Excerpt of Not Vanilla: Voyeurism by Jennifer Lynne, Roz Lee

Beth elbows me in the ribs. “He’s here again,” she says, pitching her voice to be heard over the band. It isn’t humanly possible to be less discreet. “He’s lookin’ good, don’t you think?” Everyone at our table gawks at Travis, even the ones who have to turn around to do so. To say Travis is lookin’ good is the understatement of the century. Trust me, he’s got nothing on the rodeo guy Penny has been crushing on. I’ve seen the guy. Travis is a good six inches taller, and, where the other guy could be described as lanky, absolutely no one would apply that adjective to Travis. His shoulders are broad, his chest muscled and covered with enough hair to make your tits stand up and beg when he brushes up against them. You could do laundry on his abs. It’s a good thing he rarely ends up on his ass when he competes, ’cause there ain’t an ounce of fat back there. It’s all muscle, girlfriend. Don’t get me started on how his backside looks in a pair of jeans. Well, everyone who’s ever seen him knows already. His eyes are the exact shade of faded denim, framed with long lashes I would die for. No matter how often he shaves a shadow of his dark beard shows. He knows it drives me crazy when he lets it grow a day or two. From where I’m sitting, it looks like his face hasn’t seen a razor since day before yesterday. The man is trying to kill me. I swear. I shrug for the benefit of the girls at the table then tip back the tequila shot I’d been hanging onto since arriving. It might as well be acid for all I taste. Suddenly, getting blind drunk sounds pretty good. I raise the empty shot glass above my head, waving it around until our waitress gets the message. A few minutes later, she takes the empty, plunking a full one down in its place. If I look at Travis, he’ll know exactly what I’m trying to do, and he’ll be angry. So, I don’t look. Instead, I raise the glass to my lips and tilt it up, throwing my head and the liquor back at the same time. Just like watching Travis, I have to pace myself with the drinking. Yeah, I want to get shit-faced but not as much as I want what Travis is here to give me. This time, I slam the thick glass onto the table, leaving it there while I savor the burn in my gut and wait for the tequila to blur the lines between virtue and obscenity. Oh, how I love to play the virtuous woman when deep inside I’m anything but. That’s the power Travis holds over me. He knows, and he loves me anyway. I don’t know why I can’t accept his love, but I’m sure it has nothing to do with him or his gifts and everything to do with me. I’m f**ked up. My f**kedupedness grabs me by the pu**y, and I glance in his direction again. Sure enough, he’s looking right at me, warning written in every line of his face. He’s told me before drinking won’t make the f**kedupedness go away, and I know it’s true. Lord knows I’ve tried to drown it in alcohol more than once. With Travis, I tried going cold turkey, which lasted all of three weeks before I went on a binge. That’s when he decided it was up to him to give me what I needed, measuring the doses and doling them out on an as-needed basis. In between, he would be all mine. I don’t know if I would have gone for the plan if he’d discussed it with me ahead of time or not, but he didn’t, and I didn’t. Go along with it, I mean. Yet, here I am, creaming the panties I don’t have on and clutching an empty shot glass to keep from touching myself. My insides quiver, and, like a junky, I need a fix. Thank God, Travis will give me one.