“Lately, I can only think of both of you together, spreading me and sharing me and corrupting me and teaching me and showing me everything I’ve been missing.”
Good girl Annette knows better than the lust after the unattainable.
Bryan, however, has long since comes to terms with his inability to get her off his mind.
And Grant? While he strives to help his friend get his match, he also can’t deny that he often thinks about Annette too, and long into the night.
Opportunity strikes in the throes of a steamy beach vacation. Suddenly, Annette can’t stop thinking about her two ripped, gorgeous friends. When pleasuring herself gives way to Bryan and Grant pleasuring her, the question remains: will Annette have the nerve to fulfill her wildest fantasy? And what will become of their friendship once the dust settles, their skin cools, and reality sets in?
It’s time for nice girl to finish first.
Book three in the Beachside Ménage series, although each novella stands alone. Summer might be over, but your erotic fantasies don’t have to be.
Author’s Note: Featuring three points of view and chock-full of dirty dialogue, titillating foreplay, and steamy sex, Corrupted is a MFM romantic erotic novella that focuses entirely on the woman with no MM scenes.
What Inspired You to Write Your Book?
It's winter where I live, so two things inspired me to write this book: a desire to escape to the beach and the need for steam! I wanted to write something to bring a little heat to a cold season, and I think I succeeded!
How Did You Come up With Your Characters?
Just like in romance, I write erotica with the question in mind: what do these characters add to one another? Why do they need one another, and how does the happily ever after transform them from "hole-hearted" to "whole-hearted"? The characters in "Corrupted" are meant to complement each other in just that way.
“So, we’re the only ones left, huh?”
With that one simple question, Grant derails my entire train of thought.
It doesn’t take a genius to figure out what he means—and I’m certainly not a genius, no matter what my friends might claim. If any doubt remains, it vanishes when he slides into the beach lounge to my left. His green eyes, as vivid as the palm trees that sway behind him, remain locked across the pool towards where our friend group gathers in clusters of three.
James, Millie, and Luke.
Aaron, Cassie, and Kyle.
It feels rather like high school all over again, back when I’d watched my friends couple up while I’d remained single, although these couples form in trios instead of duos. I still don’t quite know what to make of it.
“It looks that way.” Slipping a bookmark between thick pages, I close my book and turn to look at him with my elbows propped upon the lounge beneath me. “Where’d Bryan get off to?”
Get off. It hits belatedly, and heat rushes for far more reasons than the sun, surely staining my cheeks.
I need to get off, because this vacation—and the pure, blatant bliss evident in every movement, every breath, every shared smile and sigh and glance of our friends in their respective trios—has done my head in. I also need to get off this vacation, period, just away from the lot of them, including—
Including Grant, who looks a little too appealing sweating under the hot June sun, his muscles glistening as he tucks a wide hand behind his head. His bicep bulges, veins straining against bronze skin, and his jaw relaxes into a smile. He looks like he knows, knows every last thought in my head, although he can’t. He can’t.
“Some online meeting,” he says, because of course he knows his best friend’s every last move, just as I know anything and everything there is to know about Millie and Cassie.
I know too much, really. Again, hearing about their exploits has added up to one seriously frustrating vacation.
“I wasn’t really paying attention when he explained it,” Grant continues, and he rolls onto his side, his free arm stretching to cross onto my lounge. His skin smells sweet and citrusy from the sunscreen he’d applied within the hour—not that I’d noticed him spreading it up his forearms, and then onto his biceps, and then over his shoulders, and then down the firm ridges and contours of his chest and stomach. I’d had my nose too far in my book to watch it all play out, although…
I can’t really recall what I’d read.
Grant lifts the book from between my hands, his gaze trailing across the front cover. “The Elements of Statistical Learning, Fifth Edition,” he reads aloud, and he snorts faintly under his breath. “Sounds riveting, Annie.”
It’s not. It’s necessary reading for my doctoral degree in statistics, a journey that doesn’t pause even for a beach vacation with my best friends from undergrad, but it doesn’t hold my attention. Not today, anyway. Not with Grant smiling at me from mere inches away, his tawny hair disheveled enough to fall artfully across his brow, the slick heat of his arm sliding faintly against mine as he sets the book back down.
“You’re welcome to borrow it.” My own smile responds when he laughs, although it freezes slightly when his fingers slide upwards, his hand stretching wide enough to circle the entirety of my arm. When he reaches my shoulder, his thumb presses gently. “Uh—”
“You’re looking a little pink,” he says. His tongue darts out, sliding across his lips in a quick swipe, and then he meets my eyes.
For a moment, a fragile thread stretches between us, thrumming with promise and held long enough to encapsulate several heartbeats. My heart thrums, too, pulse picking up as his fingers curl in a gentle caress given across the back of one shoulder. His fingers flex and he strokes again, the pressure light enough to tickle, although it doesn’t inspire laughter. Quite the opposite, really.
“I can get your back for you,” he offers. “So you don’t burn.”
Breath comes in through a throat suddenly swollen. “Alright.”
In hindsight, after a few days have passed, I will realize that I had no idea what I’d just agreed to. Yet, in hindsight, I won’t regret it.
In present, Grant goes to fetch sunscreen from a table near the sliding glass door of the house. When he returns, he doesn’t hesitate. He joins me atop my lounge, settling across my lower back so that sunkissed thighs bracket either side of my hips, his skin scorching mine. It feels that way, at least, although he merely chuckles at the sharp inhalation that burns my lungs, and it sounds like he doesn’t feel what I feel: sparks, hundreds of them, flooding out from every point of contact towards my fingers and toes and scalp.
“Look,” he says, brushing aside the braid that drapes down my spine, “If I’m going to do this, I’m going to do it right. I pride myself on—what?”
He hears or feels the bit of laughter that slips free as I lower my chest to press against my towel. “Nothing.”
“If you say so.” A finger runs horizontal across my back, tracing just underneath the flimsy strings that tie my bikini top. “Can I undo this?”
He already has one end held taut, but he waits for my tongue to loosen. “I—okay. Sure.”
Slowly, with precision—as if determined to do it right—he unwinds the ties. His hands, hard and hot and determined, stretch across the tiny sliver of skin exposed. It’s hardly any skin at all, compared to what my suit already exposes, but—
God, it feels like he’s undressed me entirely, and thank god for the safety of my towel, where I can press my burning forehead against the back of my hands.
“And this one?” he asks, a single hand drawn upward to brush across the nape of my neck.
A soft breeze floats by, rustling nearby trees and smelling of salt and ocean air, and it lifts goosebumps upon my arms despite the sun’s rays. Across the pool, a splash sounds, and then someone gives a shout of laughter—Aaron or Kyle, if I had to guess—although it barely registers.
Still, it brings me back enough, just enough to get me to twist my neck around and catch sight of Grant behind me, his form a solid slab of muscle backlit by the sun. “What are you doing?”
His mouth contracts with a smile hidden. “Helping you out. Obviously.”
The heat in my cheeks increases, if possible. “You’re so—”
His smile breaks free when I falter. “No, go on. What am I, Annie?”
“Stop.” I’ve said the same to him for years, a gentle reprimand meant to tease, and he chuckles appreciatively from the space behind me. “You really can’t help yourself, can you?”
He’s always been this way, after all, the sort of absolutely incorrigible flirt who had charmed my own mother into stunned, blushing silence the first time they’d met—and without even trying. And when he has tried—
Well, it had never surprised me to see him sporting a new girlfriend around campus in undergrad, or to open up Instagram in the years that have passed to find him featured on some stunning woman’s story.
“Don’t know what you mean,” he says, words as easy as the breeze, but he does. Understanding plays across his brow, lights his eyes, curves one corner of his mouth, and he tugs again at the strings around my neck. “Can I?”
So he does. It sounds almost like he sighs when he drags the flimsy strings free, and then he pops the tab on the sunscreen bottle, a sound I hear rather than a sight I see with my face pressed back into my towel. A second later, my back arches, flexing outside my control, as he paints a line of sunscreen down my spine.
Hands connect with my neck, strong fingers closing just underneath the base of my skull, and he rubs slow, careful circles into overheated skin and aching muscles. My own sigh follows, and then my chin tips downwards to allow him better access.
Again, he chuckles; in the dark security of my towel, it sounds lower than before. “I figured you'd like that,” he says. “You hold your neck at an awkward angle when you read. It has to hurt after a while.” His other hand joins his first, thumbs pressing, rubbing, rolling. “Which, yes, is an invitation to ask why I’ve noticed the way you sit, especially today.”
He doesn’t let me finish. “I love this suit on you. You look great in black.” His fingers glide inwards, dragging through the line of sunscreen, and then spread and slide smoothly over my shoulders. “I’ve always thought so.”
As he works the tension from my shoulders, it transfers down towards the pit of my stomach, twisting tighter and tighter with each expert stroke, squeeze, and press. “Always?”
He hums his approval, a sound just given over another sweet gust of ocean air. “Yeah. You’re…fuck, you’re distracting, you know that? Terribly distracting. I know you’ve noticed.”
Noticed. Noticed what?
He answers without the need for a single question asked. “Come on. I’ve hardly left your side for days, because—”
“—because we’re friends.”
“Of course we are. But that’s not why—” His thumb brushes something especially tender in my left trap. When I flinch, he stills briefly, and then gives another experimental stroke, the pad of his thumb slipping over something hard and swollen. “Right there?”
My fingers curl, and then my toes too. “Yes.”
“Breathe, Annie.” Both of his hands migrate, shifting to span the length of my left shoulder and up into my neck. Expertly, unflinchingly, he unwinds the pressure point through a series of methodical circles. “Yeah, that’s a knot. Like I said, you hold your neck at a weird angle when you’re focused. I’m not surprised you’re tight.”
The coils in my stomach twist again, and my thighs go with them. If I’m not mistaken—
His do too, his muscles clenching briefly on either side of my hips.
Before long, he pulls a whimper free from my throat, and with nothing more than another experiment. This one is a slow squeeze along the length of my trap, pressure increasing in infinitesimal increments. My breath catches, holds, and then expels in a rush, and he backs off immediately. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “Sorry. If it’s too much—”
“No. No, it’s—god, it’s good—”
Again, his thighs flex, and only then do I hear it: the breathlessness, the pleasure, the longing that oozes from my every word.
Embarrassment follows, so hot that it burns.
If Grant notices, he doesn’t let on. “Yeah?” Again, he squeezes, building pressure until my muscles protest. Immediately, pleasurable pain chases away embarrassment, and it remains that way even after another sound unwinds from my throat. In response, he laughs a little. “Like I said—distracting.”
Slowly, he releases. Just as slowly, his hands move to span from shoulder to shoulder, and then he rubs down, working along the notches of my spine to rub in the lotion, each inch a new careful exploration. Before I can stop myself, I have to speak. “You’re really, really good at that.”
“I told you—if I’m going to do something, I want to do it right. Besides—” Again, I hear it: his smile, which warms his tone considerably. “I’m great with my hands.”
My stomach twists. “You—”
“How red are you right now? Turn around. Let me see.”
Why do I listen? I have no reason to. Is it a desire to keep his hands firmly in place, working their magic across muscles long-ignored and often-abused from a life of sedentary, scholarly behavior? Or is it—
God, is it something else altogether? Some other need to please him, something deeper, darker, tied to the pressure building in my stomach and—
Lower too. Without a doubt.
His eyes dart up the second my neck turns, pulling away from the careful path of his hands to meet my gaze, and then they paint a torrid path across my cheek before landing on the gap that separates my lips. Midway down my back, his thumbs press in; in response, my lower lip flies between my teeth to hold a whimper just beneath the surface.
“No, come on,” he says, his tone soft, silky, and undeniably seductive in a way I’ve never heard before. Not from him. “I want to hear you.”
Oh, god, that’s nearly enough to undo me.
He swears softly, his eyes dark; again, his thighs clench. Without hesitation, he brings a hand free from my back to reach towards himself, and—
All the air leaves my lungs.
Maisie Beasley writes contemporary romantic erotica that focuses upon mutual consent and shared pleasure—erotica written “through the female gaze,” according to one reviewer. Whether that means two lovers—or three or more—may depend upon the story, but Maisie promises to deliver dirty dialogue and steamy scenes to keep you titillated until the final page.
Maisie loves hearing from her readers! You can reach her at email@example.com
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Link To Buy Corrupted: A MFM Menage Romantic Erotic Novella On Amazon
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