Cocktales

by The Cocky Collective

  “Did you make the custard?” I ushered her forward and shut the door to the backstage area, tired on her behalf. We were enveloped in dark, which meant she couldn’t see at all, and I—like all my siblings—could see tolerably well.

  “Yes. I made the custard, it’s sitting in the fridge. Used the last of my vanilla; I’ll need to order more. I just hope no one realizes about the eggs,” she finished with an agitated exhale, allowing me to lead her through the darkness.

  I took the infernal bakery box, set it on a nearby crate, and then brought her near a corner, placing her back against the wall. This particular corner was scarcely illuminated by a sliver of light coming in through the stage curtains.

  The cafeteria was just beyond the curtains, and the loud buzzing of town gossip and chatter from earlier in the evening was now a low murmur of scant conversation. Apparently, most folks had moved to on to the music rooms, likely because all the coleslaw had been eaten. As long as we whispered, we wouldn’t be overheard or noticed.

  “Is everything settled? With Mr. Badcock?” I studied her expression, noting the groves of worry on her forehead and the way she was twisting her fingers.

  “I think so. Momma is going to drive out there tonight and drop off a deposit check, try to smooth things over with him.”

  “That was your idea?” I questioned, already knowing the answer.

  It was a great idea, so of course it was Jenn’s idea. Mrs. Diane Donner-Sylvester, Jenn’s dragon-lady mother, was one of the most powerful business persons in the region. A visit from Diane was a big deal indeed. As well, Diane clearly needed a distraction from her divorce woes.

  “Yes.” She whispered, her eyes searching for mine, but seemingly unable to settle on the right spot—my face must’ve been wholly in shadow. “We’re putting in an order for the entire year.”

  “That’s good.” I nodded, but part of her story troubled me.

  Why would Mr. Richard Badcock treat Jenn with even an ounce of hostility? It didn’t make any sense. Folks who knew Jenn—or of Jenn—considered her harmless, or less than harmless. A novelty, a local celebrity of no real substance or consequence, which was also how they saw me (minus the celebrity part).

  I knew better: she’d revealed her genius to me last fall while proving to be the most brilliant opponent I’d ever faced, by far. She’d bested me.

  Consequently, having no choice in the matter, I’d promptly fallen in love with her. Obviously.

  But back to Dick Mal-Rooster and his antagonism.

  “Did he give a reason for his poor temper?” I asked, studying her.

  The question seemed to agitate her, and she huffed, stepping forward and reaching out blindly. “Cletus, can we talk about that later? Where are you?”

  My mental processes shifted gears and abruptly, the flood of disappointment from the deep well of frustration rose to my throat. I swallowed, stepping away from her searching hands as I stuffed mine back in my pockets.

  “Jenn—”

  “I am so, so sorry, Cletus. I know I promised I’d be here on time, and I wasn’t, and for that I’m sorry.” She found me, her hands grabbing the front of my shirt. Her warm palms slid over my chest, up to my shoulders, her arms twisting around my neck.

  I braced myself for the feel of her body, but I was unprepared for the reality of it. Soft and warm and impatient, Jenn pressed herself to me in a way that felt at once eager and content. Her lips brushed lightly over my neck. I tensed. Her hot tongue coming out to lick a path to my ear had me jumping, every inch of me aware of every inch of her.

  “I’ve missed you,” she whispered, a note of vulnerability in the words, her breath scorching as it spilled over my skin, a counterpoint to the disappointment still burning my chest. “Have you missed me?”

  I was at once inebriated by her actions and incredulous of them.

  “You know I have,” I answered gruffly, keeping my hands in my pockets for both our benefits.

  Likely, she didn’t want our first time together in over six weeks—and our second time together ever—to be me ripping off her underwear and taking her against the backstage wall of the Green Valley community center. Rationally, I knew this to be true.

  Irrationally however, I wanted to rip off her underwear and take her against the backstage wall of the Green Valley community center. I wanted to tear open the buttons of her dress and feast on her body, the smooth silk of her skin, while I filled her and claimed her and satiated myself with what would surely be an unrefined display of possessiveness.

  Jennifer pressed herself more fully against me, one arm still hooked around my neck, a hand sliding dangerously lower, from my shoulder to my chest and stomach. I caught her fingers before she could slip them between us and cup me over my pants. Or inside my pants.

  “Not a good idea.” My body shook, a surge of covetous mindlessness threatening to overtake my good intentions.

  “It’s been weeks,” she complained between biting kisses on my neck, bringing my hand to her breast, pressing it there. “Don’t you want me?”

  I choked on my incredulity. If she didn’t know how much I wanted her, then I’d been doing something very wrong.

  “You’re asking me foolish questions,” I ground out, catching both her hands and holding them hostage between us to force her to back away a step. “And you’re not foolish.”

  I needed a minute.

  “Then what’s the problem?” She pressed forward. Jenn didn’t fight my hold, but she did feel restless beneath my fingers. “Why aren’t you kissing me back? Why do you keep stuffing your hands in your pockets? Why won’t you touch me?”

  Lost of words, I settled on whispering the truth, “I’d like nothing more than rip off your underwear and—”

  “No need, I’m not wearing underwear.” Jenn bent her head and placed a kiss on my knuckles.

  Meanwhile, I needed. . . another minute.

  What?

  “What?” Equal measures of astonishment and lust drove away any of my remaining good intentions, leaving me only with lust.

  “I took them off in the car.” Her tongue licked the juncture between my index and middle fingers. “I know I’ve been working a lot and, God Cletus, I just want you so—oh!”

  Unceremoniously, I backed her against the wall, tossing away her hands and clamoring for the hem of her skirt. Sliding my fingers up her legs as I lifted her dress, I groaned when I discovered no material at her hip or bottom. Since I already had a handful of her, I squeezed, resisting the urge to fall to my knees and take a bite of her perfect backside.

  I’d wanted us to have privacy. I’d wanted to unwrap her. I’d wanted to take my time. I’d wanted conversation and kisses—many kisses—and a lot more light sources. Sunlight, lamps, spotlights, I wanted to see every part of her.

  I pressed my forehead against the cold wall, unable to resist touching her, slipping my middle finger into that hot, silky place.

  Her breath hitched, her arms once again wrapping around my neck as her hips rolled forward into my hand. “Please, please.”

  Damn, but I missed her. Her skin was heaven, her fragrance paradise, and I couldn’t get enough. I was breathing heavy, wanting her all around me, in my lungs. I couldn’t think. I just wanted.

  I took her mouth with mine, no preamble or gentle invasion, but a full-fledged frenzy. She moaned, a sound I took as encouragement.

  Jenn’s nails scratched down my shirt, her fingers shaking as they found my belt, tugging and pulling frantically while I nipped and licked and kissed her jaw and neck, stopping at her breast to place a wet, biting kiss at the center, all the while working her with my fingers.

  Her hands faltered as I devoured her collarbone and neck, preparing to lower to my knees, lift her skirt completely, take a bite out of that ass, and then spread her wide for my tongue and mouth and pleasure.

  But then, her phone rang; Reba McEntire’s, ‘I’m a Survivor;’ that was her mother’s ring tone. The woman had recently programmed it into J
enn’s phone.

  She squeaked, fumbling for the device. Her face briefly illuminated just before quickly rejecting the call.

  “Don’t stop.” She reached for my belt again, this time deftly undoing it, the button of my pants, and my zipper while I stoked her.

  Her phone buzzed. Then it chimed. Then it buzzed and chimed two more times. Then it rang, again Reba.

  Cursing, Jenn pulled the phone from her pocket and once again her face illuminated, murderous rage in her eyes. Her finger moved to the power-off button. She blinked, hesitating. Her eyes widened, her body stiffened, and she gasped.

  “Cletus!”

  Something about her tone, like she was horrified, and maybe a little afraid, cut though the heavy haze of lust inertia, and my hands stilled. Shaking myself, it took me a few moments to realize she was showing me the phone screen, and another few to bring the content of the text messages into focus.

  Momma: Jennifer Anne Sylvester, pick up your phone. If you’re with that man of yours, I need his help too. Please.

  Momma: ALL THE CHICKENS AND ROOSTERS ARE DEAD! PICK UP YUR DAMN PHONE!

  Momma: I’m calling you in a second, pick up the phone. Mr. Badcock’s chickens are dead. All of them. I got here and he’s running around, deranged, yelling about his dead chickens! I called the police and they’re on their way. Please, please, please pick up the phone!

  At some point, I must’ve taken the phone from Jenn and stepped away, because I glanced up upon reading the messages for the third time, finding the phone in my hand and Jenn fixing her skirt.

  “This is nuts.” Her big eyes searched mine imploringly. “Who could have done this?”

  I shook my head, having not yet managed to fully shift brain gears. My gaze dropped to the wet patch on the front of her dress, where I’d had my mouth seconds prior, and my erection throbbed.

  So we’re . . . not having sex?

  “Why? Why would they do it?” She took her phone back, her tone bewildered, distracted, and distraught.

  She was distraught because of the dead chickens, like any normal person would be.

  I was distraught also, but my distress had nothing to do with farm animals.

  “We have to go.” Jenn grabbed my hand and began walking blindly toward the direction of the hall door. “This is crazy. Poor Mr. Badcock. And those poor chickens.” A sound of mournful distress escaped her throat. “This is terrible.”

  It was terrible.

  And I was going to hell.

  Because all I could think was, Talk about a cock block.

  -end-

  Dear Reader,

  These two parts are the very raw, unedited beginnings of Jenn and Cletus’s first book (‘Engagement and Espionage’) in their cozy mystery series (Handcrafted Mysteries) coming in 2019. These chapters were written specifically for this anthology and are in no way final. But I hope you enjoyed the peek into my raw work, before I get a chance to read and re-read, draft and re-draft, edit and re-edit. HUGE thank you to Author Camilla Monk (of the awesome Spotless series, http://camillamonk.com/) for giving this story a quick edit. You are a magical unicorn of stellar proportions.

  Wishing you all the best, Penny Reid

  The Winston saga continues with Dr. Strange Beard, releasing July 9, 2018.

  Click here for more info

  About the Author

  Penny Reid lives in Seattle, Washington with her husband, three kids, and an inordinate amount of yarn. She used to spend her days writing federal grant proposals as a biomedical researcher, but now she just writes books.

  Come find Penny-

  Mailing list signup: http://pennyreid.ninja/newsletter/ (get exclusive stories, sneak peeks, and pictures of cats knitting hats)

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  Email: pennreid@gmail.com …hey, you! Email me ;-)

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  Twitter: https://twitter.com/ReidRomance

  Ravelry: http://www.ravelry.com/people/ReidRomance (if you crochet or knit…!)

  Also by Penny Reid

  Knitting in the City Series

  (Contemporary Romantic Comedy)

  Neanderthal Seeks Human: A Smart Romance (#1)

  Neanderthal Marries Human: A Smarter Romance (#1.5)

  Friends without Benefits: An Unrequited Romance (#2)

  Love Hacked: A Reluctant Romance (#3)

  Beauty and the Mustache: A Philosophical Romance (#4)

  Ninja at First Sight (#4.75)

  Happily Ever Ninja: A Married Romance (#5)

  Dating-ish: A Humanoid Romance (#6)

  Marriage of Inconvenience: (#7)

  * * *

  Winston Brothers Series

  (Contemporary Romantic Comedy, spinoff of Beauty and the Mustache)

  Truth or Beard (#1)

  Grin and Beard It (#2)

  Beard Science (#3)

  Beard in Mind (#4)

  Dr. Strange Beard (#5, coming 2018)

  Beard with Me (#5.5)

  Beard Necessities (#6 )

  * * *

  Hypothesis Series

  (New Adult Romantic Comedy)

  Elements of Chemistry: ATTRACTION, HEAT, and CAPTURE (#1)

  Laws of Physics: MOTION, SPACE, and TIME (#2)

  Fundamentals of Biology: STRUCTURE, EVOLUTION, and GROWTH (#3)

  * * *

  Irish Players (Rugby) Series – by L.H. Cosway and Penny Reid

  (Contemporary Sports Romance)

  The Hooker and the Hermit (#1)

  The Pixie and the Player (#2)

  The Cad and the Co-ed (#3)

  The Varlet and the Voyeur (#4)

  Cocky Capo

  CD Reiss

  Antonio, Theresa, Jonathan, and Monica meet in Napoli, and it's utterly insane.

  Copyright © 2018 Flip City Media Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cocky Capo

  NAPOLI - ITALIA

  THERESA

  From the minute I met Antonio, I thought I knew him. I didn’t always know how he’d react, or what exactly he’d do, but I always knew why. To me, that was enough. Reactions are a mixed bag of circumstances and upbringing. The measure of a man was in his motivations. He was motivated by love and responsibility.

  I was wrong about his measure. There was more to it than that, and I didn’t realize it until I saw him in Italy.

  He breathed more deeply. Held me more tightly. Laughed more naturally. On the veranda, with the olive groves behind him and the morning breeze tousling his hair, he fit into the landscape like a puzzle piece. He belonged there.

  “What’s bothering you, Contessa?”

  “Nothing.” I shrugged. I didn’t want to break the spell of his perfection.

  He put his cappuccino cup down empty. “Don’t make me fuck it out of you.”

  The prospect was tempting, but I was already sore from the morning’s activities.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you so happy.”

  One beautiful black eyebrow arched slightly higher.

  “I’m relieved to be home,” he said. “Give me a few days to smell the garbage.”

  The orchard had been abandoned for years. Antonio had to open the rusted chain on the front gate with bolt cutters. I drove the Aston Martin down the cracked drive and he followed on foot, a pillar of perfection against the overgrown landscape in the rearview mirrors.

  When I stopped the car he jogged to catch up, opening the door for me and offering his hand to help me out. He kissed my hand before clasping it tightly.

  “Benvenuto Casa Spinelli.” He waved his arm at the boarded up villa. “The
home of my ruined heart.”

  “Stop. Your heart is fine and it’s beautiful here.”

  “My heart is fine because of you, and you make everything beautiful.” He put his arm around me. Ivy had overtaken the cracked walls of the stone manor all the way to the second floor, and the front steps were broken. “I go first. It might not be safe.”

  “Hush. I’m going with you every step.”

  “Come vuoi tu,” he said, scooping me up in his arms with such speed I yelped in surprise. I put my arms around his neck and he carried me up the broken stairs. The weather was perfect Mediterranean spring, with soft clouds drawn over the clear blue sky, and the sweet smell of blossoming olives in the air. My hand had a mind of its own, stroking the black scruff on his cheek, up to his forehead, tracing the straight scar to his ear.

  He slid me back onto my feet at the front door. It was thick wood, carved with a border of olive branches. A metal hinge had been screwed on over the brass doorknob. Antonio took the bolt cutters from his back waistband and cut the padlock as if it was a piece of cardboard. It fell to the ground with a solid thunk.

  “Are you ready?” he asked with his hand on the brass knob.

  “I’m ready.”

  He turned and pushed, but the door didn’t budge. I laughed. He stepped back and assessed the door before laughing with me.

  “Thwarted,” I said. “Can you pick the lock?”

  “I don’t have tools.” He pointed to a chair with a busted wicker seat. “Stand over there. I’ll knock it down.”

  “Hang on,” I said. “In this entire house, there’s no side door?”

  He smirked and picked up the bolt cutters. “Always the sensible one.”