Getting Played (Getting Some Book 2)

by Emma Chase

  The kick of it is . . . I’m beginning to think that old woman may’ve been onto something. Because. . . well . . . there’s a good chance I might dead.

  I don’t feel dead, though I’m not entirely sure what dead is supposed to feel like.

  I remember the fire at the Horny Goat Pub. The charring walls, the smoke, thick as black wool, scratching at my eyes and stuffing up my lungs. There’s no smoke now, only the sharp scent of disinfectant, a crisp, cool, softness beneath my head and a bottomless darkness—like outer space if the stars blinked out.

  I was looking for Ellie in the pub—I remember that too. Because little Ellie Hammond is the sister of our Duchess Olivia, wife of Prince Nicholas. Because it was my shift, and it was my job to guard her, to keep her safe. Because my duty to the crown is one of the few things in this world I take seriously and even if I didn’t, my best mate Logan—he’s sick in love with Ellie though he won’t let himself admit it.

  And Ellie’s a good lass. She brightens a room the way a jewel takes in sunlight and throws out rainbows over anyone close by. Lo deserves a light like that in his life.

  Are you there God? It’s me, Tommy.

  I know we haven’t spoken since my last confession . . . when the blond with the perfect arse was kneeling in the pew ahead of me. I had to say three Hail Mary’s and she had to say three Hail Mary’s, and before we knew it, we were breaking all sorts of Commandments and a few deadly sins at her flat for the rest of the afternoon.

  But I’m hoping you’ll look past all that, Lord, because I have a favor to ask.

  Please… let Ellie have made it out alive, even if I didn’t. Logan needs her. They need each other.

  That’s all for now—perhaps I’ll be seeing you soon.

  Cheers. Nanu-nanu. Amen.

  As I sign off with the Almighty, a rush of air dusts over my skin, shifting and moving—like an incoming answer to my prayer. That stinging sanitized smell dissipates and is replaced by something infinitely sweeter.

  Apples.

  A whole orchard of round, red, ripened apples suddenly surrounds me. I breathe in deeper, hungry for more of the delicious scent.

  “God, look at him,” a voice sighs from my left. “Tell me you wouldn’t boff his brains out if you had the chance.”

  The tone that responds is smooth, refined and distinctly feminine.

  “Inappropriate, Henrietta.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know . . . but still. I would ride him like a shiny new bicycle from here to Scotland and back again.”

  The silky voice groans, “Etta . . .”

  “I bet he knows how to ring a girl’s bell too. He’s got that look about him. Ding-ding.”

  I like Henrietta. She seems like my type of girl. Or angel or demon, depending on what the hell is actually going on. It’s probably time I find out.

  The polished tone takes a turn toward authoritative. “Hush now, I have to record his vitals for Doctor Milkerson.”

  It’s the kind of voice I wouldn’t mind taking orders from—the best kind—lower Tommy, more Tommy, harder Tommy. The imaginings cause a pleasant, stirring sensation in my groin and apparently, even if I’m dead, my cock is still in full working order.

  That’s comforting.

  “Speaking of Milkerson, have you noticed the way he looks at you? I bet he’d give his cutting hand to take a peek at your vitals. Maybe you’d have a clue about that if you ever bothered coming out for drinks with us after shift.”

  “I don’t have time for drinks. There’s too much to do—too much to learn.”

  “Oh, for Saint Arnulf’s sake, Abby,” Henrietta gripes. “Why do you have to be so stuffy all the time?”

  “Saint Arnulf?” she asks.

  “He’s the patron saint of beer, everyone knows that. Heathen.”

  “All right, that’s it—out. You’re distracting me,” Abby returns crisply. “If you’re not going to focus, you need to go.”

  Henrietta’s voice retreats, “You know what does wonders for focus? Letting your hair down once in a while—and your knickers!”

  The air around me rustles again, before settling back into a quiet stillness. Then, slowly, the scent of apples returns. But it’s even better now. More intense. Closer.

  A gentle little sigh floats just beside my ear and the satiny, lilting voice goes low—as sweet and soft as the stroke of petal blossom along my skin.

  “I’d never tell Etta this, but she wasn’t even a little bit wrong. You are a beautiful man, aren’t you?”

  And I have to know. I have to see.

  I hadn’t realized my eyes were closed, until I’m able to drag them open. The light is bright, blinding at first—I squint against the glowing white halo that frames her.

  “Mr. Sullivan? You’re awake.”

  She has the face of an angel—high cheekbones, luminous skin, and wide, round, dark green eyes. But her mouth is full and lush, and her hair shines like a golden fire, a mass of deep red, honey and chestnut hues.

  There’s just something about a redhead. A passion, a spirit, a strength, that sets them apart. That makes them unforgettable. Irresistible.

  She’s too tempting to be angelic.

  But still I ask, “Is this heaven?”

  If it is, my littlest sister Fiona, who’s been contemplating becoming a nun, would be thrilled to know it smells like apples.

  “No, you’re not in heaven.”

  I shrug. “I always figured the other spot would be more my scene anyway.”

  Her rosy lips curve into a smile, and that’s blinding too.

  “You’re not there either.”

  I shake my head to clear the fog and hoist myself up, coming fully awake. And I look around. It’s a hospital room—white walls, sterile chairs, wires connected to a bleeping machine behind me. I touch my chest, my arms to make sure they’re still there. I wiggle my toes beneath the sheet because while my cock is definitely at the top of the list, it’s good to know the rest of me still works too.

  “I’m alive?”

  She’s still close, still smiling.

  “Very much so.”

  Relief floods through me, making my chest feel near to bursting. And without another thought or a second’s hesitation, I lean forward and crush my lips against this sinfully stunning girl’s mouth.

  It’s an impulse—a reflex—like that photograph of the American sailor and nurse at the end of WWII. Because when you almost died but didn’t, all you want to do is feel alive. And I’ve never felt more alive than I do in this moment, kissing this lovely lass.

  I sweep my mouth across hers, sucking gently, luring her to follow. She’s stiff at first, surprised, but she doesn’t struggle or pull away. And then after a moment, something glorious happens—her muscles yield and her lips go soft and pliant beneath my own. She melts against me, molds our upper bodies together with a breathy, needy moan. My hands delve into the satin of her hair, holding on, tugging her closer, feeling the swell of her breasts tight against my chest. Her hands grasp for my shoulders, digging in, as our heads move and angle together. And our kiss turns hotter. Wetter.

  I stroke the tip of my tongue across the seam of her lips, teasing them apart. When they do, I sink right inside the tight, warm cavern. And the taste of her, Christ, she tastes like fruit in the Garden of Eden, succulent and forbidden. The desire to suck and lick at more of her, all of her, pumps through me—to see if the rest is every bit as sweet as her mouth.

  I lean back, dragging her with me, over me—fucking those pretty, delicate lips roughly with my tongue—and I groan deep and long when her tongue brushes against mine, mouth-fucking me right back.

  It’s good—so bloody good—I may not have been dead before, but this kiss just might kill me. My pulse pounds in my ears and the machine is fairly screeching behind me with my wild, racing heart.

  I think it’s the machine that does it, that breaks the spell. Because as soon as the sound penetrates my own awareness, the woman in my arms tears her mouth away a
nd freezes above me, a look akin to horror sweeping across her face.

  Breathing harshly, she scrambles away, off the bed, like it’s swarming with red ants and I’m their king.

  “That . . . you . . . that . . .” her tits rise and fall beneath the buttons of her dark blue blouse with each quick, panting breath. It’s lovely. “That was completely inappropriate!”

  “It really was,” I nod, pushing a hand through my dark hair. “Want to do it again?”

  Her eyes flair, gaping.

  “Absolutely not. Never again.”

  I click my tongue. “Careful. Never’s a very long time, pet.”

  A dainty line appears between her auburn brows as she frowns, lifting her perky nose, crossing her lithe arms—the very picture of prim and proper and posh. My cock twitches at the sight and something else awakens inside me. The primal part of a man that craves the challenge, the chase, and even more—the conquering.

  “Come on now,” I coax her, “it was a kiss. There’s no reason to get all flustered just because you enjoyed it.”

  “I am not your pet, Mr. Sullivan. And I don’t get flustered. And I certainly did not enjoy . . .” she wags her hand in my general direction—in a flustered sort of way, “that.”

  A grin tugs my lips. “I beg to differ. And your tongue’s been in my mouth—I think it’s all right to call me Tommy now.”

  Her eyes darken to a shade near to black with passion or fury—with feeling. And I know that Henrietta was wrong. Apple blossom isn’t stuffy—she just hasn’t met a man who knows how to bring out her reckless side.

  Not until now—not until me.

  She tugs on the lapel of her white coat, straightening her spine.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “Funny. Typically the girls I kiss like to tell me when they’re coming.” I wink.

  Her cheeks flush a deep, dusky pink, and I just bet those pretty petals between her legs flush the same shade when she’s really hot for it.

  Saying that out loud isn’t one of my better choices.

  Because right after I do, she slaps me. Hard and fast. With enough force to jerk my head to the side and leave my left cheek pulsing with the sting. It’s impressive.

  “Ow.”

  And it’s not like I didn’t deserve it.

  But looking back now, that’s really when I should’ve known.

  In that perfect, indelible, moment as we stare at each other—my eyes lapping her up and her jade gaze swallowing me whole, as each shiny copper strand on her head calls to my hands to stroke and twist and tug.

  As we take each other in. Just a few dozen inches apart—taking and taking each other, and already craving more.

  I should’ve known it then.

  That she was going to wreck me, and I would happily let her.

  That I would ruin her, and she’d make me swear to never stop.

  That this . . . one splendid kiss and a spectacular slap . . . this was just our beginning.

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