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More from Amanda

  • Amanda’s Forbidden Feast

    Thanksgiving Heat: Amanda’s Forbidden Feast

    Good food. Bad decisions. One very hot holiday.

    Amanda loved Thanksgiving, even when she ended up doing all the work. The kitchen was hot, the apron hugged her waist, and the smell of roasted herbs and cinnamon filled the house.

    But her cousin’s husband, Blake, wasn’t supposed to stare at her the way he did. Leaning in the doorway, watching every curve as she bent over the oven, eyes dragging up her legs like he owned them.

    He stepped in close behind her. “You always this sexy when you cook?”

    “Go help your wife,” she breathed, pulse skipping.

    “She’s busy. I’m busy admiring the view.”

    His hand brushed her hip — slow, intentional — and she gasped. He smelled like flannel and heat and trouble, and she didn’t pull away.

    “Someone could walk in.”

    “Then come with me.”

    He led her to the back storage room. The second the door shut, he pressed her against it, mouth crashing onto hers. She kissed him back hard, fingers gripping his shirt, her body already melting.

    He lifted her onto the table, standing between her thighs. She wrapped her legs around him, grinding against him, soft moans slipping free as he kissed down her neck.

    “I’ve wanted you for so long,” he panted.

    “Show me,” she whispered.

    He did — with hands, mouth, and a hunger that made her body snap in a pulse of heat that shook her entire core. Blake followed with a low groan, holding her tight as if the world outside didn’t exist.

    When she finally returned to the kitchen, cheeks flushed and legs weak, Amanda stirred the sweet potatoes like nothing happened.

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  • The Unforgettable First Encounter

    Amanda & Tom — An Evening of Trust

    Amanda & Tom

    An evening of trust, boundaries, and desire
    Fiction Rated R

    Amanda, a stunning thirty-five-year-old blonde, stood in her tastefully decorated living room, nervously twirling the edge of her silk scarf. Her husband, Tom—tall, dark-haired, a hint of silver at his temples—sat across from her on the plush couch, eyes downcast. They were both dressed to impress, ready for the night’s events.

    “Are you sure about this?” Tom asked hesitantly, glancing up at Amanda. “We don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.”

    Amanda took a steadying breath. She had been thinking about this moment for weeks, ever since she came across an ad on a private forum. The idea of opening a door—carefully and with consent—had taken root and wouldn’t let go.

    “I want this,” she whispered, meeting his gaze. “And I think it will be good for us.”

    Tom nodded, love and worry flickering across his face. If this was what Amanda needed, he would meet her there—together, or not at all.

    The doorbell rang. Amanda smoothed her fitted black dress and crossed the room. Tom’s hands tightened on the armrests as she opened the door to their unconventional evening.

    Standing there was a young, well-built man with warm, dark skin that caught the soft hallway light. His eyes were steady and appreciative. “I’m Marcus,” he said, stepping inside with an easy confidence.

    “Tom,” Amanda said, gesturing toward the living room, “this is Marcus. Marcus, my husband, Tom.”

    Marcus offered Tom a polite nod before his attention drifted back to Amanda. “So,” he began, looking from one to the other, “I understand there’s something you both want me to help with?”

    Amanda swallowed, feeling the drum of her pulse. “Yes,” she said softly. “We want to explore this—together.”

    Trust was the only dress code that mattered.

    Marcus’s smile was subdued but certain. “Then we take this slow,” he said. “Clear words. Clear boundaries. We check in. Agreed?”

    “Agreed,” Tom replied, voice low but firm.

    The living room seemed to hush as the evening found its rhythm. At Amanda’s request, Tom rose and helped her with the buttons at her back—an intimate ritual that felt like a vow. Marcus waited, respectful, until Amanda took his hand and guided him closer.

    There were kisses—unhurried, breath-stealing. Hands at her waist. A murmur of directions and consent, the kind that makes a room feel safer than it looks. Tom settled beside them, close enough to see every glance, every soft smile that asked, okay? and answered, yes.

    The details are private—the kind of heat that deserves a closed door and the quiet thrum of music. What matters is how it ended: with Amanda and Tom curled together on the couch, cheeks flushed, fingers intertwined, a new understanding between them like a secret constellation only they could read.

    “Thank you,” Amanda whispered to both men, sincerity catching in her throat. “That was… incredible.”

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