Book Title: The Rise Of Memphis January Chronicles
Author: Kitty Kendall
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: January 1, 2016
Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions
Author: Kitty Kendall
Genre: Contemporary Romance
Release Date: January 1, 2016
Hosted by: Book Enthusiast Promotions
What would you do if your cheeky alter ego had more fun that you did?
Three years after Jane’s fiancé cheated on her, she’s finally ready for some serious bedroom action, but she has one problem—she doesn’t do casual encounters.
So what does a good girl from the country do? She dresses into a sexy little costume and pretends to be someone she is not - Memphis. Things don’t always go to plan though, and these hilariously, horny romps teach her more about herself than she ever expected.
With each cheeky adventure in her devilish disguise, Jane grows more daring. But playing with fire has its consequences. Will she finally break her one golden rule?
Moving to the Gold Coast, away from my family, friends, and my cheating bastard ex-fiancé, was my first foray into life-changing events.
It hadn’t turned out exactly to plan.
My best friend, Lolita, was living my ultimate dream—a husband she was puppy-dog in love with, two kids, a boy and a girl, and a quaint little house in the suburbs. She also had a stunning body, on account of her exercise obsession; she was quick with a laugh, incredibly intelligent, and could recite who was married to whom in the celebrity world without pausing.
The day she ran next to me on the treadmill in the gym downstairs was one of the luckiest days of my life. I was running off volcanic anger, on account of my shithead boss, and Lolita honed in on that fury and showed me exactly how a good workout relieved tension.
Sex, according to Lolly, was just as useful.
I grabbed the diary Lolita had given me for Christmas, flipped to the first of January and, with my champagne in one hand and pen poised over the page, I waited for inspiration.
What the hell was I going to write?
The first morning of 2016 had been uneventful—until the Lobster landslide, that was. My plan for the rest of the day was to have a nice long bath, for starters, then crawl into bed for eight or so hours. Then . . . then there was nothing.
It was pathetic. I was pathetic.
Maybe I could masturbate. Release some of the tension Lobster had created.
Wow . . . I’d officially hit a new level of pathetic.
My mind drifted to George Whiteman. We were ten years old when I’d caught him in a game of Catch and Kiss. It hadn’t been hard; he was the slowest boy in the entire fifth grade, given he was in a knee brace at the time.
Once I had him in my clutches, I’d pretty much dragged him to the love tunnel and made him kiss me.
I chuckled at that memory. The love tunnel had been nothing more than a large concrete pipe nestled between the play swings and the footy field. The girls were skilled hunters when it came to luring the boys into the love tunnel for a quick pash.
Although now, with the blessing of hindsight, it was obvious some of the boys were willing participants.
With nothing exciting, intelligent or even interesting to write, I set the pen and diary aside, tugged my long hair into a bun on the top of my head, and lowered beneath the warm water. My nipples bobbed to the surface, peeking through the foam bubbles like a couple of dials on an ancient radio. As I rolled my head from side to side, I breathed in the vanilla-scented air and closed my eyes. The water embraced me like a lover’s cuddle.
The noise of the dripping tap had me open one eye and glare. I’d meant to mention the drip to maintenance weeks ago and I cursed myself for forgetting. I poked my big toe into the faucet to stop the drips, and at the sight of my disastrous nail polish, added paint toenails to my exciting agenda for today.
I spread my legs apart and allowed my hand to fall between my thighs. Forcing myself to relax, I blocked out the incessant drip and ran my finger over my sweet spot. I imagined it was a hot guy’s fingers exploring my deepest, darkest secrets, searching for the one true thing that I treasured the most.
Shit. That stupid thought ruined it. I had yet to discover something to treasure like my life depended on it.
I slapped my palm onto the water, casting a wave over the edge of the bath and onto the black and white cow skin–patterned bathmat on the floor. The water was promptly soaked up by the present my mother had sent me for Christmas.
My twenty-year collection of unique Friesian cow ornaments hit rock bottom with Mum’s gift. The collection I’d started was meant for small, intricate black and white cow ornaments that were unusual or quirky. But of course, when I’d received the bath mats in the post, I’d thanked Mum nonetheless. I then threw out the thread-worn mats I’d had since a week after I moved in here and replaced them with these.
If I ever managed to convince a man to join me in my apartment, I’d need to enter the room in stealth mode and eradicate all existence of my once-cute collection.
But I didn’t need to worry about that right now; I’d never had a man in this room. It had been more than three years since I’d last had sex.
I punched the water again. Damned if 2016 was going to be my fourth.
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.”
Kitty writes under two pen names and has won numerous awards. Several of her books are Amazon bestsellers.
The Rise of Memphis stories are written in Kitty's signature style of fun and sassy meets smokin' hot romance. These books are perfect for a quickie on your lunch break or for easy holiday reads.
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