Richard Savage's Blog: The Anniversary, page 3

Paper Hearts

Paper Hearts
Keren Hughes

ISBN 978-1-912768-66-0

https://amzn.to/3dKvl4S


Chapter One

Winter

It sounds cheesy, cliché maybe, but as our eyes meet across a crowded room, there’s an intensity in his gaze. But as fast as it appears, it disappears again.
Friends gather around the birthday boy and though his eyes occasionally flicker over to me, a glimmer of desire swirling in them each time, he spends the evening surrounded by people and I don’t want to impose.
I’m with a group of friends from work and he seems to be out for his thirtieth birthday, according to the banners his friends have put up in one corner of the pub.
He isn’t a regular in my local pub; I’d know if he was. Anyone that handsome would stand out in the regular crowd. I overhear one of his friends saying they’re on a pub crawl and they’re ending the night somewhere else in town.
Not wanting to seem like a stalker, but wanting to see him again, I ask my friends if we can end the evening in the same pub. I don’t mention the reason why. There’d be cat-calling and never-ending jibes about wanting to get laid and that isn’t my goal at all. I mean, of course, I want to get laid, doesn’t every guy? But more than that, I want to see if the intensity of his gaze had been a fluke or a figment of my imagination.
In the darkness of the last pub on his birthday pub crawl, I can’t tell what colour his eyes are, but I can see his grey hair, making him sexy as hell with that “silver fox” thing going on. His stubble is at least a couple of days old, and his jawline makes him ruggedly handsome rather than “pretty boy”.
Don’t get me wrong; I like the occasional pretty boy, a lot like Ian Somerhalder or Matt Bomer, or even the Hemsworth brothers, but, in a way, they’re too pretty. If anyone asked me my ideal man, it would have to be someone like Jeffrey Dean Morgan or Robert Downey Jr. Maybe even Gerard Butler.
The birthday boy is a more rugged version of Taylor Kinney. The constant smileon his face makes his eyes twinkle like the shiniest stars. But when he notices me by the bar, they darken with lust.
He finally manages to get to the bar to get a round of drinks and I tell the bartender to put them on my tab. He smiles at me, the perfect Hollywood smile, and I feel a tingling sensation travel throughout my body.
“I’m Winter,” I say, holding out my hand.
“Devlyn,” he replies as his warm hand cocoons mine and shakes it.
I don’t want him to let go. His skin is smooth, yet with the odd callous here and there. His touch sends arrows of lust straight to my groin.
“Thanks for the drinks. You really didn’t have to do that.”
“No, but I wanted to. Call it my birthday present to you.”
Shock registers on his face momentarily.
“H-how did you know it was my birthday?”
His slight stutter is cute, and his shy smile brings out his dimples. My god, he really is divine.
“You were in The Red Lion earlier. Your friends had banners up announcing you were thirty.”
“I thought it was you. I saw you earlier. How did you end up here?”
“Coincidence,” I reply with a smirk.
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” he replies quietly.
“Fate then.”
“I don’t know if I believe in fate, but I’m glad I got to see you again.”
His admission makes me smile like the Cheshire Cat.
“What are you grinning at?” he asks, as he takes a sip of his pint.
The way he licks his lips afterwards has me looking directly at those perfect, full lips. I can’t help it.
“You said you were glad to see me again.”
“And that makes you smile like the cat who got the cream?”
“No, but giving me your phone number would.”
The corners of his eyes crinkle as he smiles.
He takes my phone from the bar in front of me. Frowning when he can’t get into it, he rolls his eyes and hands it to me.
“It’s a bit hard to give you my number if you don’t unlock your phone first.”
I unlock it and scroll to add his name as a contact before passing it back for him to type in his number.
Saving his number, he hands me my phone and I ring it straight away.
“Now you have my number too,” I say with a grin.
“I-I don’t normally give my numbers to guys I hardly know. In fact, I never do.”
“Yet you gave it to me.”
“It must be the alcohol making me brave.”
I chuckle and take a swig of my whiskey.
“Happy birthday, Devlyn.”
“Thank you. I’d better get back to my friends.”
He takes the tray of drinks and throws me one last smouldering look over his shoulder as he walks back to the group.
I don’t know what it is about him, whether it’s his shy side showing his vulnerability that endears him to me, or his gorgeous green gaze as he locks eyes with me. Something I can’t quite put my finger on attracts me to him in a way I haven’t been attracted to a guy in a while.
Truth is, I haven’t been with anyone since Simon and I ended around eighteen months ago. He broke my heart, and I had to move out of the house we shared. We’d bought the house of our dreams a year before and all the signs pointed to us being together forever. So, when I packed my bags, I felt my heart break in two as if someone had taken a cleaver to it.
I’ve had men come on to me since, but I haven’t been interested past a one-night stand here and there, and that really isn’t me. I am a one-man kind of guy. I want to have that happily ever after that unrealistic films tell you is just around the corner.
But Simon ruined me for other men. I thought what we had was rock solid. And if we couldn’t make it last, then how could I make something last with anyone?
My friends tell me he wasn’t “the one” for me and that I’ll meet somebody else someday. But until now, I haven’t really believed them.
I feel the whiskey make its slow burn down my throat as I look over at Devlyn with his friends. He doesn’t seem the one-night stand type, if what he said is anything to go by. He doesn’t give his number out to random men. That makes me feel good, special somehow.
I unlock my phone and open a new text.
>Enjoy your birthday, I’m off home for an early night. Maybe I’ll see you again soon… I have a belated birthday present for you…
I see him look up at me, his green gaze heated. He looks away again and I feel my phone vibrate in my hand.
>And what would that be?
I smirk as I type out my reply, alcohol making me braver than I normally am.
>That would be telling ;)
Those three dots bounce, announcing he’s replying, so I wait.
>Can I guess?
>I’ll give you three guesses.
>Guess 1: A handsome man wrapped only in a red ribbon.
>Well, that could be fun.
>Guess 2: One of the Hemsworth brothers.
>Oh, so you prefer pretty boys? I guess that means a date with me is off the cards.
I smirk as he makes eye contact and blushes.
>Final guess: A date with the most handsome guy in the bar.
>I’d say I can give you two of the three, but if you prefer pretty boys…
I wink at him as he catches my eye over the heads of his friends.
>I don’t have a “type” exactly. I like who I like, be it pretty boy or ruggedly handsome man.
>And which of the two am I?
It takes a few moments for his response, almost like he’s trying to pluck up the courage.
>Ruggedly handsome, for sure ;)
I feel myself blush, which doesn’t happen often.
>Thank you. I’m truly glad you didn’t say pretty boy. That’s not the look I was going for.
>You’re like a younger Jeffrey Dean Morgan. And just so you know, him in his Negan get-up is my ideal man.
>Well then, I might just have to buy a leather jacket and a baseball bat.
>Now that would be a birthday present and a half.
I smile as I grab my jacket and down the last of my whiskey. I didn’t come here to get him to go home with me, I came to see if he was interested or if it was my imagination. With that goal achieved, I walk outside into the cool night air and dial for a taxi.
“Don’t I get a birthday kiss?” His deep, sexy voice comes from behind me.
Now I wasn’t expecting that from the guy who seemed a little shy.
“Well, that depends…”
“On what?”
“If you’re going to regret it in the morning. I don’t want you doing something drunken that you might forget, or worse, regret.”
“I could never regret it.”
That’s all I needed to hear.
Pushing him against the wall of the pub, I lean down and claim those full lips that I’ve been daydreaming about since I first saw him.
His hand around my neck pulls me closer as his mouth opens to me. Our tongues dance sensually with each other. He tastes like whiskey, intoxicating and heady.
As my tongue explores his mouth, my cock begins to stir. It begs to be buried deep inside him, but I remind myself I don’t want some random hook-up.
He kisses me back like he’s a man starving to death and I’m his last meal. It’s passionate, hungry and desperate, like this kiss could be our last. And for all I know, it could be. So, I pull him closer and lose myself in his kiss, giving him my all, in the hopes he’ll be left wanting more. I know I will.
A car horn sounds, and I sigh as we pull apart.
“Looks like your chariot awaits,” he says, his voice husky.
“Damn him for getting here so quick.”
“Do I get to choose my belated birthday present?”
“As long as it’s not a Hemsworth brother, yes.”
He takes my hand in his and walks me to my taxi. Opening the door for me, he stands to one side.
“I choose option one.”
“Remind me what that was?” I ask, even though I know full well what he means. I just want to hear him say it.
“You, wrapped in nothing but a red ribbon.”
I pull him to me and claim his lips in one last fierce kiss goodbye. His hands go to my hair and mine grab hold of his waist, pulling him close enough to feel my budding erection. He groans into my mouth as he feels me press against him.
My tongue duels with his for dominance over the kiss. His sweet surrender almost makes me come in my jeans. I feel his erection grind against me and wish I could take him home and give him his birthday present right now.
“Goodnight, Winter,” he says as we pull apart.
“Goodnight, Devlyn.”
Closing the door behind me as I climb into the taxi, he winks at me and waves as the driver pulls away.
I sit back in the leather seat and will my erection to go down. I’m having a hard enough time concentrating on breathing after that breathtaking kiss. I know I’m going to need a cold shower when I get home.
Closing my eyes, I see his piercing green gaze, making me wish I hadn’t chosen to go home early.
Our second kiss was divine. He’d surrendered to me and let me take what I needed from him.
My phone chimes, pulling me from my thoughts.
>That kiss was a promise of more to come.
My heart races as I type out my reply.
>A promise, huh? And tell me, are you the kind of guy to break his promises?
>Never.
Well, damn. Gone is the shy guy I assumed he was. And god help me if that doesn’t turn me on even more.
Walking through my front door, I make my way up to my en suite, strip quickly and grab a towel.
Stepping into the warm spray, I palm my cock and close my eyes, conjuring up an image of Devlyn’s angular jawline, his eyes, his body…
I can’t help but wonder what lies beneath the t-shirt that stretched over an obviously muscular frame.
Gripping myself harder, I remember the stiffness of his cock rubbing against me. My thoughts stray to what he looks like naked.
I’ve always thought that the way a person kisses is an indication of how good they are at … other things. If that’s right, then, boy, Devlyn must be explosive in bed.
Feeling my balls tighten as I work myself over, I know I’m close to my climax. As I surrender myself to memories of how his lips felt against mine and thoughts of how good they’d feel wrapped around my cock, I come in warm spurts against the muscles of my abdomen.
Chapter Two

Devlyn

I wake up with a fuzzy head. I make my way downstairs to the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge and a couple of paracetamol from the drawer.
Downing two tablets, I turn on the coffee machine and wait as it pours me a strong coffee to start my day right.
My thoughts drift back to last night. Friends from work had convinced me to celebrate my thirtieth birthday with a pub crawl. They said if I didn’t wake with a hangover this morning, then I hadn’t done it right.
Grey eyes swirl in my mind. Soulful, stormy, passionate; these are all words that can be used to describe his hauntingly beautiful eyes. Winter. Even his name matched his eyes, and I wonder if that’s why his parents gave him that name.
Fuck, those lips. He kissed me like a possessed man. I wanted to bring him home with me, but I’ve never been one for one-night stands.
I’d seen him earlier in the evening in the first pub we went to. His gaze bored into me across the room, making my pulse skyrocket. Dark hair, stubble that was a day or two old, full lips and those beautiful eyes. He was dressed casually in dark ripped jeans and a grey t-shirt that stretched over taut muscles. Handsome is too lame of a word to describe him. He was … an enigma. Fucking gorgeous and with an air of mystery.
Opening my eyes, I slip my phone from my pocket and look at our text exchange. I’d told him I wasn’t a man who broke my promises. I meant every word of it.
I don’t know whether he followed me to The Fox and Hound, or he’d ended up there by coincidence, but not being one to believe in coincidences, I make a mental note to ask him how he found me. Whatever his answer though, I’m glad he was there.
From the first time our eyes met, I wanted to see him again, I just hadn’t drunk enough to pluck up the courage to make the first move. I’m not exactly shy, but I’m not very brave either. I guess I’m somewhere in-between. When the guys had convinced us to move on to the next pub, my heart sunk, knowing I wouldn’t see him again because I hadn’t gone after what I wanted. So, when he showed up again, I knew I had to do something. He’d called it fate, and maybe it was.
His promise of a belated birthday gift—him wrapped in a red ribbon—makes me smile. I don’t know when, where or how, but I know I want to see him again. I want to get to know the man behind the mysterious stormy gaze.
Thank goodness I haven’t got work today. My head spins as I lift my steaming mug to my lips and take a sip of my drug of choice, caffeine.
Walking back upstairs, mug in hand, I walk into my en suite and start the water running for my shower. When it’s hot enough, I strip off and grab a towel, throwing it over the glass door for easy access. I drink the last of my coffee and set the mug on the sink.
The hot jets from multiple shower heads hit me all at once and relax my tense muscles. As I let the water wash over me, I close my eyes and picture Winter’s handsome face. Looks-wise, he’s the total package. Devilishly handsome face, taut muscular abs and long, lean legs. He looks like he works out, which makes me picture him in his gym gear. A vest that shows those muscles off and a tight pair of shorts—most likely not what he actually wears, but it’s my fantasy after all.
Those lips of his were made for sin, and I can imagine them wrapped round my hard cock as he sucks and licks, making me harder than I’ve ever been. His hand grips the base of my cock firmly as he moves it up and down in synchronicity with his mouth. My balls tighten and that delicious feeling of him chasing my orgasm takes me higher and higher, until, finally, I can’t hold back any longer and I come in his mouth.
Looking down, I see my cum glistening over my abs and my hand. As I wash it off, I wish Winter was here in the shower with me. I’d be buried deep inside him, taking him hard and fast against the cool tile wall. He wouldn’t be able to think straight … and neither would I.
Stepping out of the shower with my towel slung low around my waist, I collect my clothes and pad back into my bedroom.
Once I’m dry, I dress in jeans and a t-shirt. My plan for the day includes doing absolutely nothing. Sundays were made for chilling. The thought of Netflix and chill with Winter pops to mind and I open our text thread to re-read our brief exchange.
I go back downstairs and pour myself another mug of coffee, the text thread still open, my fingers hovering over the keyboard, wondering whether to be the first to make the next move. I decide to wish him a simple good morning.
His response is immediate.
>Good morning, Devlyn. How’s the head this morning?
>A little fuzzy. We went on somewhere else after you left, and the guys had me drinking shots. How about you?
>My head is fine. I feel fresh as a daisy. But then I only had a couple of pints of lager and a couple of whiskeys. I certainly didn’t do shots. They make me want to puke.
Laughing at his response, I take a deep breath before typing out my question.
>What are you up to today?
Those three dots tell me he’s replying, but I’m impatient as hell.
>Chilling with a good book and plenty of coffee. Sundays are lazy days in the Howell household. What about you?
>Lazy day here too. Was thinking, maybe, if you want to… Oh I’m wording this all wrong but can’t be arsed to delete and rewrite. Do you fancy meeting for lunch? I’ll cook.
I’m an idiot and I scrub a hand over my face as I await his response. I’m awkward as fuck, better he know that now.
>Sounds good. Shall I bring wine? Or dessert?
I can’t help but smile as I reply telling him to bring both. I give him my address and tell him to give me a couple of hours.
I snatch up my car keys, jump in the car and head to the local market to grab everything I need for a Sunday roast. I want to impress him, but at the same time I don’t want to cook something that means I’m in the kitchen too long. I want to be able to talk to him, get to know what makes him tick.
Once I have everything I need, I head home and begin to prep the veg. I keep one eye on the time as it ticks closer and closer to his arrival.
Pouring myself a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice, I turn up the volume on my iPod dock. “Believer” by Imagine Dragons plays as I chop the carrots and sing along.
After finishing the preparation for our lunch, I head upstairs and rifle through my wardrobe for something to wear. I want to keep it casual but look like I’ve made an effort too.
Pulling out a black shirt and pale blue ripped jeans, I hurry to get dressed and roll the sleeves of the shirt to my elbows. Leaving the top couple of buttons open, I splash on some aftershave and look in the mirror. I run my hands through my unruly mop of grey hair. I need to get a haircut, but that’s not what matters. I look at my reflection and decide I look a mixture of smart and casual.
The doorbell rings and I hurry down the stairs, eager to see those beautiful eyes in the light of day.
As I open the door, all the breath in my lungs is stolen in one big whoosh. Winter is the epitome of phenomenally sexy, dressed in dark jeans that make his legs look long and toned, paired with a white shirt, with the top two buttons undone.
“Hi,” he says, as he holds out a bottle of wine.
“Hi. Come on in.”
I take the bottle of white wine and close the door behind him. He looks imposing and salaciously sexy as he stands before me in the hallway.
Walking ahead of him to the kitchen, I set about finding my corkscrew. Anything to keep my suddenly shaky hands busy. I take two stemless wine glasses from the cupboard and pour us both a glass of wine. I take a gulp of mine to calm my nerves before handing Winter his glass. His hand brushes mine as he takes it from me, and little electrical currents shoot through me. I’m sure the sparks must be visible.
Winter’s smile is warm, and his grey eyes are full of lust as he looks me over from head to toe as I come around the kitchen island.
My skin flushes from his obvious appraisal and I close my eyes, taking a moment to gather myself. When I open them, Winter is standing directly in front of me, his chest rising and falling rapidly as if in time with my racing heart.
I want to reach out and touch him, to taste the crisp white wine on his lips, but I don’t.
“What are we eating?” he asks suddenly, and I have to unscramble my thoughts to get a coherent sentence out instead of suggesting we eat each other.
“Oh god, I didn’t even ask if you were vegetarian or anything. I’m making a simple roast chicken with all the trimmings, the way my mother taught me. Is that okay? I mean you do eat meat, right?” So help me, I can’t stop rambling.
“Oh, I eat anything and everything,” he says suggestively.
God above, this man could make anything sound sexy. Or is that just my imagination running away with me?
“I brought dessert,” he says as he motions to the kitchen island where he’s placed a box, “and I also brought you a little something else, for your birthday.”
He reaches into his back pocket and produces a reel of red ribbon. My heart thunders in my chest as I look at it and then up into his eyes. Grey with a sparkle of mirth, that’s the only way to describe them in this moment.
“We don’t have to use it.” He hurries to cover what he thinks was a mistake—probably because I was quiet a beat too long, “It was meant more of a joke but…”
He trails off as my hand strokes over the soft material of his crisp white shirt. His gaze turns heated as my hand trails over the ridges of his abdomen, up to his pecs.
Placing his wine down on the island behind me, he pushes me up against the hard surface as his lips slant down over mine in a dizzying kiss.
His tongue dances with mine, and I taste the wine mixed with something minty. Mouthwash, I imagine. Reaching his hand round the back of my head, he pulls me closer so he can deepen the kiss. My hands go to his belt loops, pulling him flush to me, grinding against him, showing him what his kiss does to me.
His erection rubs against me and it feels like flames licking across my skin. I want so much to take him here and now, bent over the island in the middle of my kitchen in broad daylight. I want to bury myself to the hilt inside of this god of a man before getting on my knees to suck his cock, allowing him to come too. I’m just not bold enough to make the first move. He’s kissing me like I’m the very air he needs to breathe, but the idea of reaching out and cupping his cock in my hand feels more intimate and I don’t want to be rejected.
My head and heart are at war with each other. My head tells me to go for it, but my heart is scared of rejection, even though he’s kissing me this way.
I groan into his mouth as he does what I can’t. He cups my cock in the palm of his hand, rubbing up and down over the material of my jeans. My erection feels like it doubles in size as he touches me.
His lips leave mine and I whimper at the sudden loss. But when he kisses a trail to my ear and nips it between his teeth, my whimper turns into a moan.
Reaching out my hand, I slide it underneath his shirt. He hums in appreciation as my hand traverses the planes of his rock-hard body. God, he feels so good.
The timer goes off on the oven, interrupting our heavy make-out session far too soon. I groan as he nips my bottom lip between his teeth before letting me go.
It’s hard to manoeuvre to dish up lunch with a raging hard-on. Winter’s eyes sparkle with silent laughter as he sits on a stool, watching me.
Drinking his wine, he looks completely at home here in my kitchen, like he’s been here a thousand times before. He doesn’t look like he’s on an awkward-as-fuck first date, which is how I’m assuming I look.
Flustered as I am, I finally manage to finish dishing up and show him through to my dining room. It’s open-plan from my kitchen to the dining room, only a low wall between the two. I love it because I can look out through the back windows, and it allows lots of natural light through the two rooms.
“Smells delicious,” he says as he takes a seat, and I place his lunch in front of him.
“If there’s one thing I do well, it’s cook.”
“The one thing I do well rhymes with cook,” he says, looking directly into my eyes.
I can’t help but laugh. This man is too much.
We make small talk as we eat and drink more wine. He tells me about his job and his siblings; his brother, River, and sister, Willow, are both younger than him and he feels protective of them since their father died a few years ago.
I tell him about my job and lack of siblings. Being an only child, I was probably quite spoiled growing up. My parents did everything they could for me and paid my tuition fees throughout college and university so that I could get my degree.
Winter is funny, sarcastic and smart as a whip. He’s CEO of his own company, Howell Construction. He built it from the ground up, and now his brother and sister both work for him, his brother doing construction and his sister in the office. He talks of Willow with such reverence it’s clear she means a lot to him.
“So, what’s for dessert?” I ask as I clear our empty plates.
“Open the box and see,” he replies as he carries the glasses through to the kitchen, where he proceeds to pour us some more wine.
I open the pink box and see a lemon cheesecake. The flavour evident by the yellow swirls through the top of the ricotta cheese.
“Lemon is one of my favourite flavours,” I say, as I take it out of the box and hunt for a knife to cut two slices.
Winter walks around me and places an arm either side of me, caging me in from behind. He kisses down the side of my neck, causing my skin to break out in goose bumps. Reaching around me, he unbuttons the bottom of my shirt so his hands can roam my body more freely. His warm hands feel soft and silky as he explores the planes of my body. Moving in closer, he grinds his budding erection against me. Almost against my better judgment, I lean forward, my ass pushing closer to his erection.
One hand comes around my back and holds me in place while his other hand dips beneath the material of my jeans. He cups my cock over my boxer shorts, making me gasp as he grips me more firmly.
Leaning forward, he kisses my neck again as he dares to venture beneath the material of my boxers. I moan as he grips me and works me over, much like I did earlier in the shower, wishing it was him.
“Want to forego the cheesecake and let me give you your birthday present?” he whispers huskily against the shell of my ear.
Groaning as he pushes his erection as close as he can, he makes me lose my inhibitions. I turn in his embrace and begin to unbutton his shirt.
“I don’t do one-night stands,” he says, before claiming my lips in a kiss that sears its way across my very soul.

Anthony

Anthony
Book Four of the Risking Love Series
Callie Carmen

ISBN 978-1-912768-76-9


Chapter One

Tessa

After my business partner went home for the day, I called James, our receptionist, into my office. I prayed he’d help me. “You know that gorgeous friend of yours? The one with the blond hair and blue eyes?”
He stood in my doorway and raised a brow. “You must mean Samuel. Why do you ask?”
I rolled the straw wrapper from lunch that was still on my desk with my fingers. “I need a date for Violet and Joseph’s wedding this weekend.”
“Girl, you know he’s one of my gay friends, right? I thought that you’d been drooling over that hunk of a man, Tony.”
“Yes, and that’s why I need Samuel’s help.” God, I hoped this scheme my friends had concocted didn’t backfire on me.
He put his fists on his hips and looked at me like I was crazy. “Girlfriend, you’re not making any sense. I thought Tony was going to the wedding.”
My chest tightened. “He is, but… the man moves at a snail’s pace.” I crushed the straw paper into a ball and tossed it toward the trash. “He’s interested in me. My friends told me that they could tell by the way he acted and the things he said when he was around me. But he hasn’t made any attempt to ask me out. Joseph and Violet’s wedding would have been the perfect opportunity but he didn’t ask.” I combed my fingers through my hair.
I took a deep breath then huffed it out. “Jaq told us that he hasn’t dated since his divorce over a year ago. That he’s been working hard to make his restaurant successful.”
He swooshed his hand toward me. “He’s done that. So why wouldn’t he go after you?”
I shrugged my shoulders. “Tony told Joseph that he’s taking his time this go around, so he doesn’t make the same mistake he made with his first marriage.”
“Are you telling me that hot man hasn’t had sex for over a year? His balls are going to shrivel up and die. Are you sure he’s straight?” He teased.
“I didn’t say he hadn’t had sex. I’m saying he hasn’t dated anyone.”
He smirked. “And how does Jaq feel about you manipulating her brother? I thought she’d put up a roadblock when she found out because of your boy crazed days in college.”
“Good question. I didn’t get a chance to tell you what happened at dinner last night. My friends forced me to tell her how I felt about her brother.” The look on Jaq’s face had made me queasy. “I told her that I was head over heels crazy about Tony and that was the reason I hadn’t been dating.”
“Drama. You go girl. I want all the dirt.” He plopped down on the seat in front of my desk.
I smiled. I knew how much he loved to gossip. “At first, she accused me of secretly dating her brother and wanted to know why I would do such a thing.”
James slapped the top of my desk. “Oh, this is getting good. What did you say? Did you get angry?”
“I told her I would never do such a thing. Then she stuck out her chin and demanded to know what I was going to do about it.”
He grimaced. “What do you mean?”
I laughed. “That’s what I asked. She told me that he wasn’t a pursuer of women and never had been. He was a driven man who put most of his energy into his dreams of having a successful restaurant, and he was a painfully slow mover when it came to asking a woman out. Then she asked me again, ‘What was I going to do about it?’ At that point, my heart raced.”
Even now it raced from remembering Jaq’s words after I’d asked her if she meant that she was okay with me dating Tony. I leaned forward and steepled my hands.
“She told me that I was a good friend. And, sure, at the beginning of our senior year she’d been worried about my trolling for men. At the time, I had been dealing with my worst daddy-daughter issues.”
“Oh, please. Who hasn’t done some sleeping around in their younger years?”
I made duck lips at him because I knew Jaq hadn’t, but I wasn’t going to tell him that. He’d call my friend names, like prude, and most likely right to her face, and she so wasn’t one.
I melted back on my seat. “Well, it wasn’t my finest period in life. Then she said I was the nicest, smartest, most beautiful woman inside and out that she’d ever known.” My eyes welled up like they had last night at dinner.
James nodded. “Damn straight, you are.”
My heart smiled. “She wants me to date her thick-headed brother.”
“Of course she does. Your outgoing, fiery personality is what that man needs.” So how would having Samuel as your date help you get Tony?”
I leaned forward and took hold of his hand. “You’re not going to believe this, but, according to Jaq, we need to make him jealous enough to get him to ask me out.”
He gave me a devious smile. “Hmm, so Samuel would be the bait that gets Tony to wake up and get moving in on all the fineness that is you. I think you’re all nuts, but I happen to know that Samuel is free this Saturday, because he was going to hang with me until I had to leave for the wedding. I’ll hook the two of you up.”
“You’re the best.”
“I hope this doesn’t backfire on you. You could lose Tony if he doesn’t like being manipulated.”
“We’ll have to make sure he doesn’t find out. I’ve already waited seven months for him to notice me and to make his move. We ladies all think that’s long enough. Don’t you?”
“Yes, and that is why you should have taken all that fineness of yours and moved on to greener pastures. Stop waiting around for this guy. No matter how hot he is, no one’s worth waiting that long for.”
“I would normally agree with you, but there’s so much more to Tony than his good looks. I’m going to give it this one last try. If it doesn’t work, I’ll take your advice and move on. I’ll be heartbroken, but I owe it to myself to find what Jaq, Carlie, and Violet have. True love is out there for me too. I feel it.”
Chapter Two

Tessa

The sun was setting by the time Violet and Joseph’s wedding ceremony was coming to an end. It was emotional when I saw her sister walking her down the aisle, because they had lost their parents and grandparents at such a young age. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place when Joseph expressed his never-ending love during his vows to her. When he bent down and kissed Violet’s stomach, where their baby grew, I held my breath to stop from sobbing.
I looked across the aisle and caught Tony looking my way. If looks could kill, poor Samuel would be dead. He’d been playing his part as my date perfectly. He’d held my hand as we walked to our seats. Whenever he spoke to me, he bent down and whispered in my ear. And, to top it off, he kissed the back of my hand during the vows, which was what Tony had seen. Poor Tony practically had steam coming out of his ears. The look on his face was so virile and irate that it sent shivers up my spine.
Patrick, Jaq’s husband, was sitting next to him. He leaned in, pointed at Samuel and me and whispered something to his brother-in-law. Tony gave him a dirty look then turned back towards me. Chills ran through my body from his cold stare.
Oh God, was I doing the right thing?
I turned back in time to see Joseph and Violet’s first kiss as man and wife. We all cheered.
***
The reception was tense for me, but also a lot of fun. I was seated at a table with James on one side and Samuel on the other. Olivia, one of my best friends, was seated on the other side of James. They were laughing, having lots of fun. I was sure him being gay helped make her comfortable. It had been several months since her ex-boyfriend had raped her and taken her virginity. She hadn’t dated since, but she had gone to a few lunches and dinners with her boss. I had suggested that she ask him to be her plus one for the wedding, but she’d chickened out and hadn’t asked him. James didn’t have a date either, so I was happy they had each other.
Tony was seated directly across from me next to one of Violet’s single co-workers from the dental clinic. It was thoughtful of Violet to make sure everyone had a dance partner. But it was stressful having to see that Tony wasn’t saying two words to the woman, even though she was practically throwing herself at him.
I could see his interest in me, by the way he stared at poor Samuel like he was the devil himself, and here the man was doing me a favor. If he had been watching where Samuel’s eyes were looking, instead of where his hands were, he would have seen that he was looking past me to James. I could see that he had a burning crush on him. I needed to ask James about that on Monday. How could he not see it?
Samuel bent down and whispered in my ear. “Thank God the man doesn’t have laser eyes, or I’d be dead.” We both laughed, and he grabbed my hand that I had placed on the table. He rubbed the back with his thumb. It was pretty noisy with the music playing, but I could have sworn I heard Tony growl. The woman next to him sat back in her seat away from him. I, on the other hand, was drawn to him and had to use all my strength to stay in my seat. I quivered, and Sam covered my hand to help steady me, hopefully before Tony saw how he affected me.
At the table next to ours was my friend and business partner, Carlie, with her fiancé, Nicolas, as well as our friends Jaq and Patrick. I was thrilled to see that Violet had invited Nicolas’s cousin Marcus and sat him right next to my friend Bella. That woman needed to get laid, and I had a feeling that Marcus was just the man to do it.
James pulled Olivia from her seat and dragged her to the dance floor for a slow song. Samuel stood. “May I have this dance?”
I held my hand out for him. “I’d love to.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tony head over to Patrick. He took a seat next to him. He had no idea that Patrick was in on our little pretend date. If he had gone over to complain about Samuel, I knew he wouldn’t be getting any sympathy from his brother-in-law. It made me giggle inside.
As the next slow song began, I spotted Patrick pushing Tony towards the dance floor. I could make out, “Go on. It’s now or never.” He looked back and gave Patrick a disgusted look then headed toward me.
My heart fluttered.
I looked up and whispered. “It’s working.” Sam smiled. I watched as Tony walked up behind Samuel and tapped him on the shoulder. We stopped dancing and turned to Tony.
“Hope you don’t mind, but I’d like to cut in.”
I almost choked on my tongue when I saw Samuel look at him like he had two heads and say, “Yeah, I do mind. Who are you?”
I held my breath, waiting for Tony’s reply.
“I’m the guy that sat across from you for the last hour, and it’s none of
your—”
I patted Sam’s shoulder. “It’s okay. He’s my best friend Jaq’s brother, and he’s completely harmless.”
“Then you’re okay to dance with him?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
He handed me off to Tony, who wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me into his body instead of taking my hand and placing it in his. I let out a squeak and instantly felt butterflies at his touch. It felt right to be in his arms with my breasts pressed up against his chest. What I had longed for was finally happening. It was almost magical with the beautiful love song playing like it was just for us.
Then he had to open his big mouth and ruin it.
“Harmless. Hah.” He smirked. “What are you doing with him?”
“What are you talking about? I needed a date, so I asked Samuel to bring me. He’s very nice, and handsome too. Don’t you think?” Tony growled, and this time I not only heard it, I felt the rumble vibrating through his chest against mine. It sent tingles throughout my body. “It’s not like anyone else asked me.”
“I would have if I knew you weren’t okay attending alone. I thought—”
“You thought what? That I’d just wait forever for you to ask me? Or that I’d attend alone, hoping that you’d throw me a morsel of your time and ask me to dance once or twice?”
“When you put it like that, princess, I guess I have no business sticking my nose in where it isn’t wanted. I’m sorry I bothered you.”
He started to pull away from me, but I grabbed onto his tie. “You pigheaded, dimwitted, frustrating man.”
Sparks flashed in his eyes, and he turned. Little by little, his tie slid out of my grasp. Tony walked away, leaving me standing in the middle of the dance floor surrounded by happy couples.
My blood boiled as I watched him walk out of the tent, not to be seen the rest of the night. Jaq’s plan to make her brother jealous had failed miserably.
When I got home, I was emotionally drained. I decided it was time to give up my pipe dream of having him in my life. I knew that, after tonight, there was no way Tony was ever going to ask me out. I’d have to live with the broken heart and hope someone else equally special would come into my life someday. I got into bed and cried myself to sleep.

The Anniversary

The Anniversary
Richard Savage
ISBN 978-1-936556-38-0
https://amzn.to/356IwYH

Chapter One

The brilliant white headlights of a Jaguar sports car cut through the darkness as Evelyn drove through the night. Her only companion on this cold night was a single red rose which sat on the passenger seat. The flower had been the invitation to the evening which lay ahead. Evelyn’s knuckles were tight as her nervous fingers gripped the leather-covered steering wheel. Her sumptuous, silk-stockinged thighs rubbed together pleasingly as she changed gears. There was always something elicit in the wearing of silk stockings, something about dressing in that fine gossamer that had always aroused her. The tightness of the darker band at the top of her thigh and the way it hugged her securely made her legs feel lovingly restrained, making her whole body pulse and tingle with expectation.
It had been twelve months to the day since she had last met with her clandestine lover. The tension that was coiled tightly within her was beginning to show as she neared her destination. Her mouth was dry, her palms damp and there was a familiar tingle between her thighs.
She mentally checked her clothing for the thousandth time since getting dressed that afternoon. Peter’s instructions had been precise—what to wear, and when to change into it. This had done nothing to help her nervousness and anticipation of their meeting. Peter had always been a stickler for detail, and she had always found it easy to comply with his strict dress code. The crisp white linen blouse felt cool on her skin, and the smart black A-line skirt hugged her hips.
In all honesty, her clothes did not look that different to normal office attire, but somehow tonight felt very different. For many years now she had worn stockings and a garter belt, so that was not unusual either, yet the silk had added an extra frisson. Evelyn tingled with anticipation as she remembered her elaborate preparations that afternoon. In the shower, carefully washing and applying scented body lotion, removing every last blade of body hair; Peter’s preference was to have her entirely smooth. After drying, she had ceremonially put on the custom-made jewelry that Peter had given her, then lovingly applied her makeup and slipped into her clothes for the evening. Evelyn was aware of the jewelry now; she only wore this special piece on this day of the year and only ever for Peter. Squirming against the Jaguar’s leather seat, she was aware of the unusual touch of the chain on her skin as the small gold links caressed her intimately. Deliciously uncomfortable, yet strangely comforting.
For what seemed like the hundredth time Evelyn looked at the illuminated clock, then glanced at the mileage counter, willing the miles to melt away.
Eyes fixed on the road, Evelyn’s mind flicked back over the challenging day spent in the office and the assortment of problems that she had tackled. Quizzically she contemplated the duality of her nature. With her assertiveness in the office, it had never been a problem organizing staff. In fact, she very much enjoyed being the one in control. Yet she possessed a passivity within her private life; when she was with Peter there was never a problem handing the control over to him. She drew similar parallels between Peter and James, the two men in her life. She loved them so much, but they were so very different in their natures.
This early evening meeting had been her main focus for the past week, and she had hardly been able to think of anything else. As the clock hands ticked relentlessly by, and she neared her destination, the tension she felt rose to a crescendo.
As she drove, Evelyn went through her mental checklist. Had she dressed correctly? Was she fully prepared? God, she hoped so. Yet again, as she went through her cerebral preparations, she felt a moistness, a liquid glow, like her very core was melting and, with these feelings of desire, came a gut-wrenching pang of guilt.
How could she betray her husband? How could she be unfaithful to such a good man for this one night of passion? With a lump in her throat, she thought of James, their three-year marriage, and the vows she was breaking. Yet tonight, as she had done for the past four years, she would give herself totally to Peter, and nothing on earth could or would stop her from making that rendezvous.
She loved James dearly. Their marriage was a happy one. James was a good man, a loving and caring partner. He was a very straightforward man. Uncomplicated. He was the type that, if he said something, you knew he meant it. If he promised to do something, he would do it. She loved James for all that he was, yet there was one thing he was not, and could never be. He was not her Master.
She had only ever had one Master. Peter. She loved James with her heart, but Peter she loved with her very soul. The one thing that had united her two lovers was their love for her, but the two men in her life were entirely different in nature and temperament. There was a hard edge to Peter, something uncompromising. He had a natural authority about him. He was, and always had been, every inch the man in control.
The flash of a rabbit darting across the road brought her back to the here and now. The rumble of the tires on asphalt lulled her back to her thoughts.
Evelyn had been married to Peter when she had met James. She had known James for years before she had married him and, until then, had always thought of him as a good friend. Their marriage had only deepened her feelings for James, who was altogether softer and a much more tender person, a man that loved her unconditionally just as she was. In return, she loved him. She knew by the attention he lavished upon her that he loved every inch of her soft, rounded body, yet, he was not a demanding man. He always put her needs first, which was very nice, though slightly irritating at times, as she much preferred assertive men. Her mother had described him once as “low maintenance”. He was a man that, despite her flaws, would always be there for her. Making love to James was soft and tender; he never neglected any morsel of her. His tastes, though, were pure vanilla—missionary with the occasional oral gratification, which she was happy to reciprocate.
They’d first met at work. James worked in the same office block as she did, though not for the same firm, and their lunch hours had coincided. She soon came to think of him as the big brother she had never had. Their shared lunches had been a pleasant thing to look forward to each day. They laughed freely over coffee and sandwiches for years. That had been a happy time which she always looked back on with fondness.
Then there was a time when they no longer met for lunch. Dark clouds had descended in her life. It had been a bleak and stormy time, and Evelyn had retreated to a place deep within herself. It had been a time when there was no light in the day; a time when she had wanted to die; a time when she had been a soulless shell. It was in this depth of despair that James had found her. He had breathed life into her again, bringing her back from the edge. He had brought her back into the light, helping her to see the joy of the new day and helping her to laugh again. That was four years ago now.
The engine growled, and Evelyn changed to a lower gear as the road became more winding. She knew she was close to her destination now. She could not wait to be with Peter.
Peter had been, and still was, her passion. Evelyn had known him for what had seemed like forever. She had known him for years before she had ever met James. Theirs had been a whirlwind romance—flowers, candlelit dinners, moonlight trysts. As their relationship deepened, Peter’s nature and his strength came to the fore. Evelyn swallowed as she heard the words in her head—Love, honor, and obey. She had been brought up to believe in sexual equality, and she did believe, but there had been something missing in her life when she met Peter. From the very start, there was a power with Peter. Not a menacing power, to be sure, but an authority. This was not a simple macho manifestation, but a deep-rooted natural power, a light that drew Evelyn like a moth to a flame.
It had started easily enough at an electronics trade show. She was there as the personal assistant for a corporate buyer. The meetings that she had attended had finished, and she was free to browse around the exhibition. She looked around curiously, although, in truth, electronic gadgets left her a bit cold. Across the room, she saw Peter. Their eyes met and there was an instant connection. There was a delicious flirtation as they played from across the room. Eventually, Evelyn made her way to the stand where Peter was giving a demonstration of a highly complicated piece of equipment. The customer moved on; Peter stepped up to Evelyn and introduced himself. His smile that day would be burnt into her memory for all eternity.
Evelyn’s partners before Peter had been few. In those days of stick-thin models, not everyone appreciated her fuller figure. Those who had, had left her feeling unfulfilled and believing that sex was overrated.
The early dates and dinners with Peter were much like those she’d had in the past, with the exception that Peter had not pounced on her at the end of the first date. A simple, tender kiss had sufficed. In fact, after the third date, she had begun to worry that Peter was not as attracted to her as she was to him, and it had been Evelyn that made the first move.
After dinner, she had invited him back for coffee. He browsed her CD collection as she rattled coffee cups in the kitchen. She asked him how he liked his coffee; he replied strong, black and no sugar. Evelyn returned with a tray with cups and a cafetière.
They sipped coffee for a while. Peter looked totally at ease as he sat on the couch. Evelyn, by contrast, was nervous and fidgeting. What was he waiting for? Surely, he could see she wanted him, yet there he sat, pleasantly smiling and making small talk. She flirted with him, trying to add suggestive snippets like, “I have always been into bedroom design; it allows you to express yourself,” into the conversation. She had expected a response like “I would be interested to see how you have decorated yours.” However, no such response had been forthcoming. It was obvious to her that Peter was interested, yet he took none of the opportunities to follow up with a suggestive comment of his own, and he did not make a move.
They finished the coffee and she felt it was now or never. She wanted Peter, and she knew that Peter wanted her. With a tremble in her voice, she said, “I would like you to stay.”
“I would like that very much,” he answered, his tone warm yet authoritative, which made her tingle.
“Shall I slip into something more comfortable?” There was a noticeable quaver in her voice.
“I think you are fine as you are.” There was something in Peter’s voice that put him firmly in control. “I would like you to stand.” The politeness in his request did not hide the fact that it was an instruction.
She smiled and stood a little shakily. She had always been a little self-conscious about her body. Her teenage years had done nothing for her self-esteem. Back then, she had dreaded going to the swimming pool, even though she loved the water and loved to swim. In a swimsuit, she had felt so exposed, vulnerable, and very aware that her body was not the type found in the glossy teen magazines. As a teenager, thoughts of communal showers with the other girls had made her feel physically sick. Many nights she had cried herself to sleep, dreaming of the sylph-like body she would never have. The cruel jibes made her frustrated and angry. This was before therapy. During the many hours of therapy, she had come to realize that being a size eighteen was not at all abnormal, and her Monroe-like curves were not bad, although they simply did not comply to the stereotypical pencil-thin models in Vogue. Yet even with her new layer of confidence, there was a tingle of apprehension that climbed up her spine as the fear of being judged reasserted itself.
She looked at Peter, who was passively, yet happily, looking at her. Her confidence grew again as she contemplated her figure. She was well proportioned, resembling an hourglass. She had always been proud of her trim, well-turned ankles and shapely calves. She loved the curve of her hips and the swell of her bottom that had attracted more than one wolf-whistle from construction sites. It was her ample breasts that seemed to attract most men, though. She had no need of silicone; her breasts were totally natural, and they were still firm in her thirties. Sure, there were things she would change if she had a magic wand. She would wish away an inch or so from her upper thighs, maybe tighten and tone the odd area, but there would be no going under the surgeon’s knife for her.
As Evelyn stood before Peter, she assessed her own looks more critically than any partner would. She looked at Peter, trying to read his mind. What was he thinking? She felt more than a little self-conscious. It was like stripping away the therapy sessions and going back to her days at school. She felt the weight of her nerves once more. Confidence ebbed and flowed, like breakers on the shore. She looked to Peter for reassurance.
As she looked more deeply into Peter’s eyes, she bathed in the warmth of his smile. She could see plainly now, that far from judging her, he looked more like he was about to eat her up. She wondered if he knew that she could see a flick of tongue as he licked his lips. He looked as if he planned to devour her, and she hoped to God that he was going to do it soon.
She became less self-aware as she turned her attentions to him. She felt drawn to his handsomely rugged features. He looked impressively strong, and she wondered how his body would feel pressed hard against her. Evelyn was hungry and she wanted Peter. The wait was making her impatient. The anticipation was torture, and the tension was building, making her want to scream, if only inside.
Her eyes had been fixed on his intense gaze, and suddenly her attention switched back to herself. She was standing there like a schoolgirl. She found herself fidgeting, smoothing her skirt to remove creases that didn’t exist. She looked at herself fiddling with the buttons on her cuffs, then played with her hair nervously and smiled at him. Yet now, in a strange way, she was beginning to enjoy this feeling of unease. In fact, she found this to be a big part of this brand new experience.
Her reflection was interrupted by Peter.
“I like things a certain way; I hope you don’t mind.” Peter was calm and sat still, totally relaxed with the situation, a smile playing across his lips. “I have a feeling that you and I are very compatible.”
“I hope so.” Evelyn felt the blood rush to her cheeks as her heart pumped madly. She looked into the eyes of this tall, handsome man, trying to see into his mind. She was nervous, yet more excited by this than she had ever been with any man before. She felt her nipples stiffen and was sure Peter could see just how excited she was. Her eyes flickered for a moment to his trousers; there was no mistaking the bulge. She was pleased to have this effect on him.
His eyes fixed on hers. “I hope so too.” Peter’s lips curled into a natural smile. There was a flash of white teeth and the soft edge of affection in his voice. He leaned back in the chair and crossed his legs. “I would like you to do something for me, but it must be done freely.” His eyes never broke contact with hers as he spoke.
She shifted her weight slightly from one foot to the other and said, “What would you like me to do?” The tremble in her voice was half in fear of the answer and half in anticipation. Right here and now she would do anything. Her eyes were locked to his. She was drawn like a moth to the flame.
Peter uncrossed his legs and leaned forward.
“Firstly, I would like you to take off your blouse.”
Evelyn was not used to men being this direct with her, and she felt a second rush of blood to her cheeks, but it excited her beyond belief and she felt herself moisten. Was it wrong of her to do as he asked, she wondered? Yet it felt so right; how could she not comply? Her heart beat faster as her nervous fingers fumbled with difficult buttons.
Her mind flicked to a time in school changing rooms and other girls laughing at her developing body. She had been the first in her class to develop breasts and had been teased endlessly for it. As she loosened the blouse from her skirt, she relived every negative comment she had ever heard. Was Peter going to judge her? How much easier sex would be with the lights off. She shook as the garment slipped from her shoulders and fell to the floor. She was revealed. Her mind raced. Where was this going? She knew it would end in sex, but this was so different from the usual courtship ritual. Would the sex be that much different too?
In contrast to Evelyn, Peter looked and sounded contented and relaxed. “And now your skirt, please.”
His voice was calm and measured, his face placid. Evelyn found her gaze slipping from his eyes to the prominent bulge in his trousers. She felt flustered, and she contemplated sinking to her knees there and then and releasing the captive. However, the instruction had not been given and she was not brave enough to deviate from Peter’s word. She wondered what her friends would say if she told them a man had told her to do this and she had complied. Indeed, could she ever tell anyone how much it excited her to give this control to a man? Nice girls didn’t do such things. Did they? She had undressed in front of men before, but usually, the man would be busy removing his clothes at the same time. This felt more personal. She was under the spotlight; it was her performing for him.
Trembling fingers grappled with the belligerent fastening of the skirt. She muttered quietly under her breath as the clasp surrendered and the skirt puddled at her feet. Evelyn looked closely at Peter, looking for any reaction, negative or otherwise, as her thighs were now revealed. To her relief, Peter’s gaze traced admiringly up her legs, and the swell in his trousers confirmed, in a most honest way, he liked what he saw. Again, her nerves twitched, and she wished this first time had been beneath the cover of a darkened room.
She looked at Peter and his eyes were still fixed on her. It was obvious that he was amused by the struggle with the skirt’s clasp, yet he only kept a slight smile, not wanting to break the sensuality of the moment.
“Your shoes, please.”
Evelyn looked down at her shoes. A part of her wanted to resist. This was wrong, wasn’t it? It was wrong for a man to issue instructions for her to strip, wasn’t it? She was not a whore, to do as she was told; a plaything; a life-size, queen-sized Barbie doll. Yet this was compulsive.
Peter was no monster, quite the opposite. He had a charming way about him. He was a gentleman. She felt like she was being charmed out of her clothes, but there was something compelling in the way he talked. Something in the matter-of-fact way he asked her to remove each garment that made it impossible to refuse.
She felt his glance alter from warm to steely the longer she delayed, though in truth from request to action it was a fraction of a second. Peter was almost motionless, yet the glint in his eye and the power of his voice made each request overwhelming. She was confused why the removal of the shoes was so symbolic; was it the reduction of height, or her feeling of helplessness?
Evelyn took a deep breath and steadied her nerves. She slipped into the abyss as she slid the shoes gently off, and she stood before him in bra, panties and pantyhose. Now resigned to her fate, she felt the sooner she was naked the better, then at least there would be the lovemaking.
Evelyn went to remove her bra, but Peter stopped her. “Not until I am ready, please. You may remove it, but only when I ask you,” he continued, with a cool, measured voice.
“I don’t understand, Peter.”
Peter leaned forward. “This will happen all in good time, but it will happen in my time. I would like you to do as I ask.” There was no anger in his voice, just the opposite; it was a calm response which Evelyn found comforting rather than upsetting.
“I want to savor you as I would a gourmet meal. Which is better, filet mignon or hamburger?” Peter clasped his hands together and studiously steepled his fingers “Which would you like me to consider you? Filet or burger?”
Evelyn needed no time to think. “Filet.” She had been regarded as a burger too many times in the past.
Peter leaned back in the seat again. “Are you ready to continue?”
“Yes, Peter.” She looked directly at her lover.
Peter returned her smile and said, “I have a request. I have certain tastes, and it would please me very much if you would address me as ‘Sir’. It is a simple word that shows respect. It is a word that shows me you are ready and willing to serve. The choice to serve is for you to make, and this is a choice you must make freely. It will feel a bit strange at first, but it is a way some people live their lives. It is a way I live mine. I have a profound feeling that you would take to this lifestyle. I feel, deep down, that you have a need to serve. I know you have a need to please me. Do you feel you are you ready to take this first step? Do you feel you are ready to do as I ask? To please me?”
Though she was unsure in her mind of the implications of what it meant to serve, without hesitation she replied, “Yes, Sir.” The “sir” came out of her lips naturally, as an involuntary reaction to his authority, and she liked the way it sounded—respectful and comforting. She was aware again of the moistness in her panties and she knew there would be no hiding it from Peter.
“Good girl,” Peter said, with a flash of white teeth. Then his lips set to a warm smile.
“May I ask a question?” Evelyn said.
“Of course, you may ask anything.”
“What does it mean to serve? What is it I have to do?”
Without hesitation, Peter replied, “To serve me well requires you to do as I ask, when I ask you to do it. This requires you to trust me. I wish you to follow my requests carefully, without question, because you know it is what I wish. In serving me, it also fulfills a side of you that has not yet been fulfilled. This is very much a two-way street. You must want to serve. You must want to trust. In return, our love for each other will blossom.”
Reassured by his words, but still a little apprehensive, she asked, “What if I fail? What if I can’t live up to all you expect?”
Peter took her hand and kissed it, his warm lips grazing her flesh.
“I want this as much for you as I do for myself. It is not an audition to be passed. You need to want to do this. You need to feel in your heart that this is right for you. In return, I will support you, nurture you, guide you and hold you. I feel that you have been repressing these feelings of submission, a little like a caged bird. I want you to be the person that I know you have locked away deep inside you. I want you to be that person for you.
“It will seem a little strange at first, giving me that power over you. In time, and with trust, it will become second nature for you. With trust, you will focus on your service to me. I, in, turn will devote my life to cherishing you. Trust is needed because you have to know instinctively that what I ask you to do will not harm you. You will find a deep sense of wellbeing in your service. But it is your service to give freely.”
Peter paused for a moment, to let the depth of his words sink in. With a kind, warm tone in his voice he continued, “I ask you again, would you choose to serve me freely and happily?”
Evelyn searched her mind. Yes, she wanted him. Yes, she was burning with desire, but more than that, much more, she knew within her very soul that the only truth that mattered was that she loved Peter more profoundly than she had ever loved before.
“Yes, Sir, I am willing to serve. I will do all you ask of me, and I will try to serve you as well as I can.”
“I can ask nothing more from you than that. This makes me very happy, Evelyn, very happy indeed.”
“Sir, what would you ask of me?”
Peter paused for a moment.
“I am not fond of pantyhose. I would be happier if you never wore them again. Stockings are fine, but I just don’t like pantyhose. I would be disappointed to find you wearing them.” His words were friendly, yet Evelyn was in no doubt that his likes and dislikes needed be taken seriously.
There was an undeniable throbbing at her center. Her clit ached to be touched. The suspense from what was happening was incredible. Never before in her life had she been so turned on, so very aware of her body and her needs. Right there and then she would give anything to have Peter rip off her remaining clothes and fuck her. Yet she knew she would have to wait for his instruction.
“I wish you to remove your pantyhose, please.” Peter spoke as if he was at the dinner table asking her to pass the salt, yet there was no getting away from the power of his tone.
Evelyn looked down as she hooked her thumbs under the elastic. She tried to make the removal as elegant as she could for Peter. Boyfriends in the past had never paused at this stage; they were so intent at getting at what was inside. There was such an awkwardness about getting them off that she vowed never to wear them again.
Having removed the garment she stood, head lowered, looking at her body. She wished at that moment that she was a size ten, but the fact remained that she wasn’t, and with Peter looking at her with the “I am going to eat you for breakfast” look in his eye she realized, maybe for the first time in her life, that she really didn’t give a shit. This man lusted after her as she was, and she wanted him inside her. Size was irrelevant. She was hungry. She was so excited she was about to explode. Her nipples were painfully hard where they pressed against the flimsy fabric of her bra. Peter would be able to see how hard they were. A glance down showed her panties were every bit as embarrassingly wet as she feared they would be. Peter would be able to see that too. Calmly she waited for his next instruction.

Hard Limits

Hard Limits
The second book in the Goode Pain series
Annabel Allan

ISBN 978-1-912768-74-5
https://amzn.to/39BD1Ds

Chapter One

The music wasn’t particularly loud, but the bass was definitely thumping through the floor. My flogger whipped his backside to the beat; it was the easiest way to get him close to subspace.
Gabe hadn’t achieved it—yet. But he would look at me with those dreamy eyes after I had reddened his ass, and I knew he was close. I never really cared before if the sub achieved it, but I loved Gabriel Burton. I loved him with everything in me, and I wanted him to get there.
Not every sub could do it, but I knew Gabe could. Again, it was in his eyes. His masochistic ways were so easy to manipulate, it was so easy to push his buttons. A simple spanking over my knee was enough to send him into a frenzy of delight. His groans would resonate throughout my body, his moans would reverberate in my ear, and his cock would harden from just a few good smacks.
I know what you’re thinking. A CEO—a submissive? How could a respectable man be into such a thing as BDSM?
One of the biggest misconceptions about submissives—any submissive: male, female, non-binary, trans—is that they are not strong, independent people, who have successful jobs and grow. How could they be? What independent person lets another top them, control them, torture them, use them? However, submission is not an act of weakness, but an act of courage. You are trusting someone else with your well-being, touching the spectrum of sublime pleasure by submitting to someone you wish to serve. Letting go is not a sign of weakness, but a testament of the strength to step into a scene and come out stronger than you once were, to build a connection with your top. That is why the most successful people, who boss people around all day, are usually submissives. Because they have the strength.
And, honestly, Gabe was the strongest person I knew. He had been through hell with his ex, as well as being kidnapped by my ex and flogged with a chain flogger. He was tortured, and not in the sexually charged way. I felt awful for it … he wasn’t prepared to take the torture, and I could tell that he would never let anyone else but me top him because of that experience.
It took almost two months before I was able to use the flogger again. Even then, it was gentle, until he said he could take it. I had to build trust once again, though in reality, Gabe walked into the BDSM world trusting me. Unsure, yes. But, he still trusted me. He knew I would keep him safe, yet I really hadn’t when Patrick kidnapped him.
It was a snowy New Year now; six months had gone by. Julius had opened his club, Xposed, and I was Domming full-time. Instead of being stuffed up in an office in a pantsuit, I was now stalking around clad in leather and PVC. Sometimes I had Gabe in tow, his cock locked in chastity, and I would lead him with a little leash attached to his leather-studded collar.
Gabe towered over me, but I still was the Domme—I had the power; I had the confidence. No one could match me in the club. You needed confidence and stamina to be a Dominatrix, a Dominant in general. You had to have the strength to carry your submissive and their wishes out.
Not that I could physically carry Gabe. He was my lumberjack, my mountain man. He was big, rugged, tall, muscular. It had only been when I moved in with him that I realized that he worked out to maintain his physique. He never faltered in his personal progress to achieve the perfect man’s body. He was built like a bodybuilder, his waist a little thin, his chest broad, large and dusted with curly hairs that I loved to pull wax out of when we did wax play, which I knew he hated.
Of course, my favorite part of him was his beard. What? You expected me to say his chocolate brown eyes? Well, yes, they were a favorite. But, in reality, I loved the feeling of his beard on my skin. Soft, yet a little rough at the same time. It drove me wild. I never wanted him to shave it off. In fact, I forbade it.
We didn’t have a contract yet, though we had discussed it before. He was already mine, so why bother with one? Not every D/s relationship did it. It was an option. The same with collaring. I had hoped Gabe would ask me for it; I didn’t know how to go about telling him that though. I was still uneasy with the relationship, as I hadn’t been in a serious one since Patrick, and that had been a little rocky and ended even before he went psycho and I shot him.
I was trying though. I was living with him. He was my submissive. It was as serious as it could get … unless he asked me to marry him. Though, he had been married before, so he was a little more sensible when it came to that subject. Living together and bondage was one thing; marriage was a serious matter.
I wasn’t ready for it anyway. I loved Gabriel Burton with everything in me, but the thought of marriage made me sick to my stomach. I wasn’t ready … not yet.
Once I had reached thirty strokes, I let up on Gabe. He was shackled to one of the two St. Andrew’s crosses in the room, his ass bright red, as I hadn’t gone easy on him.
I walked up to him and ran my fingers through his hair. “Do you need a drink?”
He sighed heavily, catching his breath, that dreamy look in his eye again. He shook his head.
“I’m going to unshackle you, and you’re going to go to one of the private rooms. You’ll lie down for a little while, then I will come get you and we’ll go home,” I said lovingly, stroking his neck a little.
“Yes, Mistress,” he panted wearily.
I unshackled him and helped him down, then smiled at him and patted his butt a little, making him wince. “Good boy.”
He turned, his cock still stuffed into the cage, though by now he didn’t mind it so much. I never kept him in it for more than three days. That was when he’d been really bad and called me a bitch in midscene. That was a hefty punishment; he was pleading to be let out by the third day, even though I’d sentenced him to a week. I caved, as I often did, but not without penance being served. He’d licked me to orgasm and I forced him to let me ride him without him coming before I let him have a little release.
I watched him as he marched to one of the private rooms.
“Tsk, tsk,” a voice said.
I turned to see a man who was probably about five foot ten, his hair a dusty blond in curls, though it was cropped short. His eyes were on me, a smirk on his face, and his arms were crossed. He was obviously a submissive, as he was naked, but he didn’t have a collar, even for the evening, so he wasn’t owned by anyone.
“Excuse me?” I asked.
“You are much too soft with him,” he said with a British accent, deep and baritone.
I cocked my head to the side. “Too soft? You speak out of turn, slave.”
He stood to his full height, which was actually a lot taller—I was wrong, he was at least six foot. He walked up and stood before me.
“You need a real submissive. One that can challenge you,” he said.
I blinked a few times, as I had heard it all before. “And you think that you can do that? Again, you are speaking out of turn. Where is your Master or Mistress?”
“I don’t have one,” he said, walking around me.
“And you identify as a submissive? With that attitude?” I asked.
He nodded, smiling widely. “I do. And I bet you that I could rock your world, Mistress Ava. I can give you the brattiness that you crave. Your present submissive is just too … easy.”
I frowned, not impressed by him, though his icy blue eyes were quite breathtaking. “If you want to be my submissive, there’s a waiting list. Talk to Marten. He can put you on the list once you pass the qualifications.”
“Qualifications?” he asked, smirking. “I’m sure I can pass with flying colors.”
“Then see Marten,” I said, turning to follow Gabe. As I walked past the man, his hand came out and he squeezed my ass.
I wasn’t really shocked; I turned to him, grabbed his ear, then squeezed and pulled on it until he was forced to his knees.
“You never, ever, touch me without permission, slave,” I said.
“Yes, Mistress,” he said, with a little laugh.
I let go of him roughly, causing his head to whip back. “Let that be the first warning.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he said, eyeing me hungrily.
I kept my head held high as I headed after Gabe. I had to admit that, yes, my heart was racing from the pure brattiness of him, this submissive. I should have asked his name, looked out for him on the list. No doubt he would ask Marten and pass the qualifications. There was sort of a backlog of submissives, as I was a popular Mistress at the club, though it was an exclusive club and only certain members of the kink community were allowed to be down in the dungeon. It was a way to stop crowding and misuse of the premises. We had Dungeon Monitors, the best ones, but too many people and Julius would need to hire more DMs, and then it would be even more crowded. His system was working though. Julius was a smart businessman, as well as an experienced Daddy-Dom.
I walked in to see Gabe asleep on the bed with silvery silk sheets. I couldn’t help but smile, since he was beautiful, lying there. Was I really getting soft? Perhaps my feelings for Gabe were starting to soften me. I had never been attached to my submissive before. And at the same time, I couldn’t go too hard on Gabe yet. He was seeing a therapist for the nightmares and cold sweats he had been experiencing. His scars on his back were an ugly reminder. Thankfully, he couldn’t see them on the daily, like me.
I climbed on the bed and ran my hand through Gabe’s hair, down his face and onto his chest. He stirred, looking a little more bright-eyed when he saw me.
“Are we leaving, Mistress?”
I nodded. “We are. Head to the dressing room and get changed.”
He looked down at his cock cage. “May I remove the cage?”
“Hmm,” I said, thinking. I could be cruel … I wanted to be. I also wanted to fuck him pretty badly. “Maybe, since you were a good boy tonight, I will give you a little treat.”
I removed the key from around my neck and undid his chastity device. I then began stroking him and watched as his cock grew to its full glorious seven and a half inches. He was also circumcised, which was a preference of mine. I loved the look of it, though I appreciated an uncut cock as well. In reality, a cock is a cock.
His breath became ragged as I stroked him. I eyed him seductively as I leaned down and took him into my mouth. I rarely, very rarely fellated him fully to climax, but I felt that we both needed it at that moment. I had only ever gone down on one other man, letting him come in my mouth, and he was now dead. Sure, I liked to tease with my mouth, but letting a man spurt his seed into your mouth was an intimate thing. I only did it with Gabe.
I sucked the tip of his cock, licking at the frenulum as I looked up to him and our eyes met. He wasn’t going to last long, which was preferable, as I had to speak to Julius before we left.
I took him fully in my mouth, deep throating, which was a selective talent—I could only do it if I suppressed my gag reflex by squeezing my thumb in my fist. Old trick, but it worked.
His whole body went into a frenzy; he bucked beneath me as I grabbed the base of his cock and started to stroke, coming up for air. I jerked him a little until I could see it in his eyes; he was going to come. I sucked on the tip of his cock until I felt it jerk, not removing my mouth as he came, spurting in three long gushes.
I swallowed, licking from the base up to the tip, making him shudder one last time, as a little bit of cum came out, one last bit, which I licked up.
“Christ,” he said, letting his head fall back.
I smiled, wiping my mouth. “Now, take a few minutes before showering and getting changed. Meet me out in the car.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he panted again, his head obviously stuck in an orgasmic cloud.
“I’m going to talk to Julius and get my worksheet for tomorrow night,” I said, slapping his thigh and making him jerk.
“Yes, Mistress,” he said again.
I got up from the bed and grabbed a water bottle from the little fridge, sipping at it before heading out of the room and leaving Gabe to compose himself.
I walked through the maze of rooms until I came to where Julius was sitting with a curvy redhead on each arm. I knew one of them to be Rachel, as I had worked with her before. She was a masochist like Gabe, a little pain slut. I even got her to orgasm by flogging her. She reached subspace no problem.
Julius isn’t all that much taller than me, and I sit at five foot nine. He had no shirt on, but leather pants, and he watched one of the other Doms work a submissive on a spanking bench.
“Ah, Ava,” he said, a lick of a French accent on his words. “Good night with Gabriel?”
I smiled. “Yes, as usual. I’m still trying to ease him back in.”
“These things take time,” he said, handing me a clipboard with some papers on it.
I looked at the Dom and his sub, who he had over his knee as he spanked her. She was giggling with each stroke, wiggling her butt.
“You look distressed,” Julius said.
I turned to him. “Do you know of a new submissive here? He doesn’t have a Mistress or a Master, no Dominant in sight. About six foot, blond, blue eyes.”
“Hmm, sounds like Reichen Shepherd,” Julius said.
“Reichen,” I echoed. “What’s his story?”
“I’m not sure,” Julius said. “He got in because he dropped a name.”
“What name, may I ask?”
“Lady Scarlet,” he said.
My brow rose. “Lady Scarlet? One would think she would have curbed his bratty nature. She doesn’t go easy on submissives.”
“No, but sometimes you can’t tame them,” he said. “Sometimes they have a wild nature in them.”
I nodded. “True.”
“What did he do?” he asked.
“He grabbed my ass,” I said, unimpressed.
“You should show him a thing or two on the cross,” Julius said with a wink.
My mind started to spin, thinking of how far I could go … could I go further with Reichen Shepherd than I did with Gabe?
I shook my head, running my hand through my hair. “Anyways, I’m off with Gabe.”
“Short session tonight,” Julius said, looking back at the submissive, who was now being tied up by the Dom.
I then recognized the Dom—Gideon Shaw. He was known for his work with Shibari—an ancient art, rigging the submissive with a beautiful display of bondage that goes with the curve of their individual bodies. I had been to a few workshops for it and loved rope play, but Gabe wasn’t a Rope Bunny. He didn’t get off from the simple touch of a rope, though he did enjoy bondage.
My eyes widened with surprise. “You got Gideon?”
Julius smiled, impressed with himself. “Indeed. He’s doing a demonstration before I book him for a Shibari workshop.”
Gideon, who was much like Gabe in looks, only he was clean shaven, didn’t even bother looking up from his work. He was a buff man too, with strong hands that knew how to knot you up with the best of them.
I was surprised that Julius was going through the formality of a demonstration. Gideon was well-known, noted in the kink community. Every Rope Bunny knew his name and creamed at the sound of it.
I looked at my worksheet, which was broken up into three time slots for Friday night; I had two one-hour sessions, as well as one three-hour session. I also had time set aside to rest between sessions, as well as make my rounds at the club. It was a busy night, though, to have three clients. I had to make sure I had enough tricks up my sleeve.
“Ava,” Julius said.
“Yes?”
“Did Reichen upset you? Overstep his bounds? Make you uncomfortable?” he asked seriously, though softly.
I shook my head. “It’s nothing I can’t handle. As you said, he needs a few on the cross, as well as a firm hand. I can handle it, if need be.”
Julius smiled. “Good.”
“Well, I’m going to head out now, I’ll be here at my usual time tomorrow,” I said, pulling the sheets off the clipboard, as they also had the health stats and questionnaire that was to be filled out by everyone.
“Is Gabe coming tomorrow night?” he asked.
I shook my head. “No, he has work. Big presentation on Monday.”
“Ah, too bad,” he said with a frown.
“Anyways, goodnight,” I said, with a little wave.
I looked at Gideon who smirked at me as I passed. I thought he had been too engrossed in his work to bother with me, but he obviously liked what he saw. What man didn’t, really?
I found Gabe getting changed in the change room, a wet towel beside him. He hadn’t washed his hair, which was for the best, as we were in the middle of a deep freeze in Toronto, and I didn’t want him getting sick.
“You ready to go?” I asked.
He nodded, opening up the locker and pulling out my long coat, which he helped me put on.
“You got your worksheet for tomorrow?” he asked.
I nodded, holding it up. “Yup.”
“Any names we know?” he asked, stepping back.
I shook my head as I looked over them. “Nope. One of the one-hour sessions is a woman though. Should be fun!”
He smiled a little as he put on his shirt. “A woman. That’s a first in a while.”
I frowned. “I know. I guess I’m too intimidating.”
“Sometimes,” he said, grabbing his leather jacket and putting it on. “But it’s what I love about you.”
“Come on, slave,” I said, taking his hand. “Let’s go home.”
“Yes, Mistress,” he said in a husky voice.

Chapter Two

My father was trying this new thing where he was trying to be there for me, to show his support with the whole BDSM thing. So on most Fridays, we went to lunch. I had the days off, as I worked nights at Xposed from Thursday to Monday. I had Tuesday and Wednesday off, and I usually spent them with Gabe, going out to dinner, doing couple stuff.
I walked into the restaurant. My father, a stocky man with a bald head and sparkling blue eyes, was already sitting at the table. He had a smile on his face, and he waved at me as he saw me. I gave a little wave back, as the host led me over with a menu. He then pulled out my chair for me as I sat down at the table.
“Ava, honey, how are you?” my father asked.
The host put down my menu before bustling off. I nodded. “I’m good; things are good.”
“At the club?” he asked.
I nodded again. “Yeah, it’s good. Busy.”
When my father found out about the BDSM thing, he wasn’t too supportive. But, after getting shot and seeing me almost losing my life, he seemed to warm up to the idea and leave it, as it was my lifestyle and it would stay that way. As long as no one found out in the real world, in his world, everything was fine. I was good at keeping it to myself. Really, whose business was it anyways?
“Gabriel is doing well. Looking at making him Chairman of the Board,” he said.
“Yeah, he told me,” I said, eyeing him. “Why are you so happy? Usually, you’re sullen when you talk about me and Gabe.”
“Well,” he said, still smiling, “I have some news. It may shock you, but I’m sure you’ll recover.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“You see, Carla … she’s pregnant,” he said, beaming from ear to ear.
My brow furrowed, a feeling of disgust running up my spine. “Pregnant?”
He nodded. “Yes! Six weeks along.”
“Wait a minute, you were going to serve her divorce papers,” I said.
“Well, we had some problems, but—”
“And when did she tell you this?” I asked. “It didn’t happen to be when you were talking about divorcing her, was it?”
“Ava,” he said, his smile melting away as he sighed. “The timing is—”
“Suspicious! More than suspicious. Did she show you a sonogram at least?”
He went a little quiet. “No, not exactly.”
“So, you’re taking her word for it? Even if she is pregnant, how do you know it’s yours?” I asked.
“Ava!” he scolded. “I don’t understand why you have to do this every time we speak of Carla.”
“Because she’s scum,” I said under my breath, turning in my seat and crossing my arms.
He was aware of how she’d acted when he was in hospital after Patrick had shot him. She was eyeing his inheritance like a rabid wolf looking at Miss Piggy. Of course, little did she know that all the money was going to me in the event of his death. Sure, she’d be left with a little something, but not the whole shebang, like I would. Not that I cared about the money. I cared about my father and his well-being.
The waiter came and put down a glass of wine for me, looking at both of us. “Are we ready to order?”
“Yeah, I’ll have the field green salad,” I said. “Dressing on the side.”
“And I’ll have the pasta and tomatoes,” my father said, handing his menu over.
“Excellent. Thank you,” the waiter said, and he walked off with our orders.
“Ava, aren’t you excited?” my father asked, getting my attention. “Come on now; you’ll be an older sister.”
“With nearly twenty-nine years between us,” I said.
“And that matters why?” he asked. “Age is just a number.”
I shook my head. “Are you going to get her tested? Get the baby tested, if there’s even a real baby?”
“Yes,” he said. “We have a doctor’s appointment on Tuesday. It will confirm that she is pregnant and then, when the baby is born, we’ll have a paternity test done.”
“Great. She gets to leech off of you the whole time she’s pregnant. What if it isn’t yours?”
“Why do you always have to trample on my happiness?” he asked angrily. “This is a joyous occasion.”
I shook my head again. “It’s not. You and I both know she made this up. I bet you that you’ll find your joint account drained and she’ll be dust in the wind by the time you get home tonight.”
My father actually looked hurt. I hadn’t seen him that way since my mother died when I was six. I wasn’t sure if it was the fact that I was pointing out the obvious, or because it was obvious. He was a sixty-year-old man. She was only thirty. He was old enough to be her father. And now he was going to father this baby? I didn’t buy it. Especially since she only mentioned it when he was going drop the D-word.
I sighed. “New subject.”
“All right,” he said. “How has therapy been?”
I nodded. “It’s okay. Gabe isn’t too enthused about it, but my own sessions are going fine.”
“Didn’t you say that you’re doing sessions together as well?”
“Yeah, which is where he’s not enthused. He doesn’t like to talk about what happened in front of me. I don’t know, I guess it’s shame,” I said. “We’ll get to the bottom of it, eventually. That’s what therapy is for.”
“And what of the future with you and Gabriel?” he asked.
“What of it?”
“What do you see in the future? You haven’t had a stable relationship like this before.”
It hit me hard, but it was true. I took a deep breath. “I don’t know. It’s sort of between me and Gabe, so I want to keep it that way, like our Dominant/submissive relationship.”
He looked around, checking that no one heard. “And the therapist has no problem with that dynamic?”
My brow furrowed. “Of course not. It’s healthy sex.”
He shook his head. “I don’t want to talk about this. You know it makes me uncomfortable.”
“You brought it up!”
“I just want to know if you two plan on getting married,” he said.
I licked my teeth, feeling uncomfortable; the word “married” made my stomach heave. “I don’t know. It’s too soon for that, Dad. Christ, it’s only been six months!”
“You already live together,” he pointed out.
“Because that works for us!”
“And marriage won’t?” he asked.
I shook my head, looking away from him. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if I want to.”
“Why not? What if it works out?”
“What if it doesn’t?” I asked, my voice raising a little. I calmed myself and looked down at the table. “I don’t want to be known as Gabriel Burton’s second wife.”
“You won’t be,” he said. “I see the way he looks at you.”
“Yeah, ʼcause you’re an excellent judge,” I said, my brow raising a little.
“Ava,” he said.
“New subject,” I said.
It went along like that, each subject getting heated until one of us said “new subject”. We didn’t talk about Carla anymore, nor Gabe. It was silent as we ate our food. I would say it was awkward, but I was used to it. It was the usual with my father.
I looked at my watch after our plates were taken away. “I have to hit the gym and shower before tonight.”
“You work tonight?” he asked, taking out his credit card and tapping it off the table.
I nodded. “Always on a Friday night. Same with Saturdays. Sometimes I skip Sundays, but that’s usually paint night in the club portion.”
He nodded, uncomfortable again. “I see.”
“Anyways, thanks for lunch.” I paused. “I think,” I said under my breath.
“All right. I’ll call you, honey,” he said.
“Okay,” I said, getting up from the table and waving at him awkwardly.
I headed out of the restaurant and to my car. It was a brand-new Chevy, as my old car got pretty beat up by Patrick. I decided on getting a new car instead of fixing the old one up. I liked the thought of having a new car, new place to live, new life.
I sat in the car for a few minutes, waiting for it to heat up. I shook my head, as my thoughts were on Carla and her new scheme. Pregnant? Yeah, right. I didn’t buy it. I backed out of my space and headed to the gym, which was where my best friend, Ash worked.
Ashley Donaldson was a six-foot-three-inch Greek god. He was a personal trainer; he loved what he did and was damn good at it too. He sometimes tagged along when Gabe was unable to go to the club. He wasn’t a submissive, but he played a good one. He wasn’t into pain or humiliation, unless he was giving it. Even then, he wasn’t really a Dom.
I showed my key card on my lanyard to the girl behind the counter, and she scanned it. I then headed in, putting my stuff in the locker room before heading back out onto the floor. I looked around and saw Ash talking with a busty blonde—one I recognized as the hostess from Bar None. Charlotte. I smiled a little, glad that he was at least playing nicely. I didn’t know if he was interested or what, but Charlotte had it bad for Ash. She was like a lovesick puppy around him.
I walked over to them, smiling lightly.
“Hey Ava,” Charlotte said with a large smile on her face.
I nodded to her. “Charlotte.”
Ash looked at me, his eyebrows raised. “You ready for a workout?”
I could see it in his eyes that he was playing nicely but wanted an out. I nodded, giving it to him. “Yeah. I have an hour before I need to get home and shower.”
“Right. Well,” Ash said, looking at Charlotte. “I’ll see you.”
“Okay,” she said, dare I say hopefully?
Ash and I walked away from her and headed over to the treadmills. “So?” I asked.
“Ugh, don’t start,” he snarled.
“Whoa, someone is testy,” I said, getting on the treadmill as he started it up.
He sighed, hanging his head before he looked back up to me. “I haven’t had sex in almost a year.”
“Annnnd this is supposed to be news to me?” I said cheekily, starting to run on the treadmill as he upped the pace.
“Charlotte is more than enticing,” he said.
“Well, give her a chance then,” I said. “What would it hurt?”
“Um, her? I could hurt her,” he said.
I jogged on the treadmill, shaking my head. “Come on, Ash. You can’t be celibate forever.”
“I jerked off this morning. Not so celibate,” he mumbled.
I smirked. “Oh. No wonder you’re testy. You hate jerking off.”
“I’d rather have a tight ass to sink into,” he said, running his hands through his short black hair. “But that’s not gonna happen.”
“It could with Charlotte,” I said.
“I’m not interested in dating her though,” he said. “It would just be a fuck. A really good one, but still a fuck. I’m over that. I’m pushing thirty; I need to settle down and stop being a walking hard-on.”
I frowned as I began to pant from the speed of the treadmill. “Well, I can’t help you. I have my own relationship to worry about.”
“Things not going too good?” he asked.
I felt sweat fall down my forehead and nose. “It’s fine. I’m just worried I’m losing my touch.”
“Losing your touch? How so?”
“Well, it was pointed out to me that I may be going a little soft on Gabe,” I said between breaths. “I don’t know if I am, but I can’t help it since he’s a little broken right now.”
“He went through a lot,” he said.
I turned the treadmill off, stepping to the side of it as it slowed and stopped. I panted. “I know. I just don’t want … well … ”
“To change?”
“Yeah,” I said, stepping off the treadmill. “I want to go at it, balls to the wall. I want to make him beg me for mercy and really dig deep. I want him to reach subspace.”
“He still hasn’t?”
I shook my head. “No. I think part of it is me.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, I’m going too soft, and he needs to have his limits pushed to reach it.”
“But not yet. He’ll get there, and you will too. Isn’t it all a part of BDSM? Reading your partner?” he reminded.
I nodded. “Yeah. That’s true.”
He patted my back. “Well, then just give him a little more room to breathe. He’ll get there.”
“Yeah, I know. I just … stupid submissive getting into my head,” I said.
“Submissive? Not Gabe,” he said.
“No, not Gabe, some other guy. Bratty little thing,” I said.
His brow furrowed. “Uh-oh. You always liked the bratty ones.”
I sighed as I headed towards the machines. “I may like bratty ones, but I’m now in the lifestyle in a different capacity. I’m fully booked and not taking on another submissive full-time like Gabe.”
His brow raised. “You’ve thought about taking him as a full-time subby?”
My brow furrowed as I thought about what I said. “No … ”
“The thought crossed your mind though,” he said.
“No,” I said, looking back at him. “I’m just saying that he would need a full-time Domme to break him of his brattiness. I can’t be the one to do that, though no doubt he wants me to.”
“Is he good-looking?” he asked.
“Well … yeah,” I said, remembering his accent. “But most submissives are.”
“Unless they look like Bill,” he said with a smirk. “The foot kisser.”
“Ugh, so glad that he isn’t allowed down in the dungeon,” I said.
“Why isn’t he?”
“He broke the rules. Stole a woman’s shoe and pissed in it,” I said, sitting down at the leg press. “Julius has a no-tolerance policy for that kind of stuff.”
“Jeez,” said Ash, obviously disgusted.
“Yeah. So, anyways, it doesn’t matter what he looks like. It just matters that he’s trying to get into my head, and so far, after only one stupid encounter, it’s working.”
“Didn’t Gabe get in your head when you first met?” he asked, leaning against one of the machines.
“Not my head, more like my system … like, I couldn’t help it; I wanted him so badly.”
“And this guy?” he asked.
“I like the thought of Domming him, but that’s about it. Teaching his bratty little ass a lesson.”
“Then do it,” he said.
“I can’t; I have a waiting list,” I said. “I mean … well, I could one night when I’m doing my rounds. But not a full-on session, which is what he needs.”
“A good spanking?” Ash asked with a wolfish grin.
“Yeah, with my paddle as well as my bare hand,” I said. “Anyways, we working out? I have work tonight.”
“Whenever you’re ready,” he said.

Husband Material

Husband Material
by Keren Hughes

https://amzn.to/30KKnBH

Prologue

Joss

Standing at the bottom of the driveway, I look up at the beautiful house. It’s all decorated for Christmas—wreaths and garlands everywhere. And it’s the perfect white Christmas too, snow making the house look warm and inviting. But I’m not sure I can do this after all. I mean, I must be insane to even contemplate it. It’s crazy … right?!
My heart is beating against my ribcage like a jackhammer. It wants to break free of its constraints and run far, far away. That’s what my brain should be telling me too. It was a crazy idea to think we could do this. We’ve known each other all of a few hours, and now I have to go in there and pretend to be his wife. How the hell did I get myself into this situation? Oh, that’s right. My sister is getting married, and I can’t turn up to her wedding without a date. My mother will think that I need setting up with every eligible young bachelor and will make it her mission to get me married off to one of them.
Never mind that it’s my sister’s wedding day, I’d be the one that my mother focuses her efforts on. After all, my sister has finally found her Prince Charming, so she doesn’t need our mother’s help finding a man. But me? I’m eternally single. Always the bridesmaid and never the bride. The one destined to be a crazy cat lady, a lonely old spinster.
That’s why I’m standing here, my small hand enveloped by his large one. We made a deal, and I’ll stick to my end of it. I have to, in order to see this through. This week is going to be a disaster if I don’t. Hell, it might be a disaster either way. There’s only one way to find out … down the rabbit hole.
“Ready?” he asks in a quiet voice.
“No,” I admit, my voice no louder than a whisper.
“There’s still time to change your mind.”
“No. I promised you I’d pretend to be your wife, and that’s exactly what I’m going to do. We both need this. From what you tell me, your mother is as insane as mine, and they’ll have us married off to other people by the end of the week. So, we might as well save each other that pain and just get on with it.”
“We don’t have to,” he says as the front door opens and a beautiful woman looks down the driveway at us.
“Umm … I’m guessing we do now,” I say, pointing to the door.
“Well,” he says, his Adam’s apple bobbing, “here goes nothing then.”
He plasters a smile on his far too handsome face, and we walk up the drive.
“Hey, Mum,” Stone says as he greets the Hollywood actress-looking woman in the doorway.
His family must have some pretty amazing genes. I mean, one look at Stone had my panties evaporating into thin air on the plane, and his mother is elegant, demure, and absolutely stunning.
“Mum, meet Josslyn.”
I look up and see her extend her hand to me. I take my hand from Stone’s and shake hers. Her manicure is flawless, just like the rest of her. Blemish-free skin, lustrous hair, amazing taste in clothes. I admit to feeling a little envious that she can look so good, whereas here I am in my jeans and snow boots, snow on my hat, jacket and soaked into my jeans, looking like something that cat dragged in.
Stone’s mum sees me shiver and pulls me into the house. Stone follows us, bringing my suitcase in with his.
“Thomas, come say hello to our new daughter-in-law,” she says as she guides me into the lounge.
Daughter-in-law. Crazy. I only met her son in an airport a few hours ago, and now I’m his wife. Or so we’re letting them believe. Stone paid to upgrade my seat so I could sit in first class with him. We chatted for hours about all the little things we’d need to know to pull this off, but I’m still not sure I can convince his family that we’ve been in love for the last few months and that we got married in a kind of whirlwind, hence why none of our family were invited to the wedding.
We bought wedding bands from a jeweller on our way over here. I wanted the cheapest ones in the store, but Stone said his mother would know. Apparently, she has a nose for these things. She’s like a bloodhound that can sniff out a lie a mile off. That’s why I’m not sure what I’m doing here. I don’t think I’m a good enough actress to pull this off.
Stone kept the receipts for the rings so he can return them once this week is over. He can tell the family we’re getting divorced a few weeks later.
“Ah, it’s so good to meet you,” says the handsome man before me as he shakes my hand.
“It’s good to meet you too, Mr.. Weatherly.” I smile so wide it feels like my face might split open. Looking him over, I can see exactly where Stone got to be so goddamn handsome.
“I’d love to say our son has told us all about you, but the truth is, he hasn’t,” Thomas says.
“You know why, Dad. Work has been busy; I’ve barely had time to call, never mind come and visit. Like I told you on the phone, Joss and I were a kind of whirlwind romance. The kind you read about in those romance novels you favour, Mum,” he says as he looks at her.
“So romantic. I can’t believe my baby boy is all grown up and married. I can’t say I’m not disappointed that I wasn’t at the wedding, but I had an idea about that. You could renew your vows here over Christmas.”
My stomach drops to my boots at her words. My palms begin to sweat, and I have to rub them discreetly on my jeans.
“Now, Alexa, how do you think we’d manage to organise that? It’s Christmas. Everywhere will be booked up,” Thomas says.
His words make me feel a little better. He’s right. Nowhere would be available at this time of year.
“Ah, well that’s where you’re wrong, my dear Thomas,” Alexa says with a smile. “I called Pastor Reeves; he said we can do it here, and he’s available on Thursday.”
Thursday? That’s three days from now. Two days before my sister gets married. And why the hell would Alexa have already discussed this with a pastor?
“Mum, please. Joss is in town for her sister’s wedding. We have to leave here on Thursday for her to be there on time. She’s the matron of honour; she can’t be late.”
Stone levels his mother with a look, but she ignores him.
“Nonsense. It’s all arranged. It took a few phone calls, but Thursday is not optional; it’s mandatory. And you can do it all before Josslyn’s sister’s wedding.”
“Mother.” His tone is no-nonsense.
“Stone Weatherly, do you want your family to disown you?” Alexa asks, in her own no-nonsense way.
“Mother, you would never disown me. Now, do you mind if we go to my room to get a shower and a change of clothes? If you hadn’t noticed, we’re kind of soaked through, and I’m pretty sure Joss is colder than I am.”
“Fine, Stone. I’ll put a pin in it, but we will return to this conversation. You can bet your last penny we will.”
“Alexa, leave the poor kids alone. They’re already married; they don’t need to renew their vows,” Thomas chimes in, in our defence.
“Thomas, it’s not up for discussion. My baby boy gets married without telling me, brings his wife home with him for the first time, even though they’ve been married for two months and could have visited sooner, and all I want is to have been at my son’s wedding. Is that really too much to have asked for? So, a vow renewal would be far from perfect, but I’ll have to settle for second best.”
Stone growls, and the next thing I know he’s pulling me towards the staircase. Seemingly done with the conversation, he carries our bags up, and I follow him to the room at the end of the hall.
Raised voices can be heard downstairs, and I feel guilty. We’re lying to them, and it isn’t fair. Why did I allow myself to get caught up in such a stupid idea? It seemed simple at the time—we both get something out of the lie. Peace and quiet from our overbearing mothers was supposed to be the goal. But this? This is far from peace and quiet. This has the potential to cause World War Three.
I guess we were too busy focussing on learning enough about each other in order to pull this off, rather than thinking of the consequences of our actions. I mean, geez, it’s Newton’s third law of physics or something—for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Actions have consequences. Simple. Not so simple after all.
Chapter One

Joss

Josslyn Louise Carrington, you are one major idiot. This is a clusterfuck of epic proportions. What the hell were you thinking?
If Shane hadn’t been getting married to her high school sweetheart, I wouldn’t be in this predicament. I lay all the blame firmly on her doorstep. Owning my own actions? No way! Shane can carry the load for this one.
If she wasn’t Little Miss Perfect, if she didn’t fall head over heels at sixteen … if she wasn’t getting married this Saturday … if my damn boyfriend hadn’t dumped me a month ago… No, it’s not Dean’s fault. Well, okay, maybe it is. Or should I blame it on the champagne bubbles going to my head and making me seven different kinds of crazy? That first-class plane ride had been luxury all the way. And Stone’s handsome face, chiselled jawline, cute dimple in his left cheek, Hollywood smile and movie-star looks—he’d been the total package.
The very definition of tall, dark and handsome. Except he has subtle highlights in his hair, so maybe tall, not-so-dark and handsome. Seriously, there should be a photo of him in the dictionary next to those words.
What’s a girl to do? Take a shower and get warm—that’s first on my agenda. Plot Shane’s death comes second. Divorce Stone, or rather fake-divorce Stone—that’s on the list too. This damn list will be as long as my arm. And, somewhere in the middle of it all, I have to pretend to be married to a man I’ve only just met. I have to fake being head over heels for him. I have to pretend to be attracted to him. Although that won’t be hard, considering his chocolate brown eyes and perfect white smile, his sun-kissed skin, his sculpted body and large biceps.
Girl, get your mind out of the gutter. There’s only one thing that can come of wondering what your “husband” looks like naked. Sexual frustration, that’s what will come of it.
I take my phone out of my bag and scroll to my best friend’s name. Hitting the call button, I bring the phone to my ear and take a deep breath to steady myself. She’s going to hit the roof, and that’s an understatement of the century.
“You did what?” Jade shrieks as I finish telling her the Cliffs Notes version of my predicament.
“I know, I know. I just … you know how my mother is. She would pimp me out to all the single men in the room, even ones with potbellies and scruffy beards. She’d marry me off to anything with a pulse. So, I saved her the hassle and me the drama. Although I’ve created a whole new drama of my own.”
I sigh as I run my fingers through my still wet hair.
“You are insane, do you know that? So, what does he look like? Please tell me he’s Henry Cavill or Robert Downey Jr. Or a combination of them both. Or maybe he’s a long-lost Hemsworth brother. That would be amazing.”
“He’s … well …” I pause as I try to summon the words to describe Stone Weatherly. “He’s definitely Hollywood-worthy. He’s about six four, body of an Adonis—what I can see with his clothes on anyway—and this kind of sexy, tousled hair. Stunning brown eyes like pools of liquid chocolate. I swear, when he rolled up his shirtsleeves on the plane, I nearly spontaneously combusted. Or my ovaries did. I think I heard a little boom as they exploded.”
“Gee, maybe you should marry him for real. You’d make gorgeous babies. Think about it. You wouldn’t have to date losers like Dean. Or Logan. Or Chance. You’re set for life if you let his mum go ahead with the vow renewal.”
“I can’t. That would make us legally married. No way, no how!”
“It isn’t legally binding, you fool. A renewal doesn’t come with all the legal technicalities of a real wedding. I say let her go ahead with the renewal to keep the peace. Take him as your plus one to Little Miss Perfect’s wedding, and then, when you come home, go to the courthouse, sign a piece of paper and make yourself Mrs. Josslyn Louise Weatherly for real.”
“You’re nuts, you know that? There’s no way on God’s green earth I am doing that. I mean, I’ve only known him a few hours. Yes, he’s illegally handsome. Okay, so that’s not a real thing, but it shouldn’t be legal to be as hot as he is. And his ass—oh my God, you could crack nuts with the globes of his perfect ass.”
Sighing dreamily, I lie down on the bed.
“He’s smart as a whip, sarcastic as hell, and I’m damn sure I’d piss him off like every other second of the day. Honestly, I’m not sure we can survive this next week without him asking for a divorce.”
“Babe, you’re smart as a whip and sarcastic as hell yourself. And have you looked in a mirror lately? Baby, you are smoking hot. He’d be a fool not to fall at your feet and ask you to marry him for real. You’re gorgeous and down to earth. Yes, sometimes too sassy for your own good, but you might just have met your match. All I’m saying is don’t be closed off to him and the possibilities this brings.”
“Hang on, five seconds ago you were calling me crazy. Make up your mind.”
“Joss, you are crazy. Like totally cuckoo. Fake-marrying a man you met in an airport—that’s the kind of thing that will get you thrown in an asylum. But, and this is a big but, he’s handsome, funny, generous—if upgrading you to first class just to get to spend more time with you is anything to go by—and, by the sounds of it, there’s a real spark there.”
“I’m going to see this week out—as per my agreement with Stone—and then we’ll go our separate ways once we land back home.”
“Now that’s crazy,” Jade huffs, and I can just imagine her crossing her arms and pouting.
“I’ve got to go,” I whisper. “I don’t hear water running in the shower anymore. Love you. Speak soon.”
I listen as Jade tells me to “be safe”, as if I’m actually going to sleep with a guy I only met this morning at the airport, then she says goodbye and we hang up.
Stone walks out of the en suite bathroom, and all the air is sucked from the room. His body is more sculpted than the statue of David. Beads of water trickle down glorious pecs and abs, all the way down to the towel he has wrapped around his waist. My mouth waters and I find it hard to breathe.
A wry chuckle has my eyes snapping up to his. A dark look flits momentarily in his gaze but is soon replaced with amusement.
“My eyes are up here, Joss,” he says as he tries to stifle another laugh.
“Is a woman not allowed to admire her husband’s half-naked body?”
“Not on the terms we agreed to this afternoon, no. You said it. No sex. No shared showers. No touching unless it’s in front of other people. Definitely no tracking a bead of water as it rolls over my abs. Or did you want to change the terms of the agreement.”
He has me there. I did set strict terms for us to adhere to. Although now I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t. Hastily scrawled rules on an airplane napkin, signed by us both.
“Maybe I was a tad hasty. I didn’t know I was going to see you semi-naked.”
“And you didn’t know you’d like what you saw,” he adds with a smirk.
“Oh, I knew I’d like it. After all, you didn’t see me fake-marrying that bozo that was chatting me up in the bar.”
“So, you only married me for my looks, is that it? Should I be offended or take it as a compliment?”
“I married you for your sake as much as my own. Don’t forget it was you who suggested the damn agreement. If I hadn’t met you, I would have checked into my hotel suite by now, ordered room service, taken a shower and sat watching trashy reality television or something.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining when I agreed to accompany you to your sister’s wedding.”
“Okay, I agree, this works in my favour as much as yours. We both get something out of our arrangement. And I’m not complaining. Look, this conversation is silly. Can we get dressed and go get something to eat? I’m starving.”
“Yes, there was definitely a glint of hunger in your eyes,” he says, and he throws a wink my way.
I roll my eyes and sit up. Time to get dressed and go to face my in-laws. Temporary in-laws.
Stone walks to the closet along the far wall and drops his towel as he reaches for a pair of jeans. That ass. Oh my God, he really could crack a walnut.
***
“Yes, Mum, I was as romantic as one of your trashy romance novels,” Stone says as he lays his fork on his plate.
“They are not trashy. They’re romantic, and I happen to enjoy them, thank you very much, young man.”
“I have to agree with your mum, Stone. There’s nothing trashy about them. Unrealistic maybe, but that’s fiction for you. I don’t blame Disney for my unrealistic view of men—Prince Charming and Prince Eric pale in comparison to some of the men in these romance novels. So, I blame the authors that write unrealistically amazing men. Real men could never be anywhere near the benchmark.”
“But you said yourself that I was romantic, and you described our first kiss as that kind of foot-popping kiss you see in films.”
“Of course, Stone. You were very romantic. But you must have had a good teacher. Your mother, for example.”
“More like his father,” Alexa chimes in. “Thomas has always been a real charmer. Stone is more like him than he cares to admit. He may look like he’s hardened to this world, like he’s got a thick skin. But that’s just his exterior persona. Once you get to the man beneath, as I’m sure you’re already aware, he’s actually a wonderful man. Passionate, dedicated, genuine—I’ve always said he’d make a good husband one day. And now that day is here.”
“Mum, please.”
“Son, I’m just telling young Josslyn what she already knows. After all, she fell for you. You met and married so quickly. She must be able to see through your tough-guy exterior to your heart of gold.”
“I can, Mrs. Weatherly. Your son is a good man.”
“Please, the only Mrs. Weatherly is Thomas’s mother, Margaret. Call me Alexa, darling.”
“The two of you must be tired after your journey. What do you say to a nightcap?” Thomas asks.
“That would be great, Dad. Scotch. Neat, no ice.”
I nudge him in the ribs, and he adds a “please” onto the end of his sentence.
Thomas leads us all into the lounge and pours four tumblers of scotch from the crystal decanter on the sideboard.
Handing a glass to me, he smiles and nods as I thank him. Looking at him, I can see what Stone will look like in about twenty-five years. There’s no doubt this family got all the good genetics. It’s completely unfair to the rest of the planet.
Sitting in the lounge, we drink in relative peace. The lights on the Christmas tree twinkle, and the air smells like cinnamon and other festive spices.
The house—or what I’ve seen of it so far—is magnificent. Opulent, yet subtle in its beauty. I don’t exactly come from a poor family myself, but this place screams money. And not just any money—old money. The kind that came from a hardworking man who did all he could to provide for his family. That’s what Stone told me about Colton Weatherly, his grandfather. He busted his ass every day to provide for his wife and young child. Thomas was an only child until he was five, when years of trying for another baby finally paid off, and his little sister Elaina came along. Margaret and Colton were the kind of couple who were sickeningly in love, and it shows in the pictures Alexa is showing me in the family albums.
“They died in a car crash some ten years ago. There isn’t a day that goes by when I don’t miss Nonna and Pops,” Stone says from his seat beside me.
I’m sandwiched between Alexa and Stone on the couch, looking at family photos, drinking scotch, feeling like I’m really being inducted to the Weatherly family. And I have to admit, it feels good. Even though it’s not real for me and Stone, nobody else knows that, except Jade.
If only life had felt like this with any of my exes, then I wouldn’t be here right now. They were silly little boys, and I was naïve. But Stone is all man, and I am a grown-ass woman who knows the difference between fantasy and reality. That’s how I know it would never work for real between me and Stone. I’m too much of a realist. Too much of a workaholic. Too sassy. I am sarcastic and loud. I’d never fit into his world. But, right now, it feels like it fits like a glove.
Stone’s hand on my thigh is for show, but it sure feels good. His touch is warm, and that warmth spreads through my veins like wildfire. And his scent is intoxicating. After his shower, he smells fresh and clean, but the body wash he used smells expensive and outdoorsy. I can’t explain it very well, except to say it smells very masculine and woodsy. I’ll have to look at the bottle more closely, see if I can bottle his scent for when he’s no longer around.
“They were wonderful people, loved Elaina and me like we were their whole world. And when I married my high school sweetheart, they were overjoyed. They loved Alexa like another daughter. Of course, they never really got over losing Elaina to mumps when she was little. But they showered their grandchild with all the love and affection they could. Growing up, Stone was my mini-me, but he was his grandfather’s shadow whenever he came around.”
“He really was,” Alexa adds in a hushed tone. “Stone followed his Pops around like they were attached at the hip.”
“He was my idol. Don’t get me wrong, I idolised my dad too, still do to this day. But Pops was this giant of a man who was as cuddly as a teddy bear. He might have looked big and imposing, but he was kind, funny, loyal, and as soft as they come. Nonna always said he was like her favourite sweets, hard on the outside but with a soft centre.”
My eyes start to burn with unshed tears. The love evident in Stone’s voice has me reminiscing about my own grandparents. They were good people, loving people. The best kind. But they died when I was eighteen. A freak accident took them from this world too soon. Something I prefer not to talk about.
***
“My mum likes to tell embarrassing stories about her son, as you can tell,” Stone says as he throws more pillows onto the king-size bed.
“I liked hearing about you and your imaginary best friend. He sounds like a real hoot. Tell me something—do you still talk to him now?”
I try to stifle a laugh but fail. A pillow hits me in the chest and I make a little “oomph” sound as it winds me.
“I’ll have you know, I was like, what, five or six years old at the time. As you can see, I am no longer a child. Therefore, I no longer have the imagination of a child.”
“But Rex was your best friend. How could you just ditch him like that?”
I get another pillow thrown at me, but this time it misses. A near miss, yes, but at least it didn’t hit me in the head, which was probably what he was aiming for. Anything to shut me up.
Building a barrier of pillows down the middle of the bed, I make sure they are high enough so that neither one of us will roll over them in the night. We wouldn’t want to accidentally wake up snuggled up to each other. The pillows were, of course, my idea. Stone just went along with it. Anything for a bit of peace and quiet. But they do say “a happy wife is a happy life.”
“You use the bathroom first. I can get changed in here before brushing my teeth.”
“Thank you.” I pick up my pyjamas and toothbrush and head into the en suite.
Taking a long look at myself in the mirror, I sigh. I tie my hair with a band before washing my face. I brush my teeth for the full two minutes, gargle with mouthwash, and rinse the sink before stripping off. I slip into my cami and shorts before opening the door.
The sight before me is something to behold. Laid out on his side of the pillow barrier is the most handsome man I’ve ever seen. He’s wearing just a pair of black sleep shorts, and his long, lean body is a glorious sight. It’s enough to make my mouth water.
“Hey,” he says as he turns to look my way. “I didn’t know if you prefer to sleep on one side or the other, so I can move if you’d prefer to lie here.”
Truth be told, I don’t have a preferred side of the bed, but I’m almost tempted to tell him I do, just so I can lie in the warmth his body has left on that side.
“No, I’m good.”
I put my clothes in my suitcase and pick out what to wear tomorrow. After laying them out on the chair next to my side of the bed, I sit on my side of the pillow barrier.
“I guess this is where we say goodnight,” Stone says, his voice jolting me out of my own head.
I pull the hairband from my hair and place it around my wrist. My hair falls around my shoulders, and I see something flicker across Stone’s face as he watches me. Deciding not to ask him about it, I turn over and lie down. I reach over and turn the bedside lamp off before snuggling under the blankets. Even though it’s winter, I’m only wearing a cami and shorts—I get too hot if I wear much else. At home, I usually sleep naked pretty much most of the time. Knowing my mum walks into my room without knocking, I bring pyjamas every time I come to visit. I’m hoping now I have a “husband” she will have to knock before coming in. It’ll give me a chance to demolish the pillow wall and make it look like we’re a real couple.
Trying my hardest to get comfortable, I turn this way and that.
“You okay there, princess?” Stone says in the darkness.
“Fine. Just. Trying. To. Get. Comfortable.”
Each word is punctuated with a toss and turn and a punch to my pillow.
“You don’t sound fine.”
“Honestly, I’m good. And we have a week of this, so I’d better get used to it now,” I say as I finally find a more comfortable position.
“I can take the couch.”
“Very gallant of you, Stone, but a) I am not going to kick you out of your own bed to sleep on a couch that’s far too short for your long body, and b) I really am fine.”
“Well, as long as you’re okay …”
“I am. Goodnight.”
“Sleep tight, Joss.”
“You too, Stone.”
I lie awake a little longer counting sheep, because each time I close my eyes I see Stone’s ripped chest with water cascading down it, the droplets absorbed by the towel around his waist.
Another disturbing thought plagues me—what he looks like without the towel and how big his cock is. Geez, Louise; I am losing my mind.
Finally, my battle with tiredness overcomes me, and sleep claims me. My dreams would probably make a shrink a lot of money trying to help me process the junk in my mind. How did I agree to marry a virtual stranger? How did this stranger manage to penetrate my waking and sleeping thoughts? Yeah, that would be one rich shrink.

Stolen Beauty

Stolen Beauty
The B&D Chronicles
Piper St. James
https://amzn.to/32H7EVt
Prologue

Her phone had chirped with the text message invite about an hour ago. It was the address for a pop-up bondage club at a warehouse downtown. Excitement coursed through her from head to toe as her eyes scanned the message to re-read it again and again.
She recognized the address vaguely, enough to know it was in a bad part of the city. She bit her lip anxiously as she checked the address on her computer just to be sure. Her initial assumption about the location was right, and her teeth bit down a little deeper. Admittedly, part of the thrill was leaving her posh middle-class apartment to venture into the city at night, but she couldn’t ignore the voice in the back of her head that told her to be cautious.
Pop-up fetish clubs were the new raves—a vacant and abandoned warehouse one evening, the site of a killer bondage club the next, then back to a warehouse by the time the sun rose the next morning. The patrons valued their clubs, so there usually weren’t any signs of the activities from the night before.
She had attended these parties before, and she always had a great time. The city was a place she had been warned about since childhood —the fetish clubs and the old ways of the world were less refined than their own—but it added to the excitement of doing something so taboo. She and her friends must have been to a dozen parties over the years, maybe more. However, it was always with her usual group of friends that she attended, and tonight none of them were available to go.
Unfortunately for her, tonight some of them were out of town or on dates, while others had just ghosted her invite. Typical. While they were indeed her friends, most were entitled bitches that she just kept around for appearance’s sake. Petty, yes, but this was the way her class of luxury and money lived and operated on the secondary tier.
The fact that none of them were available to go to this party made her hesitate as her finger lingered over the confirmation of her RSVP on her phone. Sure, she could take a car down to the city by herself … but should she? She had never gone into the city solo, but tonight she was in dire need of some fun, and this club was calling her name.
Fuck it. She confirmed her reservation on her mobile, and that was that! She chose one of her favorite outfits—a short black vinyl skirt with matching bra. They were shiny and smooth, and in the light they glistened like slick oil against her tan skin. The lack of a shirt openly exposed her golden necklace that bared her initial, a lower-case “y.”
Her shoes were silver glitter platforms—not the most efficient to dance in, but they gave her an additional four inches of height. She would silently tolerate the pain if they made her look that much taller.
She was going to paint her nails, but she didn’t have the time or patience, and her makeup received the same minimal treatment. She knew she was beautiful without it, and she had the confidence not to spend hours in front of the mirror to make herself up before going out. Maybe it was more than confidence, bordering on ego, but basic foundation, some soft pink lipstick, and mascara was all she applied. She brushed her bubblegum-pink bob haircut, roughly the same shade as her lips, and was ready to go.
***
By the time she arrived at the fetish club, it was in full swing. She always knew how to time an entrance.
Various bondage scenes were already set up and underway, scattered throughout the open play space. In the far end of the warehouse, a makeshift stage was assembled, with speakers pumping trance music to a crowd of eccentric dancers. Retro seemed to be in this season. The song changed to what she recognized as a remix from the group Daft Punk from nearly fifty years ago, maybe more. The crowd went up in a cheer at the first indication of the song, and broke into an energy that matched the music’s rhythm.
Some of the club goers were holding plastic cups, while others danced with glow sticks and hula hoops that came to life with LEDs. Radiant pinks, greens, oranges, and yellows all lit up the crowd. Many were in bondage gear, including collars, harnesses, and fishnet clothing that was either traditional black or obnoxiously loud neon, while others were wearing nothing at all.
The music swirled and intermixed with the scenes of pain and pleasure all around her. It made her feel alive in a way nothing else did in this world, and it all created a natural high that she coasted on in her head. Embracing the adrenaline being released along her limbs and the dopamine in her brain, she realized this is why she ventured into the city at tonight alone. This is what she lived for.
She found a place along the wall where she could watch a scene with a few other gathering spectators. A tall Amazon beauty with golden skin and long black hair was in control of her bottom, another woman with a shaggy blonde pixie haircut streaked with wisps of pink and teal. She was chained from a rig that was suspended from the ceiling. It was raised just enough that the petite woman had to stand on the balls of her feet—nearly her tiptoes—in order to avoid hanging from her wrists. Her slim, naked body was stretched out, vulnerable to her tormentor.
The Amazon stalked around her prey. The young bottom had her eyes squeezed shut in anticipation, and a slight bit of dread at the oncoming sting of whatever implement her Mistress chose to use on her exposed skin made her bottom lip tremble. Y could feel the buzz amongst the crowd as they watched the scene unfold in front of them.
The Amazon’s black leather boots, stretching up to her knees, clicked on the concrete floor. They were far enough from the music that even the audience could hear her calculated footfalls. The beautiful Top wore skinny jeans, accentuating her beautiful ass, and a black halter top. Her slender yet powerful arms were covered in ink that crawled along her skin and surely worked its way down her back.
Her confidence spoke volumes, and she didn’t need flashy club wear to impress others or communicate her stature in the scene or the experience she harnessed. A flick of her raven hair and a curl of her lips as she stalked her prey made each and every spectator want to be beneath her, or crave to Top her. Y had seen this beauty before at the dungeons, and she knew this one would never, ever yield beneath another.
She brought the whip that was in her hand over her bottom’s right breast with uncanny accuracy. It struck its target, kissing the flesh and leaving its mark upon the supple skin. The restrained girl yipped, and sadistic smiles spread throughout the crowd. Another quick lash from the whip struck, this time hitting her on the left butt cheek, making her almost lose the footing she struggled so desperately to keep.
Across the room, Y met eyes with another spectator. He was tall, clad in leather pants and matching shirt with combat boots. He was the definition of “tall, dark, and handsome,” with eyes that were always on her as she moved hers coyly away and then back to him.
This could be fun, she thought as she separated herself from the group, seeing if her watcher would follow her. As she made her way away from the crowd, she definitely felt someone in her peripheral vision moving alongside her a few dozen feet away. She grinned to herself, thinking how she’d successfully baited her handsome suitor.
The problem with clubs like this was there weren’t many places to be alone, unless you wanted to brave the rest of the warehouse, which was usually dilapidated and in shambles. However, there was usually one place in every warehouse that she could utilize.
She pushed a door open, leading to the fire escape. Fortunately there weren’t any smokers on the metal landing at the moment, and she was able to be alone to see if her stalker would follow. She leaned on the railing, positioning herself in a coy and demure pose, trying to play innocent, with the intentions of ravaging him upon his entrance. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
The minutes crawled by. Where was he? She was beginning to get impatient, and that would soon lead to aggravation. Just as she was about to turn to go back inside, she heard the click of the door as it opened behind her. Finally, she thought to herself.
“It took you long enough.” She grinned into the night air, still facing away from the door.
She felt his hand trace along the side of her body, warm and smooth against her skin, cool from the night’s breeze. Suddenly his light caresses ceased and he grabbed her from behind, pulling her into him, yanking her back so hard her fingers slipped from the fire escape, her nails scratching the metal railing and making an awful noise.
Instinctively she tried to pull away and turn to face him, but she wasn’t strong enough as the leather-gloved fingers dug into her arms. Something in her brain instantly knew this wasn’t play. She was now prey. All of those stories about the dangers of the city flashed through her mind, and instantaneously she knew she was in trouble.
She kicked and struggled, trying to get out of his grasp. One of her platform shoes flew off in her attempts and clattered down the fire escape stairs, where it descended into the darkness beneath them.
The leather-clad hands moved to her throat where they began to squeeze, literally taking the breath from her before she could scream. She struggled fruitlessly as the grip tightened. She opened her mouth to yell for help, but all that came out were the last gurgles of air she had being pushed out of her lungs.
Her eyes went wide with fear and she desperately tried to claw at the hands that kept her captive. She could feel the adrenaline begin to fade from her muscles, and the lack of oxygen was closing in on her vision. She desperately tried to stay conscious, thinking if she struggled hard enough or stayed conscious long enough, someone would find them and help her. After what seemed like fifteen minutes of struggling and not being able to breathe, which realistically was probably less than a minute, she could feel herself slipping. Her muscles were becoming tired and her lungs screamed in pain. She was wrong; no one was coming for her. Suddenly everything went black and her fight was over.
Chapter One

Detective Wes Ellis rolled over in his bed. Red satin sheets were strewn aside, and his once brown hair, now long turning grey, was tousled from his sleep, or perhaps from the activities of earlier that night. He pressed the palm of his hand against his forehead tightly as he rolled away from the edge of the bed and onto his back. Next to him, he heard a small noise come from the twisted mess of a duvet and saw a mop of golden hair poking out from beneath it.
The night before slowly came back to him as his eyes wandered the floor on the opposite side of the bed. Bondage gear of all types was scattered across the bedroom beneath the highly raised bed. A spreader bar, various canes and crops, and a pair of heavy elkskin floggers all littered the hardwood floor. Smaller toys intermingled with the larger ones, including clover clamps, an o-ring gag, and vibrators ranging in all sizes, including a menacing-looking dildo. Last night had been a light affair because he knew he had to work the next morning, but they’d still made the most of it. It was so rare their paths crossed these days, he thought.
The stirring of the small noise from his side came again. He reached down to remove the blanket gently from his companion, who still slept peacefully at his side, and finally found her. Pulling back the blanket, he revealed a beautiful pale face, young and smooth. Luscious lips that had worn red lipstick the night before were now bare and gorgeous in their natural beauty. They slightly parted to release a small sigh as she slept.
In the puffy duvet cocoon, her features popped against the white fabric and gave her an angelic appearance. She looked so peaceful as she slept, so young and frozen in time. Removing more of the blanket, he revealed her slender shoulders, and that little sigh came again. It brought a smile to his lips. She was somewhere in that state between awake and asleep, where you could wake up with enough effort, but easily fall back into the dreamscapes you’d just left. He didn’t want to disturb her, not just yet.
That crooked smile that had crossed his lips accompanied the amusement in his steel blue eyes as he admired the young woman, half his age, lying beside him. He continued to lower the blanket, now revealing her breasts that were once as pale as the rest of her, but were now swollen and held a bright, angry pink glow from the cane he had used last night to strike them. She had lain on her back, bound to the four posts of his king size bed. In this spread-eagle position, he was able to leave mark after mark, line after line, from his wooden cane.
Perfectly thin lines matched symmetrically on each breast. He admired his work for a moment before he completely removed the warm blanket she slumbered in. The cool morning air greeted her skin, and her nipples became perky and erect. They were no doubt sore to even the softest of touches.
He wanted to take one of them in his mouth this morning and suck on it as he had done the night before, then graze his teeth along the tip. This morning, even his breath would make them scream in pain, so to bite them would be a wonderful way to start the day for his lovely little masochist.
Watching her breasts rise and fall with each breath she took in her sleep, he remembered last night’s events vividly. First, his fingers had caressed her gently, rolling her nipples between his fingertips until they became red, swollen, and hard. That was when they were the most ripe to bite, and that is exactly what he’d done. Her screams of ecstasy from the pain had only encouraged him to bite harder. She’d run her fingers through his hair and pulled, but this had not deterred him from his course. He would release, open his mouth wider, and envelop a mouthful of her soft breast with his teeth and bite down hungrily.
He bit her much more deeply than he would any other partner because he knew this one could take it—this one was different. He could have drawn blood and she would have gently pushed him away, tasted it on her fingertips, and then pulled him back to whisper in his ear to continue. This girl was special.
While that particularly deep bite mark made the left breast different from the right, still bearing his teeth marks this morning, they were nearly identical as she lay next to him. As his eyes traveled from her face and down her body, he could feel her body heat radiate against him. The scent of sex, sweat, and natural body pheromones escaped in a musky waft as lowered the blanket to the floor, fully revealing her naked body.
Her pussy was waxed and clean. Looking at it now only made his already hard cock ache with desire. Her thighs were covered in beautiful welts that would soon turn black and blue. They would then fade to a sickly yellowish green before their eventual departure from the skin.
Having played with her often enough, he knew these marks would only last five or six days maximum, and when he saw her again they would be long gone and he would have the pleasure of starting over again on a clean canvas. That is, if she hadn’t found someone before him to leave new ones.
She was his go-to girl, what he considered his primary, but with the life he led, he didn’t have as much time for her as he wanted, and certainly not as much as she deserved.
He also damned well knew he didn’t deserve her. A man his age, currently kissing fifty years old on the ass next month, with a job that kept him away all hours of the day and night—he didn’t deserve such a luxury. In fact, he was probably the last person worthy of her company.
She, however, was popular amongst the kink and polyamory circles alike. The fact she threw him a bone at all made him grateful. She could have anyone she wanted any day of the week, man or woman, and for all he knew, she did. But on their nights together she chose him, and hell if he knew why.
There had been many nights when he had requested her company and she had arrived with marks, both fresh and old, but he never asked about them and she never divulged their origin. Other times she would have cuts along her skin, some shallow and resembling scratches, others running deeper and still bandaged. Once again—don’t ask, don’t tell. It wasn’t their way.
That was one of the cornerstones of their dynamic. Love had absolutely nothing to do with what they had; it was purely primal and sensual. They weren’t indebted to each other in the slightest, and they didn’t owe the other a single thing, let alone an explanation for the marks that graced her body. When they were together, it was their time to embrace the other’s company—nothing else, and no one else, mattered.
He had on more than one occasion given her a mark from toys, blades, or teeth that left a long-lasting impression, and on very rare occasions a permanent mark of his own when she’d asked for it. However, through his experience and respect for her, he never left it in an obnoxiously obvious spot as untrained Tops and Dominants have been known to do.
Her creamy thighs, red and warm to the touch from the pain he’d bestowed upon her last night with a riding crop, led to her slender legs and perfectly manicured feet. Her toenails were painted red, as they always were, to match her fingernails. Red, in their world, meant many things—a safe word for “stop,” a color they strived to turn the skin—but to her it was the color that made her look the most stunning and delicious when it adorned her body.
While catering to who knows how many other men and women, she always made him feel special. She always made him feel like he was the only one in the world that mattered to her—the mark of a great submissive.
Whenever she spent time with him, either out on the town or at his apartment, she knew what he liked and was happy to oblige. In his presence, she would wear either a blouse and pencil skirt, or a beautiful long dress with a slit up the right leg, revealing Cuban thigh-highs. The seams were always perfectly straight as they ran up the back of her legs, from her heel to just beneath her voluptuously round ass cheeks where they met the garter straps.
She’d be wearing heels, of course. It could be snowing, with three feet of snow already accumulated on the ground, and she would be navigating the sidewalks effortlessly in her stilettos. Her hair would either be up in loose curls, or straight and framing her delicate face. The two things that were always consistent were her red lips, and the golden necklace she wore bearing her first initial, a lower-case golden “c.”
In their world, whenever someone wore such a necklace, it would either display the initial of their own name, or the name of their Owner. Tops displayed capital letters, while bottoms displayed lower case.
If it was their own name on the chain, this was an indication that the individual was not claimed, either by choice or by circumstance. However, if it was the initial of their Owner, they were off the market unless their Owner expressed otherwise.
Watching her as she slept, now he pondered this. He knew a lot about her. Actually, no, that was incorrect—he knew what she told him about herself. As a detective, he of all people knew that what people told you could be anything but the truth, so who knew if what she told him was just that? Yet to him it didn’t matter; that was a luxury when you accepted the other at face value and didn’t owe the other a thing. He didn’t need the truth form her. Their relationship was purely physical, carnal, and indulgent.
What she had once told him was that she wasn’t owned. She easily could have been, with her looks, experience, and skills. However, as she explained many times over when asked both by him and others in his company, that was not what she wanted. She wanted to be free and have experiences an Owner would never allow—experiences he or she would no doubt keep her from as a kept submissive. She wanted to be her own person. She wanted something that was an old-world concept—free will.
This was not a shared goal in their culture. In fact, it was extremely rare, since that meant she had to make her own way in the world, and their world was not always the safest place for a young, single female to be doing so. With his past caseload of victims, he should know better than anyone. Those who made their own way were usually in the lower ranks of society—the tertiary tier, as they called it. These citizens were ones who commonly led a life of prostitution and unsafe kink.
When he first met her, this was the most remarkable thing he had ever heard. A beautiful woman not wanting to be owned? Girls and boys from the age of eighteen who were submissive in nature begged to be owned, to be cared for and taken care of, to slave beneath one man or woman for the rest of their life. From their tenth birthday, they were trained in the ways to please prospective men and women.
No, not sexually, of course—not at such a young age. However, at ten they began their training in skills that every Owner would want in their bottom, the person who would serve beneath them. Education, culinary and domestic skills, how to hold and maintain proper conversation, as well as an array of very specific skill sets to cater to hobbies and interests their potential Owner may have and require of them, even if the bottom themselves had no personal interest. These were all valuable traits learned from their education structure, and, as you went up in the hierarchy, it only became stricter and more refined.
Ten years old may have seemed young to the world decades ago, if not centuries, but it appeared to be the age when the child would have an inkling if they leaned more toward the Dominant side or the submissive. Were they a Top or a bottom? Would they command others or be commanded?
Parents would take their children to a specialist in the field who would administer a scrutiny of psychological tests and come up with a result that would confirm or deny the child’s own inner feelings. If the child came out as a switch, someone who enjoyed both Top and bottom experiences, they were shunned from being both and were forced to choose. If they refused, their parents would make the decision for them and their education would begin.
It was dangerous to be a switch, because it went against all of the rules their world had established. Men could be submissive and women could be Dominant, but never could one fall on both sides of the D/s slash, as they called it.
For a culture that was widely accepting of social and sexual ideas and ways of life that were once considered taboo in more repressed societies, being a switch was one of the greatest practices of the scene. However, Ellis had an inkling this was exactly what this girl sleeping beside him was. He’d assumed it the moment he’d laid eyes on her as he’d watched how she interacted with others at the bar they’d met at. She catered to some and ruled over others, but it was in the slightest and smallest of ways only a trained detective would be able to notice. The glint in her eye, a hand gesture, the guidance of walking half a step ahead or behind another, even her posture while sitting with someone spoke distinctly of her nature.
To the untrained eye she hid it well, but you can never really hide your true self from those who knew what to look for, and he knew exactly what those things were.
While her license said submissive, he didn’t believe it. Not for a minute. There were other indicators too that went up like red flags that he mentally bookmarked as they continued to see each other.
For instance, when she came over and her skin was unblemished and clean, showing no indications of bruising, scoring, or marks of any kind, this was an extreme red flag. No way could someone who enjoyed receiving pain so much go so long without having any marks from receiving any. That is, not unless they enjoyed giving it as well.
He never questioned her unmarked skin; he could hear the excuses now, and, frankly, he didn’t care. Somewhere deep down inside himself he knew her nature of being a switch was one of the things he enjoyed most about her. It made her unpredictable and extremely interesting, but he would never admit it to himself, let alone another person.
Hell, his job was taking these people who practiced both sides of the culture into holding to be evaluated. In their world, it was believed that when a person could not choose to be a Top or a bottom, this was an indication of a disturbed mind.
It seemed primitive and wrong, but he had seen far too many switches commit crimes to argue with the facts. However, that didn’t mean many other disturbed minds who committed crimes every single day didn’t identify on just one side of the slash. He had his suspicions that condemning switches was just the government’s way of making the public feel safe from the prospects of living in an unpredictable and chaotic society.
As he pondered, she now began to shift and stir from her sleep. Reaching her arms above her head in a blind stretch and arching her back, she let out a cute little noise from her lips. It was the noise she made every morning before she opened her eyes, a noise that always made him smile.
Finally her black eyelashes fluttered open, revealing icy blue eyes from behind her sleepy lids. They were bright and beautiful, especially in the early morning sunlight.
“Good morning.” She smiled warmly as she rolled over on her side to face him, tossing her long locks onto one side of her head and using them as a makeshift pillow beneath her left cheek as she looked up at him. She yawned and blinked a few times to clear the sleep from her eyes.
He stroked her hair that fell on the pillow, liquid gold forming small waves and pools on the red satin beneath. “Good morning, Celeste.” His own eyes stayed on her hair as he played with it between his fingertips. Even after their late night adventures, her hair still smelled wonderful, as did her skin as he leaned down to kiss her shoulder and gently nibble on it.
She giggled her wonderful, tinkling laughter and ran her fingertips through his aging hair. She playfully pulled it back in a sharp tug that made him gasp as he was forced to lean up from her. Another red flag, he thought to himself. This girl is trouble, he admitted to himself as he straddled on top of her, but didn’t care as he leaned down to seal her mouth with his.
She embraced her newfound position beneath him, raising her hips to feel his hard morning cock glide against her, warm and stiff. He ran two fingers against the entrance between her legs and felt the warm heat welcome him as she softly inhaled into his kiss. She was already wet and waiting for him to enter, but that wouldn’t be the plan for today as his phone at the bedside chirped.
It had occurred so often since they had met over a year ago that it didn’t disappoint her anymore, not that she would ever admit it if it did—a good submissive would never admit to such a thing. However, she wasn’t just a submissive now, was she? Knowing how to read people, he acknowledged her reactions, and it indeed used to bother her. Another red flag.

Killer Deceptions

Killer Deceptions
Zia Westfield
https://amzn.to/31FrcYX

Chapter One
Joe Vanetti put down the phone and crossed out the next name on his list. Eleven hotels and motels and not a single one had a vacancy for the weekend. He tapped his pen against the pad as he contemplated alternatives.
The weather called for snow this weekend. The farther he had to go for a room, the greater the likelihood the snow would prevent him from getting where he needed to be.
He flipped open the file that he normally kept locked in his desk. The newspaper on top had yellowed after more than a decade. He’d read it so many times, he could practically recite it by heart. JEWEL THEFT AT EXCLUSIVE HOTEL. Only five of them had had the opportunity: a bartender, a waitress, a night clerk, and Joe and Robbie—two wet-behind-the-ears pre-law students working the summer before their senior year. He and Robbie had been in their rooms asleep, which meant they’d had no alibi. But it hadn’t been long before the police narrowed their suspect list down to one.
Joe lifted the newspaper article to reveal a second one underneath, detailing the arrest. A bracelet had been found in Robbie’s locker. There was no sign of the diamond necklace. The police had determined that Robbie had managed to pass it on to an accomplice, never mind that it made no sense that he’d keep the bracelet.
Joe returned to school for his senior year. Robbie got five years in prison.
And Joe had been searching for the real jewel thief ever since. Reports from a private investigator filled out the rest of the folder. Joe had followed up on every one of them. He’d come up empty. It was like chasing after smoke.
Joe tossed his pen down on the desk with disgust. He finally had a new lead and he wouldn’t be able to check it out because of the crappy weather and the lack of rooms in the area.
Damn.
“Yo, Vanetti, I hear you’re asking about places to stay in the Catskills.” Detective T.J. Garcia sauntered over to Joe’s desk, a quizzical gleam in his gaze. Since Garcia worked out of the Carville North Precinct, Joe assumed that he’d learned the info from his little brother, Ryan, who’d recently made detective on the squad over there.
Joe leaned back in his chair. “You heard right. Know anyone who has a cabin in the area?”
T.J. sat on the corner of the desk, his gaze landing on the notepad filled with crossed-out hotel names. “Doesn’t look like you’ve had much luck.”
Joe didn’t know Garcia well, but the other detective had a reputation for being a smart aleck as well as a helluva cop. “Any chance you can change that luck?”
T.J. rubbed his jaw a moment. “That depends. What are your feelings on dating?”
“Dating?” Joe repeated. “What do my feelings about dating have to do with getting a room in the Catskills?”
T.J. wagged his finger. “Just answer the question.”
Joe observed him through narrowed eyes. T.J. seemed to be enjoying himself for reasons Joe didn’t understand. But he’d had no luck finding lodging. If T.J. could get him the inside track on a cabin or motel room, he’d play along.
“Fine,” he said. “I’m all for dating if that’s what you’re looking for.” He then pointed to the stack of folders on his desk. “But until I get caught up on paperwork, the only dates I’ll be having will be with the computer. Satisfied?”
“Hell, no. Your brother is right. You need a life.” T.J. grinned down at him.
Joe clung to his temper, reminding himself that the conversation was supposed to be about housing in the Catskills. If it’d get him a room in the Catskills, he’d put up with the cocky bastard a while longer.
“Spill, Garcia, or get off my desk and get the hell back to your own precinct.” Joe crossed his arms over his chest and regarded the other detective through lowered brows.
T.J. stood and put his hands on his hips. “Here’s the thing. I owe my neighbor for watching my dog while I was undercover. I promised I’d be her date this weekend for a family affair. But the captain’s ordered me on another assignment. I hate to let Angela down. Then I heard from Ryan that you were looking for a place in the Catskills and it all fell together.
“What fell together?” Joe said, letting his exasperation show.
T.J. grinned and Joe would swear that the gleam in his eye practically twinkled in delight.
“Easy,” T.J. said. “You can take my place.”
Joe stared at him stupefied. “You want me to be some strange woman’s date for the weekend? Are you nuts?” Hell, no, a thousand times over. The last thing he needed was to be some woman’s boy toy. He had his own reasons for wanting to get to the Catskills, and they sure as hell didn’t include romance.
“Don’t be hasty.” T.J. held up a hand and shook his head as if he was disappointed. “I’ve got a room at the Red Spruce Resort that’s yours for the asking.”
Joe had been about to tell T.J. to take his offer and shove it, but the name Red Spruce Resort caught his attention. Maybe his luck was changing. If his information was correct, his thief would make a grab for a priceless emerald necklace that would be gracing the neck of a famous violinist who was giving a special concert at the Red Spruce Resort on Saturday night.
“I’m listening.”
T.J. nodded. "Figured you would. Like I said, I owe Angela and now you owe me. It's a win any way you look at it."
“I’ll do it,” Joe said. He didn’t need to think about it. A Christmas miracle had just dropped in his lap and he wasn’t about to let it slip by. “You’d better tell me what I need to know about this Angela.” He paused as another thought occurred to him. “Are you sure she’s going to be okay with this switch?”
“Leave it to me. She’ll welcome you with open arms,” T.J. assured him.
“Yeah? Sounds like the two of you are close.” Joe wasn’t sure how good an idea it was to step in the middle of someone else’s relationship, but he couldn’t afford to be choosy.
T.J. snorted. “Dating Angie would be like dating my sister. Besides, she has a list of attributes—her word not mine—for dating material. Top of the list is No Cops.”
Joe rubbed the bridge of his nose, something niggling in his mind. “What’s this Angie’s name?”
T.J. smiled, looking like a crocodile that had found a free lunch. “Angela Maria Rossi.”
Joe stared at T.J., his tongue unable to form any words for a full minute. “Angie’s your neighbor?” he finally said, his head shaking in disbelief. “She’ll never go for it. I know Angie. She hates deception.”
“She’ll get over it,” T.J. said bluntly. “She’s desperate.”
Joe sighed. “Looks like we have that in common.”
***
Angela heard the doorbell as she was shoving a racy red lingerie set into her bag. She hadn’t expected to get lucky this weekend, but going up against her cousin Marisa required every bit of armor she could carry with her. She tugged at the zipper, but when the bell rang again, she gave up trying to close the bag and marched to the front door.
T.J. was early. Since when was he early? It figured that the first time he decided to be on time was the day she would’ve been happy to be behind schedule. The sooner they got on the road, the sooner they’d join the family reunion, and the sooner she’d get to hear Aunt Rosa talk about what a shame it was that Angela was thirty and not married.
Hurrying across her living room carpet, she paused to straighten the afghan that lay over her sofa and checked that the rest of the room appeared in order. Everything in its place and a place for everything. The little ditty she sang with her first-graders played in her head.
Another sharp rap on her door reminded her that she needed to answer it.
She peered through her peephole, remembering the lectures T.J. had given her on being cautious and saw the back of a dark head and a brown leather jacket. She wondered what he’d seen on the street that had caught his attention.
She unlocked the door and pulled it open. “Hell—”
The greeting died on her lips as she saw the man who stood on her doorstep.
“Hey, Angela,” Joe Vanetti said with a smile.
Angela slammed the door on his face. She leaned back against it, her heart pounding, her mouth dry, and her brain short-circuiting.
Joe Vanetti on her doorstep. Not possible.
There had to be a mistake.
She’d had a crush on him since the second grade. He’d been two years ahead of her, but that hadn’t stopped her from falling hard for an “older” boy. She’d been content to keep her crush to herself, but then she’d gotten a job as a camp counselor at the same day camp Joe had worked at. That summer had been one disaster after another. Even now, fifteen years later, her cheeks were on fire.
Two brisk knocks sounded, interrupting any trips down memory lane.
“Angie, open up. Come on, I can explain.”
Swiping her hands against her thighs, Angie pushed off the door and opened it once more.
“What are you doing here? Where’s T.J.? Please tell me he’s parking the car.”
“Can I come in?” Joe asked instead.
The feeling of dread that had settled in her stomach the moment she’d opened the door to see Joe Vanetti on the other side grew. She gestured him in.
“Talk,” she ordered.
He ran his hand through his hair, mussing up the brown strands. A part of her wanted to tame them—the too-stupid-never-left-high-school part of her. She curled her fingers at her side to keep them from betraying her.
“Where’s T.J.?” At the moment, that was her number one priority. If he was running late, she could deal with that. But if that were the case, the rational teacher’s mind in her said, then why not simply call?
Sending Joe Vanetti did not bode well.
Joe braced his feet apart and stuffed his hands in his pockets. He wore a rather sheepish expression.
“T.J. can’t make it this weekend. He sent me in his place.”
“Oh no. No and no and no.” Angie shook her head vehemently. “Not happening. You and I are like oil and water. Bad things happen when we get together.”
Joe scowled. “We’ve had a few run-ins. So what? According to T.J., you need a boyfriend for the weekend. I’m it.”
Angela’s jaw dropped even as fumes came out her ears. A few run-ins! The goddesses of fate had to have been having a good laugh, because, despite having a huge crush on Joe, every time she was in his presence it coincided with one of her most embarrassing moments, like climbing up the ladder to the dock only to have her bikini top fall off, or falling into a mud pit just as he walked by with his latest summer girlfriend, Louise Bradley.
“Of all the arrogant, obnoxious—” she practically spat out.
Joe pulled his hands out of his pockets and held them up in a sign of a T.
“Time out.”
Angie clamped her lips together, though she itched to finish giving him a piece of her mind.
Joe placed his hands on his hips, his fingers splayed, causing his leather jacket to open further, revealing a larger expanse of chest. The seventeen-year-old boy had certainly filled out.
Of course, over the years she’d gotten occasional glimpses of Joe when he’d attended church with his family. But, for the most part, they ran in different circles. She’d been content to live life that way.
Only now T.J. had to go and screw it up by dumping Joe on her doorstep.
“You have to leave,” she said, making shooing motions with her hand. “I don’t know what T.J. was thinking, or,” she added, her brow scrunching, “why he sent you, but I don’t need a boyfriend.”
Liar! In a moment of weakness, she’d told her mom that she was seeing someone in order to stop the endless comparisons to cousin Marisa, who was younger by two years and engaged to marry a doctor. It’d bought her some time, but her mother’s pointed hints that she wanted to meet the new man in Angie’s life, along with a trip to the confessional, had prompted her to come clean. And she would have if there hadn’t been a family dinner to celebrate Marisa’s engagement. Her cousin’s comments about Angie being single and thirty had prompted Angie to declare she was in a serious relationship with an incredible man and would bring him to their grandparents’ fiftieth wedding anniversary party coming up in a few weeks.
She’d then gone home and eaten a half-gallon of pistachio mint ice cream, berating herself for letting Marisa get to her. After that, she’d called T.J.
Her plan had been simple. Introduce T.J., then stage a break up later on.
It would’ve been the perfect plan if T.J. had stuck with the script. Instead, he’d improvised and look where that had left her. Her family knew Joe’s family through church. Maybe not well, but well enough that the news would spread.
This was what she got for lying in the first place. She might as well confess all to the family. She’d have to put up with Marisa’s smug face, but she’d been dealing with her obnoxious cousin since two-year-old Marisa had had an epic tantrum when four-year-old Angie had refused to share her favorite doll.
“Angie, if you don’t want me to act as your boyfriend, that’s fine, but you should know that I intend to be there.” He jerked a thumb behind his shoulder. “It’s already started to snow. It makes more sense that we drive together, don’t you think?”
“It’s snowing?” She flew to the window beside the door and moved the curtain aside to peer into the darkness. Flurries of white were clearly visible. Weather reports had indicated snow over the weekend, but she’d figured she’d be happily toasting her tootsies in front of a fire at the resort by the time the stuff fell from the skies. Besides, she’d counted on T.J.’s SUV to deal with the roads. Her compact was fine for city streets, but she really didn’t want to test it out on mountain roads.
Then the rest of his statement penetrated her mind. Her hand still clutching the curtain, she glanced over at him.
“What do you mean you intend to be there anyway?”
He looked down at his watch. “You know the violinist who’s performing this weekend at the resort?” She nodded her head and waited for him to continue. “She’s on a final farewell tour and has worn a priceless emerald necklace at each performance. I’ve got intel that says someone’s going to try to steal it while she’s performing in the Catskills. When he or she does, I’m going to be there.” His voice turned grim and she shivered. “I’ll tell you more about it on the way. If we don’t get moving, the roads are going to become impassable.”
Angie bit her lip. She either canceled, or she went with Joe.
No contest.
Curiosity, along with a strong sense of justice, had always been one of her besetting sins. It was why she’d become a first-grade teacher. Six-year-olds were incredibly curious about the world around them. She loved helping them explore that world and learn how to navigate within it.
“Let’s go,” she said. “But if you’re feeding me a line, I’m sitting you next to Aunt Rosa. Believe me. That’s a fate worse than death.”
Chapter Two

By the time they arrived at Red Spruce Resort, Angie was wrung out. Not long after they’d left her place, the snow had come down in steady swirls that had left visibility no more than six feet or so from the hood. Any talk of jewel thieves and emerald necklaces had taken a back seat to arriving at the resort in one piece.
What should have been less than a three-hour ride had turned into six hours.
It was nearly one in the morning. She wanted nothing more than a bed and a bath. She could only imagine how Joe felt—he’d been the one driving. She’d offered to take a turn, but he’d told her he was fine and she hadn’t pushed it.
When they walked into the hotel lobby, she sighed with relief. There was a huge decorated Christmas tree with an electric train underneath, and stockings hung from a fireplace that continued to burn. As much as she wanted to warm herself beside the fire, she went immediately to the reception desk.
“Hello. I’ve got a reservation for two rooms under the name Angela Rossi.”
The clerk, a middle-aged woman with glasses and a tendency to squint, punched some keys on the computer.
“Yes, I have you right here, Ms. Rossi. You and your companion are in the Goldenrod Suite.”
“The Golden—” she didn’t complete her sentence since Joe chose that moment to enter with their suitcases. She’d tried to insist that she was perfectly capable of carrying her own suitcase, but he’d countered that it made more sense for her to check them in while he parked the car.
Joe set the suitcases down by the counter. “Everything okay?”
No, everything was not okay. But she bit back the words hovering on the edge of her tongue. She noted the fatigue in his features and felt guilty that she hadn’t pushed to share in the driving.
“One sec,” she said, holding up a finger.
She turned back to the clerk and pasted a smile on her face.
“Um, could you tell me who made the reservations? Was it my aunt Rosa?” Not likely. Aunt Rosa made penny pinchers look like big spenders.
The clerk typed some keystrokes and a little blip sounded. “Let’s see, the reservations were made by Catarina Rossi.”
“Mom?” Angie said in disbelief. Why would her mother reserve a suite? What had her mother been thinking?
“Just a moment,” the clerk continued. “It looks like a second call was placed asking that the room be upgraded to one of our suites.” The clerk gave her a puzzled look. “You made the call.”
“I—”
Angie clamped her mouth shut as she caught sight of Joe’s weary shoulders. She wasn’t about to get into it with the clerk at one a.m. Suites had two rooms, didn’t they? Sure, it would put a massive dent into her battered credit card, but so what? She could sort it out later.
She offered Joe a bright smile.
“We’re all set. We’ve got the Goldenrod Suite.” She hurriedly signed the registration form and reached for the key card.
“Would you like me to call someone to help with your bags?” the clerk asked.
Joe shook his head.
“I’ve got it. Thanks.”
“You’ll find the Goldenrod Suite on the third floor at the end of the hall. Enjoy your stay.”
“Thank you,” Angie murmured. She grabbed the handle of her suitcase and, taking the lead, headed for the elevator.
They rode up in silence. Exhaustion clung to every one of her pores. As much as she wanted to fall into bed, she really wanted a bath. After that long drive, her nerves were shot. If it weren’t so late, she’d consider splurging on something alcoholic from the room’s mini-fridge.
She inserted the key card into the lock and heard the click indicating it had disengaged. She turned the knob and pushed the door in. Before she could get the lights, Joe hit them.
“It’s lovely!”
The words spilled from her lips. They stood in a cozy sitting area with two overstuffed light beige chairs parked in front of a small fireplace. A small table sat between them, upon which a small basket of fruits had been set. Green and red bows decorated the basket. On either side of the basket, two empty mugs with Christmas scenes invited images of sipping hot cocoa by the fire.
Through an archway, she spied a large bed with a comfortable white bedspread offset by gold pillows. It was gorgeous, except there was no door, and where was the second bedroom?
She pivoted. Relief washed through her as she noticed a closed door. That had to be the second bedroom. It was probably smaller, but that was all right. She preferred the privacy.
“You can have the bed over there,” Angie said, waving her hand towards the large bed. “I’ll take the smaller room.” Joe couldn’t possibly complain. She was giving him the bigger bed, after all.
She dragged her case and, twisting the knob, pushed the door open. She flipped on the light switch and her mouth dropped open.
She didn’t need to hear the snort behind her to know Joe was there. She seemed to have a sixth sense whenever he was near. Her nerve endings did the cha-cha.
“You sure you want to sleep in the tub?” Joe asked, his breath stirring the hair at the back of her neck.
Angie spun around, only to find herself nearly plastered to Joe, who stood closer than she’d expected. She took a step back, tripped on her own feet and felt herself falling backward, then a strong hand grabbed her elbow and pulled her upright.
“Careful,” Joe said, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
He still had gorgeous eyes, and she so didn’t need to be gaping at him like an idiot.
“Thanks.” She slid past him to stand once more in the sitting area, searching for that elusive second bedroom.
“I’m going to take a quick shower and then hit the sack. I want to be up early to get a feel of the place.” Joe rummaged in his bag, took out a few items and then disappeared into the bathroom.
As soon as the door shut behind him, Angie scurried for the hotel phone. She punched in the number for the front desk. The clerk barely had time to say hello before Angie launched into dialogue.
“Where’s the second bed?”
“I beg your pardon?” The confused tone of the clerk broke through Angie’s panic.
Tucking a stray strand of hair that had loosened from her ponytail behind her ear, she started again.
“This is Angela Rossi from the Goldenrod Suite. There are supposed to be two beds in this room,” she hissed over the wires, her eyes darting towards the bathroom door.
“Ms. Rossi, the Goldenrod Suite is our deluxe bed and sitting area combination. It contains a king-size bed and all the amenities to make your stay comfortable. Is there a problem?”
The beginnings of a tension headache taking root, she rubbed her temple.
“Yes, there’s a problem. There’s only one bed. I need a room with two beds.”
“I’m afraid we’re completely booked this weekend. Many people have come to see Candace Plume perform in her final concert tour. We can bring a rollaway bed to the room, but that will be an additional eighty dollars charge per night.”
The tapping of fingers on a keyboard carried across the wire and Angie assumed the clerk was checking on the rollaway. Angie clenched the phone to her ear, her mind calculating her credit card that was nearly maxed out from chipping in for this family anniversary party for her grandparents, buying Christmas presents, and the cost of being a bridesmaid in Marisa’s upcoming wedding. Would tacking on an additional one hundred and sixty dollars make much difference? Come to think of it, how much extra was this suite costing her? She really needed to talk to her mother tomorrow. What had the woman been thinking?
She hated being in debt. But she couldn’t exactly ask Joe to cough up the dough. Or could she? Hmm...
“Oh dear,” the clerk said, “we’ve lent out all our rollaway beds.”
There was a pregnant pause. Angie could guess that the clerk hoped that would be the end of the conversation. She geared herself up to argue that something be done when she heard movement in the bathroom. The shower wasn’t running. Joe would probably be out any minute.
“Never mind,” Angie said quickly, hanging up as Joe opened the bathroom door.
He wiped his face and rubbed his hair with a small towel before hanging it from his neck. He wore navy sweatpants and a gray Carville PD T-shirt that showed off a nice set of chest muscles.
In bare feet, he padded over to his duffel bag.
“I thought I heard the phone.” He glanced at her over his shoulder.
“I called to ask what time breakfast is.”
The words tumbled out one over another, a habit whenever she told a fabrication. She hurried over to her own bag and pulled out a pair of pajamas. Maybe a bath would help calm her nerves and provide inspiration for the bedroom arrangements.
“So what time is it?” Joe asked.
Angie straightened and stared at him, her mind a blank.
“What time is what?”
“Breakfast,” he repeated patiently.
“Uh, in the morning,” she said and fled to the bathroom. She locked the door, dropped down on to the toilet seat and put her face in her hands.
She wasn’t going to survive the weekend.
***
While Angie took her bath, Joe prowled around the room, checking for exits and examining all the room had to offer. Besides the door that led to the hallway, there was a pair of doors that led to a balcony currently knee-deep in snow. Joe made sure both exits were securely locked.
Satisfied as to the room’s security, Joe finally took stock of his surroundings. The sitting area comprised of a comfortable arrangement of two overstuffed armchairs, separated by a small table, in front of a fireplace. A fruit basket with some red and green Christmas frills reminded him that the season was upon them, but he didn’t feel much like celebrating. If he could finally close the case that had been haunting him since university, he’d make time to join in the Christmas cheer.
Instead, he continued with his observation. The balcony doors lay to the right, and a full-screen TV hung on the wall to the left. He’d pulled the curtains to ensure their privacy.
The bedroom was reached through an arched double doorway. A king-sized bed dominated the space, looking very inviting with its plump pillows and cushiony-looking bedspread.
It hadn’t escaped his notice that there was only one bedroom in the suite. The clerk said Angie had made the change to the reservation, but she’d seemed surprised. He’d have to ask her about that later.
Clearly, he and Angie wouldn’t be sharing the bed, so he’d have to make do on the chair or the floor. He shrugged it off. He’d slept on worse.
Realizing he’d been staring too long at the bedspread, he uttered a curse under his breath. He was here on a case. Period.
He’d been lucky that Angie had let him take T.J.’s place. T.J. had said that he and Angie were just neighbors. But what if Angie felt differently? Isn’t that why she’d changed the reservation to this suite?
He scrubbed his face with his hands, exhaustion pulling at him after the long drive in the heavy snow. He needed a few hours of shut-eye if he was going to be on his game tomorrow. He also needed Angie’s cooperation. Playing the part of her boyfriend gave him cover. But if Angie had a thing for T.J...
Joe let the thought lie. He grabbed one of the pillows off the bed, and the blanket folded at the bottom, and dumped them on one of the armchairs. He then turned off the overhead light and picked up the remote control, plopping himself down on the other chair and turning on the previous night’s ice hockey game between the Rangers and the Senators that was being replayed.
He’d been resting his eyes, listening to the hockey game playing softly in the background, when he heard the click of the bathroom door. He raised one eyelid to check the clock on the corner of the TV screen. It was after two a.m. Turning his head, he opened his other eye and observed Angie coming out of the bathroom doorway in a pair of pajamas, her face shiny and clean. She began tiptoeing across the carpet.
“You don’t have to tiptoe. I’m still awake.”
Angie gave a short screech and halted. She stared at him, her eyes rounded.
“I thought you’d be asleep by now.”
Joe stood and rubbed the back of his neck.
“Yeah, me too. But we should make sure we’re straight about tomorrow.”
“Oh, um...” Angie crossed her arms over her chest, appearing flustered. “Let’s talk in the morning. I’m beat and I bet you are as well.”
“Sure,” Joe agreed, though his mind really wasn’t on what she was saying. He’d gotten an eyeful of her pajamas. They were bright red with huge moose multiplied all over the front and back. If that weren’t enough, the words “Don’t moose with me,” were written over and over.
Joe grinned. He couldn’t help it. And then he started to chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” Angie scowled at him.
He swallowed the rest of his laugh and tried for a serious expression.
“Nothing. You’re right. We can talk about it in the morning. Have a good night.”
She looked confused and indecisive. She also looked adorable and, for some reason, Joe felt a lot better about his plan.
“Are you going to be okay?” Angie asked hesitantly.
Joe settled himself once more in the armchair.
“I’ll be fine. I’ve slept in much worse conditions. Get some sleep, Angie. I want to head to breakfast early.”
“If you say so.” She sounded doubtful, but he heard her move away.
He reached over to grab the blanket and caught her red-clad backside. He didn’t need to talk to Angie about T.J. He had his answer.
A woman interested in a man didn’t pack moose pajamas. She packed barely-there negligees, hoping to get lucky.
With the thought that it might be interesting to “moose” with Angie uppermost in his head, Joe closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Never Have I Ever

Never Have I Ever
Julia McBryant
https://amzn.to/2QKZB60

Chapter One

Kyra Anderson and Simmons Caruthers have been inseparable best friends since they started Liston University, and he just abandoned the bar, dragging his boyfriend Lucas upstairs.
“Guess it’s just you and me, babes,” Kyra shouts to Lucas Brown’s BFF-since-kindergarten, Samantha Tryon. She drains her cocktail of the evening, some glowing shit Simmons concocted out of absinthe. “Shot?” she yells to Samantha.
Samantha shrugs. “Why not?” she yells back.
“What?” Kyra shouts.
“I said, ‘Why not?’”
Kyra pours two shots of absinthe straight from the bottle and hands one to Samantha. “Bottoms up, girlfriend!” she yells. They clink glasses and throw them back. Samantha wipes her mouth on the back of her hand.
“Goddamn, that shit is potent,” she shouts.
Kyra shakes her head in frustration, reaches over and turns down the speaker next to them. “Sorry, I can’t fucking hear a word you’re saying.”
“I said that shit is potent,” Samantha says.
“No shit; it’s supposed to get you plowed.” Kyra hops on the bar and pulls Samantha with her. Then she pours them each another shot. “One more of the green-eyed witch,” she says.
“I don’t know, it’s pretty—”
“Look, our boys are upstairs fucking. What else are we supposed to do?”
“Point.”
They clink shot glasses again and throw the liquor back. It’s licorice-y, a warm burn down the back of Samantha’s throat. Kyra hooks her heels back on the bar railing. Anyone walking by can probably see up her dress, but Samantha realizes she probably doesn’t give a fuck. Sam leans back instead, knees slightly apart. Fuck it. Give the boys a show. At least loser Justin will have something to jerk off about later.
“Any plans for the evening?” Kyra asks.
“Get drunk,” Samantha says.
“I meant anyone,” Kyra says.
“Not really,” Samantha says. The liquor’s starting to spread out through her limbs, that warm, loose feeling. “Truth? I’m kinda bored with Austin. Not like it’s a thing with us, but still.”
“Need some new entertainment, huh?” Kyra asks. She leans towards Samantha slightly. Her dress is dark, dark, dark in the blacklight, but teasingly white bits of her bra glow out of the top. Samantha knows her well enough to realize it’s intentional.
“Pretty much.” Samantha yanks at her own black dress. It’s riding up her thighs again.
“Oh, I wouldn’t worry about that, it looks cute,” Kyra says. “The boys like to look.” She smirks. “So do some of the girls.”
“Oh yeah?” Samantha says. She pushes herself up off her arms. “Like which ones?”
“You guess. If you’re right, I take a shot. You’re wrong, you do.”
Samantha laughs. “That might be a lot of fucking shots.”
“Do you really have anything better to do?”
“Do you?” Samantha asks.
Kyra smirks again. “Not really.” She scoots closer to Samantha so their thighs are touching. “All right. We’ll do easy. Vodka, not absinthe.”
“Lacey McKinnon.”
“Null and void; we think she’s asexual.”
“Kirsten.” Samantha grins.
“Cheater,” Kyra says, because everyone knows Kirsten likes girls. But she takes a shot anyway.
“Hmmm … Gretchen.”
“Nope.” Kyra pours Samantha two fingers of vodka. She throws it back, glad she showed up stone-cold sober.
Samantha looks out at the crowd of people dancing under the blacklight. The couches have been pushed up against the walls; people have already claimed them as prime make-out spots. “Dr. Sanders,” she says.
“Nope; we think she fucked one of the other profs.” Kyra hands her another shot.
Samantha purses her lips, then twists them into a grin. “You,” she says.
Kyra downs a shot. “And you’ve got a pretty mouth,” she tells Samantha. “What about you?”
“Are we playing Never Have I Ever now?”
“Sure. Never have I ever kissed a girl.”
Samantha holds out her hand. Kyra pours them each a finger of vodka. They clink glasses and down them.
“Okay,” Kyra says. “Never have I ever played with tits.”
Samantha holds out her hand again. Both down another finger of vodka.
“Never have I ever hooked up with a girl.”
Samantha narrows her eyes. “What’s that mean?” she asks.
“Don’t play cute,” Kyra says.
“No, what do you mean, exactly, ‘hooked up’?”
“Want me to show you, honey?” Kyra leans over further. Samantha can see down her dress.
Samantha smirks. The liquor’s loosened her up. “Sure, honey.”
Kyra hops down from the bar. Solicitously, she holds out her hand to Samantha, who takes it and drops down next to her. Kyra grabs her wrist and threads her way through the crowd, to the stairs. Up the stairs. Samantha bites her lip. She hasn’t made out with a girl since freshman year of college. It’s her second year of graduate school now, five years later, and she’s getting butterflies about the prospect of doing it again.
Kyra keeps hold of her wrist all the way down the hall, where she drops it to open the door. She holds it for Samantha. “After you,” she says, a smile twisting up her lips.
Samantha steps inside. It’s a rich girl’s room, and a pretty one—velvet comforter on the bed, high-end makeup scattered on the dresser, the bureau, the sink. The closet’s crammed full of clothes, and a very fluffy, very pink robe hangs from a knob on the back of the bathroom door. It smells like Chanel and clean laundry.
“Like my room?” Kyra asks.
“At least you know how to clean up, unlike Lucas.”
“Yeah,” Kyra says. She yanks the comforter down. “But I don’t like getting the velvet fucked up.” She shoves Samantha—it doesn’t take much of a push—and she’s on her back on the bed. “I prefer actual sheets, thanks.”
For a stomach-fluttering second, Samantha thinks Kyra’s going to pin her, but she flops next to her instead and kicks her stilettos off. Samantha starts to do the same. “Oh no, girl. Did I say you could take your heels off?” Kyra demands.
Samantha freezes. Kyra laughs. “Oh, take them off if you want,” she says. “But this is going to be fun, isn’t it? Let me guess. You like girls in theory. You’ve made out with a few. You’ve even grabbed some tits. But you’ve never really done much with another girl, have you?”
“I think you owe me a shot,” Samantha says.
“I think, by the time this is over, you won’t give a fuck,” Kyra tells her. She rolls over and straddles Samantha. “Last chance to back out, baby.”
“Wouldn’t miss it, baby,” Samantha smirks.
“Honey, I know what I’m good at.” Kyra’s suddenly very, very close to Samantha, catlike, all sinuous grace, and whispers in her ear. “And I’m real good at pussy.” Her teeth rake against Samantha’s ear, just the barest bit.
Samantha starts to gasp, then stops herself. She won’t give the other girl the satisfaction, not yet.
Kyra laughs again. “Oh, you’re fun,” she says. She reaches down between them, pulls Samantha’s tight black dress higher on her thighs. “Better. I like it that way. You don’t even know how hot that is, do you? Did Lucas dress you?”
Samantha raises an eyebrow. “I can pick my own clothes. Did Simmons pick out yours?”
“No, honey, but I sure as fuck picked out his.” She leans down and nips at Samantha’s lower lip. “I told you downstairs; you have a pretty mouth.” Samantha’s lips part automatically and Kyra kisses her, softly at first, sucking and playing with her mouth, gentle and easy. Samantha starts to relax into it. She tangles her hands in Kyra’s long hair. It’s so hot, this thick, brown-red-honey mane done up in long curls. It trails along the insides of Samantha’s arms and almost, but not quite, tickles.
Something shifts. Kyra’s tongue licks at Samantha’s lower lip, then her upper. Samantha pushes her own to meet it, then twists against it, back into the older girl’s mouth. Kyra cuts it short and nips at her again. She can’t know how much Samantha loves this.
“Uh-uh, little brat,” Kyra tells her. She kisses down Samantha’s jawline and drops to her throat. “I’m going to mark you up. Do you like that?” She’s still on her knees, still holding herself away from Samantha. Sam pulls her hair, arches her head back.
“No,” she says. “I want you on me.”
“Do you?” Kyra asks. “Do you really?” One of her knees finds its way between Samantha’s thighs and nudges them apart. “Do you really want me on top of you? Say it.”
Samantha´s mouth twists. “I’m sorry. Did I stutter?”
Kyra smiles. “You’re going to pay for that.”
“Am I? How’s that?”
Kyra lies on top of her, holds herself up on her elbows. She feels soft and sweet; her breasts press against Samantha’s smaller ones. “First, I’m going to mark you up so everyone knows what you were doing up here.” Her lips drop to Samantha’s neck and suck at her pulse point.
Samantha turns her head to offer better access and curses inwardly, but it feels so fucking good. Kyra’s mouth moves down. “No bra, huh?” Kyra asks. “Your nipples are already hard.” She picks a spot on Samantha’s collarbone and sucks again, then makes a matching one on the other side. Next, she kisses down, down between her breasts. Samantha’s legs start to part involuntarily, and Kyra gives a throaty laugh. “You perfect little brat,” she says. And her eyes widen. “Oh, you liked that, didn’t you?” she says, her voice shifting into a near-caress. “You liked being called names a lot.”
Samantha bites her lip. Kyra’s dressing is riding up, exposing a long length of tanned thigh.
Kyra shifts up and whispers in her ear. “I’m going to make you scream, you little slut,” she says. “You’ve been teasing me in that little black dress, and you’re going to pay for it. I bet you’re getting wet already.”
She’s right. Samantha prays she won’t look, won’t get the satisfaction.
And then Kyra’s kissing her again, hard. This time Samantha doesn’t fight her; she lets her take over, lets her nip and suck and twirl her tongue into Samantha’s mouth. “Such a pretty mouth,” Kyra purrs. “Oh, you have such pretty little lips. They’ll feel so good wrapped around my clit.”
Samantha’s stomach does that flip-flopping again.
“What’s the matter, you think we were just up here to grab some tits?” Kyra pulls Samantha on her side and catches one of her nipples with her thumb. She rubs gently, and the pull of the fabric over it is enough to make Samantha squirm a little. “You like that too, honey?” She lowers her mouth and sucks. Samantha gasps. Kyra’s free hand finds her other nipple and rolls it between her thumb and forefinger.
Samantha arches her back, presses against the older girl. A little bolder, she reaches over and begins stroking Kyra’s low neckline.
“Take it off,” she says.
“Hmm?” Kyra asks around Samantha’s nipple.
“I’m sorry, weren’t you listening? I said take your dress off.”
“I was a little busy,” Kyra confesses, “with your cute little nipples. I bet they get really hard, don’t they? Especially when someone plays with your pussy.”
Samantha colors a little. “Take your fucking dress off.”
“No, baby,” Kyra says. “I give the orders in my own fucking bed. So shut that pretty mouth of yours and take off your own.”
She backs off, and Samantha sits up.
“Turn around,” Kyra says. She unzips her. Samantha does the same for Kyra, and they both drop their dresses into a puddle on the hardwoods. Samantha’s naked from the waist up now. Kyra has on a white push-up bra and matching lace underwear.
“Lose your bra,” Samantha says.
“I told you, I give the orders in my own bed,” Kyra tells her.
Samantha reaches behind Kyra and undoes her bra with a snap. “Austin taught me that,” she says gleefully.
“You little brat,” Kyra says, half-delighted. She pushes Samantha back on the bed and lies next to her. Her breasts are high and round; the nipples drawn and puckered.
Samantha reaches out and cups one. “These are pretty.” Her fingers brush over Kyra’s nipple. “Do you like it like this?” she asks, flicking it gently with her thumb. “Or like this?” She pinches, hard. Kyra arches her back and hums in the back of her throat.
“There’s my answer,” Samantha says. Kyra’s breast resting in her palm, she pinches and rolls the nipple between her thumb and forefinger.
“But you like it like this, don’t you?” Kyra asks. She takes Samantha’s hard nipple between her fingers and pulls it gently. It begins to draw out a peak. She strokes it with her thumb. “Oh, you do.” She switches breasts, does the same to the other one. “I like the way your tits look like that.” Kyra’s breathing deep and even, as if she’s trying hard to control her reaction to Samantha’s pinching. Samantha wiggles closer to her. She can feel herself getting wetter.
“Is that what you want, honey?” Kyra asks. She presses her thigh between Samantha’s, high against her. It feels good, the long length of it, and Samantha wills herself not to grind on it. Kyra kisses her again. Her hand skims down Samantha’s side.
Samantha breaks off the kiss, lowers her head and puts her mouth to Kyra’s breast. She’s never done this before, but it feels natural to draw her nipple in and play her tongue along it, to flick it and suck. Kyra hums again and starts to play with her hair. “That’s it,” she encourages. “I like it when you suck hard and use your tongue. No, not like that. Like that.” She draws her thigh higher, presses it on Samantha. “Now suck on the other one.”
Obediently, Samantha switches to her other breast and pinches the wet nipple she left behind, rolls it hard between her fingers. Kyra draws her breath in. “That’s it, honey,” she says. One hand skims down and cups the smaller girl’s ass. “I like these,” she says. “Black lace looks good on you. Too bad you’re going to soak them.”
Samantha looks up at her, stops for a moment. “Is that a challenge?” she asks.
“No, it’s a certainty. You’re wet already. And I didn’t tell you that you could stop.”
Samantha can’t suppress a half-scared, half-delighted shiver, because she knows she’s wet. “Are you?” she asks.
“Am I what?”
“Are you wet?”
“You want to find out, don’t you?” Kyra tips Samantha’s face back up and kisses her hard. “You,” she says, “are such”—she kisses her again—“a fun little brat to play with.” Her hand moves down, down, down, to Samantha’s belly. She strokes her gently, and Samantha moves onto her back. Her hand skips lower, skims the edge of the black lace. “You like that, don’t you? Doesn’t that feel good?” The tips of her fingers dip under the lace. “Oh, no Brazilian for you.” She keeps stroking, keeps petting. Samantha can’t stop herself from moving her hips. It’s just a slight rocking, but of course, Kyra notices. She laughs.
“I’m sorry, do you want something?” she asks. Her hand plays through Samantha’s short curls. Samantha leans up on her elbows, captures one of Kyra’s tits in her mouth and sucks again.
“Mmmmm,” Kyra says. “You’re getting good at that. Tell me what you want.”
Samantha shifts to lean on one elbow, moves her other hand up to cup Kyra’s round breast. Her thumb pets at it as she nuzzles her face between Kyra’s tits.
“I said tell me what you want,” Kyra says.
Samantha pretends she doesn’t hear her.
Kyra whispers in her ear. “When I said you were going to soak that lace, I meant it.” She reaches down and touches Samantha delicately, with a single finger, slides it along the lace covering her pussy. Samantha actually moans. Kyra laughs again. “Oh, you’re wet,” she says. “Bet you didn’t think a girl could make you that wet, did you?”
She grabs Samantha’s wrists and pins them above her head with one hand. Samantha could probably get out of it if she really wanted to. She doesn’t want to. Not at all.
“You look pretty like that,” Kyra says. She lies down on top of Samantha, weight on her elbow and Samantha’s wrists. “Is this what you wanted?” She kisses Samantha, hard, and grinds against her. They’re pressed against each other, breasts touching, bellies soft against one another, Kyra’s legs spread while Samantha rubs against her. “You want me to touch you now?” Kyra asks her.
“Yes,” Samantha manages.
“Tell me.”
“No.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Say it, or I’ll kick your cute little ass out right now,” Kyra whispers into the curve of her ear. “Tell me what you want me to do.”
“Please put your hand back where it was.”
Kyra laughs. “What, are you afraid to say the word pussy? You want me to touch your pussy, Samantha? You want me to feel how wet you are?”
“Mmm-hmm,” she says. “Please?”
“Because you asked so nicely,” Kyra says. She sits up and yanks Samantha’s panties down. Then, gently, she keeps stroking the soft curls between her legs and, achingly slowly, moves down, down, petting the insides of Samantha’s thighs. Samantha spreads her legs wider for her. “You are a little slut,” Kyra says. “You want it so bad. I like you shaved down here though. Nice compromise.” Her thumb brushes over Samantha’s hood, and she sucks in her breath. “Oh, you liked that.” Her thumb drags down, over Samantha’s clit, into her pussy. “You’re soaked,” Kyra says, and she sounds delighted. Her middle finger replaces her thumb and begins making lazy circles just inside Samantha, at her slick, sensitive entrance. “You’re tight too.”
Samantha can’t help it. She bucks her hips up on Kyra’s finger and makes a small sound in the back of her throat.
“Oh, are you begging?” Kyra asks.
“Please?” Samantha asks.
“Please what?”
“Please anything?”
Kyra’s really laughing now. “You’re a hot mess,” she says. She moves her thumb up to Samantha’s clit and slides her finger farther inside her. It’s a difficult angle to work, but Kyra manages it. She rolls Samantha’s clit and moves a finger inside her. Samantha thrusts her hips up to her and arches her back. Kyra leans down. And, without breaking eye contact, her tongue meets Samantha’s hood, catches underneath it. She purses her lips and sucks. Samantha gasps. Her legs spread even wider; her fists move underneath her ass to raise it higher for Kyra. Kyra sucks gently at first, then harder; she begins licking with the flat of her tongue while her finger finds Samantha’s G-spot and pets it.
Suddenly, she stops.
Samantha whines.
“Oh no, now it’s your turn, brat,” Kyra says. She pulls her own white lace off. She has a Brazilian, and Samantha can see she’s flushed and swollen. “My pussy needs attention. You didn’t think this was the Samantha show, did you?”
Shyly, Samantha kisses her again. She mimics Kyra’s slow pace, the gentle petting down, down to her center. Kyra laughs at her. Samantha feels like she hasn’t stopped since they got into bed.
“I told you to play with my pussy,” Kyra says. “It’s not hard. You’ve got one. You know how it works.”
So Samantha takes a deep breath and slides her hand between Kyra’s legs. She latches her lips onto one of her nipples and sucks hard while her hand smooths over the older girl’s pussy, feeling her lips, her folds, dipping her fingers into her wet center. Kyra makes a humming noise when she does that and arches her back, so Samantha does it again, slides one finger, then another inside. Experimentally, she begins to slowly fuck them in and out of her. Kyra begins meeting her fingers with her own thrusting hips. Samantha sits up and watches her, fascinated.
“Suck on my clit,” Kyra says.
“What?” Samantha asks.
“Did I fucking stutter?” Kyra asks.
Samantha slows her fingers. “What if I say no?”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know.” She thrusts her fingers back inside Kyra, harder this time. “Maybe I would.”
“Suck my clit, brat.”
“Mmmmm, I don’t know. I’ve never done it before.” Samantha stops thrusting altogether, crooks her fingers and strokes instead, searching for Kyra’s G-spot. “Maybe I wouldn’t be good at it.”
“Maybe you’re being a little brat.”
“Maybe I am.” She finds her G-spot and crooks her fingers against it. Kyra sucks her breath in. “Maybe you like it.”
“Maybe if you don’t, I won’t finish licking yours.”
“That’s fair,” Samantha says. She leans down and very tentatively licks at Kyra’s clit. Her eyes flick upwards.
“Don’t be a fucking tease,” Kyra warns her.
Experimentally, Samantha spreads her out a little bit. When she does, Kyra’s clit peeks out from under the hood. She lowers her head again, wraps her lips around it, and sucks hard.
“Oh, god, that’s it,” Kyra says. “That’s right. Use your tongue too. There. Like that.” Her hands grab at Samantha’s hair, pull it up and twist it out of the way. She makes contented, throaty sounds, lifts her hips off the bed. Samantha rubs her G-spot at the same time, finds a rhythm. Her tongue slips just under Kyra’s hood and finds some spot that must drive her crazy, because she arches her back and cries out, tenses. Samantha licks it harder.
“That’s right, baby. Right there; don’t you fucking stop,” Kyra says. “I’m going to come on your pretty little mouth. Don’t stop.” She gasps, twists. Her hips start to shake. Samantha presses hard on her G-spot, finds the spot under her hood, presses harder, and undulates her tongue against it. “Oh god, oh god—” Kyra manages, before Samantha feels her spasm hard around her fingers, once, twice, three times, each time starting from her entrance and pulling upward, then subsiding into softer flutters and finally shivers.
Samantha sits up and wipes her mouth.
“You did good, honey,” Kyra says. “Never have you ever, huh?”
“Never have I ever,” Samantha says.
“Lay the fuck down,” Kyra tells her.
She’s hardly on her back before Kyra’s on her, sucking her clit hard, working it with her tongue. A finger slides inside her. Kyra’s tongue flutters up and down, finding what makes Samantha gasp and tremble—when she sucks lightly on her hood and flicks her clit back and forth inside it. Samantha’s hips pitch and roll with Kyra’s mouth; she thrusts up at her, her fists pinned under her ass, moaning at the sensory overload.
“Come for me,” Kyra murmurs into her. “Come for me.”
Samantha begins to tense under her mouth. Kyra strokes harder on her G-spot, increases the pressure on her clit. Sam whimpers and bucks. Kyra slides one more finger inside her and begins fucking her with them, and it feels so good, so amazingly good, the tongue on her clit and the fingers fucking in and out of her, that she arches up to meet them, clenches her pussy hard, and finally comes, tightening on Kyra’s finger again and again until she’s finally limp on the bed. Kyra kisses her clit once, gently, then flops down beside her.
“Told you I’m real good at pussy.” She smirks.
“Well, at least we were quieter than Lucas and Simmons next door.”
“Bullshit. You didn’t hear yourself, honey? You about shouted the walls down.”
“Liar.”
“The fuck would I lie to you about that?”
Samantha’s suddenly deeply, desperately shy. “That felt really good,” she says.
“Of course it did, honey. I licked your clit until you came. It’s supposed to. Now c’mere.” She pulls Samantha close to her, flicks her hair up and out of the way. “You can be the little spoon.”
“What if I want to be the big spoon?” Samantha asks.
“My bed, my rules, brat.”
Samantha laughs at her. Kyra kisses the back of her neck. “Oh, I almost forgot.”
“What?” Samantha asks.
“You owe me a fucking shot.”

The Unveiling of Amber

The Unveiling of Amber
Viola Russell

books2read.com/u/bow5pp

Chapter One

August 1997

ABC News anchor:
Musician Lucien Travis has died! The guitarist’s Mercedes was found at the bottom of a ravine in the Texas town of Spring. Forty-year-old Travis was on his way to an appearance on Austin City Limits and never made it to the performance. His manager, Terry Page, discovered the crash after she traced his route to the performance. The vehicle was at the bottom of the ravine. Travis’s body has not been found. This tragedy comes only two months after Travis’s wife, Delta, died mysteriously in their home. The couple’s young son Justin discovered his mother’s body, and the incident is under investigation.


New Orleans, November 2017

“What’s wrong? You seem distant.” Amber ran a hand lightly over her boyfriend’s forearm. She could feel his muscles tighten under her touch, and she moved closer to him, drinking in his masculinity. They were alone in his shotgun double in Uptown New Orleans on a cold winter night. They sat on the sofa together, sipping wine and munching on cheese.
“Look, this isn’t easy.” Tyler turned to her, his mouth set in a firm line. Her arm was linked in his. He’d poured a glass of wine for her and himself. Setting the wine aside, he said, “I’ve been rehearsing this in my mind for a long time.”
Maybe he’s going to ask me to marry him. The thought raced through Amber’s mind, leaving her with a tingling sensation. She leaned closer to him, running her lips along his cheek. He flinched and rose abruptly from his seat beside her.
Tyler ran a hand through his hair. God, how Amber loved that dark hair! It was thick and black. When he looked at her with those startling green eyes, Amber’s heart skipped a beat. Of course, none of her colleagues at her conservative local Catholic school even knew she had a boyfriend, and they certainly didn’t think she possessed lustful thoughts. School librarians kept students quiet and doggedly guarded the books. Never mind that she introduced innovative techniques and policies . . . Oh, well.
Tyler paced the carpet in front of her, fisting and then unclenching his hands. “I’ve had something to tell you for a long time.”
At that moment, the door swung open, and Adrienne, Amber’s best friend, strode inside and turned to close the door behind her. She’d barely stepped inside before she turned, obscuring them from her line of vision.
“Hey, Tyler honey, did you tell her? I can’t stand the secrecy, and—”
She stopped abruptly, turning and suddenly seeing Amber with Tyler.
Adrienne had a key to his apartment? Amber had a key as well. Did he simply give his keys to random women? And what the hell did Adrienne mean? An uneasy feeling developed in Amber’s stomach. She threw a confused look in Tyler’s direction. He’d gone white, his fists still clenching and unclenching at his side. He was clearly debating what to do.
Amber swallowed and found her voice. “What in hell is going on here?”
Adrienne approached her mouth a round O. She was in shorts that showed the cheeks of her butt; the tank top she wore showed her nipples. Never had Amber seen her religion teacher friend dressed like this. Never.
Adrienne’s mouth moved feebly before she finally said, “We’ve been together for some time, Amber.”
The words echoed in Amber’s brain. Only a few days ago, she’d lain in Tyler’s bed and reveled in the warmth of his arms. His embrace had been pure sensuality. No, this couldn’t be happening.
Amber turned to Tyler, who remained silent, and pushed his arm away. She fought back angry and hurt tears. “When were you going to tell me, Tyler? When?”
Tyler started to speak. His mouth moved, but he stayed silent. He stood, turned on his heel, and disappeared into the kitchen.
Amber then turned to Adrienne. “You do realize he was with me only a few days ago, don’t you? Did you think we weren’t having sex?”
Adrienne stared at her for a long time. She placed her purse on the sofa and said evenly, patronizingly, “Look, Tyler and I just love each other.” Her voice took on a gushing tone. “We fulfill each other in soul and body in ways that you and he don’t. He said you were too virginal to fulfill him.”
Amber blinked away tears and laughed bitterly. “Is that what he’s told you? Funny, considering we do everything.” She strode into the kitchen.
Tyler was rummaging through the refrigerator and slammed it shut when she entered. Adrienne was on his heels.
“Shit, Adrienne, I told you not to come tonight.” He held a container of potato salad in his hand but still looked ashen. “You ruined everything.”
Adrienne stared at him with wide eyes. “I ruined everything? You told me your relationship with Amber was non-existent. You said she was like ice, like a stone. You called her Sister Mary Margaret.”
Amber’s shocked gaze drifted from her once-adored boyfriend to her once-loyal friend. “Adrienne, why did you believe him? And Tyler, how could you tell anyone that when you know how crazy we can be?”
Tyler hurled the container into the sink. “You two took this shit too seriously, for fuck’s sake. What did you think? I wasn’t proposing marriage. I gotta eat dinner. If you’d like to join me and make a—”
“Screw you!” Adrienne’s face crumpled into tears, and she sprinted from the kitchen. Amber heard the door slam hard and then Adrienne shouting. “I—I don’t need you! I’m pretty. People say I’m like Snow White. My prince will kiss me awake.”
Amber almost laughed. How could the spoiled little bitch say such a thing? Well, her daddy was some wealthy executive. She’d always been taken care of in a material way.
“Well, I guess it’s still us.” Tyler turned to open the fridge again.
How could she ever have been attracted to such a callous dope? Amber fought the tears threatening to blind her. She wasn’t sure if they came from anger or grief. She’d loved this guy, and not only had he betrayed her, he was showing himself to be a royal asshole. How could she have been so blinded?
“No, Tyler, don’t be an idiot. It’s not us. Stay away from me.”
“Look, shit happens.” He shrugged and tossed the container into a nearby garbage can. “Why do you chicks take everything so seriously? I thought we were all having fun.”
“How the hell old are you? Haven’t you gained any integrity or sense over the years? Look, at what—twenty-seven—you should have some goddamned sense.” Amber blinked back angry tears.
“You suddenly get integrity? You and your friend, that perky religion teacher? I didn’t hear any complaints when you groaned like some animal.” Tyler leered at her, walked to his refrigerator, cracked open a cheap beer, and took a deep swallow. He sent a mischievous wink her way.
Amber turned on her heel, made her way to the living room, and retrieved her purse and jacket before bolting out the door.
The crisp November air grasped her like the bite of a jungle cat. She turned up her collar and raced down the sidewalk to her car. She stumbled on her own heels and fell against an oak tree. Sobbing, she leaned against the tree until her tears subsided. The old oak felt stable, reliable, and comforting against her back. Apparently, neither her friend nor her lover had her back. Amber was going home to her corgi mix. Apparently, little Alwena was the only one who wouldn’t let her down.

Sunday, two days later

Amber was grateful that she had two days to grieve the loss of Tyler. She’d loved him, or had thought she did. How could she have been so stupid? How could she have befriended a backstabber like Adrienne? When Adrienne had arrived at the school, Amber had shown her the school’s proverbial ropes. They had enjoyed many of the same movies and books and had become close confidantes. Now, Amber simply felt like a fool.
She was sitting on her old sofa stroking Alwena while she munched on popcorn. It was then that her phone rang.
Did her mother have some power to let her know when Amber needed to hear her voice?
“Hi, honey, I wanted to know if you were coming to Austin for your grandmother’s birthday. Getting away from your job might be hard, but she is getting up in years. Since your dad died, we’re all she has.”
Vanessa Thorpe had been devoted to her husband, Amber’s father. Even when he returned from Iraq as a broken man, she’d stood by him. John Thorpe had never directed his violence against his wife and daughter, but he’d engaged in a number of self-destructive behaviors that had caused them much grief. He’d enjoyed fast motorcycles and too much liquor. His excesses had even dimmed his musical ability. He’d been a multi-instrumentalist before war had taken its toll.
Amber knew her mother never understood why he’d joined the air force during the Gulf War, but strangely, Amber did. Her father was a native-born Texan and infused with patriotism from his own military father. He’d loved his job teaching music, and his music store, but September 11 had inflamed his patriotic spirit. He hadn’t died at war, but he’d returned as one of the damaged ones. When he died in a motorcycle accident in his adopted home of New Orleans, police suspected his accident had been purposeful.
Grandma Margaret had adored her son. She was a spunky native Texan who still wore cowboy boots at seventy-seven and lived in suburban Austin. She respected Vanessa’s devotion to her son and adored his only daughter.
Vanessa’s mother had died when Amber was a teen, and Margaret was now her only grandmother. Of course she would go to Texas, but she sure as hell wouldn’t tell Vanessa or Margaret about the humiliating scene with Tyler—not yet. Her mother hadn’t liked the bum. She didn’t feel like hearing her mother’s “I told you so.” Any sympathy would have been like burning acid on her soul.
Amber barely kept her voice even. “Sure, I could swing a weekend, but it can’t be a long weekend. That skinny bitch principal we have doesn’t like it. She even makes us provide pictures of road accidents when we are late by a few minutes. Besides, I have to make provision for Alwena, make a reservation at the boarder’s, you know.”
“Don’t worry, Alwena will be fine. You worry about her like a child. Besides, you need a new job, darling. That woman harasses you too much. When I get back into town, I’ll give that skinny Trish Baumann a piece of my mind. The woman is a Nazi.” Vanessa was an alumnus of the school but bore it no special love. She hesitated. “What is it, Amber? Something’s wrong, I can tell.”
Tears flowed before Amber could blink them away. She hadn’t intended to say anything. How could her mother’s sympathy make her break her own vow so easily? “Mama, he broke up with me. Or, I did with him, and it was because he was sleeping with that bitch Adrienne!”
“That bitch! She’s your friend!” Vanessa’s horror resonated over the phone.
“I thought so, too.” Amber suppressed a sob.
“Take a few days. Tell the bitch Baumann you’re sick. Come visit with your grandmother and me.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Amber pushed a button on the remote. A juicy but predictable mystery flashed on the screen. She didn’t know how drastically her life would change on Monday.

Chapter Two

Amber placed a determined smile on her face as she entered the building on Monday. St. Elizabeth of Hungary was a Catholic co-ed school that catered to the city’s supposedly devout. In reality, most of the residents used it as a means of isolating their children from those they considered unsavory elements.
Amber hadn’t liked the school when she’d attended it, but St. Elizabeth had offered her a job upon graduating. She’d grown comfortable and stayed even after earning her master’s in library science. Instinctively, Amber knew she’d regret that decision.
At least very few people knew about Tyler, except Adrienne—who she’d thought was a friend. With the advent of social media, Amber knew better than to reveal too much about herself to many of her colleagues, but she cursed herself for so misjudging Adrienne.
Amber wrapped herself in her leather jacket. It was a blustery morning in New Orleans, threatening rain. A streetcar rattled down the road. Tourists and college students made their way to nearby campuses and museums. A streak of lightning illuminated the dark sky, followed by a crash of thunder.
A chill raced through Amber as she made her way inside the school, and a black sense of foreboding cascaded over her like a waterfall.
“Amber, honey, Mrs. Baumann wants to see you.” Brenda LeBlanc, the elderly secretary, looked out from her small office as Amber signed in and cast a sympathetic glance her way. “She says it’s important.”
Amber nodded and then knocked on Trish Baumann’s door. What would the woman be on about today? She pinched the budget like no principal Amber had ever known and constantly questioned Amber’s every purchase for the library.
“Come in.” Trish’s high-pitched, whiny voice echoed from the depths of her office. Amber opened the door and entered the room.
She sat behind a huge mahogany desk that made her look like a child playing executive. Her mousy blond hair hung loosely around her face, and her thin hands clutched a pen. Several folders lay on her desk, and a laptop lay open before her. The technical support leader, also a teacher, stood at Trish’s side.
Trish indicated the chair across from her desk. She cleared her throat and frowned, seemingly pained or disgusted. Trish was perhaps forty, but her sharp features gave her the appearance of someone fifty or older.
“Something was brought to our attention by a parent, one of our major contributors.”
Amber stood ramrod straight, not acknowledging the chair offered her. She couldn’t imagine why Trish wanted to see her, but she knew that the principal frequently called people into her office like this before firing them.
Shana Banko, the technical support teacher, took over. She said coldly, “One of our parents came across something involving you online. It seems it has gone viral among the students.” She raised her eyebrows and widened her pig-like eyes.
She was as fat as Trish was skinny, with folds around her midsection that protruded from her too-tight blouse. A rotund stomach pressed against a pair of jeans that threatened to bust a button. Flabby arms and chubby fingers worked at the laptop on the principal’s desk.
“I’ve never published a thing online.” Amber looked from one woman to the other, genuinely confused. Still, a sinking feeling formed at the pit of her stomach. Where was this going?
Shana’s gaze narrowed further. “You and Ms. Adrienne Torelli apparently have a mutual friend.”
Okay, so they knew about Tyler. Well, how was it anyone’s business, and what in hell did this have to do with some video? “I don’t understand.”
Trish glanced up at her compatriot, looking grimly smug. “Show her.”
Shana turned the computer so that the screen faced Amber. The image of Amber herself engaged in a very sensual moment with Tyler loomed on the screen. Their bodies were bare and locked together in an embrace of heated passion. He was nibbling on her neck and then her breasts. Then, she took him in her mouth. Amber sank down heavily in the chair across from Trish. The breath left her body. She’d never known Tyler, the asshole, had filmed their most intimate moments. Jesus!
“This is a Catholic school. We can’t have this behavior for our children to see.” Trish folded her hands on her desk, the pen falling from her grip. She looked smugly satisfied. Amber wondered if the woman always wore blouses with Peter Pan collars. How prim did she need to look? “Too many of them have seen it already. They may be damaged for life. Parents want your immediate dismissal.”
Amber swallowed hard. She wouldn’t cry. Her grandmother had taught her never to show weakness, but she knew her cheeks were burning bright. “I never knew about those videos.”
Trish glanced at Shana, clasped her own hands even tighter, and said coldly, “That may be the case, but it is irrelevant. We have impressionable teenagers here. Our parents expect something different. We can’t have this.”
Well, what else could the woman say? Amber actually understood their position, but she hated the smug way they looked at each other.
Trish had gone to school with Amber’s mother. Vanessa had always been the popular, beautiful girl who wore outlandish earrings and often visited the disciplinarian’s office but was still loved by all. Administrators had smiled indulgently at her foibles as childish mischief, and her parents, though not wealthy, had adored her and her younger brother. Trish had been the homely outcast whose military father had drunk himself to death and whose mother had put a bullet through her head. After their deaths, her grandmother had taken her in but had required her to perform hours of housework. Trish hated girls like Vanessa and her daughter.
Amber managed to match Trish’s smug smile. “I completely understand, but I want to say this first.” When Shana started to open her mouth, Amber shot her a look of such ferocity that the woman immediately clamped her mouth shut. “You and your minions have terrorized anyone who was in this school before you came or who had any allegiance to the old administration.” She turned to Shana. “You, for example, said you thought one teacher didn’t know what plagiarism was. Well, she has a doctorate, so I guess she does understand that, you fat fuck.”
Shana emitted an outraged gasp and turned to Trish, who was reaching for her phone. The “O” that Shana’s mouth formed made her look like a huge doughnut. “Are you going to—?”
“Oh, come on, Trish. I’ll go. You don’t have to call the police.” Amber laughed. They were afraid of her. The absurdity of the situation struck her like a pleasurable sexual current. “Before I go, I also want to say to you, you skinny bitch, that the email criticizing my filing system was unprofessional and inaccurate. Nothing was wrong with the system, and when you ever criticize an employee, you don’t send it to the whole school.” Hot coals raced through Amber as she remembered the incident. “Oh, by the way, I know you didn’t like my email response, but Trish, it’s not my fault that your parents didn’t love you.” Amber had made delightful use of Trish’s family history in her response.
Trish went white. Her hands were clasped together so tightly that the knuckles formed very pale mini-fists all their own. Every vein in her hands showed. “You don’t know what you’re talking about, and you didn’t have to put that in an email.”
Amber grinned. “When I brought my complaints to the archdiocese, they agreed with me. They thought your behavior was unprofessional.” She laughed dryly and shrugged. “So, I lost today. I won’t in the future.”
With those words, she rose from her seat, turned on her heel, and slammed the door.
Amber marched out of the building, traversed the schoolyard, and avoided the stares of the arriving students. She threw open the library door, strode to her desk, and thrust the framed portrait of her parents into her purse. As she walked to her car, raindrops began falling. Amber made it to her car, but not before she heard the stifled snickers of several students and noted several boys grabbing their crotches. Was she forever to be a cock joke for teenaged boys?
***
Tyler the sonofabitch! Amber wondered if she could have the videos taken down. Still, too many who knew her had already seen them.
Her friends began calling soon after her dismissal. Well, at least she wasn’t the only one in disgrace. The little bitch Adrienne had also had her nude body exposed all over the Internet.
Amber wondered how she could face Vanessa and Margaret in Austin. She prayed her mother and grandmother hadn’t heard of her indiscretions and stupidity; however, she also wanted her mother’s advice and comfort. Why was it that she still needed her mother’s warm hands—even as a grown woman? Maybe no one ever stopped needing that love.
After depositing a pouting Alwena at the boarder’s and placing a kiss on the dog’s head, Amber made her way to the airport.
Vanessa and Margaret met her in Austin. As usual, Margaret wore her staple cowboy boots and denim blouse. She looked chic in the fur coat that protected her from the brisk wind. Though in her seventies, Margaret still dyed her hair the flaming red of her youth.
Smiling broadly, she waved at Amber and enfolded her in a long embrace. “My precious girl, give Gran a kiss and let me look at you.”
The warm greeting sent a wave of love mingled with sadness through Amber’s whole psyche. She quickly blinked away the tears that sprang to her eyes, swallowed, and forced a smile when Margaret held her at arm’s length.
Vanessa, looking gorgeous in a denim jacket, embraced her next and looked at Amber searchingly. Amber always felt that she was like a dull spark compared to her mother’s soaring beauty. While Amber’s hair was a dark auburn, Vanessa had shining blond hair that made men turn their heads. While Amber had to work hard to maintain her figure, her mother was naturally svelte but curvy. Though in her fifties, Vanessa attracted the attention of men half her age. Her smile dazzled with a genuine love of life that infected all who met her. Still, Amber knew the deep sadness her mother harbored since the death of her husband.
They had once been part of a wide circle of friends and couples that Vanessa had discarded when Amber was young. When Amber had once asked about where their friends went and why her parents had put aside a lifetime of travel and parties, Vanessa had simply said, “That life is over.” Since John’s death, Vanessa had met no one special. She saw men occasionally, but they failed to arouse her interest.
She’d immersed herself in cultivating Amber. There had been guitar lessons, dancing lessons, and swimming lessons. Amber had gone to good schools and studied writing at an exclusive arts school.
Vanessa walked beside Amber as they made the trek to baggage claim. “Is something else bothering you beside that jerk Tyler?”
“Not in front of Gran Margaret.” Amber shook her head in warning as Margaret turned to them. Amber smiled at her grandmother.
Margaret gave her a searching look but said nothing.
As Amber unpacked her clothes in her grandmother’s house, she reflected on her next move. She couldn’t hide the truth forever. Vanessa knew her too well, and her grandmother was too astute. She sighed heavily and sat on the bed.
The tears came in the form of heavy sobs. Within a few days, she’d lost everything—her boyfriend, her job, her friend, and her credibility. Amber had thought she loved Tyler. Apparently, he hadn’t felt the same, and not only had he not reciprocated her love, he’d betrayed her with a metaphoric blow to the gut, making certain her life would be changed forever. She’d thought Adrienne was a friend, but this friend had slept with her boyfriend and then played an innocent when she’d been revealed. But, Amber had practical issues to consider. She would need a job soon, or she wouldn’t be able to afford even her small Mid-City apartment. How would she feed Alwena? She couldn’t lose her baby!
As if on cue, Vanessa pushed open the door. “I thought you might need help unpacking, and now I hear you crying.” She sat beside Amber on the bed and took her face in her hands. “Tell me what’s wrong. Tyler’s one jerk. Why has this hurt you so much?”
“Mom, you don’t know the half of it. It’s much worse than his breaking up with me. He—he—”
The words spilled from Amber. She revealed every detail of the past few days, ending with “He’d taken videos of us, Mom. He put them online for the whole damned world to see.”
“Amber, how could you let him film you? You know better.” Vanessa shook her head, disbelieving.
“I didn’t know he was filming us. I swear I didn’t. Hell, I don’t know why he’s so bitter or wants to ruin me. Then, that bitch Baumann fired me.”
“Bitch is right!” Vanessa’s lips formed a thin line. “Well, I’m not surprised about her. She always loved condemning anyone who had better sex than she did.”
Amber laughed in spite of her tears. Vanessa could always make her laugh, but her mother’s flippant comment disarmed her. She hadn’t completely horrified or scandalized her mother.
“Don’t hate me,” she said.
Vanessa drew her into her arms. “You know better than that. I’d never hate you, and if you say you didn’t know about his devious actions, then you’re a victim. My love, stay here for a while.” Vanessa’s lips brushed Amber’s hair. “I don’t have to be back in New Orleans soon, either. We can hang with your grandmother. Shop. We’ll come up with a game plan.”
“Okay, just don’t say anything to Gran right now.” Amber met her mother’s gaze. “Please, Mom. I don’t know how I’ll ever face her if she knows.” A twinge of guilt tugged at Amber’s heart. She suddenly felt very lonely. “I can’t stay too long, though. I miss Alwena when she’s at the boarder’s.”
“Okay, but don’t worry about money. You can always move in with me if you need to, hon.” Vanessa embraced her tighter.
“I know, but I need to decide my next move for myself.” Amber wouldn’t rely on anyone anymore, not even her mother.

Not You Again!

Not You Again!
https://books2read.com/u/mdGRjX

Patricia Elliott

Prologue

He sat there, outside Emma Praught’s house, with his hands on the steering wheel as he stared at her. The tan curtains in her living room were pulled back, and he had a clear view of her and her daughter.
He could take her out right here, right now, if he wanted to. But no, he was going to wait. Torture her a little before making his final move. She deserved it. They all deserved it. Everything was going fine in his world until they botched it.
Looking down on the seat beside him, he let his fingers roam over his sniper rifle. It wouldn’t take much to lift it up, aim it, and fire, but where was the fun in that? He much preferred to watch them slowly come to the realization that someone was coming for them.
That’s what he’d done to his cheating ex-girlfriend, too. The thrill that had raced through him when he haunted her, stalked her, and finally tortured her to death was like a drug, and now his body was crying out for more, for another. He loved watching their eyes glaze over as their spirit left their body.
And his dad was none the wiser to his activities. Man, if he found out, his dad would throw a goddamn fit, and he’d really be up the creek without a paddle. While home, he played the duty-bound man, the ever-loving son. But he found that boring. Why would anyone decide to live that way?
He was born to be a hunter. Not of animals, of course, but humans. It just took his girlfriend screwing around on him to find his calling in life. He was going to make them all pay for their indiscretions and have fun while doing it.
And this time his prey was that damn woman and her daughter. There was nothing that could stand in his way and no one to save them. They were alone and vulnerable. His favorite type to hunt.
When they moved away from the window, he got out of his car and stretched out the kink in his back. He ran a hand through his freshly cut hair, then shoved a hat onto his head. As he walked across the street, he eyed the garden planted along the wall of the house.
Carefully making his way across the grass, keeping out of sight, he dragged his feet through her flower bed, crushing marigolds, sunflowers, and tulips in his wake. Grabbing a blue tulip, he quietly walked up the steps and left it on the front porch before disappearing back into his car.
Phase one of his plan was complete. Now he’d let her mull over that one for a while before making his next move. His phone vibrated on the passenger seat, and he looked at the caller I.D. It was his mom. He wanted to stay and watch Emma’s reaction, but he was being called elsewhere. And, like a good son, he’d be there for her.
He turned the engine on and pulled out onto the road. “I’m coming, Mom,” he said into the phone, before tossing it on the passenger seat.
Glancing out the rain covered window, he flicked on the wiper blades. The rain filled the air with ominous music as the smell of wet musty dust floated through the slightly-open window.
When he could no longer see her house, his fingers tightened around the steering wheel. He hated leaving a job incomplete, and he ached to return and do what he knew was right. But it couldn’t be rushed. When you rushed, you screwed up. He had to plan it right to the smallest detail or things would go belly-up. And he had no plans on being the one in the coffin anytime soon.
“Bye Emma. I hope you enjoy my calling card.” Flowers. They were right up a woman’s alley.
Chapter One

It was him.
As she walked into her bedroom, Emma Praught fumbled with her phone, catching it before it hit the ground. She turned it over and looked at the screen again, her stomach flip-flopping.
Out of every person in the world that could have messaged her on Facebook, it had to be him. They hadn’t really talked in over twenty years, but now his name sat there, staring at her, highlighted in bold in her private inbox—Devon Matthews
>I read about what happened. Are you okay?
Tears filled her eyes. She didn’t even know how to answer him. He was the last person she expected to hear from, let alone care about what she was going through.
After typing a few sentences and then deleting them without sending, she put the phone down. He was the man who had held her heart in high school before he walked away, not that it mattered these days. He was a part of her old life. One that didn’t exist anymore. All that mattered was making sure she and her daughter made it through this dreadful time together.
Another ding made her pick up the phone again.
>Please talk to me. Let me know you’re okay.
Emma paused before she replied.
>I’m as good as can be expected.
“Please don’t write back,” she mumbled, yet a part of her hoped he would. The most they’d ever said to each other over the years was happy birthday, and her heart would pitter patter whenever she saw his name. It drove her crazy.
She thought her feelings for him would disappear after she got married, but, instead, they haunted her like a poltergeist. And with everything that had happened recently, his messages were just making her feel worse. She hated her feelings for him, hated herself for not being able to let go.
Her phone chimed again, her verbal plea refused.
>My heart goes out to you. I just want you to know that you can talk to me anytime. You don’t have to be alone in this.
Alone? That was her word of the week. She couldn’t even gather herself enough to get groceries, and they were down to their last liter of milk. She’d stayed cooped up in her house, hugging his pillow and breathing in her husband’s Old Spice scent.
Her breath caught in the back of her throat, and an all too familiar pain stabbed her in the chest, digging itself deep within her bowels. Putting the phone down, she climbed into bed and pulled the sheets up to her chin, desperate to forget everything. But she couldn’t. Emma picked up their wedding photo and held it close to her chest. Nineteen years were gone, disappearing into oblivion in the blink of an eye.
As she ran her finger over the photo, a soft knock caught her attention.
“Come in.”
Her teary, red-eyed daughter, Skye, walked into the room and curled into a ball on the bed beside her. Emma wrapped her arms around her, pulling her close. “I’m sorry, baby.”
She cried into her mother’s shoulder, hiccupping with each sob. “I didn’t even tell him I loved him before he left.”
“He knew you loved him, sweetheart,” she said, kissing the top of Skye’s head.
“I didn’t even hug him.”
Neither of them had hugged him. They’d been too busy disagreeing with each other over household chores. Emma had given him a quick kiss goodbye, but then went back to their argument about doing the dishes.
She’d wasted their last few minutes together, minutes they’d never get back. Ones she should have spent hugging him, kissing him, and wishing him a good day.
A lifetime full of regrets came crashing down on her. All their arguments over stupid petty things surfaced like a crashing wave. Things that shouldn’t have mattered took precedence over things that were actually important.
A heavy weight wrapped around her chest, threatening to pull her under. In silence, she cried out to God, praying that this was all just a bad dream. Maybe she would wake up in the morning and he’d be in the bed beside her, snoring.
“Did you want to sleep in my bed tonight, sweetie?” she asked her daughter.
Blowing her nose, Skye nodded. Emma pulled the sheets up around them both and held her tight. Her baby girl shouldn’t be going through this. She was much too young to be facing the sting of death. At fourteen years old, it was supposed to be all fun and boys, not death and gloom. Depression hung like a dark cloud over their lives.
Her phone dinged again in the dark. She picked it up and saw Devon’s message.
>Here’s my number; call me. It might help to hear a familiar voice.
She stared at the phone number. Did he really want her to call him? He was probably just trying to be nice and didn’t care one way or another. Shaking her head, she wrote a quick thank you and then put down the phone to cuddle with Skye, whose sobs had finally quietened down.
She hoped tomorrow would be a better day, but that was still up for debate. For now, maybe sleep would give her a break from life for a few hours.
***
“Aw, Mom, do I have to?” Skye complained.
“As much as it sucks, we both have to go.”
“Can’t we just pack up and go somewhere?”
Emma brushed the hair away from her daughter’s face and let her palms rest on her cheeks. “I’d love nothing more than for you and me to take off somewhere, but I can’t take any more vacation time until the summer.”
“I don’t mean a vacation, Mom. I want to leave this house, leave this town. I don’t want to be here anymore,” she said softly, tears glistening in her eyes.
Emma pulled Skye into a hug. “Oh, darling. I wish we could.”
The house was a constant reminder of some memory they’d had as a family. Every room carried its own depressive weight. She wanted to smile at the good times, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it, not yet anyway.
“Let’s just do it,” Skye begged.
“I wish it were that easy, pumpkin.” She didn’t think she could handle a move, amidst all the estate crap she had to deal with—lawyers, funeral directors, insurance companies. She was so overwhelmed that her throat clogged just thinking about it all.
“I’ll do anything, please,” her daughter pleaded.
“We have to wait and see what the insurance company and the police decide.”
If they decided it was her husband’s fault, then she wouldn’t get anything from them and would be forced to pay for all the funeral expenses. She wanted to hide, to disappear, and not have to deal with the ramifications of what the future could hold.
Emma placed Skye’s lunch into a paper bag and held it out to her. “Here.”
Skye looked inside and rolled her eyes. “Ham again?”
“I know,” she said as she grabbed her own bag and coaxed her daughter out the front door. "I promise to go after work.”
“You said you were going shopping yesterday.”
Fighting to keep control, Emma waited until Skye moved aside and locked the door. “I know. I'm sorry.”
She’d been a failure as a mother lately, unable to do even the most basic of motherly duties, like grocery shopping. Glancing down, she saw the blue flower that once had graced her garden.
Crap. Did the neighbor’s dog get into the flower bed again? She looked over the railing and stared at the trampled flowers. Her heart sank, and an uncomfortable feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. The garden was almost destroyed. Only a few flowers had survived the onslaught. Why couldn’t one thing from her husband remain untouched?
She climbed into the little Honda and turned the key. The engine sputtered, refusing to turn on. Please don’t do this. She tried again, and the result was not much better. With water pooling in her eyes, she placed her forehead against the steering wheel.
Her husband’s voice rang clearly in her head. “I think you need a new battery before it leaves you stranded somewhere.”
“Oh, Peter,” she murmured, her shoulders shaking as everything built up inside her all over again.
Skye wrapped her arms around Emma. “It’s okay, Mom. Please don’t cry.”
Her entire world was crashing down around her, and there was not a single darn thing she could do about it. She gave her daughter a quick hug, grabbed her purse and climbed out of the car.
A drop of rain landed on her glasses. Great! Even the heavens wanted to join in on her misery. They grabbed the umbrellas off the backseat and briskly walked toward the school.
Once there, Skye plunked herself down on a bench in the covered courtyard, crossing her arms. “I want to stay home.”
Turning away, Emma took a slow deep breath and then let it out. It was mornings like this that her patience was shot, and she didn’t want to get upset with her daughter. Life was hard enough already without them fighting.
After some encouraging words, Skye finally stood up and walked toward the door. Once her daughter was safely inside, Emma headed to the bus stop and sat on the bench.
Her phone dinged in her pocket, making her heart race. She knew it would be him. No one ever messaged her. Grabbing her phone, she looked at the screen. It was Devon.
>How are you doing this morning?
Groaning, she lifted her head toward the sky.
>Off to work.
>That’s good, but that doesn’t tell me how you’re doing.
He was a persistent son of a gun.
>Why do you want to know?
>Because I care about you.
Her breath hitched, and her hands shook as she tried to type back.
>You do?
>Did you think I stopped?
Emma bit her lip.
>Kind of.
>I never stopped caring about you.
A large vehicle drove by, making Emma’s light brown hair fly in her face. As she brushed the stray strand away, she looked up and noticed the bus. It was only about a half a block away. She stood up and waited behind an older gentleman who was standing close to the bus stop sign.
She had remained friends with Devon after they’d broken up, but that was mostly because they’d had mutual friends. That’s what she’d told herself anyway, but her heart had told her something different. It refused to let him go. Maybe that’s why she’d moved away after high school. She couldn’t stand to see him and not be with him.
Another message appeared.
>I still remember our last date.
Before she realized it, she found herself replying.
>You do?
>Yes. It was Valentine’s Day, and I wanted to take you out to dinner down where I worked. My boss helped me with my tie and ribbed me because I bought you fake flowers. I told him it was because you were allergic to real ones.
Her face warmed as she typed.
>I wore my black graduation dress.
>Yes. And afterward, we went for a walk and held hands.
Emma smiled at the memory.
>We’d broken up by then, but you still kept your promise to take me out and that meant the world to me.
>You were the one I wanted to spend the day with.
>I thought you did it out of obligation.
>I never did anything with you out of obligation.
Emma placed the phone on her lap and shook her head softly, unsure of how to respond as waves of guilt flowed through her like a fast-moving river. Here she was, talking to her ex-boyfriend about the past and her husband hadn't even been laid to rest yet.
>I gotta go.
She shoved the phone in the pocket of her windbreaker. Glancing out the window, she blinked rapidly. The bus was passing a tall multi-level concrete building with huge smokestacks on the roof. It looked like a factory of some sort. Why didn’t it look familiar? She took the same route to work every morning. She should remember it.
That’s when it suddenly dawned on her.
“Crap.”
She had missed her stop.
***
Devon rested his elbow on the armrest, placing his phone on his lap. He couldn’t even begin to imagine the turmoil going through her mind. His chest ached for her in more ways than one.
God, he needed to hear her voice to make sure she was okay. If she didn’t make use of his number, he’d pester Nicole and find out Emma’s address, surprise her in person. He may be twelve hours away, but that wasn’t going to stop him. She needed him, whether she realized it or not. And he wanted to be there for her in every way that counted, like he should have been all those years ago.
“Uh oh, I know that look. Who is she?” Adam asked, flicking on the left turn signal to change lanes. They were heading out to the work site to tend to a few trees that had fallen over in a recent storm.
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Try me.”
“An ex-girlfriend.”
“Going to have to narrow it down, buddy. You’ve had like forty.”
Devon slugged Adam in the shoulder, causing him to swerve. Thankfully, the road was empty this morning.
“Hey, I’m trying to drive here. So, who’s the girl?” he asked, nodding toward the phone in Devon’s hand.
“My high school sweetheart,” he said with a lopsided smile.
“How many of those did you have?”
“She was it.”
Adam gave him an incredulous look. “That’s hard to believe. So, what happened? Did she dump you?”
“No.”
“What then?”
“Me being a teenage ass, mostly.”
Adam smirked. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”
“Oh, shut up.”
Devon turned and stared out the window as they drove along the flat plains of Alberta. There weren’t many things he regretted in his life, but the way he’d treated her filled him with remorse.
She was the sweetest, most angelic creature he’d ever had the pleasure of holding in his arms. He’d gone over it a hundred times and still had a hard time understanding his old frame of mind. How do you walk away from a girl like that?
When he had heard she’d got married shortly after high school, that had been it for him. He’d gone off the deep end and done a lot of stupid things. And if it hadn’t been for Leila, his ex-wife, he would have done a bunch more.
Even though they weren’t together now, he would always be grateful that Leila pulled him out of his slump. He felt bad that it had never worked out between them, especially as they had two kids together. But he couldn’t spend his life with her when his heart belonged to another.
There was nothing he could do to stop it, and it wasn’t because he didn’t try. He did. But the intensity that had scared him off as a teen was the same one that continued to draw him in Emma’s direction.
“Hey bud, snap out of it,” Adam said, waving his hand in front of Devon’s face. “We’re here.”
“Sorry.”
“Man, you still have it bad for her, don’t ya?”
Devon shrugged as he pulled out the chainsaw. “What about you? Who was your high school sweetheart?”
“Lisa.”
“Your wife?”
“Yep.”
He could still remember the look on her face when she finally had the chance to confront him. It still crushed him as much now as it did then, but he knew there was no way he could have given her what she deserved back then. However, that didn't make him feel any better for walking away from her.

He’d almost taken her back when they’d gone out for Valentine’s Day. She’d looked absolutely stunning, and he’d wanted to take her then and there. Why he didn’t? God only knows. One touch and she would have melted in his arms.
“Stupid.” he mumbled. “Stupid. Stupid.”
“What’s that?” Adam asked.
“Nothing.”
Adam shook his head. “Let’s get to work, and we’ll go out for a beer after.”
“Sounds good.”
They had a long day ahead of them and a beer would hit the spot once they were done. He knew something else that would hit the spot, but he didn’t think Emma would be game for the idea yet. Grinning, he put on his hard hat and closed the door to the vehicle.
Life was about to get very interesting, and he couldn’t wait to get the party started. One day she’d be in his arms again, and this time he wasn’t about to let go. She was going to be his forever.
But first, he had to get her to talk to him.
***
Mrs. Jackson folded her arms across her chest. “You’re late.”
“I’m sorry, my vehicle broke down. I had to take the bus.”
“I understand life has been hard for you lately, and I sympathize, but I have a business to run and everyone needs to do their part.” After saying that, her boss turned and walked away.
Emma pulled out her phone and messaged Devon.
>Thanks, bonehead, you made me late for work.
>How’d I do that?
>I missed my stop talking to you.
>Lol.
She tightened her grip on the cell phone as she contemplated throwing it across the room. The man was driving her insane already, and they had barely started talking again. She hated herself for the butterflies that flew around in her stomach when she received a text from him.
There was no controlling her body where he was concerned. Not even years of separation, nor being married, dulled her feelings for the man. She’d loved her husband, had given as much of herself to him as she could and put her all into their relationship. But she couldn’t stop thinking about Devon and that made her feel dirty.
When you got married you were supposed to forsake all others, but it was like he’d imprinted on her, and no matter how hard she scrubbed at his mark, she couldn’t get rid of it. And now that bothered her more than ever.
Why couldn’t she hate him, like any normal ex-girlfriend would? It would make things so much easier. But no, he had to keep his promise and take her out for dinner after they broke up, messing with her heart all over again.
She wasn’t sure whether to forgive him for that. Yet, because of that night, she couldn’t find it in her heart to hate him, despite the pain that had filled her after they separated for the last time. Emma groaned under her breath. Her stupid girly-crush daydreams were going to be the end of her.
She turned back to her phone.
>It’s not funny. I can’t afford to lose my job.
>You could stay with me.
>Ha-ha, very funny :p
>Can’t harm a guy for trying.
>Will you stop texting me, I’m trying to work.
>You texted me first.
Emma groaned again with half a smile and then paused in shock, her jaw dropping. Suddenly feeling nauseous, she fled to the bathroom, making it just in time to see the contents of her stomach make a reappearance in the toilet bowl.
Sliding to the bathroom floor, Emma wrapped her arms around her stomach as she wept. “Oh Peter, how could I have smiled so soon after losing you?” she asked, her voice breaking.
Why on earth had she come back to work so soon? She wasn’t ready to talk to people or to resume her normal life. And she definitely wasn’t ready to speak to a man who could turn her into an emotional mess with only a text message.
Looking down at the ring on her left hand, she made a pact with herself. She wasn’t going to answer any more of his messages, even if it killed her.