Inappropriate Thoughts (Victoria Wilde #1)

A Victoria Wilde Novel

IAN DALTON

Copyright © Ian Dalton, 2011

All rights reserved.

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Cover photo credits: dashek/Photos.com

V5.6s

ALSO
BY
IAN DALTON

The
Victoria Wilde Series:

INAPPROPRIATE THOUGHTS

SECRET THOUGHTS (Excerpt included)

REVEALING THOUGHTS

SECOND THOUGHTS

Victoria Wilde Prequel

DESPERATE THOUGHTS

SWEET PROCRASTINATION

ENHANCED

To contact Ian or to be placed on a mailing list to
receive updates about new releases, send an email to
[email protected]

To find out more about the author and his work,
see

http://www.iandaltonbooks.com/

Table of Contents

Inappropriate Thoughts

Secret Thoughts Excerpt

Jillian Grayson sat up in bed, typing away
on the keyboard of her laptop computer. She wore a nightshirt that
wasn’t all that sexy, but what she was typing was… or at least it
started out that way...

Dallas lay in bed, unable to sleep and
wondering if Katrina was suffering the same fate—and for the very
same reason. Did she want him as much as he wanted her? Katrina was
but a few steps away, yet he dare not go to her, for he was a
guest, and then there was Katrina’s mother, who was just across the
hall. For Dallas, sleep came minutes later, but it would be short-
lived, for soon Katrina stood over him, completely nude and
pondering how to proceed...

Dallas must have been in a deep sleep, since
he didn’t feel it when Katrina peeled the sheet carefully off him,
exposing his muscular body, six-pack abs, and sizeable manhood. She
quivered when his impressiveness sprang into view. For a long time,
she kneeled next to the bed, just studying his body and savoring
his scent. Taking his sex into her hand, Katrina worked it until it
was rigid while she watched him sleep. When Dallas woke, he looked
into her eyes, swallowed hard, and whispered, "I’ve been waiting
for you."

Just as fast as his sex expanded, it lost
its firmness and flopped against his leg. Katrina looked down at it
in disappointment and then moaned in frustration. "What’s
wrong?"

Dallas said sheepishly, "Sometimes that
happens to me. Sorry. Ever since I cheated on my wife with that
whore in the pool, I haven’t been able to—"

Jillian stopped typing and thought she might
be heading in the wrong direction with this. How did her ex-husband
get into the story? But then again, most men are assholes, she
thought.

Picking up the glass of wine from her
nightstand, she took a long sip and then replaced it. She
highlighted the last paragraph about Dallas’s problem, hit one key,
and it was gone. Just like his boner. She laughed out loud.

Jillian wasn’t exactly in the correct frame
of mind to write at the moment, especially on this particular
subject. She stared straight ahead and wondered about the
likelihood of Dallas slipping in the shower, striking his head, and
dying instantly. Or maybe an earthquake could strike, and Dallas’s
amazingly perfect body would be trapped under a giant beam.

What the hell kind of name
was
Dallas
anyway? She thought she might want to give her character a
real name like Stewart but figured no one would believe that a guy
named Stewart could give you six consecutive orgasms in one
night.

What was she doing, anyway, writing novels
about people having amazing sex when she’d never had any? Okay,
maybe once or twice twenty years ago, but none since then. She had
no right. If people knew that she was the one writing these books,
they wouldn’t buy them. She was a fraud.

Jillian picked up her wineglass and took
another long drink. She grinned, wiped those unhelpful thoughts
from her mind, and started typing again...

Katrina took his sex in
her hand and worked it until it was rigid. As she studied it
closely, Katrina noticed two red bumps on the underside of his
pathetic excuse for a penis. She recoiled in
horror
—

Jillian hit the backspace key to erase
everything after Dallas’s "sex" started expanding. Romance novels
about erectile dysfunction and STDs weren’t exactly big sellers.
She closed the lid on the laptop and tossed it gently onto a pillow
at the foot of the bed. She emptied her wineglass with one last sip
and turned on the television.

Jillian Grayson wrote under the pen name of
Jaclyn West. She’d written fourteen bestsellers so far and had more
money than she needed flowing in, so her next novel could wait. The
book royalties had paid for her large, beautiful house in Miami.
She still had plenty of money, even after the divorce, which forced
her to part with nearly half of her earnings to her bastard
ex-husband.

She’d never forget the day she came home
early from a book tour and found George performing oral sex on that
slut in the pool, the pool she had paid for and an act he rarely,
if ever, did for her. Jillian always thought he hated oral sex or,
more specifically, he hated the giving part. But there he was,
naked, standing in the shallow end of the pool, and going to work
on some other woman as she floated in the pool on a ring, which
Jillian had also paid for. The pool oral sex thing actually looked
like it might be kind of fun, and Jillian often wondered why George
had never once tried that on her.

That day, when Jillian spotted them from the
second floor balcony off their bedroom, she had watched for a
little longer than she’d care to admit. Maybe that was because all
her erotic romance writing had left her desensitized to sex, at
least a little. At first, it didn’t seem real; it was as if she was
visualizing a scene for a book, not watching her husband cheat on
her.

When she finally came back to earth, Jillian
left the house and went to the side of the pool. She snuck up on
the adulterous couple and stood there until the woman being
serviced noticed they had an audience. The woman tapped George on
the shoulder to get his attention. When George turned around, he
had a guilty look on his face that Jillian would never forget.
Jillian wouldn’t let the naked woman back in the house to get her
clothes. She simply threw the clothes out the door. The woman was
forced to get dressed outside and shamefully leave through the back
gate. George went into the house, got dressed, and left through the
front door. It was the last time he ever set foot inside.

Jillian didn’t cry that day; instead, she
put on a pair of kitchen gloves and retrieved the ring float from
the pool. When her attempts to drain the float of air through the
valve seemed to be taking too long, she stabbed it ten times with
scissors. That could possibly have been overkill, but it did the
trick and gave her a much-needed outlet for her rage. Jillian
called a company to have the pool drained, scrubbed, and refilled
at the cost of fifteen hundred dollars. It was worth it, she
thought, because she would never have been able to dip a toe in the
pool until every last drop of that contaminated water was
replaced.

She imagined what George had been up to all
those times she was traveling. What types of women had he explored
in and out of the pool? How long had he been screwing around and
with how many women? Although Jillian was out of town quite a bit,
she had never suspected anything, since George never seemed to be
sneaking around, nor was he ever evasive about where he was going
or what he had planned. Their sex life was never great or very
active, but he seemed to be an attentive and loyal husband—at
least, most of the time.

Once Jillian discovered the infidelity, she
wanted to know if George had left her with any other little
surprises. She went to her doctor for a complete STD panel of
tests, and luckily for him, she came back clean. Had George left
her with something, she would have cut off his balls, or worse.

Jillian could always come up with stories
and had never suffered from long bouts of writer’s block in the
past. But lately her male characters ended up mangled in some
horrible accident, diseased, or unable to perform. She could not
focus. Even though she had no personal interest in the lifestyle,
she pitched an idea for an all-female, lesbian romance novel, but
her publisher declined. Maybe she would try to write in another
genre, she thought, but this romance stuff used to come so easily
to her.

She was sitting on four unfinished
manuscripts. Once Jillian found a story heading down the wrong
path, she would start another, but that technique didn’t seem to be
working for her, either. Since the divorce, she found herself
unable to finish a novel, and she was beginning to think that maybe
what she needed was a complete break from writing.

She couldn’t blame George completely,
because ever since her first bestseller, she definitely was less
attentive to him than she needed to be. It was probably at least
ten percent her fault, although she never admitted that to him.
Even so, did he really need to screw other women in their house,
especially in their pool? Couldn’t he have gotten a divorce first
or at the very least done it in a hotel or something? What if their
son, Rob, currently attending college in Georgia, had come home to
catch his father doing what he was doing with another woman in
broad daylight? Rob would have been devastated.

He’d be home for Spring Break in about six
weeks, although Jillian was sure he’d spend nearly all his time
with his girlfriend, Laura, who was going to school in Miami.
They’d been dating since their junior year of high school, and it
looked like these two kids were in love and would be married once
they graduated from university.

Even though she knew she wouldn’t see him
much while he was home, Jillian looked forward to his visit. She
knew her son was the only truly good thing to come out of the
marriage.

Jillian grabbed the remote control and
changed the channel just in time to catch the Super Bowl as it was
ending. She had forgotten it was on. Not that she would have tuned
in anyway. She used the Packers’ victory celebration as a
distraction from thinking about romance novels or ex-husbands or
even men in general, although she did like the way Green Bay’s
quarterback filled out his tight football pants. She might be
bitter, but she wasn’t dead.

Staring up at the ceiling, she wondered what
had brought her to this place in her life. How had she ended up all
alone in this big house? What had she done wrong? She glanced back
to the screen. When she saw an image of the Steelers locker room
filled with nearly naked men, she thought about her best friend,
Victoria Wilde. Jillian wondered what she was doing. She checked
the time and saw it was still early. Grinning, she wondered why she
bothered checking, since even two in the morning would still be
early for Victoria. She grabbed the phone and dialed. The phone
rang three times, and just as Jillian was about to hang up, she
heard the click. After five seconds of complete silence, the sound
of soft moaning spilled through the phone.

Jillian listened for a moment.
"Victoria?"

"Hello?" Victoria finally replied in a
throaty drawl.

"Hey, what are you doing?"

"Oh, uh... not much. I just have a friend
over."

"Sorry, I’ll let you go then."

"No, don’t worry about it. I can talk for a
few minutes."

Victoria was sitting on the sofa in her
living room, wearing a skintight, cleavage-featuring top. She had
just turned thirty-nine but looked much younger, as she was in
spectacular shape and dressed like a woman in her late twenties.
Her "friend" wasn’t currently visible at her eye level, but he was
nearby.

"So, what’s going on?" Victoria asked.

Jillian sighed and began,
"I tried to do some writing tonight, but I’m struggling
again
. I’m just not in a
very sexual mood."