Seducing Amelia: Plump Playwright, #2

SEDUCING AMELIA

Curvy Amelia Perkins is a spinster. As a librarian, she is determined to drag this town out of its illiterate rating, no matter the reader’s preferences. So, when sweet elderly Maude asked for something with a little steam in it, Amy didn’t hesitate to recommend her own erotic novels. She’d written them on a lark, and eleven books into the Masculine Manipulation series, her nom de plume was a household name.

When Maude’s charming grandson, Tom Bradshaw, storms into Amy’s idyllic life, she learns that the men in her books pale in comparison to the sheer stupidity and hypocrisy of men in general. Sure, Tom’s gorgeous, intelligent, with lips she could sculpt in clay, repeatedly, but he’s an opinionated ass who can’t seem to leave her alone.

Especially now that he’s read her novels.

ALSO BY SEVANNAH STORM

THE BLOOD OF LEGENDS

The Huntress

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PLUMP PLAYWRIGHTS

Plump Jane

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STANDALONE

Xiaxan Fox

Player Mistaken

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COMING SOON

THE GIFTING

Soul Forged

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PLUMP PLAYWRIGHTS

Loving Finley

Seducing Amelia

Plump Playwright Act II

by Sevannah Storm

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This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents and dialogues in this book are of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is completely coincidental.

Published by Sevannah Storm.

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First Edition 2021

Copyright © 2020 - 2090 Sevannah Storm All rights reserved.

Cover Art by Sevannah Storm

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your enjoyment only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

https://sevannahstorm.wixsite.com/website

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Chapter One

Silence descended on her small world when the front door clicked shut. Amelia sighed, a smile teasing her lips. Sonja had, at last, gone home for the day, leaving Amy alone in the still, book-scented library. The setting sun offered a final illusion of warmth through the windows high above the shelves.

Ambling to the record player to the rear of the building, she paused to tidy books before slipping a long-playing record out of its cover. She placed it on the turntable with a reverent touch, lifted the needle with a steady finger then lowered it.

Pavarotti’s Viva La Traviata Le Brindisi filled the small confines of the quaint library. She closed her eyes, raised her face to the ceiling, and allowed his dulcet voice to soothe her. She shivered, wishing she knew a man with such a deep tenor. Her nipples hardened under her vintage button-up blouse.

She stored that feeling, having assessed it from all angles for her writing. Whatever lost desire, love, longing she experienced, she poured into her novels. Then before she fell asleep, whatever lingered, she’d take care of as if she attended to her anti-aging rituals.

A spinster at twenty-eight? In tiny Gainsford, she was, with no prospects other than Phillipe Lorenzo, her neighbor’s son, who insisted on treating her to dinner when he visited from the big city. He tried every time for a little affection, but no, dinner did not equal sex in her mind, no matter how much she longed for someone to love her.

Balancing a stack of books against her ample bosom, she navigated the shelves, waltzing, and sashaying down the aisles. She hummed or sang along, pausing only to replay it. As crisp as the digital version was, it couldn’t compare to the authenticity of an LP.

To slide in a book at the base of the shelf, she had to bend at the waist and balance on her platform pumps—a weakness of hers. She hadn’t seen the man enter the library or approach her, just sensed his shadow when it was too late. With a yelp, she bolted upright, leaped back, bounced off a bookshelf, and teetered on her heels for a moment before sliding to the floor.

What the f...physics 530 do you think you are doing? She huffed her hair out of her face to glare at the intruder.

Her breath hitched, and she blinked. The fashion for criminals must have changed. Since when did they wear crisp gray suits that molded to broad shoulders and bulging biceps? He was too tanned, as if he’d just returned from a tropical island. Which was possible if he was the head of a drug cartel. Now, that made sense.

One moment she sprawled before him like a ritual offering, the next, she was in his arms, his hands gripping her waist. His navy-blue shirt gaped, tuffs of ebony hair peeked through. His cologne overpowered the musty library, citrus and grass...delicious. He waited as if to ensure she wouldn’t fall over, then with a curt nod, released her.

My apologies...

Whatever he said after that, she couldn’t say. Holy Dostoyevsky, his voice rumbled like distant thunder. Her calmed nipples tightened, and tingles spread with her breasts swelling. Wow, she had no words to describe the sensation. It couldn’t be instant attraction. Sure, she wrote about it, but was this proof of its existence, or was it an urban legend?

His cheeks darkened, and he clenched his jaw, waiting for her to speak.

Blinking at him, as if dazed, she opened her mouth, but her mind wouldn’t fire a thought.

Listen, I don’t have time for this bullshit. I’d like the contact details for Ms. Amelia Perkins.

She frowned. Why did he want to speak to her? In that harsh tone, she wouldn’t be helpful, not when he’d scared her to death then hummed desire through her body. Here in Gainsford, a man had to buy a woman dinner, kiss her, among other intimacies, to get her to this stage of readiness. Tom just had to use that lethal voice of his.

She narrowed her eyes. We don’t give out staff information. You can leave a message with me, and I’ll let her know.

His arched brow looked like a crow’s wing. Are you the head librarian?

Sometimes. She wanted to snort, to roll her eyes, but ladies never acted in such a vulgar manner, or so her mother claimed. Little did she know of Amy’s other proclivities.

With Sonja as Amy’s assistant, many things happened in the library that Amy wasn’t privy to, and often, she felt like they’d swapped roles.

The phone rang, and she darted around the man, ignoring his looming physique, tantalizing cologne, and glower. She launched herself across the check-in desk and grabbed the phone.

Sonja, you’re home?

Why are you breathless? Sonja’s voice sounded too eager and suspicious for Amy’s liking. If she hinted she wasn’t alone, ever-romantic Sonja would rush over to matchmake.

Had to run for the phone. If she didn’t answer, Sonja would return to the library, and there went Amy’s blissful evening.

She glanced at the man, watching him approach her. Long strides, pinched lips, and intense focus made for one hell of a brooding package. She clenched her thighs together against the rush of heat, which was a struggle when she had one foot on the floor and the other hovering mid-air.

All right, have a lovely evening, and don’t work too late. Sonja clicked off.

Amy returned the phone to the cradle, her secret life curling her lips into a delicious smile. Sonja thought Amy worked all hours at the library. Little did she know about her novels. She raised her gaze to rest on Sonja’s pixie-haired she-devil photo mounted on the wall. Right below Amy’s with the hold plaque announcing her title as Head Librarian.

Bloody Waterloo. She spun on her foot, lowered the other, and sidled in front of the framed staff photographs. Too late.

Right, Ms. Perkins, let’s discuss your book selection. He folded his arms across his chest, and he seemed to grow in stature. An ebony curl fell across his temple as he narrowed his hazel eyes.

She gasped. What? Why? She had an extensive selection, and had worked hard to make the right choices for her small town. Today, two teenagers she’d never seen before had requested library cards.

He yanked a familiar book out of his jacket pocket, struggling with it for a bit. His massive hands must have wedged it in there. A semi-nude couple in a passionate embrace splashed across the cover. A black leather bustier hinted at something more than missionary style. Gemma James was the author, and that would be Amelia Perkins if one looked at her taxes.

He slammed the book onto the check-in counter, his fingers an inch from her hip. This filth should not be in my grandmother’s hands. What were you thinking?

Filth? Fury pulsed her heartbeat behind her left eye, and she settled her hands on her hips. How dare he? Have you read it?

Horror contorted his handsome features. I don’t have time to read drivel, Ms. Perkins.

Grandmother? The only elderly woman who had checked this book out was Maude.

She tapped her bottom lip with a fingertip and circled him, running a critical yet admiring gaze over his body. Her fingers itched to peel his jacket off. With those biceps, he had to have a matching backside, tight enough to bounce quarters off.

Mm, let me guess, you’re a discontented accountant, an unfulfilled banker, some hot-shot litigator, or an egotistical executive with no appreciation for literature? It didn’t matter what he did during the day, images of him making her scream shot heat to her extremities.

He growled and stepped closer, casting shadows across all her exits.

"Too close for comfort? Oh, dear me. Well, let me explain it in terms you’ll understand. Banging the same type of bimbo for say fifty years, wouldn’t that grow tiresome, sir? She scooped her book off the counter and ran a caressing finger across its edges, as if to apologize for the Neanderthal’s abuse. Forbidden Nights was her first, and yes, she’d come far since then. The same applies to reading. Some people can handle repeated sessions with the bimbo, sweet Maude asked for something steamier."

My grandmother is—

—Tired of the same-old regency stories she’s read since she was a young girl. Amy sighed, boredom tapping her foot. She wanted a roaring fire, a glass of sherry, and her laptop. Listen, Mr. Banker, if you think for one moment I didn’t try and talk Maude out of her choice, then you’re an idiot. Contrary to your belief, she’s a grown woman, stubborn, opinionated, and quite eloquent. Now, had she been underage, she wouldn’t have left the library with anything this raunchy. Amy thumped the book against his chest. Read it and form an educated opinion.

She scooped another stack of books and sashayed away, restarting Pavarotti as she meandered along the aisles. Her dismissal was all a pretense. Every one of her senses and ounce of energy in her cells focused on him. He hesitated, glared, huffed, then stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

Holy Whitman, he was gorgeous. As she hummed, an idea formed. Perhaps she should immortalize him in her Masculine Manipulation series, book twelve? She chuckled; she’d make it the dirtiest of the dozen.

Chapter Two

The fury that had driven Tom from the Springs Retirement Village to the local library fizzled the moment he slammed the door. His mind reeled, and a fine sweat had formed on his upper lip.

What the fuck had just happened?

Librarians shouldn’t look like that, not in his world. Her demure blouse, buttoned to her throat, molded to her breasts, and cinched in at her waist. Her calf-length skirt hugged her wide hips and thick thighs. He wasn’t into plump women, but fuck, he would do her, on the check-in counter, over her returns trolley, against a bookshelf. Dark auburn hair curled against her alabaster skin and with those bold ruby lips?

Her fragrance still lingered, something elusive, with hints of exotic flowers and waterfalls. As he adjusted his erection in his slacks, he stared at the book on his passenger seat. He’d gone there to have Gram’s choice of material censored. What he hadn’t expected was to have his attempts thwarted, his perceptions challenged.

He was Tom Bradshaw, the top attorney at Gibson, Smythe, and Bradshaw. No one gainsaid him or challenged him without having their ducks in a row. Yet this stunning woman had him on the back foot from the moment she’d fallen at his feet. She listened to opera, preferred not to swear, dressed like a 1950’s pinup girl, and had the sensuality of his last ten bimbos combined.

She’d been right about his choice of casual partners, a string of blonde women who seemed to pale against her vibrancy. He'd like nothing more than her lips wrapped around his cock.

Fuck.

He snatched the book, his hand trembling. Switching on the cabin’s light, he flicked to the opening paragraph, expecting some bullshit romanticized approach to sex or something too gritty for his grandmother.

Two chapters later, he grunted and snapped the book closed, tossing it onto the seat again. Dammit, he’d enjoyed the introduction of the strong female heroine, her thoughts and reactions.

Rubbing