Reveal (A Wild Nights Novel)

by K. M. Golland

  I moaned more. He had the best freakin’ hands in existence.

  “Fuuuuuck,” he groaned, his voice strained and low. The warmth of his breath tickled the hair behind my ear. “You make me hard when that sexy-as-fuck sound leaves your mouth, pixie.”

  I moaned some more for him. “Sucks to be you.”

  Trying not to laugh at my cheeky retort, the flash of S’s name appeared on my screen, shifting my focus.

  “He’s responded,” I said, excitedly.

  Brad’s fingers paused their movement. “What’d he say?”

  We both leaned forward and read the screen.

  S: Anything for you, Lady N.

  I’d even suck it clean for you, too.

  I burst into laughter at the same time as Brad. “Ew! No thanks.”

  “He’s a keeper, babe.”

  “I hope so,” I said, opening my eyes wide with exaggeration while typing a response.

  Lady N: S, you naughty, naughty man.

  I like you.

  “Hey!” Cori shouted from her position on top of Josh’s shoulders. “You two coming in or what?”

  “Yeah, in a second,” I shouted back.

  Logging out of the interface, I closed the laptop and slid it into my satchel bag.

  Brad pulled gently on my shoulders, tilting me back to look up at him. “Right. This shoulder ride war is serious. Don’t hold back. Cori is not your friend out there. She’s your enemy. Remember that.” His eyes held my stare, unblinking.

  I bit my lip to refrain from laughing. “Okay. Not friend. Enemy. Fight till death.”

  “That’s my girl.” He jumped up and stretched his shoulders then swung his arms in wide circles like a windmill. “And don’t forget. If you fall, I’ll catch you.”

  I nodded, knowing he would.

  Brad’s expression changed, his smile and energetic shoulder-war preparation disappearing. He extended his hands to me and I accepted them, letting him pull me flush to his chest.

  The delicate glide of his thumb trailed down the side of my cheek, as our eyes searched one another’s. “Always, Em. I’ll always catch you.”

  I knew he would. I knew that no matter what happened he’d be right there by my side to pick me up when I stumbled. And I would stumble. We all did. And we all needed that one person to catch us.

  For a time in my life, when I’d had no one, H had kept me from falling. He’d kept me from drowning in darkness but didn’t bring me into the light. And that was the difference between a hero and a saviour. One carried you there and the other let you take those steps yourself. H was my saviour, but Brad was my hero.

  One the past.

  The other my future.

  Before I head into my lengthy wordery of thanks, I want to let you in on a little secret … It’s one o’clock in the morning and I’ve just finished editing this story. I started at one o’clock in the afternoon and have since escorted a carload of ten year-old boys to a birthday party for my son, been out to dinner, had cake and sung happy birthday. After an evening of video games and movies, they all finally went to sleep.

  Sleep … what is that? I vaguely recall it has something to do with the transition of one day to the next. Hmm … interesting, because for the past six months, I’ve seen the clock tick each day to the next. Every. Night. I think I can count on one hand the amount of times I’ve climbed into bed before 2:00am, and that’s because I’ve been crafting, shaping, and developing the characters and story you have just finished reading. So I really hope you enjoyed it, because I enjoy sleep, lol.

  Anyway, as I sit here, I have bits of Double Dipped Cherry Ripe stuck between my teeth because I needed a chocolate hit to keep my eyes open. And speaking of eyes, they’re blurry from having been constantly focussed on the screen for the past five hours straight in order to get this book completed for formatting.

  I need to pee.

  Everyone under my roof, bar me, is asleep.

  My dog is snoring.

  The refrigerator is humming.

  I’m a little lonely.

  But I love what I do. I’ve just written, edited, and finalised — in my opinion — my best novel to date. So even though I worked on and off during my son’s birthday and am exhausted and tired as fuck, I’m happy, relieved and proud of myself. I love Reveal. I love Em, Brad and H. And I love being fortunate enough to create stories that are read and appreciated.

  That’s pretty cool.

  And now I’m babbling.

  Best I get stuck into my wordery of thanks then, huh?

  Rightyo, as always, first on my list are Andrew and the kids: What. Would. I. Do. Without. You? I’d probably live in a shoe, that’s what. And as awesome as that sounds — provided the shoe has a red sole — I’d rather see your smiling faces each and every day. Thank you for being what grounds me when I get lost in worlds taking form in my mind. Thank you for reminding me that dinner still needs to be cooked, the toilet doesn’t clean itself, and Sunday mornings are pancake mornings. Oh, and, Andrew … you are the perfect Mummy/Daddy. I know it’s hard sometimes, but just think of the research that is required for specific scenes I write. Now stop complaining xo

  Mum: We clash. We fight. We annoy each other. We also ignore one another. Okay, so I mainly ignore you, but seriously, my phone is switched off for a reason. And that reason is this 98k novel. And even though you probably won’t believe me when I say this, I really do appreciate your persistence and unwavering support of my career. You’re always there, willing and able, and I love you dearly for it. So thank you. And I’m sorry you didn’t like this book as much as the others. But shit happens. Xo

  Trish: You’re my person and I’m yours. I don’t really need to say much more than that, because you know exactly what that means and how vital it is in this industry. So I’ll leave it at that. Oh, and your graphics prowess is da shit. Thanks for your vision xo

  My other author friends who’ve been a constant support during the writing of this book: You know who you are. You’ve witnessed my good and bad days, talked me through moments of doubt and craziness, and distracted me in the best way possible. Thank you xo

  Sal: I feel we should’ve sat back and had a ciggy after that beta session. We hit it hard, fast, and were both satisfied in the end. It was good beta. That said, if Em had let one slip at the BBQ …

  Kidding. I wouldn’t do that to you. Well, maybe not ever. There’s always the next book.

  Lauren: You deserve the award for Speediest of Editors Requested to Edit at the Speediest they Can Possibly Edit. Yes, you do. That edit was EPIC! And no, my brain did not shout that. The E the P the I and the C all came hurtling out of my mouth. Thank you for making me active even though I don’t mind being passive every now and again. Xo

  And lastly, my readers: If it weren’t for you I’d be in bed right now. True story. I’d be asleep because I’d have to get up and go to work for someone I would more than likely pretend to like even though I wouldn’t. And that would make me sad. I don’t like being sad. I like being happy. Shoes make me happy. You buy my books, which allows me to buy shoes, which makes me happy, which means I can write, which means you get more books, which means I get more shoes. Do you see what I’m getting at here? We’re a team, you and I. It’s win win. So let’s do it again soon. xo bwb.

  DO YOU WANT MORE MR HAPPY?

  I’m toying with the idea of writing a novella in H’s point of view. Would you read it? Do you want to know why he did what he did and felt the way he felt?

  Contact me on social media and let me know

  COMING SOON: COMMITMENT

  (A Temptation novel #5)

  Turn over for a sneak peek.

  COMMITMENT PROLOGUE

  Thirteen years. That’s how long Dean and I have been married. Thirteen years of ups downs, forwards, backwards, whirlywirls and somersaults. Whatever the obstacle we’d faced during that time, we’d nailed it. And not just nailed it. We’d MacGyvered the arse out of it.

  Our matrimonial
knot was tied in front of friends and family in a large Catholic church before God on a scorchin’ hot December afternoon. In fact, I’d had a makeshift steam oven between my legs, and I swear I could’ve put Betty Crocker to shame by baking a cake in it.

  But despite heatwave we experienced that day, I’d still rocked a white halter-neck taffeta wedding dress like it was nobody’s business. Yep, Natasha Jones — that’s me — had been the most beautiful walking meringue to have ever lived.

  I’d owned that shit.

  You could throw a forty degree Celsius day at me, and I’d show it who’s boss. I’d wear dampened strands of hair on my face as if it were the newest Lady Gaga fashion statement. And smudged makeup? Pfft … if Marilyn Manson could pull that shit off, then so could I.

  Thinking back to that day as I drove my car into the driveway of our house, I smiled to myself. Dean and I had come so far. We’d started at the very beginning, working our arses off to save for a deposit on a house, soon after becoming proud owners of a gigantic mortgage. We’d parented a cat and then a dog — our safe and happy furry test subjects successfully proving that we could try parenting the real thing … a baby human.

  Enter said baby human one: William, who was born two years after we married. How my Tashy Tunnel still operated after pushing out that little beast was beyond me, and how it could still accommodate Dean’s Dickasaurus, let alone push out another mini beast (known as baby human two: Thomas) was also beyond me. But it could, and it was going to do one of those things tonight — accommodate Dean’s Dickasaurus. There was certainly no bun in my oven.

  Yes siree, bring on anniversary sexytimes. Bring on a candlelit dinner, a full body massage, hot steamy bubblebath, schanppies and a fuckfest.

  Bring on a childfree evening.

  Grinning devilishly, I slid my key into the front door, paused and pulled out my phone, checking my hair and makeup on the selfie cam. I’d performed a rearview mirror beauty touch-up at the traffic lights, even spraying some BO-basher under my armpits for added effect. And because it was our anniversary, I’d de-fuzzed myself the night before.

  All of myself.

  Tashy’s clam was no longer bearded.

  Performing a duckface at my phone and running my tongue across the top row of my teeth, I nodded in approval. “Looking hot, bitch.” I then turned the key, stepped inside our entrance hall, and …

  “SURPRISE!”

  … nearly had a fucking heart attack.

  “Jesus Christ! What the fff … frig tree is this?” I screamed, clutching my chest and staring wide-eyed at my sons. Both William and Thomas were in battle stance, pointing sword-shaped balloons at me. Yes, balloons, as in air-filled latex objects from hell.

  “Prepare to die, mother,” William declared, stepping forward.

  The balloon neared.

  I backed my arse up..

  “Yes, prepare to die a horrible death, evil wench.”

  “Thomas! Don’t call me that,” I scowled at my youngest spawn. What the hell is going on? Where are my candles, rose petals … and smooth sounds of Lionel Ritchie filtering from the stereo? Where the hell is my husband?

  Thomas put his hand to his mouth and whispered. “Just go with it, Mum. I’m acting.”

  I shook my head in bewilderment. “But … but why?”

  He stepped forward again, this time pointing the sword-balloon directly at my chest. “Do not speak, or I shall slit your throat.”

  The balloon made a hell-like screeching noise as it molested my skin, causing my heart rate to elevate and an ear-piercing squeal to leave my mouth. “Get that thing away from me!” I screamed, swatting the balloon-sword and making a dash for my bedroom.

  As I ran past the kitchen, the two bandits hot on my tale, Dean sprang out from behind the wall, prompting my bladder to lose some of its contents. Holy shiz!

  Not knowing whether to clutch my chest or my vagina, I took in my husband, who was dressed in a white shirt and grey tights, and he was wielding one of the boys’ non-balloon toy swords.

  “Halt, you heathens,” he said dramatically, chest puffed, as he guided me to stand behind him. “How dare thee cause m’lady such distress?”

  The boys both stopped suddenly and stared dumbfounded at their father. “What’s a heeven?” Thomas whispered to William.

  “I don’t know. I think it’s Robin Hood speak for Villain.”

  Thomas scrunched up his nose and nodded. “Oh.”

  “You are no match for us, girly man,” William declared, aiming his balloon at Dean.

  I couldn’t help it and burst into laughter. Girly man?

  “Hey!” Dean widened his stance by spreading his legs and holdings his arms out, displaying his attire for us. “There’s nothing girly ‘bout what I’m packing.”

  Stepping out from behind him, I dropped my gaze to ‘what he was packing’, which was beautifully accentuated in tight cotton Lycra. The sight prompted my teeth to clamp my lip. I wanted that package. I wanted it in between my legs. I wanted it rubbed across my face. I just plain wanted it. And as it would seem, I wasn’t going to get it.

  My heart sank.

  This always happened.

  There was never any time for Tash and Dean, Dean and Tash. It was always us and the boys. No sexytimes. No Tashy Tunnel exploration. It was just … marriage.

  Looking back up to meet my husband’s endearing sweet face, I put on a smile for what he’d orchestrated. Sure, it wasn’t what I’d had in mind, wasn’t what I’d wanted. But this was Dean. He was my goofy man, my sweet, caring, safe and secure man.

  He was my normal.