Merry Random Christmas
Page 12
You’re now finishing up a Darla, Trevor and Joe book in the Random series, so here’s a bonus scene. Think back to the time between Random Acts of Love and Random on Tour: Los Angeles, and I hope you enjoy this short little bit that is raunchy as hell, utterly inappropriate, and wildly fun. :)
Darla
Hey there. Pull up a chair and grab a drink, because I know you’re still wondering what in the everloving fuck me, Joe, Trevor, Mr. Fluffer and Mavis were doing that day Joe nearly became roadkill by falling through our bedroom window and crashing to the ground in front of an amphibious vehicle carrying a bunch of vacationers on a Boston tour.
Might as well get this out once and for all. I’m not tellin’ it twice, and you damn sure as hell better not tell a soul. Especially Josie.
Trevor knew someone who said a Sybian was the latest toy to experiment with, and I had no modesty when it came to sex—jump right in, do what felt good, and because I knew Joe and Trevor had the same approach, it was all good. A little too good.
Real good.
So the toy...seat...vibrator....thing that Trevor brought home that one night had been like riding a bucking bronco. Except on the seat there was a four inch dildo. With a seven inch attachment.
And then.
When the electricity cut out I’d been at that maddening point after holding back from a series of almost climaxes, building to that really big one, the elusive multigasm that women whisper about in hushed tones during super-private conversations after many drinks, when they think no one will ever remember what was said in the morning.
Yeah, that.
You know that conversation, because you’ve had it once or twice. Don’t pretend you haven’t.
Because everyone remembers in the morning. They just pretend they don’t.
Anyhow, I was about to have that orgasm. The God-damned Moby Dick of orgasms. The kind of multigasm where all the blood rushes to your head and begins to pinprick the skin around your eyebrows and cheekbones, and you think you’re going to pass out and piss yourself at the same time, but you hold off (unless your guys want you to piss, which is a whole ’nother set of issues...) because you trust the whispers and assume that there is a fucking Holy Grail of orgasms, the Order of the Blessed Climax, waiting for you on the other side of that blood-vessel-popping rainbow.
And then motherfucking electric company goes and fails the entire region with a blackout because they couldn’t be bothered to manage capacity for an Indian Summer that meteorologists had been predicting like Nostradamus. Like Jonathan Edwards (the psychic, not the cancer-patient-wife former presidential candidate cheater).
I had found myself in suspended animation, a guttural yell stuck in my throat, the kind of sound that was supposed to be a victory cry, like a clitoral warrior going in for her first orgasmic battle and coming out on top, large and in charge, and by God I had turned that Sybian into my bitch.
Until it died, stopping on a dime, leaving me speechless, engorged, and enraged.
“No!” I had screamed. “What the fuck!”
“Blackout,” Joe had whispered, his nude outline silhouetted by late afternoon daylight. The industrial hum of one anemic security light buzzed somewhere in the hall.
“I KNOW IT’S A BLACKOUT! I HAVE TWO BRAIN CELLS. I ONLY HAVE TWO BRAIN CELLS, THOUGH, BECAUSE THE REST ARE SITTING IN MY CLIT, READY TO DIE FOR THE SAKE OF A GREATER PURPOSE.”
“Darla,” Trevor had choked. “Shhhh.”
“ARE YOU SHUSHING ME? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I AM SITTING HERE WITH A DILDO BIGGER THAN YOU AND JOE PUT TOGETHER SO FAR IN ME I CAN TASTE WHETHER IT IS CIRCUMCISED AND YOU ARE TELLING ME TO BE QUIET?”
“I don’t—I—” Joe had stammered.
Naked as could be, covered in sweat, my hair stuck to my back and my clit pulsing so hard I might as well have been banging a gong at some Rinzai Buddhism retreat, my thighs were quivering for all the wrong reasons and all reason had drained out of me long ago in waves that built up to a crescendo that was supposed to bring a cappella notes of pure release.
Something had to come out of me, and if it wasn’t going to be an earth-shattering orgasm that would defy the laws of physics and half the pornos I’d ever watched, then it would be pure, red rage.
“Good lord, Darla, you’re screaming so loud Sam and Amy can hear you—”
“DID YOU JUST INVOKE THE NAME OF JESUS, JOE? BECAUSE UNLESS I HAVE A BUTT PLUG OF THE HOLY CROSS SHOVED UP MY ASS AND A ROSARY AS ANAL BEADS, YOU DON’T GET TO SHAME ME BY USING THE LORD!”
Silence.
“AAAARRRRGGGHH!” I’d screamed, my arousal deflating, leaving me with fallout without explosion, shrapnel without a bomb blast, French fries without ketchup, Sookie without Bill.
My skin was a wall of layered energy, electrons and neutrons and annoying-trons and molecules of fury all shoved together with sweat and hormones and the musk of two men. As I struggled to get upright, the dildo had slid half out of me and popped off the Sybian, but as I straddled the device and stood on a soft mattress with two other human beings on it, I swayed, losing my footing, and flailed frantically for purchase, grabbing the only thing I could—
Joe’s head.
Unfortunately, that head was attached to nerve endings in him that sent pain signals, which made him flail and scream. As I went down (and not in a good way) he wavered, crashing in to Mavis’s little cage and upending Mr. Fluffer’s habitrail.
I screamed, “DON’T LET ME FALL ON MY PHONE,” which both guys had later questioned me about but how do you explain that you’re not nearly as afraid of a broken bone from falling off a bed as you are of having your aunt’s boyfriend extract your own cell phone out of your hoohaw?
I fell down and Joe shot up. Trevor lunged to try to save me from tumbling to the ground and somehow, all I remember is the sight of poor Joe crashing backwards through the window like something out of a Michael Bey movie, only without the cool Transformers fighting in space.
The animals followed, like a space ship docking station, sucked out in an air vacuum.
And that is how poor Joe ended up dangling out the window with his nibbly bits on display, a chicken on his shoulder, and poor Mr. Fluffer trying to crawl up his poop chute.
And the worst part?
I never did get my damned multigasm.
Read more books by Julia Kent from your favorite book retailer.
Other Books by Julia Kent
Suggested Reading Order
Shopping for a Billionaire: The Collection (Parts 1-5 in one bundle, 670 pages!)
Shopping for a Billionaire 1
Shopping for a Billionaire 2
Shopping for a Billionaire 3
Shopping for a Billionaire 4
Christmas Shopping for a Billionaire
Shopping for a Billionaire’s Fiancée
Shopping for a CEO
Before Her Billionaires
Her Billionaires: Boxed Set
Her First Billionaire—FREE ebook
Her Second Billionaire
Her Two Billionaires
Her Two Billionaires and a Baby
It’s Complicated
Complete Abandon (A Her Billionaires novella)
Complete Harmony (A Her Billionaires novella #2)
Complete Bliss (A Her Billionaires novella #3)
Complete We (A Her Billionaires novella #4)
Random Acts of Crazy
Random Acts of Trust
Random Acts of Fantasy
Random Acts of Hope
Randomly Ever After: Sam and Amy
Random Acts of Love
Random on Tour: Los Angeles
Merry Random Christmas
Maliciously Obedient
Suspiciously Obedient
Deliciously Obedient
About the Author
Text JKentBooks to 77948 and get a text message on release dates!
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author Julia Kent turned to writing contemporary romance after deciding th
at life is too short not to have fun. She writes romantic comedy with an edge, and new adult books that push contemporary boundaries. From billionaires to BBWs to rock stars, Julia finds a sensual, goofy joy in every book she writes, but unlike Trevor from Random Acts of Crazy, she has never kissed a chicken.
She loves to hear from her readers by email at jkentauthor@gmail.com, on Twitter @jkentauthor, and on Facebook at facebook.com/jkentauthor
Visit her website at http://jkentauthor.com