A two story collection of hot couples who decide to make things even hotter by putting a man in the middle.
In Some Things, a friend of Joe's stirs the pot and puts Zoe in a corner. "There are some things you simply don’t ask for. I know that. And I had done a damn fine job of keeping this particular thought-wish-dream to myself. Until that jackass, Drake, undid it all."
Zoe ends up confessing a long-held fantasy of seeing her husband with another man while he's with her. What Zoe is not expecting after spilling the beans is that Joe will do whatever he can to make sure she gets what she wants.
In Hidey Hole, a drawer riddled piece of furniture shows Jill a glimpse of Peter's past in a note. Now that we’re moving, I want you to know that you mean so much to me. And when I’m lonely or sad, I will always think of us together. How you smelled, how you touched me, what you tasted like...
Jill pieces together her husband's adolescent experimentation and wonders (aloud) if he might just do it again. But this time for her. Lucky for Jill, Peter's all about pleasing his wife.
Ashira Datya, HEA Reviews
"I really enjoyed Man in the Middle, both of the stories were sizzling hot. The author did an amazing job of writing the story so that the reader feels like he or she is a part of the story and physically in each scene. I would read more by this author again, no doubt about it."
Claudia R., Manic Readers Reviews, 4.5/5 STARS
"I loved Ms. Marsden’s writing style… You can never be too graphic in an erotic tale, and Ms. Marsden does a splendid job in depicting the confusion, struggle, love, and finally acceptance… The eroticism was fantastic… you get two great stories in one book!"
Ambrosia, Whipped Cream Reviews, 4/5 CHERRIES
"... sweet and moving... lighthearted and fun, while one could only imagine the free-thinking attitudes of the lovers. Out of the darkest places can come the brightest light."
From Some Things:
“So what is it?” He didn’t look directly a t me but instead at his five o’clock shadow in the mirror. He stroked his jaw as if considering shaving. We both knew damn well he wouldn’t. He never shaved on the weekends.
“What’s what?” I pulled the toilet paper roll so viciously I ended up with enough toilet paper for a baby elephant.
“The fantasy you’re keeping from me.” More mirror examining as I wiped and flushed.
“How long have we been married?” he asked, confusing me for an instant.
I sighed. “Thirteen years.”
“How often do we lie to each other?”
“Pretty much never.” I tried to scoot by him, but the bathroom was so damned small, he took a step back and nearly pinned me against the tub.
“So why are you lying now? What’s so horrible about this fantasy that you can’t or won’t tell me?”
“There is no fantasy!” I growled and felt my fists ball up on their own. As if on cue, I had a vivid mental flash of what I imagine almost every time we make love. I gritted my teeth and willed it away.
“Yeah. Well, your face says you’re lying. Your voice says you’re lying. And you look guilty as all get out.”
“Why is this so important?” I hissed. Tears. I could feel them coming like an impending storm. And goddamn I hated to cry. My throat was squeezing shut, and my eyes were prickling. I felt panicky.
“Because I love you.”
From Hidey Hole:
There was a nightstand that matched the demo dresser Peter had been showcasing. It was in this beautifully carved piece of his past that I found the letter. I pressed the drawer liner to see if this one also had a false bottom. Who knew, maybe I would find a vintage skin mag or an ancient desiccated bud of pot. Instead, I found dried up glue holding down the delicate paisley patterned liner. I was all ready to move on when a square of white-lined paper flashed in my peripheral vision. I pulled the liner a bit more and tugged the triangle of yellowed paper. “Man, someone really wedged it back there,” I said to the dog. He was lying on my feet, bored and snoozing the way dogs do.
Simon raised his eyes, sniffed, went back to sleep. “Try not to get too excited,” I said to him. This time he didn’t even open his eyes.
I unfolded the paper, standard college-ruled filler paper, and saw the heading Dearest Peter. I folded it back. “I shouldn’t read this Simon. I think it’s a love note.”
Simon snorted like a pig, but beyond that he barely registered my addressing him. I sighed, curiosity getting the better of me. I unfolded the paper fast, the way you would take off a band-aid, and continued reading. The opening was mundane enough. Flirtatious and sweet and flattering. Someone who was clearly just star-struck by Peter back in the day. The date in the upper right hand corner would have put my husband at a week shy of eighteen.
“Oh, Simon, I really, really should put this down,” I said. But I kept reading. And Simon didn’t say a word. He didn’t even raise his head or thump his tail on the hardwood floor.
This summer with you has been the best of my life. Now that we’re moving, I want you to know that you mean so much to me. And when I’m lonely or sad, I will always think of us together. How you smelled, how you touched me, what you tasted like...