The Need For Weed: Book 2 Of 'poterotica'

Two decades after college, their marriage was passionate, satisfying.



Then a weed-thin teen, tall and pretty, moves into their spare room - his man cave - cutting off access to his marijuana stash and tempting him with progressively more revealing outfits and behavior.



When her voluptuous and flirtatious mother shows up, desire, temptation and opportunities multiply.



Welcome to PotErotica.



~~~~~ PG Excerpt ~~~~~



"Good morning."



I almost dropped the square paper container of General Tsao's as I jumped. By the light of the open refrigerator, I could see Weed standing with a half-smile, leaning against the doorway. The thin sleepshirt covered our young houseguest to near mid-thigh, which still left a mile of tan, slim legs. Her pretty face was scrunched up, squinting against the light. She sounded groggy. The microwave clock said 2:08 AM. Morning indeed.



She shuffled across the vinyl floor and wrapped her arms around me in a hug. Her body was relaxed, almost collapsing against me, still sleepy. My wife was petite, slender, but my arms seemed to reach almost twice as far around Weed's taller, skinnier frame.



"You smell like sex."



She was my height or a hair taller, so my face buried against her neck as she leaned into me. She smelled like pot. Weed. My pot. Mixed with a sweet, girly musk. I had no idea how to respond to her observation.



"Damn. You really smell like sex." She drew a slow sniffing breath along my jaw, repeating the exact words, stretching them out with more deliberate emphasis. I shivered. It felt electric. Her pixie nose dragged up to the corner of my mouth, still tracing the scent. Her mouth was close to mine, the sweet, pouty lips I had fantasized about so many times recently. Fantasized about those lips kissing mine, about the suggestion of them sealing around the end of my glass pipe.



The tip of her tongue flicked out, sampled the skin near the corner where my lips joined, where she had last sniffed. I held myself motionless.



"Yes." She whispered, lips vibrating against my skin. "nothing else tastes quite like that."



I moaned. Not much more than a whine. Weed leaned in, her thighs and stomach hard on mine. My arms responded without permission, wrapping even further around her. Lips kissed, tasted along my jaw, feather light, weighty with promise. "Mmm. Nice and fresh."



She pushed her tiny hips in harder, found my swelling shape. "I always wondered how Aunt Carrie tasted. I wanna nother sample."



Her body dragged lower against me until her slim form slipped below my arms. Dropping to her knees, she leaned close, mouth open. Air hissed in between my teeth at the feeling of heat that reached me through the light flannel my pajama pants.



The refrigerator cast light over one side of Weed's face, showing the concentration there as she fished a hand through the open fly and pulled me free.



She cradled me in delicate, long palms and fingers, allowing hot breath out between her lips, millimeters away. 



Then her tongue was on me as her big eyes came up to find mine. I knew what she must be tasting, after so recently feeling Carrie moving under me, while I pictured instead this slender waif in her place.



"Mmmm."