Mancandy Wednesday: Holt, From Closer

Yeah, yeah- I know. Another Mancandy that ties in with a promo I'm doing. But I always feel I have to do some promo and tell people about my latest work, because you know, maybe people genuinely don't know but actually want to!

You're out there, right? People who actually want to. Bertha says no but then she thinks that all those readers who bought and quite probably read The Horizon are just people I made up. She even went as far as to say I forged my first frankly amazing royalty cheque, flew to America, and posted it to myself after sneaking into the offices of Ellora's Cave for that very purpose, because she's weird and actually a figment of my imagination.

And the less said about what she thinks of all those people who added Control on Goodreads, the better. I mean, they're not really just those squiggly demon things from the movie Ghost, haunting the halls of Goodreads. Right? I'm pretty sure they're not. Goodreads isn't even haunted, okay? It's totally not.

But I digress. About figments of my imagination that HATE me.

Where was I? Oh yes. Talking about Holt, from Closer. Holt, who looks a lot like this:







But with glasses. Et voila:







Though there's more to him than the glasses I gave him in Microsoft Paint, I assure you. He's also completely comfortable in his strange sexuality, in a way my heroine is not. And oh, what fun I had watching him persuade her to progress from simply naughty rubbing against strangers on trains, to fullblown filthy sex in public places.


I hope you have fun too, if you read this little snippet of sexy. It's only $1.49 from Ellora's Cave, and you can get it here:

http://www.jasminejade.com/p-8823-closer.aspx




Oh, and here's an excerpt, if you need to wet your whistle:

******************

The urge had gotten so bad she even knew what time of year was best for doing it. Christmas. Christmas was the best time of year for indulging her little habit, because during the holiday season everyone went temporarily insane and forgot things like personal space in an effort to buy useless things no one ever wanted.

They crammed themselves into shops and tinsel-laced streets, wedged their way onto buses and sandwiched their cars into car parks. But best of all, they got on trains. And they didn’t sit, oh no, because old people and pregnant people and jerks who’d gotten there first always sat.

Instead, the people she wanted to be amongst stood, in thin aisles and broad aisles, in the spaces by the toilet and the exits, by luggage racks when bags and brightly wrapped packages filled it up and on it when they didn’t. But better than all of this, they pressed against her. They jostled her. Some anonymous stranger rubbed her when they thought she wasn’t looking or paying attention.

Oh yes. That was the best sort of press.

At first, of course, she’d hated it. There she was, just starting a new job. Her little suits always immaculate, pencil skirts with little kicky pleats and neat, professional, well-tailored jackets. A coat that she’d almost deemed too expensive, and a new, businesslike haircut that would make everyone understand the kind of person she was.

A professional person. A together, carefully kept, in-control sort of person. People would respond well to that and understand she meant business. No one would ever rub up against her on a train, looking the way she did.

But someone had. They’d pressed their front to her back, and on that very first day to work she’d spent her journey there with a mouthful of the man in front. Mortified beyond belief. Unable to understand how so many people could travel to work every day like that, enduring the heaving, sweaty, intrusive presence of so many other people.

How awful. How terrible. How wet it had made her, to feel some anonymous body sliding against hers.

Though naturally, she’d tried to deny it. The next time she’d stood right in the corner, right next to the exit, so nobody could come up on her from behind. Most of her knew that she’d probably imagined the man behind her, rubbing and rubbing, but some part of her said otherwise. He’d probably gone home that night and masturbated thinking about her round ass in her tight skirt.
Maybe he’d wondered how far he could have gone before she protested—a hand on the back of her thigh, perhaps? If he’d lifted her skirt, just a little, would she have cried out?

She didn’t know if she would’ve or not. She only knew that when she’d stood there, wedged in that little corner with some man’s back in front of her, she’d made a little sound just thinking about it. A little cry, for the cry she didn’t make.

Then she’d pressed her body against the man in front.

That was how it started, she knew. That was when it went from disgust, and being pressed, to pressing back. And so quickly too! One second she was a normal person, the next she was getting off on the feel of a hundred strangers, clamoring to get near her body.

Or at least, that was how it felt when she closed her eyes. Like being clamored for.

But better than that were the dirty things she could imagine happening, with barely any effort at all. One time she’d been trapped between three businessmen in their soft wool overcoats, her senses full of their interchangeable and ludicrously rich-smelling man-perfumes. She’d gotten so close to one of them she could have tasted the tang of the shaving gel used to get that gun-metal stubble down to nothing.

So close he could have forced his mouth on hers with very little trouble at all. And then maybe one of his buddies could have pushed a gloved hand up her leg, between her thighs and beneath her skirt.

Of course she would have preferred the fantasy if he hadn’t been wearing gloves, but then that was the problem with getting off on rubbing against people on trains. There were always far too many layers and it never got any better, not even in summer.

At least in winter the secretive peep of the nape of someone’s neck always got close enough. So close she could have just poked out her tongue and licked, and oh she knew she got nearer to it every day. It tempted her constantly, that final perverted step. To just reach out and really touch—it didn’t seem like that big a deal. No one would ever know.

Except for that man sitting over by the window. He’d know.