Thanks for signing up for my newsletter. Here is your exclusive deleted scene from Leather and Lies.
Caution: Spoilers ahead. If you have not yet read Leather and Lies and don't want to know some major plot twists, turn back now!
This scene takes place in the second half of the novel, and while humorous, was ultimately cut because it didn't drive the plot forward. I have a feeling Skye, Wes, and Greg are happier that way.
We stumble backwards, toppling onto the sofa in a tangle of limbs. Clothes fly through the air in every direction. With one hand, Wes manages to unhook my bra on the first try. Practice makes perfect. He drags the zipper down on my shorts and I shimmy out of them, a swift kick sending them sailing to the opposite side of the room. Wes’ shorts land on top of mine two seconds later. Hooking his thumbs under either side of my panties, he inches them down to my ankles before launching them sling-shot style into the hallway.
I raise my eyebrows at him.
“You won’t be needing those for the foreseeable future.” A devilish grin caps his husky voice.
My body responds with a low moan. A vexing ache pulses through my groin. “I believe you’re still overdressed, Mr. Rivera.”
Wes looks down at his tented boxers, still grinning. “I believe you’re right, Miss Winters.” He strips off his final article of clothing, then lobs it into the next zip code.
I make no effort to hide my appreciative scan of his naked frame. Honestly, those ancient Greek and Roman statues have got nothing on this man. My man. A contented purr rumbles inside my chest as Wes settles between my hips, pushing my knees toward my chest. Chasing not only the worries from my mind, but nearly all coherent thoughts in general.
Our breathy moans, panting cries, and exaltations fill the empty house. Then a foreign sound invades our passion as the front door deadbolt tumbles with a metallic clunk. Keys jangles melodically before the door swings inward with its usual squeak. My head swivels automatically toward the intrusion, hands pushing against Wes’ chest without conscious direction.
For one horrific second, all I can imagine is Dave walking up the steps, seeing Wes and I tangled together, and the investigation imploding. Then rationality returns, reminding me that very few people possess keys to the front door. Just myself, my parents, and my brothers.
And since my parents are three thousand miles away, that leaves…
Shit! Greg checking up on you!
I scramble to find something to hide my nakedness, but with my clothes strewn about the room like they’d been spun in a tornado, the only thing at hand is a throw pillow. And it’s not nearly big enough to cover all the bits my brother ought never to see.
“Greg, don’t come upstairs!”
Too late. He’s already on the third step by the time I shout my warning, and tall enough to see through the spindles of the railing. The sofa lies in his direct view.
Greg’s eyes snap open as he practically falls back to the landing, disappearing from view. “Oh God! Jesus Christ, Skye, put some damn clothes on!”
I’m already hopping into my shorts, sans underwear. “Don’t take that tone with me. Ever heard of a doorbell? Or a cell phone? You could have called first!”
“I tried. Twice. You didn’t answer.”
Crap. Chances were good I never heard the ringing what with the other activities taking place.
“Made me worried,” he continues, “so I decided to stop over. Ugh. I’m going to have to go home and bleach my eyeballs.”
I roll my eyes so hard I almost fall over. I tug on my t-shirt, not bothering to search for my bra. It’s all just formality by this point anyway. Wes sits, still nude, on the couch with a throw pillow on his lap. He meets my eyes, shoving his fist into his mouth to keep from cracking up.
Of course he’d find this hilarious. Men.
“Well, as you can see, I’m alive and well,” I shout back at my brother. "So you can be on your way."
"Fine. I'm leaving." The door squeaks as he pulls it back open. "Just, next time you decide to get it on in Mom's living room, at least hang a sock on the doorknob or something."
I snatch the throw pillow from Wes' lap and hurl it over the bannister, but the front door has already slammed shut.
Copyright Celeste Straub 2019