Growing Pleasures

by Jodie Johnson-Smith

Genres: Erotic & Steamy Romance

Synopsis

Jodie Johnson-Smith, writer of Watchers, is back with a brand new sexy title!

Stuck in a relationship with her belittling boyfriend, Giles, Emma hopes to land work at Pleasure Paradise, a hotel that fulfils its guests' wildest sexual fantasies. But Giles is outraged at the idea of her working there and vows he will never set foot in the place. After passing two sexy interviews, Emma gets the job, much to the delight of her ex, Andy. It's not long before she is asked to grant a voyeur's fantasy and display herself naked in the garden she tends. Who has requested this kinky favour? Giles, Andy, or someone else entirely? And what will happen as Emma's exhibitionistic pleasure grows ever more intense?

Release date: October 3, 2013

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 73

Sample

Chapter One

‘I can’t believe you’ve forgotten about dinner, Emma!’ Giles, already on his second, or possibly third, glass of wine, grabbed the bottle for a top-up and paced the kitchen floor. ‘I sent you a reminder text a couple of days ago.’ He was whispering just in case his guests, already seated in Emma’s rarely used dining room, could hear him. Emma cursed silently, furious with herself for forgetting the arrangements he’d made and furious with Giles for using her as a convenience. She remembered the text he’d sent her – couldn’t forget it, really – although she hadn’t bothered replying to it at the time.

Bringing the boss and his wife to dinner at your place Friday evening. Make sure your hands are clean.

She’d been pruning Agnes Grey’s climbers when the message came through, still working in spite of the fading light. Such is the plight of a freelance gardener with money in short supply and bills aplenty.

Giles hated Emma’s job, hated the long hours she sometimes worked to make up for days rained off. But what annoyed him most was the state of her hands. His female colleagues all sported expensive manicures and glitzy rings and treated a broken nail like a major disaster.

‘Can’t you wear gloves?’ he’d once asked when he’d spotted her picking at rough, dry cuticles, trying to make them smoother.

‘No, I like to be close to the earth and be able to feel what I’m doing,’ she’d replied. ‘I can’t work the soil in gloves.’

But Emma had long since given up trying to explain her passion for gardening to Giles. He didn’t understand such bucolic delights.

He thrived on city life – crowded tubes, high-rise office blocks, chrome, glass and steel. And apart from the transport system, he worked in an environment that was doused in antiseptic twice a day. And Giles himself was the height of cleanliness: his suits immaculate, his shirts spotless.

Not so Emma. She was permanently grubby. Washing her hair was the best way of getting her hands clean, but as Giles kept paying for her to go to the hairdresser’s in an effort to make her look more presentable, they were far from pristine.

Right now, a manicure was the least of her worries. She had to rustle up some food, fast, and she was no cook at the best of times. Why the hell couldn’t Giles have taken Karen and Martin to his place? But she already knew the answer to that. Giles lived in an apartment which boasted a huge, empty fridge and little else. The main feature of the flat was the custom-made wine rack he’d had built into the disused fireplace. Emptying and replenishing the rack had become Giles’s sole concern.

Shopping for food was an alien concept to Giles. Cheap booze and fags were all the hypermarkets were good for. And besides, food shopping was a woman’s job, wasn’t it?

‘There’s plenty of fresh salad in the garden and I’ll do baked potatoes and chicken to go with it,’ Emma said, thinking out loud. ‘You keep Martin and Karen occupied while I get it sorted.’

Giles selected another bottle of wine from the fridge and a couple of glasses from the cupboard. ‘It’s hardly the sort of meal I was expecting,’ he said.

‘Tough,’ Emma snapped. Big talk, but inside she was quaking with nerves. For reasons she couldn’t quite fathom, she felt guilty at letting him down. He was after a promotion and seemed to think that wining and dining his boss at her place could swing it. She had her reservations, but what did she know about city life? Maybe he was right: maybe his promotion depended on tonight’s meal.

After shoving her head round the living room door and bleating out a welcome to Martin and Karen, she went back to the kitchen and opened the freezer, the contents of which would have had a TV chef phoning the nearest takeaway.

Where was the package of chicken breasts she always kept handy? She’d never run out before. She tossed packets and foil dishes around, poked at some ice. The drawers contained very little – just a few escapees from a split bag of petit pois, and half a tub of ice cream.

There was nothing else for it; she’d have to pop out …

Grabbing her purse off the draining board, Emma dashed out of the back door and raced up the road to the local open-all-hours store. With any luck, Giles and co wouldn’t even notice she’d gone.

Andy was behind the counter, reading a. . .