“Thanks, Mom.”
“Are you really going to be okay?”
“Yes.” I wiped my nose. “It was a clean through-and-through shot. I’m sore as hell, but with time and physical therapy, I’ll be okay. Sam is okay, too. She wounded him in his side.”
“Just a flesh wound,” supplied Sam.
“Okay. I’m glad you came to your senses and begged him to come back.” Sam smirked at this, and I was forced to kick him. “Well, you rest. I have to go on the Internet now and leave some comments for idiots who don’t understand how brave you are.”
“No!” I nearly screamed it. “No, please don’t. My, um, publicist will take care of the haters.” A lie, but the last thing I needed was for my mom to go on Facebook and start slinging insults to “help” me.
“Hmmmmmm,” was the response before she hung up.
I hung my head. Sam said, “Hey, at least she’s not one of the haters anymore.”
I started to lean over to rest my head on his shoulder, but everything hurt, and I groaned instead.
“What are you moaning about? It’s not like you got shot or something.” He propped three pillows that I didn’t need around me, but the gesture was so cute I just snuggled in.
“They’re going to put Valerie away, right?”
“Four different people filmed her shooting you. She’ll go away for that, at least. And I called my personal spook—the British have her, not the local authorities. She’ll go down for the robbery, the kidnapping, etc.”
“I hope they ship her off to Area 51.”
“That’s in America.”
“Area 51?”
He grimaced. “That’s the same place except with a British accent.”
“I know. I don’t really care what happens to her, as long as it involves iron maidens, and fleas, and maybe the ghost of Richard III.” I warmed to the idea of her suffering and imagined a horrible dungeon complete with big, fat rats with a fondness for eating flipping hair.
“Area 51 is for aliens.”
“Good, because she’s from the planet Asswipe, in the Buttface Quadrant.”
He didn’t argue any further, but kissed my hand fervently. “I love it when you get all elegant and shit.” He rose to take the plates back to the kitchen. A moment later, he hurried back out to the living room, a package in his hand. “Crap, I forgot that something came for you when you were asleep earlier.”
The overnight envelope was thick and fairly heavy. “Feels like a script to me.” Always good news, when they send you a script, and I wasn’t expecting anything. I pulled it out and read the note from my agent on top first.
Holy.
Effing.
Shit.
I read the cover and squealed in excitement. My mouth dropped open and my throat got dry. Oh, my God! This was the most amazing thing in the world!
“What is it?” Sam sat beside me on the couch, and I handed him the note. “Wow. Wow, baby.”
Apparently someone at Universal liked what they saw in the press this week. I’d been offered a superhero movie franchise. There are almost no women superheroes—or superheroines, more like—with their own franchises! I was legit gonna be Sigourney Weaver or something!
Aaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!
Sam cracked up next to me while he examined the script. “The Ovarian Hellion.”
I bounced up and down with unmitigated glee, well, as much as my injuries would allow. “She avenges people who identify as women who’ve been done wrong. She seeks justice for rape victims, and goes after stalkers and cheating CEOs who don’t pay their employees equally. Oh, my goodness. Oh, my goodness! My agent says it’s super-duper funny. It’s a spoof, but she really does kick ass and take names.”
I flipped to the middle and burst into laughter. “She wears baggy pyjamas with embroidered ovaries on them as her heroine outfit.”
It’s the role I was born to play, baby!
Sam threw his arms around me. “You’re going to be amazing.”
“And comfortable. The Ovarian Hellion doesn’t wear platform boots like a schmuck.”
“Do you want me to take you outside to read the script? It’s another gorgeous day.”
I looked him over, tanned and adorable in his baggy shorts, V-neck tee and rumpled brown hair. “I miss sex.”
That brightened his face in surprise. “Me too.”
“My pill will kick in soon. Maybe when our pain medicines coincide, we can fool around?”
He squeezed my knee and laid a warm, panty-melting kiss on my mouth. “I’ll do it for science.”
“Can we play pirate?”
“Okay. But who will I be?”
“You can be the Ovarian Hellion.”
He blew kisses at me. “It would be my honour.”
My goofy, in-love grin could not be contained, and why would I want to? He was here. He was mine. And we had no expiration date!
A tickle of worry flitted around the back of my brain…what if he got bored? What if real life was too normal for him? I squashed these angsty questions with a metaphorical shoe.
I’d work very hard to keep him, just like my mother always told me to.
I walked fingers up his shoulder. “You feeling less ouchy yet?”
“Getting there.”
Turning was difficult for him, as his wound area, exactly on his side a few inches above his hip, seemed to be where every part of his body connected together. I’d have to get on top, and take care to avoid it. I shifted for him, towards him and my bad arm. Leaning as much as I was able, I kissed…his shoulder. That’s as far as I reached. No kissing for now.
“Good try.”
“Don’t make me go badass bikini chick on you.”
He started towards me, a quick gasp of pain stopping him.
“Let me.” I scooted to the edge of the couch and used my good hand to undo his fly. We managed between the two of us. His cock was already slightly hard by the time I liberated it from his shorts.
His head fell back onto the couch. “Don’t hurt yourself,” he said.
“I’m only gonna hurt you. By being so sexy. Ouch!” My free hand flew to clutch my shoulder, still aching dully.
“Nope. It’s too much, too soon.” He made a move to remove his parts from my clutches.
“I need sexual healing.” With renewed caution, and renewed lust, I stroked the beautiful dick I’d missed so. After a few minutes, he didn’t protest any more. The poor man kept bucking his hips, then groaning because it hurt him.
I grabbed his hand and used it for leverage to disentangle myself and stand. “Let’s try the bedroom. I need room to manoeuvre.”
Slowly, our horny, pathetic train made its way to the room with the soft, comfy bed. We’d been given the honeymoon cottage by an admiring hotel manager, so the room was a crazy mix of pinks, reds and tropical decals. I pointed Sam towards the bed, and he sat down gingerly. “Bottoms off,” he said.
Yes, much easier to do standing. I gingerly eased my pyjama bottoms down until finally gravity won over the pull of my butt, and they fell to the floor. Sam cheered—pants off is always a wonderful thing. He took my good hand and helped me climb into the bed.
“Lose the shirt,” I ordered.
“You first, ya bilge rat.”
I cocked my head. “‘Bilge’ better be a fancy word for ‘beautiful’.”
“Um…yo ho ho, ya beautiful rat?”
I tsked. “You were a way better pirate in my dream.”
“Dream?” He threw his T-shirt off the bed. “What dream?”
Oops. I decided to distract him by sexily removing my pyjama top. I got all the buttons undone, eventually, but couldn’t get it off either arm by myself. All the while, I smiled and fluttered my eyelashes suggestively. He just sat there and watched, his hand over his mouth suppressing his laughter very poorly. “A little help?”
“Wench, leave the shirt on.” Reaching out with one arm, he pushed aside my top and caressed my breast with the palm of his hand. I
immediately felt heavy and tingly wherever he touched. It had been days and days since I’d felt his skin on mine, even though he’d been by my side every minute. I leaned into him, ready to get this show on the road.
With a minimum of laughing, we worked his shorts off him and down his legs. I wanted to give him a moment to rest from his painful bending, so I slipped my hand around his cock again and played lazily with him until his breathing got faster, and he made the most delicious little moans. I started to fluff a pillow behind his head, and he said, “Wait. Come here.”
“Where?”
He held out a hand. “Sit on my face. It’s doctor recommended.”
I got a little swoony—all the blood in my whole body rushed south. I ached so much for him it almost hurt. His rock-hard arm balanced me while I gingerly manoeuvred myself next to his head. “Wait—what doctor have you been going to?”
“Don’t worry about her.”
“Her?”
He started to laugh, and then groaned a little, reaching for his side. “Stop making jokes and give me that pussy.”
I leaned my arm against the bamboo headboard and said, “You’re making jokes.”
“Then shut me up.”
Yes, sir. I climbed across his smiling face, and he craned his neck up immediately to deliver a long, slow lick from my lips to my clit. It felt so amazing, I lost my balance. His arms landed on my hips to hold me in place. He took his time, moving slowly, lovingly across my naked sex, his tongue gentle and demanding all at once. His hands slid up to my breasts. I leaned into them. He moved his lips to kiss and suck on me, and I moaned into the warmth of the morning sun. On and on he went, caressing my ass, my hips, and fucking me with his mouth. I rubbed myself over him, and the more I bucked, the more fervent his response.
When I couldn’t take it anymore, when I had to have him inside me, I moved off him and shifted to his hips. I moved onto his cock, thick and warm inside me. “I love you,” he groaned as I slid down, my hand on his shoulder. I took care to avoid his bandaged area.
“I love you,” I said, sitting back, easing my pussy around him. “Now, don’t you move. I’ll do all the work.”
He groaned and bucked his hips. “I don’t care if it hurts. I need you.”
I slid upward, and he sighed into the duvet, his eyes closed. He braced my working arm with his, and I relied on him to be able to move high up on his cock, and slide back down again. Pure delight, pure desire pulsed through my body, flowing from where we joined. My injuries were soon forgotten, and I revelled in his fullness inside my body. He thrust his hips into mine, apparently not caring, either, about our limitations. I rode him, working his cock, my entire sex pulsating and wet and feeling unbelievably good. I wanted it to last forever, but we’d been too deprived of one another, too ready to screw each other’s brains out.
He jerked up one more time and cried out, coming inside me, the warmth of him flooding me. I leant down over his chest and ground my clit against his body, almost there, a shattering bliss building up and spilling over as I convulsed around his cock. I almost fell on him in my shuddering pleasure, but remembered to hold myself just in time. His hands braced themselves against my stomach, and I stayed upright, my head dizzy, my body still fluttering with the last of my orgasm.
Gingerly, I slid off his cock—mmmmmm, a pleasure in and of itself—and lay down beside him. He took my hand, both of us breathing hard. “Are you okay?” I asked.
He pressed against his giant bandage. “I’m fantastic. Jesus, I needed that.”
“Me, too.” My arm throbbed from all the blood pumping though my body, but I willed myself to relax. My head spun from the sex, and from my medicine, truth be told. I couldn’t say that I minded. Relaxation was a welcome change from a constant state of ‘aaaagggghhh!’
The sun shining through the sheers and the heat from our bodies warmed us into a sleepy state. “Sam?”
“Yeah, baby?”
I licked my lips, my mouth worrying over the question. “Do you really think you can be happy this way?”
He turned his head, concern furrowing his brow. “What way?”
“Not criminal-ing anymore. Just, you know, playing house with me?”
Grunting a little, he pushed himself up to sitting. “I make my own choices. And I’ve chosen a different way to live. With you. Not only because of you, but because of me, too.” He crooked one knee and shifted more towards me. “I loved stealing. I’m sure I’ll miss the thrill, forming plans, getting away with it.” He shrugged one shoulder. “But things change in life. I’ve found you, and I love you more than my old career.”
My eyes welled up. “Really?”
“Yes. I decided this a year ago.” He grinned, the dimple sneaking out just for me. “I don’t want to rot in jail with a life mate named Lockpick Larry until I’m an unemployable senior citizen. Not that there’s anything wrong with prison husbands named Lockpick Larry, but he’s not my first choice. You are.”
“Aw, you want me more than poor, hypothetical Larry?”
He nodded and pointed his non-injured eye in my direction. “Although you have worse taste in music.”
I managed to get into a sitting position and grabbed his hands. “You’re my first choice, too. I couldn’t really ever stay away from you, even when it was good for me. Because, I guess, you’re good for me. Thank you.”
“For what?”
“I—” There were too many things to list. My heart swelled, and I gazed into his beautiful eyes, er, eye that could change from green to brown to grey. A lady could never tyre of staring at such peepers. “For always being on my side, even when I’m an idiot and don’t realise it.”
A shy smile flitted across his face and he stared at the duvet. “North Carolina folks gotta stick together.”
I smiled. “Do you want to drag our banged-up bones out to the beach to soak in the sun?”
He pushed a stray strand of my hair out of my face and tucked it behind my ear. “Soaking with you is one of my favourite things.”
Something told me that Sam and I wouldn’t be sitting around idle for long, but for now, I’d enjoy it.
Or maybe this was the end of the craziness in our lives. Maybe we’d become a couple whose biggest concern was making sure all our Tupperware had lids.
I shuddered. Maybe…not.
* * * *
What Could Go Wrong?
by
F. Langley
Final Draft
Ext. A Beach In Bora Bora—Day
Angle On: Jayde Loving sips a piña colada on a chaise next to her partner in crime Chase Dakota.
Jayde Loving: We got away with it, my darling. We cleaned out the British Museum and walked away unscathed.
Chase Dakota: Yes, and we also were able to reconcile so that our days are full of sunny splendour, and our nights full of sexual exploration under the stars.
Jayde Loving: I have the sand in my crack to prove it.
Chase pulls off his aviators in a sexy swipe and plants a fond stare on Jayde…one might even call it loving.
Chase Dakota: What shall we do now? The possibilities are endless. As long as the possibilities happen in a country that has no extradition agreement with the UK. We could climb mountains. We could comb the depths of the ocean for treasure.
Jayde Loving: I don’t know. You want to get some enormous hamburgers and watch a Misfits marathon?
Chase Dakota: How did you know?
Jayde shrugs.
Jayde Loving: I’m super smart, and also super hungry.
Chase Dakota: Maybe we could knock over a bank on the way to get the food.
Jayde Loving: We have eighty million dollars!
Chase Dakota: That’s not the point. I enjoy the notion that we could rob a bank whenever we wanted to.
Jayde Loving: Well, anybody could do that.
Chase Dakota: I know.
He sits up and kisses her hand.
Chase Dakota: That’s the fun of life, isn’t it?
Jayde Loving: How about this… I’ll race you to the Burger Hut. If you beat me…
Chase Dakota: Which I will.
Jayde Loving: …then we can play cops and robbers.
Chase Dakota: You brought your sexy cop outfit?
Jayde Loving: With the tear-away bullet-proof vest.
Chase yanks Jayde out of her chair.
Chase Dakota: What are we waiting for?
He sprints across the sand and out of the shot.
Jayde Loving: Hey, wait! That’s cheating!
Jayde, laughing, runs after Chase. One might even call it…chasing. She glows with renewed love for him—once a scoundrel, always a scoundrel. And she wouldn’t really have it any other way.
Also available from Totally Bound Publishing:
Samantha Lytton: The Dimple of Doom
Lucy Woodhull
Excerpt
Chapter One
Accountants should not be so sexy.
It all started at the office Christmas party, as many terrible hangovers do.
My palms began to sweat at the sight of The Accountant walking in my direction. His shining eyes said, I wanna spread your sheet, his masterful gait said, Damn, I’m masterful, and his tantalising smirk said, I’ve read the Kama Sutra—all the way through.
I swallowed the lump of lust in my throat and twiddled with the tablecloth of the catered buffet table. My usual party plan involved making winsome eyes at the food, but tonight I salivated over more than just the pigs in a blanket.
“Potato ball?” he asked. Sam Turner, aka The Accountant, held the fried offering palm up on a festive red and green paper plate.
I had the hots for a dude named Sam. My name is Samantha. Samantha ‘n’ Sam. It was the stuff of obnoxious wedding invitations.
What colour were his hazel eyes today? Glancing up, I slid into hormone heaven. He stood, eyes mossy green pools of sensual seductiveness, and offered me the Garden of Eden apple. Except it was a potato ball.
Cocking my head, I posed in an alluring manner that I hoped brought Marilyn Monroe to mind. I should say something. Something not stupid.
The Dimple Strikes Back Page 23