Song of the South
Song of the South
Beverly Cialone

Michael met Vicki online - for what he thought might be a quiet diversion on a quick business trip. From the moment he met reserved loan officer Vicki, this diversion was nothing like he expected. Crawl into bed with two stories of their adventures - but don't plan on sleeping...

ISBN ebook: 978-1-926760-24-7
FICTION | Erotica
Word Count: 19,000
List Price: $2.99
Published: November 2009

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Book 1: The Meeting

I checked the clock – a few minutes before four. Plenty of time. Fresh from the shower, I walked around the hotel suite with a face full of shaving cream and wrapped in a towel – this place wasn’t half bad for a twilight tryst! The plan was to meet Vicki at 4:30 at the hotel bar – have a drink or two – give each other a careful scrutiny and see if sparks would follow. Certainly there was some possibility there could be disappointment by one of us – but after the e-mails – those chances would be remote, bordering on non-existent!

A knock on the door. I peeked through the viewer – it was Vicki!

“I just couldn’t stand twiddlin’ and fiddlin’ at that nasty ole’ bar waitin’ for you, sugar! Why be waitin’ down there when I could be waitin’ up here!”

Of course, I’d seen her photos in her e-mails – and was more than ready. Fortyish - perhaps a size 12 – no stick-figure people, puh-leeze! She leaned against the jamb - her blues eyes flashed fire - deep dimples gave her a puckish, anything-is-possible look - her arms folded beneath her full breasts, and purred, “Michael! Finally! What a nice surprise!”

But this story is getting ahead of itself.

My firm planned to send me to a southwestern state for an extensive, on location, assignment. Not wanting to spend my nights in a barren hotel room alone, I worked the Internet searching for a possible companion. The first response was very tepid – and worse - through the vagaries of cyberspace – Vicki was from the Deep South. My first instinct was to just forget this – then again, what’s the harm in exchanging a few pleasantries.

The e-mails started innocently enough – as did the photos. Vicki was plain vanilla and prudish – a loan officer at a prominent Atlanta-based bank. That first photo had her all wrapped up in a navy business suit – peering over reading glasses – about as promising as a day-old grilled cheese sandwich. She told me her interests included antebellum antique restoration and baroque harpsichord music. Why I was wasting my time? Then, quietly, there was a steady escalation of the temperature of those e-mails. Suddenly, like a roller coaster on the first drop – there were no brakes – just runaway, scorching heat.

Also by Beverly Cialone

The Gift | Coming Home | True Confessions | Sangria Nights | In The Eye of the Beholder