Something stirred in her. Her pulse.
Her pulse felt like a toy to play with.
"So let's go play."
Lightie's life is off the rails. Once the toast of her small southern town, she's now an exhausted waitress and a lonely single mother.
Deemer is the booth worker who can't tear his gaze off her when his carnival comes to town.
On a hot southern night, they make an unlikely connection.
Lightie crashes the carnival in a tight dress and chunky heels, daring herself to feel alive again. She causes a sensation, just like when she was younger. Only it's better now; she's more in control and she knows what she wants. Emboldened, Lightie goes in search of the striking, green-eyed Apache Indian who'd made her heart race earlier in the day.
This 9,000 word erotic romance short story contains teasing, showing off, and explicit sex at a carnival. It is not intended for readers under 18.
Excerpt
Lightie spun on her heel and strode right into the Carnie with the blazing green eyes. It was like hitting a wall. His chin started above her forehead, so her face imprinted on his damp T-shirt.
For a moment she had the impression of immense, slow strength. A kind of quiet in the Carnie's posture. He didn't need to shift his balance with Lightie against him--he was rooted to the earth.
"Thanks, but no," Lightie snapped. "I don't want a prize."
"I wasn't offering," he said.
The carnival swirled around them like a snow globe filled with running children and gaudy lights. The game booths fought each other with Top-40s music turned way past what the crappy boom-boxes could bear. It all happened outside Lightie and her green-eyed Carnie, like something they could watch. Inside, between them, it was peaceful. She could hear him down to his breathing.
She pushed off his chest, noticing how his torso and ribs felt under her palms. Detailed. Scarred. His green eyes took her apart. In return, she hunted for an unforgivable flaw--he was a trashy Carnie, after all. She wanted to scorn his torn, low-rent T-shirt, but it wasn't as if she'd made any effort herself.
She averted her gaze from the tattoo that covered the front of his neck, as if it was a bad skin condition. On his chest below his collarbone--above his heart--he had a small tattoo which read, "Apache Nation." Her fingers left that last. She released the torn v-neck and the fabric slid back over his chest again.