Portia Da Costa - purveyor of erotic romance and erotica to the discerning woman since 1994


Please be aware that this excerpt contains sensual content that is only suitable for adult readers who are comfortable with frank language and descriptions of erotic scenarios

In Too Deep - click for larger versionBlurb

It's all in the mind...

Librarian Gwendolynne Price starts finding indecent proposals and sexy stories in her suggestion box every morning. Shocked that they seem to be tailored specifically to her own deepest sexual fantasies, she begins a tantalising relationship with a man she's never met.

At the same time, she's fast getting involved with a man she has met. Superstar historian Professor Daniel Brewster is on sabbatical, researching in the library. The glamorous academic sets women's hearts thudding all over the country, but Gwendolynne is the one he quickly shows an interest in...

Pretty soon however, a relationship of erotic letters and toe-curlingly sensual emails collides with kinky games played in the all too real flesh.

Can Gwendolynne decipher the identity of her mysterious correspondent Nemesis, and will he still be as exciting when unmasked? Can she survive the pain of loving then losing Daniel when his research is over and leaves and moves on?

Or is she tangled in too deep with both men?

Reprint published 2nd August 2012 by Black Lace.

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The archive is almost silent apart from the occasional tiny chatter of the laptop’s hard disk and the distant humming of electricals, and the air is heavy with the weight of knowledge and dust. But suddenly I detect something else… a distinct buzzing sound.

It’s almost exactly the same pitch as my vibrator and instantly my mind presents the weirdest of pictures. Has Professor Hottie got a secret vice he indulges in down here in the bowels of learning? Or maybe I’m not the only member of the library staff who’s leading the life of a clandestine pervert?

Either way, I’ve got to know what’s going on. It’s blindingly foolhardy, and there’s the potential for stunning embarrassment, both for me and whoever’s buzzing, but walking on fairy-footed tip toes, I finesse myself in the direction of the noise.

Ah… It’s coming from the tiny and rather shabby little washroom down here. It used to be a staff loo, but now we have far nicer, newer facilities upstairs. But it’s handier to pop in here though when you’re shelving in the stacks for an extended period.

I inch forward, and inch forward until I can see around the corner. Judging by the sound whoever’s in has left the door open.

Oh God!

I have to cram my knuckles in my mouth to stop myself squeaking like a startled mouse.

Daniel Brewster is standing in front of the rust spotted mirror, running a battery razor back and forth along the line of his jaw. He’s leaning over the sink, barely couple inches from the glass, peering intently at his reflection and frowning hard.

Nothing unusual about this, apart from the location… and the fact that he’s standing there stark naked.

Dear Lord in Heaven, he’s beautiful!

Completely innocent of my scrutiny, he stands relaxed, his limbs elegant, loose and almost classical. His form is muscular and compact, not an inch of spare flesh on him, and there’s a delightful little tangle of dark hair adorning his chest.

My eyes skitter from one to another of his body’s charms, almost painstakingly avoiding the place they really want to look.

But eventually, of course, I succumb.

And his cock is just as beautiful as the rest of him. Hanging soft and unaroused, it’s still impressive, and swings meatily against his thigh as he steps back and puts the razor out of sight.

I have to flatten myself against the plastered wall to keep from inching forward and potentially revealing my presence. I feel just like Nemesis, observing the object of my fantasies and willing the imagined vision not to evaporate.

But the reality of Daniel Brewster’s nudity far exceeds any of the day and night dreams I’ve been entertaining about it since he arrived here.

My heart thuds and bashes about, and I’m half afraid that even if I don’t move a muscle, or breath ever again, he’ll still detect the sound of its tremendous clamour in my chest.

With a little sigh, he runs water into the sink, and then sets about giving himself what my dear old Mum would have described as a ‘strip wash’. He rubs a soapy flannel all over his arms and shoulders and torso, then rinses the cloth out and wipes away all traces of lather.

Then, ohmigod… he soaps the flannel again and then applies it to his genitals.

At first he’s just getting clean. But after a few moments, and inevitably, I suppose, all that changes.

Under the ministrations of the flannel, his penis begins to lengthen and thicken, rising up. With a grunt, he tosses the washcloth into the water and takes himself properly in hand.

His smooth, freshly shaven jaw works as he manipulates his cock, pushing and pulling in long strokes, working the fine, rapidly blushing skin over the hard blood filled core that keeps on swelling.

Fully erect, he’s astonishing. Magnificently fulfilling the promise I felt yesterday, when I touched him through his jeans.

He breathes deeply, raggedly, his fine chest heaving as he really throws himself into his pleasure. With his free hand bracing himself on the sink, he pitches forward, pressing his forehead against the mirror. I can see his lips moving, but I can’t hear what he’s saying for the hammering of my heart.

His body is like a perfect engine and he’s pumping it, priming it. I send up a silent prayer of thanks when he adjusts his position, widening his stance for stability, and presents me an even better view of his erection and his hand upon it.

Up and down, up and down, he’s merciless with his own flesh, and he rubs his forehead against the mirror as his corded thighs flex and work in time to his masturbation.

I wonder how long he can keep this up. I certainly can’t last much longer… not without whipping up my skirt and pushing my hand into my panties to share his gasping ritual by rubbing at my clitoris. My sex feels wide and wet, pouched in welcome as if calling to the beautiful male organ of the man just a handful of yards away.

I clasp my hand to my crotch, cupping it hard through my skirt, and as I’m just about to reach for my hemline, Daniel lets out a broken groan… and then he comes.

Semen spurts out of him, shooting from his tip in intense little jets that impact against the porcelain pedestal and slide down it like liquid pearls. He seems to go on and on, as if he’s been abstinent for weeks, even months, and only now has he been forced to seek release. His face is agonised yet celestial and his voice is desperate as he swears and snarls, wordless and incoherently.

I don’t know what to think or how to react. I barely can think. I’m dumbstruck, thunderstruck, mind-struck. This is the most erotic thing I’ve ever seen, so perfect and intimate it’s dazzling.

It’s too much.

My head reeling, I back away as fast as I can without making any commotion. But as I reach the corner, I trip and scuff my shoe and the sound of it seems enormous, resounding through the entire basement, even though really it’s tiny, barely more than scuffle of an earwig. I spin and launch myself towards the stairs up to the world of normality, but not before out of the corner of my eye an image imprints itself.

Daniel’s head coming up, turning, following the sound.

Has he seen me?

© Portia Da Costa and Virgin Books 2008/2012


Published 2nd August 2012 by Virgin Books.

Buy in print from: Amazon.co.uk :: Amazon.com :: W H Smith :: Waterstones :: Barnes and Noble

Buy as an ebook from: Amazon.co.uk ::Amazon.com :: Nook Books :: Kobo :: iBooks