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The Right Kind Of Woman
Just when free-spirited farm girl, Cara Spencer Holloway, feels the regulatory world of her closeted, Southern enclave will swallow her whole, her three miscreant brothers team up to carelessly throw her together with regimented, Northern software designer, Dre Martin, on a misguided stop en route to Florida. One steamy stop leads to another and soon the two women will learn more about what the right kind of partner can bring to life than they had ever suspected, but can Cara Spencer move forward and out of the pain of her past, or will she succumb to the doubts that have plagued her romantic life from its very inception?
In the mirror over the pedestal sink, she saw Cara Spencer, hands on her hourglass hips, skimming the half-inch of exposed flesh just below her navel. The scent of lavender and yellow jasmine hung in the air around her and her stare was intense, however intense did little to describe the feeling of being nailed with her almond, obsidian black eyes. Severe? Critical? Daring?
Her deep and even breaths stole the air from the room and Dre put her hands to her own throat, heart racing.
What was it with this woman? It was like she’d never really been attracted to anyone before, never fully had any appreciation or desire for a woman’s body until the moment she laid eyes on the dominant female standing in the lone stall doorway with a paper towel in her hands.
“Blind?” Was something on her face? Shit, was she blushing? Shit, shit, shit…
“They’re all smitten with you, honey. All of the Holloway boys…Like you’re the last steak on the savanna.”
Gross. Dre didn’t want to be anyone’s steak, least of all the steak any man wanted to sink his teeth into. The one male experience she’d had, back at Northwestern, had been far less than satisfying, not that it was any of his fault. Greg was his name, Greg Fillman. The only guy dumb enough to think the girl who shaved her head and dressed in men’s pants would ever want to be his girlfriend. Nope. It had been the one time in her life that Andrea had convinced herself to try a penis and see if the sensation was one she could live with… Hadn’t gone well. Had gone laughably unwell. Had necessitated ringing up Tris in the middle of the night, after she’d driven Greg home.
“Your brothers aren’t really my… type,” she slurred.
Cara Spencer winked. “Ya don’t say…” Her hips swayed past and she put her hand on the door. “And what is your type?”
“You are.” FUCK, why had she said that? Why had Dre said something so stupid?
Fuck, this was embarrassing.
Dre had never so much as approached a woman like this for a quarter at a pay phone (were pay phones even a thing anymore?) and here she was, doused with liquid courage (how many beers had she had now?), and flinging about pick-up lines in a public fucking bathroom. What the fuck?!
Thankfully, and by the grace of God, Cara Spencer laughed, and not in a mocking way. Not at her, but with her. Like it was a good attempt, not a corny attempt. Like it was a real pick-up line. Like she was really, in fact, picking her up and it wasn’t wholly unsuccessful.
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About the author:
Writing under the pseudonym of Voss Porter, I am married to an amazing woman, I am mother to two human children who keep me on my toes, and four canine progeny. I am a proud lesbian in an LGBTQ community that is yet undiscovered, and I have been a writer from the age of six. I am a passionate storyteller, a little bit of a nerd, and a complete badass.
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