From Tamara Mataya;
To celebrate the release of MISSED CONNECTIONS, Tamara has written this missed connection post between a fictional couple. Can you guess who these characters are?
Taboo Romance
Me in love with you? AS IF! You’re cute but we’ve got nothing in common—especially with that stupid Forest Gump hat you wear. We practically grew up together, so how would that work? Daddy would totally be bugging if he found out. But…okay, you’re a total Baldwin and I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to kiss you… -Waiting At The Top Of The Stairs
Missed Connections (Summer Love #1)
by Tamara Mataya
Paperback, 352 pages
Published June 7th 2016 by Sourcebooks Casablanca
ISBN 1492621218
Sarah spends her nights cruising Craigslist personal ads, dreaming of finding a romantic entry all about her. She knows who she wants, but best friend and regular hookup Jack is not the serious commitment type. Sarah's stung feelings are soothed when she begins an online-only relationship, but there's only so much of Sarah to go around. Torn between the bad boy she can't keep and the sensitive stranger who bares his soul online, her heart and body are in two very different relationships… or are they?
Excerpt from MISSED CONNECTIONS
“No air-conditioning?”
Jack’s voice startles me, and I jump, dropping my shirt.
“No. I’ll have to look at getting a unit in.”
“Do you like big units?”
“Well, a tiny one wouldn’t do it…”
“Big ones are better for doing it.”
My apartment’s dinky but will need more than a small air conditioner. “For sure. I mean, mine’s pretty tiny, but it would still need…”
He bites the inside of his cheek and raises his eyebrows.
When he said unit, he was referring to… “Oh my God, so not what I meant!”
“Sure. And this?” He nods at the bag in his hands.
“I want it on the bed.” For crying out loud, am I capable of speaking without everything sounding like a “that’s what she said” joke? “In the bedroom is fine.” A giant, throbbing innuendo…What is wrong with me? This is Jack, my friend. Only my friend for reasons. Shaking my head, I shift a blue tub with my kitchen stuff into the tiny kitchen and move one from there into the equally tiny bathroom. On the way back, I trip over a bag and slam my leg into the corner of a box.
“Nice one, Grace.”
“Shut up.” I hiss through my teeth while rubbing my shin. “Ouch.”
“Are you bleeding?” He squats in front of me, cradling my calf to pull my leg closer. It’s tight quarters, and I can smell him—something fresh but mixed with his sweat. My mouth waters. Would I be able to taste it on his skin?
His fingertips graze the sensitive skin behind my knee. Jesus. He’s never touched my bare skin there before. It’s just my calf. How can that make me feel…restless and unfulfilled?
He traces the skin around the injury with a fingertip. “The skin’s broken, but it’s just the first layer. Nothing serious.”
Tell that to my pulse, which is doing a splendid imitation of a jackhammer. “Yeah.” My voice is raspy. “Nothing serious.”
His gaze crawls up my shin to my thigh, my torso, my eyes. Oh, he knows what this is doing to me. Deliberately, he slides his hand up my thigh before letting go. Then he stands and licks his lips, eyes locked on mine.
Now I’m covered with goose bumps, suddenly feverish with wanting his hands on my body again—and not wanting to let him leave my apartment until we’re sweaty for another reason. The intensity of the attraction I feel for him spreads through me from cell to cell like a virus. Liking him is deadly because I can’t feel this for him, can’t want him this much.
His fingers tangle in my hair and lift my face. I shouldn’t be taking a step toward him, grabbing
the front of his shirt, and pulling him closer like this. He crushes his body to me as his lips gently meet mine as if this means something. His tongue teases my lips open and eases inside my mouth, and when it touches my tongue, I shudder and clutch at him, desperate to pull him closer when I should be pushing him away.
But his hands are gentle, his lips are firm, and his tongue strokes mine in ways that dissolve rational thought and all the bones in my body. He tastes like peppermint and the last lover I can imagine ever wanting again because no one has kissed me like this—and I want more. I want it all. He wraps me in his arms and squeezes. I stretch up, allowing more of my body to press against his, then wrap my arms around his neck and gently grind my hips against his. One of his hands slips down my side and around to palm my breast, lifting and gently kneading it through my shirt and bra. He’s already hard.
He breaks the kiss, and I’m left breathless, but then he pushes me against the wall and pins my hands above my head—and who the hell needs air anyway? I arch against him, pressing my breasts against his chest, trying to ease the ache as he nibbles my earlobe and kisses his way down my collarbone, releasing my hands to palm my breasts.
I trail my hands under his shirt and over the cut ridges of his abs. He pulls one of my thighs up, pressing against my core, making me moan in his mouth when his lips find mine again. His mouth is everything. God, I can’t wait. This is going to be so damn good. We’ll have amazing sex, and then…what? Live happily ever after? I tip my head back to give him better access to the tender flesh of my neck.
Shut up, brain.
About the Author
Tamara Mataya is a New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, a librarian, and a musician with synesthesia. Armed with a name tag and a thin veneer of credibility, she takes great delight in recommending books and shushing people. She puts the 'she' in TWSS and the B in LGBTQIA+. http://feakysnucker.blogspot.com/
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