee, I now cannot go to the washroom, because you’re going to take my spot when I’m gone.”

“Unfortunately, you’re right,” he said. “Can you hold it until we get to my place?”

But he wouldn’t let her pee right away. He would make her squirm and beg and then maybe explode all over the hallway floor, half a foot away from the bathroom door, because his hand would be...

Yes.

His eyes closed and he was suddenly aware of how he wasn’t looking towards the cafe’s small selection of drinks. He opened his eyes to look at Florence again, and started to smile.

She had been smiling, he was sure, but suddenly, her face looked frozen. As he tried to catch them, her eyes went left. Right. Down to her hands—so pale, fingers so very lightly freckled—and then slowly back up to Will’s face.

She shook her head and her entire body changed shape and expression.

“This is not going to work out,” she said. 

“What?” Will flinched. “What did you say?”

“This is not going to work out,” she said. “Don’t you think?”

Will stared. What the fuck? Had it even been five minutes? He had just come in—chemistry. Teasing. Banter. That pink tongue and those hands and the hair, and his apartment right upstairs, December sex with no obligations, no need to explain the ex-wife and the kids and why did you get divorced and what are you looking for—and now this? What? How?

“I thought it was going rather well,” he said. Felt stupid, awkward. Sitting in the girl’s fucking spot, playing her game. She was, after all, just a tease.

Her freckled fingers moved across the table and grasped his hands.

Fucking thunderbolt. What was she doing?

“Oh, you’re very sweet,” she said. Smiled. Fuck. Beautiful smile—he loved her smile. Those crooked teeth. “And cute,” she added. Leaned closer towards him across the wobbly table. Dove into his eyes and he wanted her to stay there. “Totally as advertised. Fit. Hair. Also, as tall as your profile said, which is a bonus. Do you know that almost all men on dating sites lie about their height? They add two inches. And not just to their cocks. Seriously.”

She laughed, and he laughed with her. 

“To be fair, women lie too. Mostly about their weight, though,” she said.

He laughed again. The clones he went out with were both shorter and… curvier, the kind word was curvier, than advertised.

Not that he minded curvy. Amanda had not been… well, never mind that. He looked at Florence again. She was wearing a very loose sweater. What she had under there had to be left entirely up to his imagination.

He imagined. His cock approved.

“But it’s not going to work out,” Florence said. Smiling still, or again. And looking into his eyes.

What the fuck?

“Say it,” she invited him.

“What?” 

“You just thought something angry. Obscene?” she asked. Eyebrows up. “Did you call me a bitch? Or something worse?”

“I just thought… ‘what the fuck,’” Will said. “I thought… I thought it was going quite well. This.”

“It is,” she smiled. “You’re sweet. But it’s not going to work out. I already know.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“Because,” she smiled—fuck, why did she keep on smiling? He needed her to stop smiling so that he could hate her. He would go home alone, and masturbate to the fantasy of hating this teasing redhead and doing nasty things to her, things that she hated, because… “Because,” she smiled again, “you’re sweet. And I’m not.”

M. Jane Colette writes tragedy for those who like to laugh, comedy for the melancholy, and erotica for people who like their fantasies real. She believes rules and hearts were made to be broken; ditto the constraints of genres. Her novels include Tell Me, Consequences (of defensive adultery), and the award-winning rom-com Cherry Pie Cure.

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