In Her Closet

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Author: Tasha L. Harrison

Publisher: Dirtyscribbler Press

ISBN: 9780990940302

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Synopsis

Entertainment columnist Yves Santiago unapologetically lives her life as carelessly as a man. Her day job keeps her flush in men, with few regrets and even fewer mistakes. By night, she details her exploits on her anonymous sex blog, Lust Diaries.

Yves leads a happy, delightfully filthy life. Until she meets nonfiction editor Elijah Weinstein.

Moss green eyes, sun-kissed shoulders and a mouth so damn sensual that it should have a NC-17 rating, Elijah is everything she never wanted yet can't resist. He methodically lays waste to the walls she's built around herself, looking to get closer to the real Yves Santiago. Unfortunately, Yves isn't sure she recognizes that person anymore.

With the the promise of a fairytale turned real, Yves must dig into the depths of her past. But once she shakes out the skeletons in her closet, will she be ready for all Elijah has to offer?

Warning: This title is sexually explicit with mild bdsm. If you like it rough and spanky, this may be for you.

Excerpt

(Excerpt from Chapter Four)

I could tell by the looks of him that Elijah Weinstein frequented trendy bars and nightclubs so I took him to a place that was completely the opposite, Donnie Darla's on South Street. DD's was probably best described as a dive bar-- my favorite kind of place. I preferred dark, seedy bars and hookah stands to the local club scene. I ordered us the city wide special--Pabst and a shot of Jim Beam--and we sat down at one of the sticky, wobbly tables for a chat.
We'd talked a little bit on the way over. Elijah was a New Yawker, but didn't have much of an accent. He didn't hesitate to tease me about mine, though. He also joked about my height. I'd consciously dressed down for this meeting because I didn't want to get my hopes up, plus I had to work an eight hour shift beforehand. Now I wish I had worn the damn stilettos. Without them I barely cleared the middle of his chest. I guess that would make him over six foot. Perfect height. Not that I considered him potential arm candy, but six foot plus left room for sky high heels.
He flirted nonstop on the walk over, too. I didn't know how to feel about that. Ahh, please. Who was I kidding? I loved it. But this didn't feel like a meeting it. It felt more like a date.

"So about your blog, what made you decide to write it in third person?"

"Now you want to talk about my blog? Now that you've got me all liquored up?"

He laughed and it did things to me. Things below the waist. The boy had a gorgeous mouth on him. A mouth meant for kissing and I didn't necessarily mean the lips on my face.

"Well, I guess we should get around to it. It's kind of the whole point of us meeting."

"I guess you're right. And to answer your question, it's just the way I've always written."
He nodded with approval. "I love it. I like how it mirrors what you write in your column for The Philadelphian. A dark and light view of the same night."

I smiled, secretly pleased that he understood the concept. "To be honest, the blog was just a silly something I started doing to syphon off the sexed up bits I always seemed to be writing about the events I attend. I really wish I could include it in my column, but the gatekeeper says no."

"Either way, you've done a brilliant job."

"Thank you, but you really don't think it's brilliant, do you? It's just some bullshit blog with a minuscule following."

"Look...I gotta be honest, here. My motives aren't entirely innocent."

"Oh?" I asked with a raise of my brow. "You have a nefarious motive?" I leaned in close and whispered, "Is it dirty?

Tell me it's dirty!"

His coughed out a nervous laugh. I caught him off guard.

"What? No! Not nefarious or dirty it's just...I am a huge fan. It was the reason why I had to track you down. This duality that you've created between your blog and your column, translating your love for the city into you love of men...you write about Philly like you're in love with this city. You made me fall in love with it, too. And the way you write about sex makes me feel like it's the sex I wish I was having."

Whoa, gut shot. Had anyone ever said anything like that about me before? Forget me, had anyone ever said anything like that about my writing? I couldn't think of one instance where I've felt as proud as I did right now.

"I have another confession to make," he said staring down into his empty shot glass.

"What's that?"

"I just took over as Creative Nonfiction Editor at Leaf Press and I need a breakout book to cement my position. I've been reading memoirs all week and honestly, I can't think of a story that I want to hear more than yours."
My face grew hot and leaned away from him. "Laying it on a little thick, aren't you?"
He shook his head and smiled. "Is my flattery making you uncomfortable?"

"Just a little bit," I admitted when I meant to lie.

He leaned into the space I'd left between us. "Maybe because you're afraid that it's true?" Some time during the evening, Elijah had loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. A tiny bit of gold winked at the hollow of his throat--The Star of David on a thin gold chain. Suddenly I was aware of his shoulders. Very aware. They were broad and strong and would be the perfect place to hook my knees.

I cleared my throat. "Maybe."

Elijah rested his elbows on the table. "Tell me why you started writing."

"Well, I always kept a journal when I was a kid, but when I got to high school I began to take writing more seriously. My teachers noticed that I had a knack for it."

"That's not the real reason you started writing."

"It isn't?"

"Nope."

I leaned in and rested my elbows on the table, too. "Then what was?"

"You tell me," he said with a shrug of those amazing shoulders. "What compelled you to set pen to paper and write down your thoughts?"

I didn't need to think hard. The answer sat on the tip of my tongue. A response too pathetic to admit.

"It was a boy, wasn't it?"

Fuck if he didn't nail it. "Yes."

"And it was a boy you weren't supposed to love?"
Damn, that was way personal. "Yes," I said again and left it there though I could tell he wanted more of an explanation.

"That's the story I want to read."

He had no fucking idea what he asked of me. "Well, it's not necessarily a story I want to write."

"Is he why you write in third person? To get some distance from it?"
I narrowed my eyes at him. "Are you some kinda psychic or something?"
He lips parted into another smile and now that raunchy mouth of his drew my attention again...and how much I wanted to kiss it. That thing really needed an NC-17 rating.

"No. I just pay attention to what is written between the lines. Like the poem you recited tonight."

"What about it?"

"Is that how you really feel about yourself? That you’re some sort of hedonistic animal drawn to the scent of your prey? I don’t see you that way at all, but I think that’s how you want people to see you.” He narrowed his eyes. “I think it’s just something you do to keep people at a distance. To keep them from knowing you.”
Too close. I felt him right under my skin. I backed away. Actually pushed my chair away from the table a little bit. I needed to create some space. Diffuse this sudden intimacy with a joke or witticism. Something to lift the tension.

“Elijah, I—“

His big hand shot out and wrapped around my wrist. I froze. That harmless bit of contact made me sit still and hold my breath. It also made me feel positively tiny and more than a little helpless. My heart pounded right up to my throat and echoed in my ears. It was so loud that I was surprised that I could hear him when he said, "I know this all feels a little...intense. But I wanted you to see that I have a real interest in you. There's a story there. A story about how you came to be this beautiful, uninhibited woman sitting across from me. I want to know it."
He let go of my hand and slowly my heart rate returned to normal and I could breath again.

"A little intense?" I squeaked.

"I'm sorry. I get that way when I'm passionate about a thing.”