“The two have been a couple since the finale of the show a year ago. They finally decided to tie the knot in this very appropriate way.”
Once again Misty spoke to the viewers. “The invitation to the wedding was an open one. If you could get to the top of Sca Fell Pike at two o’clock on this glorious late spring day, then you were invited. If you couldn’t, then I’m here to bring it all live right in to your home.” She tapped her earphone. “I’m being told the couple is now approaching.” Her voice was nearly drowned out by cheers and applause as Lauren and Wolf slowed from their leisurely run to a dignified walk. Someone in the audience handed Lauren a bouquet of spring wildflowers and someone else clipped a bow tie onto Wolf’s shirt. One of the soundmen cued Pachavel as the two, hand in hand, approached Claire Amos, who ignored their sweaty, slightly muddy condition and gave them both a bear hug. One of the crew then mic’ed the three of them, and Claire began the ceremony.
“Lauren, Wolf, I don’t need to tell either of you what it means to be a couple, what it means to have each other’s back, to trust each other, to encourage each other.” She paused to dab at the corner of her eyes with her pinkie. “You two know all about those things. You could teach the class. I don’t need to tell you to love each other and be kind to each other, to respect each other. But I will because those are words all of us need to hear over and over again, words all of us should strive to live by. Those words are a pact you two uphold and exemplify to everyone here on Sca Fell Pike, to everyone watching at home, to everyone who knows you. My wish for you is that you grow in love and in knowledge of each other and of yourselves. If you can do that, you’ll be okay.”
There was the odd sniffle and sigh from the crowd as the two exchanged vows and rings. There was a thunderous cheer after Claire Amos pronounced them husband and wife and they kissed. The happy couple lingered long enough to share fizz and cake that had been carried up by volunteers. They took time for the first dance. It was done as gracefully as could be expected while stumbling over loose rock and scree to the tune of I had the time of my life, while the guests applauded and cheered. A handful were brave enough to join in spite of the rough terrain. As the sun stained the Western Fells pink, they said their good-byes and headed down to the bridal suite – a brand new dome tent set up on Styhead Tarn.
***
As night settled around them and they sipped fizz from plastic cups, dipping their feet in the cool waters of the tarn, Wolf planted a champagne flavoured kiss on Lauren’s mouth with just the tiniest flick of tongue. “It’s not the Ritz, darlin’.”
She looked all around her as though she was suddenly shocked by his declaration. “You’re right. It isn’t.” She took in a deep breath of fresh fell air as an unseasonably warm breeze ruffled the grass along the tarn’s edge and rippled the mirrored surface of the water. “How could the Ritz possibly compare to this?”
“Glad you feel that way. And now,” he downed the last of his champagne, stood and took her hand, “I would like very much to properly break in the marriage bed with my beautiful wife.”
She chuckled softly as they ducked into the tent. “I have a feeling a whole new phase of training is about to begin.”
He tugged her in and gave the zipper a yank. “Question is, who will be training who. I can hardly wait to find out.” And once the training had seriously begun, neither of them had the breath to speak.
THE END
About K D Grace/Grace Marshall
Voted ETO Best Erotic Author of 2014, and a proud member of The Brit Babes, K D Grace believes Freud was right. In the end, it really IS all about sex, well sex and love. And nobody’s happier about that than she is, otherwise, what would she write about?
When she’s not writing, K D is veg gardening. When she’s not gardening, she’s walking. She walks her stories, and she’s serious about it. She and her husband have walked Coast to Coast across England, along with several other long-distance routes. For her, inspiration is directly proportionate to how quickly she wears out a pair of walking boots. She loves mythology. She enjoys spending time in the gym – right now she’s having a mad affair with a pair of kettle bells. She loves to read, watch birds and do anything that gets her outdoors.
KD has erotica published with Totally Bound, SourceBooks, Xcite Books, Harper Collins Mischief Books, Mammoth, Cleis Press, Black Lace, Sweetmeats Press and others.
Find K D Here:
Websites: http://kdgrace.co.uk/
http://www.thebritbabes.co.uk
Facebook: http://www.facebook.com/KDGraceAuthor
Twitter: https://twitter.com/KD_Grace
Like what you read? Why not try The Tutor by KD Grace?
Struggling writer, Kelly Blake has a secret life as a sex tutor. Celebrated sculptor and recluse, Alexander ‘Lex’ Valentine, can’t stand to be touched. When he seeks out Kelly’s advice incognito, the results are too hot to handle. When Kelly terminates their sessions due to what she considers her unprofessional behavior, Lex takes a huge risk, revealing his identity to her at a gala exhibition, his first ever public appearance. When Kelly helps the severely haphephobic Lex escape the grope of reporters and paparazzi, rumors fly that the two are engaged, rumors encouraged by well-meaning friends and colleagues. The press feeding frenzy forces Kelly into hiding at Lex’s mansion where he convinces her to be his private tutor just until the press loses interest, and she can go back home. They discover quickly that touch is not essential for sizzling, pulse-pounding intimacy. But intimacy must survive the secrets uncovered as their sessions become more and more personal.
Totally Bound Publishing
Amazon UK
Amazon US
THE GAMESMAN
Tabitha Rayne
Chapter One
Harriet clicked the laptop shut and tipped her head back into the head rest which was tilted in the wrong position. She pinched the bony bit of her nose at the bridge and tried to squeeze out the remnants of last night’s hangover.
The drinks trolley clattered through the door at the end of the carriage and she decided that since she’d refused a gin and tonic already, it would be impolite to do so again, especially since it was now after eleven in the morning. That was the best thing about travelling, she mused, you got to imagine who you were and simply be that person. The first class tickets were only fifteen quid more than standard and looking at the menu, which the guard assured her was complimentary, she’d more than eat and drink her way through that. Her socialist side shuddered—she felt a bit like a vegan in furs but pushed the thoughts down deep when the smiling trolley man stopped beside her.
“You ready for that drink yet?” he asked, already pouring the Bombay Sapphire into the glass pre-loaded with ice cubes.
She smiled and took the gin. “Well, when it’s delivered with such grace, how can a girl refuse?”
The guard smiled back.
“Business trip is it?” He must be needing a chat—the first class coach was practically empty. Harriet usually avoided conversation at times like this, her job was talking to people, so she took any chance she could to not engage when she didn’t have to.
“Yes, actually, it is.”
“You going to the end of the line?”
“Yes, and then some. All the way up to Aberdeen, then a four hour bus ride.”
The man stood up straight with a wistful look on his face. “Ahhh, I met my wife in the bonnie highlands. You’ll love it.”
“Thank you.”
“Might I ask what your business is up there?”
Harriet pulled a brochure out of her bag. “I’m covering the Braemar Games.”
“Oh a sports journalist,” he said looking as if he wanted to start talking football or some other vile outdoor event.
“Gosh no, there’s allegations of impropriety so I’m going up to investigate.”
“Impropriety?” The guard laughed heartily. “What’s happened, someone greasing up some other guy’s caber? Or let me guess, the whisky was diluted
with water?”
He was really giggling now and to her shock, Harriet found she was offended, even though she’d used words of a similar vein when her boss had given her this assignment. “Actually, if you must know, Highland Games are big business around the world, there’s been talk of performance enhancement drugs, misogyny and dodgy financial goings on.” There actually hadn’t, but Harriet was suddenly defensive about the importance of her trip.
The guard’s shoulders stopped heaving and he wiped his face, clearly delighted by his own joke. “Listen lassie,” he said, a glint in his eye, “you got on the train at London, didn’t you?”
“Yes, but…”
“Seems to me like you’re being sent away.” His gaze softened and he looked like he was going to reach out and pat Harriet’s shoulder. “Sounds like a nonsense story to me. What’s happened? You offended the wrong colleague?”
A shiver ran up the back of Harriet’s neck. This guy was a better investigative journalist than she was.
“Let me guess, a ‘friend’ of the boss muscling their way in on your column?”
What the hell? Harriet smiled at the guard, knocked back the gin and held her glass out for another.
“Almost. His new ‘girlfriend’—some college intern who thinks just because she has over a hundred twitter followers she’s some sort of social media guru, and has him convinced the same.” Harriet looked around the carriage, it held only a couple of other travellers and they were absorbed in headphones and books. She looked at the guard’s name badge and took the second gin. “Thank you, Jack.” She was glad to see he smiled at the use of his name, not too familiar then, as she had feared.
“So you let your feelings known and now find yourself on a train to the other end of the country. Such a cliché. Don’t you worry, you’ll uncover something on this ‘non’ story. I’m convinced of it.”
Harriet sighed. “Well, I thank you for your optimism, Jack, but I’m actually hoping for a quiet week. I booked the most expensive spa hotel on the company credit card and I intend on ‘reporting’ a fair bit from the Jacuzzi.”
Jack let out a chesty laugh again and started to clear the debris and organise the trolley. “And a first class ticket, of course,” he said, winking at her.
“Yes, that too.” Harriet grinned. “Listen.” she leaned forward causing him to pause. “How do you read people so well? It’s like you’re some sort of psychic or something.”
“Don’t be daft, gal, I’ve worked these trains for coming on forty-five years, I’ve seen it all, darlin’, seen it all.” He finished up and started to drag the trolley backwards . “But I wish you well. I hope you find something up there.”
As she let the bubbles flood her tongue and slide decadently down her throat, Harriet felt calmer than she had for a long time. Meeting Jack had been a peculiar and soothing experience. Usually Harriet played her cards very close to her chest and hated anyone knowing her business but today, it had been a comfort to be so transparent to this stranger.
Let her idiot boss, Malcolm, and his fancy piece, Stacey, get on with it. She’d tried to warn him so it wasn’t her fault if he didn’t listen.
Harriet had gone into work a fortnight ago to log on to the website to compose her latest blog piece only to find she couldn’t get in. She reported a problem to IT—i.e., Tony the geek—who simply forwarded a message from the management.
Going forward, Stacey will now be responsible for all social media and uploading to the website so send all copy to her for approval and she will publish to the site.
Harriet had been livid. She’d managed her own space on the news blog for the past three years. And now an intern, who was supposed to be getting trained by the company, not bloody running it, had full control!
On the first day, Harriet had picked up on several of Stacey’s grammatical and spelling errors and sent a discreet email directly to her to politely enquire whether she would like Harriet to proofread her work—after all, she was an ‘editor’—but there had been no reply. She’d then gone to her boss who’d rolled his eyes and muttered something about sour grapes. Harriet had been crushed.
She’d not known how to handle it. Everything she picked up on or tried to improve had been met with the attitude that she was jealous because Stacey had been given responsibility. It made her feel demoralised and betrayed. The girl had the ego that only youth can capture, and maturity and experience erodes. Malcolm had fallen for all of it.
Harriet tortured herself further by setting up a separate Twitter account so she could keep tabs on Stacey’s posts. They were terrible.
The train rumbled on and Harriet drifted off to its motion letting London and Malcolm and Stacey and passwords and conflict drift away. Maybe Jack was right, maybe she would find a real story to report on. Research so far had brought up large gruff men in kilts tossing cabers and throwing hammers. There had been one picture which had caught her attention—the world champion caber tosser, Archie MacDonald was a rather fine looking man. She clicked through a few more images of the fine man when a headline grabbed her attention, “Reporter Assaulted by Games’ Champion.” The article revealed nothing further and any more mentions of Archie in the news seemed only to be about his subsequent wins. Whatever had happened, someone had been well and truly warned off. Perhaps there was a story here after all. Harriet flicked back to the images section and did more visual ‘research’ on Mr MacDonald. A warmth emanating suspiciously low in her abdomen spread through her as the gin and swaying of the train took hold and she fell into a deep if slightly uncomfortable sleep.
***
Harriet slid back down into the soothing hot bath water. It really had been a long journey, the bus ride from Aberdeen was basically a headache in a can with her head pounding from one too many gins from Jack, a six a.m. start and two screaming kids on the seat in front who apparently didn’t understand their mother. She kneaded her fingertips into her neck and closed her eyes, letting the grime of the day float away. The last leg of the journey, while being a challenge to her pain threshold, was utterly spectacular. Jack had been right, she had fallen in love with the place already. Imposing mountains with fierce skies that would suddenly break into fleeting sunlight. It was dramatic and awe inspiring. She really ought to have taken some photos but she couldn’t be bothered, she’d found a perfect spot for resting her forehead on the glass to get some cool relief to her brow.
Harriet held her nose and slid right under the bubbles. Silky bath foam ran through her hair and she gently swooshed her head from side to side feeling her locks sway under the water. She’d always loved doing that – feeling like a mermaid. Fashions came and went but she’d always kept her hair long just for this small sensual self-pleasure. She breathed out bubbles through her nose and emerged feeling much fresher and more awake. Pulling out the plug with her toe, she reached for a towel and pushed to standing.
Her stomach rumbled as she dried off and she realised it had been hours since she’d last eaten on the London train. Delicious though it was, the small caramelised onion and goat’s cheese tarte with its side of rocket had not entirely filled her up, and now she was starving.
Quickly running though her hair with the drier, Harriet was too hungry to dress properly for dinner and pulled on her slouchy sweat pants and daubed her face with some moisturiser. Hair up in a messy ponytail, she gathered her laptop and phone and headed down to the bar. She’d check out the proper restaurant another night. Good old pie and chips would do her tonight.
After a very short internal debate over whether she was becoming alcohol dependant finished with her ordering a pint of local beer, Harriet asked for the wi-fi password and settled down at a corner table to wait for her food and check her inbox. The 4g on her phone was completely non-existent and she’d made a point of switching it off earlier anyway, hoping to put more than just physical distance between her and her work if only for one day. The bar was exactly how a bar in the highlands should be—bar wasn’t the right word, this was
definitely a pub. Heavy oak beams and tables with tartan carpets and stags’ heads mounted on shields on the bare stone walls. There was a huge log fire roaring despite it being a mild September evening outside but it was perfect for this place.
There were pictures of Highland Games’ athletes through the ages dotted about, some with signatures across the images. Harriet guessed this must be where a lot of the visitors and participants came to drink. After all, it was a small town which transformed into a tourist hot spot at this time of year. There was one photo that caught her eye. It was clearly recent as it was in full colour and hadn’t quite faded into its surroundings yet. It was of Archie McDonald, the man she thought she might investigate. She still struggled with calling them ‘athletes’—after all, they were only chucking logs about and probably all had other jobs.
Harriet opened up her laptop and put in the code for the internet. The ping of her email notifications started going mad and she ignored them, preferring to flick through the news pages, checking in on her own paper. She rolled her eyes at the terrible attempt at click baiting by Stacey, ‘10 Ways to Refresh your Autumn Wardrobe,’ really? They’d branched out into fashion? Harriet sighed. Perhaps she’d write a piece on how to bag a highlander. ‘5 Ways to Catch a Kilted Hero’. If that’s the way they were going, maybe Malcolm would approve. Financial corruption was everywhere in sport, who even cared anymore? But get an Outlander to wine and dine you—now there’s some interest. It made Harriet sick. Tips for this, advice for that—from who? Girls like Stacey who were just out of school?
The absolute confidence of youth these days astounded Harriet. She’d watch Youtube channels run by teens with literally millions of subscribers and she’d be baffled by it. Normal people turning themselves into celebrities by doing a make-up or craft tutorial or simply filming themselves playing GTA or some other game. Maybe Malcolm was on to something with this Stacey. Celebrity talked. People wanted to be told what to do, not real news or current affairs. Who could blame them really? Even she became overwhelmed by the constant barrage of media and opinion.
British Bad Boys: A Bad Boy Romance Boxed Set Page 22