So what does a good girl from the country do? She takes a risk that will change her life.
She becomes her own naughty twin.
Plain Jane transforms into Madam Memphis and an old school friend is a willing participant in her secret tryst, as is a hunky cowboy. The experiences turn out to be the most thrilling adventures of her life. But they are also the most sinful.
A challenge meted out by Jane’s best friend has Jane scrutinizing every man who walks through the Hot Horizon Hotel lobby like a detective searching for a guilty party—except it’s Jane who is the guilty one.
Can Jane find a man to fulfill her promise? And when she does, is she ready for the lessons she’s about to receive?
Kitty writes erotica for intelligent people who want to read fun, sexy, clever, short stories about a strong woman, exotic locations and consensual, casual sex with intriguing men.
The Rise of Memphis short stories are designed to be read in order. Each book contains a solid story, descriptive enticing situations and a dash of humor. These books are perfect for a quickie on your lunch break or for easy holiday reads.
My permanent night shift made it impossible to meet guys, let alone go on a hot date. I didn’t do one-night stands either; sex with a man I knew nothing about pushed me way off my comfort zone.
I sat up in the bath and gripped my arms around my knees as a thought ploughed through my conscience. George Whiteman was an old acquaintance. That would bypass my one-night stand idiosyncrasy.
However, after the scenario played out in my mind, I sighed. It wasn’t going to happen. There was a one hundred percent guarantee George would tell someone about it, and before I knew it, details of our encounter would pass through every home in Mildura like a bad dose of dysentery. My mother would faint onto her world-famous orange teacake, and my cheating bastard ex-fiancé would cherish the notion that I’d lowered myself to similar deviant behavior that he had.
An idea whizzed through my brain like a shot of adrenalin, and had me climbing from the bath and striding dripping wet to my wardrobe. The cupboards banged open with my eagerness and light rained down over my meager clothing collection.
Shopping for clothes was not my thing, and my scant assortment highlighted it. My shoes, on the other hand, were my pride and joy, stored in five neat rows in the bottom of my wardrobe. Most of them had never been worn, but when I did wear them, by god I owned them. And don’t get me started on my handbag collection.
I yanked all the clothes aside to locate the fancy-dress costume Lolly had talked me into for the Hot Horizon Hotel Christmas party. Of course, I’d chickened out in the end. Just the thought of my shithead manager ogling my breasts bulging over the top of the stiffened lace was enough to curdle my stomach.
As I pulled the French maid costume off the hangar and threw it onto the bed, I caught my reflection in the full-length mirror on the inside of the wardrobe door. My slightly lopsided shoulders were a freaky compliment to my lopsided breasts. My left one was a fraction bigger than my right.
This had amused my cheating-bastard ex-fiancé no end.
The thought of Alexander had me spinning toward the costume. I held it to my body, assessing the disguise. This would work. Tossing the minuscule outfit back onto my bed, I returned to the bathroom, toweled off, and rummaged through my makeup kit, finding bits and pieces I rarely used.
I started with foundation to cover the sprinkle of freckles dotted over my nose and cheeks and the amount I’d applied was sure to mean it’d take hours to get off later. I did my eye makeup next, fiddling with the black war paint over and over until my green eyes were almost hidden behind enormous lashes.
Overdoing the makeup and wrestling my long light-brown hair into the black bobbed wig that came with the costume changed my appearance completely. Even Lolly would walk past me. I slipped into lacy knickers and chose a sexy pink bra that plumped up my boobs, tugged on fishnet stockings, and pulled the costume over my head. It fitted perfectly, which wasn’t hard, as most of it was elastin.
Back at my wardrobe, I selected my eight-inch black patent shoes, a large black handbag, and the black trench coat I’d bought on a whim during my one-and-only trip to Melbourne.
I revisited my reflection in the mirror. “Well, hello not-so-plain Jane.”
With my heart thundering in my chest, I walked out door thirteen and strode toward George Whiteman’s room.