A widow’s eyes open to a whole new way of loving when she moves to a gated community, but will one man be enough for her new-found appetite for life?
When Jane, a wealthy young widow, complains of her sexual frustration in her online support group she gets a little more than she bargained for. Beverley, another widow, suggests that what Jane really needs is a change of scene and she knows just the place.
Within a month, Jane has sold her house in Florida and moved upstream to Winchester Drive, an expensive, gated community in Massachusetts. On the outside it looks like anywhere else, but this charming seaside community holds myriad secrets.
With a mysterious sex club, a very helpful workforce and a new psychology professor who's just moved in around the block, this place has more than enough men to help Jane move to the next phase of her grieving process.
All she wanted was a little sexual relief, but she gets way more than she bargained for. Jane must move on from her past, learn what she really wants from the new men in her life and find a way to make it work so that everybody gets their happily ever after.
General Release Date: 25th August 2020
My hands were shaking. “I’m sorry.” I was talking to the guy splayed out in front of me, but more importantly to my dead husband, whose ghost was probably floating around the room in bemusement right now.
I could almost hear the lighthearted derision in his voice as he berated me. ‘I tell you to move on after I’m gone and you find some guy off Tinder?’ I wanted to tell him that getting over him was fucking impossible, that no man could ever fill his shoes, but you see, that’s the problem with dead people—they’re never around when you need to talk.
“Do you want to stop?” asked the very horny, very down-to-fuck, very not dead man in my bed.
“No. Please, I do want this.” I did. I really, truly wanted this guy to fuck me senseless. It was just, well, awkward. This bed hadn’t seen a man since David died and frankly it was weirding me out a little. I needed to stop messing about and get on with it. Get back on the bike or the horse, or in this case the huge dick.
I unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it open, scraping my nails across his chest, just enough to make him wince. Beverly’s advice was perfect—getting your nails done for a date was a solid plan. I felt a lot less like a soccer mom and more like a sexy little minx. The buttons on his jeans popped open with ease, releasing him. I hadn’t needed to take them off to see what I was dealing with—the bulge in his pants left nothing to the imagination—but holy cocksuckers, people, I was not disappointed with the beast I’d freed.
“Like what you see, huh?” he said, waving it in my face. I bent down to inspect it further. Straight as a die. As impeccably groomed as the rest of his body. I gave it a lick, just a tiny taste. Hmmm. Okay. I popped my mouth on, just to see. It fitted perfectly. A match made in heaven. His hands settled onto my head, gripping the roots of my hair, but the glare I threw him sent them scurrying away.
My terms—that was what we had agreed on. If we did it, we did it my way or not at all. I lifted my head. “You got protection?”
“Do I need it? I mean, aren’t you on the pill or something?”
“What? I’m a fucking widow.”
“You’re right, sorry. I’m just used to, you know, younger women—they’re always up for a bit of bareback.”
“Jesus Christ.” He smiled and winked at me. Pathetic. I took a deep breath and thought of the orgasms.
You can do this, Jane—just one quick fuck and you never have to see him again.
He handed me a condom. I slowly ripped it open with my teeth and slid it down on to his dick. It had been a while, but I still had it. Next thing to be sliding down that dick would be me and I couldn’t wait any longer. It had been eight endless months since my husband had dearly departed this earth and, damn it, a woman has needs.
I climbed up his body and slid right down onto him. No need for foreplay—I’d practically come in my pants when he kissed me outside the restaurant.
Maybe I was seventeen and virginal once again. Or maybe he just had a big dick. Whatever the reason, I was tightly wrapped around him and it was amazing.
This wasn’t such a bad idea after all.
I rode up and down on him just long enough to tire the muscles in my legs—about thirty seconds, to be honest, I hadn’t exactly been hitting the gym lately—then rolled us over, pulling his hand onto my clit as we went.
“Make me come,” I cried and prepared to be nailed into oblivion but he jerked and squealed a little, then flopped down onto me.
“Fuck, that was awesome.”
“But…” But my orgasm, you dickwad.
“I think, no, I know it. I love you, Jane.” Then, no word of a lie, he started to cry. I peeled him off me and mumbled something about needing a shower. Shit. He was in my house. How was I going to get him to leave? I thanked Madonna, the patron saint of sexual liberation, for having had the foresight to sell my house a few days before this disaster of a date. I’d soon be moving up the country to Massachusetts, as far away from this idiot as the moving truck could take me.
I headed downstairs, served myself a large bourbon, neat, and switched on my laptop. I clicked on my social media page, entered my password and started to type, ‘Fuck it ladies, you are never going to believe what just happened.’
Katherine E Hunt ran off with a Frenchman twenty years ago. She now lives on a French mountain with three children and two dogs. When she isn’t writing contemporary romance she can be found huddled up in front of a roaring fire, with a glass of Chardonnay in one hand and a book in the other.
You can find out more about Katherine on her website.
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