He’s a kinky dream come true—and her only protection from danger.
Cougars, Cars and Kink, Book 1
Eight months after her (cheating, almost-ex) husband’s death, Suzanne Mayhew has a plan to move on with her life. First step: sell off Frank’s classic cars, starting with the red vintage Mustang convertible he never let her drive. Second step: get her unexplored kink on with a delicious younger man.
Preferably the one an old friend sends around, ostensibly to check out the Mustang. Neil Callahan—Boston cop, Dom, fifteen years her junior.
Neil feels the mutual sizzle, but if the blush staining her cheeks is any indication, her flirting skills are a little rusty. Though his instinct tells him to take things slow with the recent widow, he can’t resist inviting her along for a test drive—for the whole weekend.
Throwing caution to the wind, Suzanne takes him up on it. But they’re barely out of the driveway when Neil’s cop instincts kick in. They’ve got a tail…and it looks dangerously like her ex’s secrets looming large—and deadly—in their rear-view mirror.
Warning: Spies, lies and vile bad guys. A meddling BFF. Inappropriate use of kitchen tools. Completely appropriate use of rope and floggers. Your mileage may vary, depending on battery life.
Drive
Teresa Noelle Roberts
Dedication
As always, this book—and my heart—belong to Jeff, my own law enforcement hero.
Acknowledgements
Many thanks to Detectives Ken Wright and John Armstrong of the Mansfield, Massachusetts police department, who patiently answered all my questions about procedure, and how a small department might handle possible terrorist activities. Any errors can be blamed on me not asking all the right questions. The detectives answered everything I thought to ask fully, honestly, and with great humor.
Chapter One
“I’m so glad I came into Boston last night,” Suzanne Mayhew told her friend Janice, who made a yes, go on-type of noise into the phone. “I was scared half to death, I can admit it now. Your Kinky Kougars are a great bunch of women, though, and made me feel right at home.”
Suzanne paced from one end of the large, rarely used living room to the other, working off energy that was partly erotic. Telling other people that she missed the spanky side of sex—even other women, who weren’t her prospective partner pool—had been a revelation. A turn-on. Now, she couldn’t get her mind out of the gutter, and she was remembering how much she’d liked the view from down here in her long-ago single-and-fun days; the days before she’d met a handsome if straight-laced entrepreneur named Frank Mayhew, who convinced her it was time to settle down. It had started out great and then the settling became more like what sediment did as it drifted to the bottom of a pond.
She could have lived with that if they’d stayed cozy and content, even if it was dull. Frank, though, had decided to have adventures without her, the kind that involved late-night “meetings” he wouldn’t talk about, evasions and outright lies.
The hidden, password-protected phone he wouldn’t explain had been the last straw.
She’d confronted him about that just a couple of weeks before the accident, started working on the process of getting a divorce.
Suzanne told herself firmly she wasn’t going to think about that now. She was finally getting past the long, slow decline of her marriage and its abrupt, horrible ending, letting herself have fun again. She wasn’t going to let herself go back to feeling numbed, miserable or guilty—the evil triad of emotions that had dominated her life since Frank died.
Janice laughed through the phone, breaking through her moment of melancholy and bringing her back to happier thoughts of the future. “I told them to be gentle with you because you’re still a grieving widow. I made sure to use my best ‘She Who Must Be Obeyed’ voice. Even the Dommes wouldn’t dare to disobey me because I get us the meeting space.” Janice King was Suzanne’s best friend from college, and their friendship had endured for more than twenty years, even though Janice, a sexuality educator and pro-Domme, was definitely living the alternative life and Suzanne had wound up, by default rather than real choice, on a more conservative path.
A path that she was more than ready to abandon.
“I call bullshit. If anything, you’d have called me a pissed-off almost-ex-wife still dealing with the fact her cheating husband wrapped his car around a tree before she could divorce his sorry ass.”
“Only to your face, sweetie.”
Suzanne took a deep breath then choked out what she was thinking. “Am I terrible for saying that, even to you? Terrible for wanting to move on? I mean, I wanted him out of my life, but…not that way.”
“It’s not terrible. You have to laugh or you’ll cry, right? You did your crying already, and way too much of it was before he died. As for moving on, eight months might be fast if you’d been happy, but the only reason you were still sharing a house when he died was because it was so huge you could avoid each other.”
Suzanne let herself smile. “Truth.”
“Your relationship with Frank is in the past, and Kinky Kougars is all about your future, and the hot, kinky, younger guys you’ll eventually meet and beat. No, wait, that’s me.” Janice chuckled at her own joke. Suzanne could imagine her pushing her funky, red-rimmed glasses up as she did it. “I meant they’ll meet you and beat you, in all the right ways.”
“I’d like that.” Damn, was her voice quavering? She forced a chuckle because there was nothing wrong other than feeling both excited and overwhelmed. Okay, a little wistful about the past and sad for the death of a man she’d once loved, but she was going to focus on the good stuff. “I’m not sure how to date the vanilla way, though, let alone meet a guy who’s kinky and everything else I might like. I mean, I haven’t done anything seriously kinky since Frank and I got together.”
“Remember how convinced we both were that he was a Dom when you met him? Sure, I figured he was the kind of arrogant jerk Dom I want to beat in ways he wouldn’t like, but still a Dom.” Janice snorted. “If the world ever needed proof that control freak and Dom are two different traits…”
“I’m convinced there’s some alternate universe where Frank embraced the fun side of being a control freak. That universe’s me is a much happier woman and he’s the biggest toy-whore ever.”
“Oh God, you’re right. He’d have one of everything and two of the really expensive, shiny things, whether he ever used them or not.”
“Hell, he’d design his own in this alternate world. He had the skills.”
“Kind of a shame he wasn’t into it. I mean, sex toys powered by cutting-edge robotics? He’d have made a fortune.”
“He made a fortune anyway.”
“Yeah,” Janice conceded, “but no one’s eyes would glaze over when he talked about his work. Hell, maybe if he’d had a more fun job, he’d have had actual conversations instead of being all silent and brooding. He looked good doing it, but it got old fast.”
Suzanne laughed more than she remembered doing since Frank died eight months ago—not because she’d missed him, but because she hadn’t missed him as much as their many years together merited, and that made her sad. She’d loved him once, liked and cared about him even when the passion faded. Once he was gone, though, she realized they’d been living separate lives long before it became obvious.
Maybe if she’d noticed it sooner, they could have found a way back to each other—or at least spared each other lies and anger. But it was too late now for those regrets.
She was not going to cry. Not
now. Time to talk about something else. “Speaking of expensive, shiny toys, and of moving forward with my life, I’ve put the first of Frank’s cars on the market.”
Janice made a small, speculative noise. “Which one’s for sale?”
“The Mustang.” Suzanne heard the note of bitterness creep into her voice and decided there was no point in hiding it from her friend. “That gorgeous red Mustang he loved more than any living thing, except maybe Daisy the cat.”
The sound of applause echoed through the phone.
Suzanne wandered out of the living room and back to her cozy home office, settling into her favorite overstuffed chair. “Thanks,” she said to her friend. “Seriously, thanks for helping me through the lousy times—and for helping me get on the road to good ones. Between Kinky Kougars and getting rid of those damn cars, the future looks mighty bright.”
* * * * *
The red Mustang with the FOR SALE sign on it was the second thing to catch Neil Callahan’s eyes, even though he’d been looking for it on this tree-lined suburban street of huge, handsome, but cloyingly similar houses. Cookie-cutter, but an expensive cookie cutter. The first thing he noticed was the ass and long, jean-clad legs of the woman cleaning the windshield of the classic convertible.
The car was hot, a vintage Mustang—1965 or so, he thought—in near-showroom condition. Yet the car’s current owner drew his attention away from the vehicle. It said something about how tempting that butt was. How firm, yet curvy.
How spankable…
Which was definitely not what he should be thinking, unless he wanted to talk cars while sporting a mammoth hard-on. If this were porn, he could do that and find himself banging the callipygian redhead within thirty-five seconds, and she’d turn out to be as kinky as a cheap garden hose. But this was real life, so she’d probably pepper-spray him, or at least think of some good reason to cut the conversation short, leaving him without either the information he wanted on the car or a chance to flirt with her.
Neil made himself ride a couple of blocks while thinking distinctly non-sexy thoughts about the details of the latest investigation at work (looked like a straightforward case of one drug dealer shooting another over money, but it was early yet) and the schematics of Ford engines from the ’70s. When he thought he could talk without sounding like a horny teenager, he whipped his vintage Indian motorcycle around and headed back. Probably the woman would have gone back indoors and he’d have to call but with luck, she’d come back out to answer his questions, so he could see if the rest of her was as impressive as the rear view. Then maybe he’d ask her if she’d like to get lunch sometime, or coffee, which could lead to all sorts of interesting places, including his bedroom, the inside of his favorite bondage club or…
Down, boy! All the meeting was likely to lead to was finding out if he wanted to pursue the car, not the woman. She was probably married with kids, seeing as how she lived in a big house in upscale, suburban Bellwood, with the whole manicured-lawn thing going on. A far cry from his home base in Boston’s working-class Dorchester neighborhood, but one of his kink-community friends knew how badly he longed for a new project car and had mentioned seeing a Mustang for sale in this area.
Not that this car looked like a project. More like it had been someone’s precious baby, lovingly maintained all these years, and would be out his price range, even if his dad wanted to go in on it. Their usual project cars were more the “three tubs of parts and a frame” kind. But he could always drool.
Whether he’d be drooling more over the car or the woman was an excellent question.
When he pulled up, the woman was still out front, idly adjusting the FOR SALE sign, which had been resting on the bumper but was now in a more prominent position on the windshield.
The rest of her looked just as good as the rear view suggested.
Older than he was, early to mid-forties, he’d guess, to his thirty—the perfect age, in his opinion. Older women were more confident, as a rule, more in touch with their own sexual needs and less likely to use the submissive role as an excuse to avoid responsibility.
A guy could dream. Just like he could dream he could afford the car.
He pulled up and stepped off the bike. “What a beauty!” he said, gesturing at the Mustang.
Which wasn’t quite what he’d meant to say. It applied as much, in his mind, to the hot cougar—at least he hoped she had cougarish aspirations—as it did to the Mustang, but he really was talking about the car.
What he was thinking was another story, but it was too nice a September day to get slapped, so he was going to keep that to himself for the time being.
She nodded. “We should all look so good at this car’s age. Of course it helps to be steel rather than flesh and blood. Easier to repair scratches and dents.”
If she thought she had scratches and dents, she was wrong. But it was premature to say that. “Do you have a few minutes? I’d love to find out more about the car.” And about you, but let’s start with the car to see if you show any signs of being available and interested.
“Sure.” The woman walked around to the front of the car, closer to him. God help him, she even walked sexily. Not like she was trying to strut her stuff, though. She was wiping her hands on her jeans and seemed unselfconscious, but she moved well. Graceful. Athletic looking, but not too slim, which suited his taste. She met Neil’s gaze firmly. Her eyes were greenish brown—hazel. A soft color, but for a second, they looked coolly appraising. He couldn’t tell if she liked what she saw or not, but he thought he caught a hint of a smile. “I’ll warn you,” she said, “I’m ignorant about what’s under the hood, though I’ve got maintenance records and stuff. Even an original manual. I know it’s been well cared for, but not by me.”
“That’s a good start.” Really good start. If she didn’t know much about cars, he might be able to get a better price. On the other hand, she didn’t come off as naïve, so she’d probably done her homework. “How about a few basics? What year is she? ’66?”
“’65. The car and my late husband were twins.”
Neil didn’t move, but mentally, he pulled back about fifteen steps. The lady might be technically available, but it was anyone’s guess whether she was in a place to consider dating, wild flings with younger men, or even flirting. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m not.” She laughed without humor. “Wow, that sounds bad. Of course I’m sorry he’s dead. At the time he died, though, we were careening toward a divorce.” She shrugged, glanced away. “Sorry. That was more information than you needed as a follow-up to Frank’s bad joke slipping out of my mouth.”
Neil didn’t usually find himself at a loss for words, but he had no idea what to say to this. The fact that some unrepentantly shallow part of him (that would be his dick) found the whole not-terribly-grieving widow situation promising, both for buying the car and getting a date down the line, made it even more difficult to think of a response that didn’t make him sound like a jerk. A few houses away, someone was mowing their lawn and the mower sounded like a monster truck in the awkward silence. A bird chirped in the Japanese maple on the lawn; he looked for a giant mutant freak-bird, but it turned out to be the world’s loudest sparrow. Say something. Anything. She’s going to feel even more awkward if you don’t.
What he really wanted to do was put his arm around her, kiss her on the forehead, ruffle that silky-looking red hair.
And not just for the reasons he’d been pondering before the little foray into TMI territory, but because she’d gone from confident and sexy to closed in on herself and not exactly sad, but melancholy. Like she regretted that she couldn’t miss her dead husband more.
He took a step closer before common sense kicked in. “Maybe we should set up a time for me to come back?” That would give them both a chance to regroup so they could get down to business without the specter of the late but not very lamented Frank watching over t
heir shoulders.
She shook her head briskly, decisively. “Last thing I need is to spend more time alone surrounded by half-packed boxes of my dead almost-ex-husband’s stuff. So what can I tell you about the Mustang? Ask me anything. Obviously, with the mood I’m in, I might just tell you.”
Did you ever have sex in it, back when you and your husband still loved each other? Would you like to have sex in it now?
Definitely not the right questions. At least not yet.
What came out of his mouth didn’t seem much better, especially knowing about the dirty images of red hair, long legs, leather seats and awkward positions that had been flashing through his mind. “How does it handle?”
“Frank had no complaints. I’ve never driven it, except to take it out of the garage today, and turn it over once in a while to make sure it kept running.”
“You’ve never… Woman, that’s a crime!”
“Now you see why I have a hard time missing Frank too much. I never got to ride in this one, let alone drive it. The Chevy Bel Air was worth more, according to the guy who appraised them, and Frank drove the Stingray more often—that was the one he crashed.” She hesitated and he thought he caught a catch in her voice. “But this one was his baby.” She snorted. “Don’t ask me why I haven’t driven it since he died. Just wasn’t ready, I guess, and then I decided it made more sense to sell the cars than hang on to them forever. Sorry, I’m babbling, and I’m not even answering your question.”
“Then there’s only one way to find out how it handles. We’ll take it for a ride.”
“Makes sense.” She rummaged in her jeans pocket, fished out a key ring with a lone key, and handed it toward him. “Here you go.”
“Oh no,” Neil said. “You get the first turn behind the wheel. And since we’re about to get into a car together and head off, my name’s Neil Callahan, and I’ll show you my license and stuff, so you can text the details to someone in case I turn out to be a sex-crazed lunatic.” Which I am, but not the bad kind, and only with women who are into it. He extended his hand to her.
Drive: Cougars, Cars and Kink, Book 1 Page 1