FLASHES OF ME
By Cynthia Sax
(Avon Impulse| On Sale: 02/18/2014 | E-Book ISBN 9780062328182 | $3.99)
(Avon Impulse | On Sale: 03/11/2014 | Paperback ISBN: 9780062328229 | $3.99)
FLASHES OF ME is the incredibly hot and steamy new novella from Cynthia Sax, author of the Seen Trilogy. Sax delves deep into voyeurism, a whole new realm of erotica, and her latest read screams with seduction. With a red-hot tension between a brawny executive and a new, curvy intern, the secrets, sex and suspense will have readers aching for more. FLASHES OF ME is on sale 02/18/2014 from Avon Impulse wherever e-books are sold. Please contact me if you are interested in reviewing.
She longs to be watched…
He can’t bear to look away
Henley, the head of cyber security at Blaine Technologies, is a man no sane person crosses. He watches employees constantly using his network of cameras and enforces his rules by any means possible. Henley strives to protect everything in sight but rumors of his violent past, his scarred hands and huge size have resulted in him being feared by everyone… almost everyone.
In walks Katalina, the perky intern with a bright taste for fashion. Kat has made a big move across the country to escape her past, and comes alive at the first touch of Henley. Though she fears the revelation of her most painful secret much more than she fears Henley’s wrath, she sees the loneliness in his dark eyes, feels the gentleness in his marred fingers, and tastes the need in his kisses. She knows he watches her, and her only. His silly rules about not stripping for the cameras and no sex at the office are destined to be broken…it’s only a matter of time.
But can this beauty…
tame her beastly boss?
Flashes Of Me
“I think we’re on the quiet floor,” I observe. No one else is talking.
Camille’s walk is defiant. “We’ll change that.” She pauses in front of the stairwell. “Stairs?”
“Ummm . . .” I thought the human resources lady said something about the stairwells being for emergency use only, but I hadn’t been paying close attention to her monotonous spiel. I was too worried about not being chosen. “Sure.”
We clomp down the stairs, our heels ringing against the concrete. The supremely clean and brightly lit stairwell smells of stinky socks, the stale air making me dizzy. Camille appears unaffected by the stench. As we descend, she sings happily, her song choices being a collection of increasingly vulgar hip-hop songs.
We reach the second floor and Camille tugs on the door. It doesn’t open. She scans her passcard over a small black security box. The light remains red. “S**t on a stick.” She scans it again. Nothing happens. “Unbelievable,” she fumes.
“Let me try.” I wave my passcard over the sensor. The light remains red and Camille curses. Her vocabulary makes me blush and, as I’m a native New Yorker, that’s an impressive feat for her to accomplish. “We’ll try the ground floor,” I suggest.
We trudge down to the ground floor. This door is locked also. Camille tries her passcard. It doesn’t work, prompting another stream of colorful language from my new friend. I try my passcard. It’s as useless as Camille’s.
“We’re stuck.” I state the obvious, slapping the metal door, ignoring Camille’s ranting. “Do you have a phone?”
“Do I look like I have a phone?” Camille pivots in a circle, her arms outstretched. “Besides we’re in freakin’ Fort Knox.” She pats one of the walls. “These babies must be shielded to hell and back.”
“The doors are thick also.” I slap the metal door again, my palm stinging with the impact. “Hey.” I gaze upward. “They have cameras.” I point at the black lens positioned above us. “Security must be monitoring the stairwells.” I wave my arms at the camera. “They’ll send help.”
“If they’re real cameras, they’ll send help,” Camille scoffs. “Didn’t you hear about that girl in Westwood? She was trapped in a stairwell for four whole days. That stairwell had cameras too: fake cameras, installed to discourage thieves. She ate her fingernails down to bloody nubs.”
“Four days,” I repeat, staring up at the camera. It looks real, but I guess that’s the point. Fake-looking cameras wouldn’t fool thieves. “We could pull the fire alarm.”
“If we do that, we’ll get ourselves fired.” Camille shakes her head. “They’ll evacuate the building and we’ll look like dumb a****. Oh.” Her face becomes animated. “I could pick the lock.”
I stare at her. “Can you do that?”
“I’ve picked locks before.” She beams, acting as though this is a skill to be admired. “Let me have a look.” Camille shoves me out of the way. She examines the door, rattling the handle and poking her fingernail into the lock. “Do you have a piece of wire?”
The only piece of wire I have is attached to my bra. “Wait a second.” I unbutton my blazer for the second time today, unhook my bra, and pull it through the armholes. Jiggling the underwire, I try to poke it through the fabric. “I need scissors.”
“If we had scissors, I could jimmy the door open.” Camille eyes the lock. “And our problems would be solved.”
“You scare me.” I bite my bra, tearing the lace, and slide the wire out of the cup. “Here’s your pick, as I believe you criminals call it.”
“A few minor misdemeanors does not make one a criminal,” Camille mutters, taking the wire from me.
“Actually, I believe it does.” I sit down on the steps, the concrete cool under my ass.
“I freed information.” Camille straightens the wire and inserts the end into the lock. “This is America. Freeing information shouldn’t be a misdemeanor.”
“Sure, sure, tell it to the judge.” I watch her work, hoping to learn something.
Minutes pass. I don’t know anything about picking locks, but I do know how to read people and Camille is struggling with her assigned task, her curses growing louder and more colorful.
“Are you sure you’ve done this before?” I lean back on the stairs, spinning my bra around the tip of my right index finger. This is much more interesting than shredding paper.
“I’m not deliberately screwing the pooch,” Camille snaps. “This is a high-end lock.”
“Thank you,” a deep voice drawls, the low tones originating from behind me. “We try our best.”
I shriek, jump to my feet, and turn, dropping my bra. The behemoth from the park catches the lavender lace before it touches the floor, twisting the flimsy garment in his tanned fingers. Lightning flashes in his dark eyes. His square chin juts.
He’s big and sexy and impossible to resist so I don’t even try. I fling myself against his massive body, wrap my arms around his waist, and bury my face in his black cotton shirt. “You’re here. You somehow knew we needed help and you came to our rescue.” He’s warm, his body heat engulfing me, and he smells good, his lemon-and-cedar cologne filling my nostrils.
My mystery man stiffens, not moving for three agonizing heartbeats, and then he stuffs my bra into the front right pocket of his pants and hooks his arms around me. “I’ve got you, kitten,” he says softly, the words rolling up his chest, his body hard, not an ounce of give on his big physique. “You’re safe.” He rubs my back, his stroking reviving the passion I thought sated.
“You knew where to find me.” I snuggle deeper into his enormous form. “It’s as though we’re connected.” My parents have this same connection and their relationship lasted. Will our relationship last also? I tilt my head back and meet my stranger’s gaze. His eyes are the darkest brown, almost black. “How did you know where I was? Did you feel it in your heart?” I place one of my palms over that area on his chest.
“No.” His lips flatten. “I saw you on the security cameras.”
About the Author:
CYNTHIA SAX lives in a world filled with magic and romance. Although her heroes may not always say “I love you,” they will do anything for the women they adore. They live passionately. They play hard. They love the same women forever.
Cynthia has loved the same wonderful man forever. Her supportive hubby offers himself up to the joys and pains of research, while they travel the world together, meeting fascinating people and finding inspiration in exotic places such as Istanbul, Bali, and Chicago.
Please visit her on the web at www.CynthiaSax.com.
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