When your body betrays you and your government might kill you for it, can you really trust a sexy man is all he seems?
In an Orwellian future world, highly skilled professionals must be sexually suppressed, to focus them better on their work. They get one week per year to procreate-a 'heat phase' allocated to them by computer.
Holly had been ready to give up everything for her career as a doctor-including her sexual urges. Her body rejected the treatment, denying her access to higher medical training, but Holly used her aunt's connections to the clinic to cheat the system. Now she's an unsuppressed woman struggling to hide in plain sight, and to control her desires without being discovered.
If the government finds out she's faking it, they'll likely kill her. So when a sexy medical student named Scott turns on the charm while flashing the wrist tattoos that mark them both as suppressed, Holly is terrified of letting down her guard with him. Could there really be a secret resistance faction whose aim is to abolish the suppression laws? And if she gives in to Scott's advances, will there be terrible consequences?
Reader Advisory: This book contains references to F/F intimacy and M/M intimacy, ménage a trois, masturbation and steamy, smutty sexiness! This book also contains a ménage scene MMF and FF flirting.
General Release Date: 26th March 2012
I kicked off the blankets, overheated in the warm summer night. The cool air felt good against my bare legs, and I pushed up my camisole top to grant it access to my midriff.
Around me, the room was dark and quiet. From the living room, I could hear the faint noise of the netcast—my roommates watching some show or movie. It was still early, but I had to be up in the morning for a class, whereas they could afford to sit up until late into the night and sleep in until lunchtime.
I considered the morning to come, plotting everything out in my head. What time I needed to get out of bed, what time my train would arrive. Whether the hot guy I kept seeing in the corridors of the university would be around that early in the day.
My body felt hypersensitive, tingling with the beginnings of desire. Almost involuntarily, I slid a hand over my breast, feeling my nipple harden under my fingers, the thin material of my shirt rising with it. A faint sigh escaped my lips, shaky and soft, and I squeezed my thighs together, cautious out of habit.
Can I get away with it? Is it safe?
All medical students who passed their first three years underwent suppression—the voluntary altering of their hormones and physiology that all professionals submitted to. After they did, they were known as part of the Focused elite and no longer felt sexual urges or thoughts towards anyone, except during the one week allocated to them—their ‘heat phase’.
It wasn’t just doctors who had to go through it. Nurses, lawyers, politicians, scientists, law enforcers—they all underwent the same procedure. They all agreed to give up their natural urges so that they wouldn’t become ‘distracted’ by carnal concerns. One hundred per cent career-focused.
I’d undergone my suppression six months ago. Three times. As far as anyone knew, the third time had worked, and I was as sexually dead as the rest of them.
I’d faked it. And if anyone found out, I’d never realise my dreams of becoming a doctor. They’d throw me off the course, and I’d be doomed to work in the goods and menial services industries forever. I’d never save lives. I’d never heal anyone. And that was if they let me live.
But, God, I wanted so much to fuck someone right now. Was that such a crime?
I slid my hand low, lower, straining to hear the sounds of my roommates talking or laughing, anything to indicate that they were both in the same room, out of earshot of any stray sounds that might escape my bedroom. For torturous seconds, there was nothing, and I lay still, too cautious to continue even though my panties were damp and wild fantasies were beginning to dance through my imagination.
Then I heard one of them speak and the other reply and, with a gasp of relief, I worked my hand into my panties, my fingers quickly becoming coated in the slick wetness of my arousal.
I imagined him again—walking past me with a smile, looking me up and down for just a moment. He must not have been far enough through his studies to have undergone suppression, because, from the way he’d looked at me, he’d definitely seen something he liked.
He was tall—dark hair, blue eyes that seemed to see right through my clothing to what was underneath. Just me, unsuppressed, unfulfilled, wanting him, desperate for his touch.
I bit back a moan, rolling over to smother it against the pillow. The terror of discovery brought a heady thrill, and I slid my other hand up under my shirt, pinching and rolling one nipple, then the other, fucking myself with my fingers, slipping them deep inside me before rubbing the moisture into my tingling clit.
My breath came hard and again I listened for the sounds of my friends talking and laughing. Nothing—but I couldn’t stop now, couldn’t resist, couldn’t even think of it. If they heard me or walked in now, I was fucked, and not in the way I wanted to be.
How would he fuck me, my mystery boy? Would he be gentle, plenty of foreplay, rocking me closer and closer to climax? Or would he be rough, pinning me to the wall, driving into me, nipping at my neck and leaving marks on my breasts with his teeth?
I whimpered, so low, so quiet, but it seemed loud in the silence.
Silence? When did they shut off the netcast? Oh, God, stop, stop, you have to stop...
I couldn’t. If one of them decided they wanted to borrow something from my room and tiptoed in to get it, they’d smell the scent of my arousal in the air even if I feigned sleep. I was in too deep to deny it now—I just had to keep quiet and hope neither of them decided now was a good time to disturb me.
Amy Valenti attained ‘crazy cat lady’ status at four years old, but took a little longer to get to the ‘published author’ stage, which was her other goal in life. Now in her late twenties,she tries to minimise the number of cats she puts into her erotic romance stories, but more than one has slipped into a character’s home while her back’s been turned. After all, the ultimate test of a man’s worth is what his new partner’s pets think of him…
Cats aside, Amy enjoys writing about intelligent female characters who know themselves and their desires. She’s been fascinated by sex, relationship and power-play dynamics for many years, and experiments with different sub-genres under the overarching category of BDSM, concentrating on Domination and submission romance in particular.
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