Brit Flick Sweethearts:
A Rom-Com With Spanking
Published By Samantha Hyde At Smashwords
Copyright Samantha Hyde 2015
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced or used in any way without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in book reviews. The characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is coincidental.
INTRODUCTION
FROM SAMANTHA HYDE
This book is a departure for me. I usually write dub-con, hard action, but the idea for Brit Flick Sweethearts came to me in a rush of romantic sentimentality. I am totally in love with the story of Curt and Doris. If you are familiar with my other work, you are not going to find more of the same here. (Well, apart from a little, light bottom spanking maybe….)
Curt is an alpha male with sexually dominant inclinations, but he is not a complete bastard like my male characters usually are. He may well be arrogant, strong willed and a self-confessed womaniser, but he has character, integrity and a fundamental decency so lacking in the men I usually write about. Curt just hasn’t met the right woman yet. But fear not, dear reader, he will.
This love story is shamelessly sentimental, hopelessly romantic and with a happy ever after. I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it.
Hankies at the ready, and off we go….
CHAPTER ONE
“I can’t do this. This is completely ridiculous, I’ll never pull it off,” Doris said, nervously tugging up the far too plunging neckline of her floor length ball gown.
“Darling, you’re the spit, no one will suspect a thing.”
Doris eyed her agent Jeremy Gates with something close to dislike. Or rather, her twin sister’s agent. He was the best agent in Britain and was short and fat with a shock of ginger curls that completely belied his age of fifty-seven.
“Turn the limo round. Take me back to the hotel, I can’t do this.”
“Sweetie, there’s no such word as can’t. You have to do this, for Dahlia’s sake. Just act aloof and cold, Curt will never tell the difference and neither will anyone else.”
Outside the tinted window lay another five star London Hotel of such opulence it was offensive. Well, to Doris it was offensive. She lived in a tiny, one bedroom cottage in Cornwall which she loved. The nearest she got to opulence was when a friend fixed the leaky tap in the bathroom and she no longer got hosed down in water every time she cleaned her teeth or washed her hands. Now that was luxury…
Oh my God, and here he comes now.
The tall figure of Curt Gunner topped with dark blonde, immaculately cut hair, emerged from the grand double doors of The Ritz, accompanied by a heavy in a black suit. Just the sight of him made her breath catch in her throat and her heart beat twice as fast.
He looked exactly as he had done in ‘Brick Face.’ Menacing, mean, dressed in a stylish black suit and with a flat nose that bent slightly to the left. Despite this disfigurement, he was the biggest sex symbol in Britain. Women were crazy for him. Rumour also had it that he was lined up to play the next Bond, despite his relatively young age of thirty-three.
He lightly touched the man on the shoulder for a second, his face cracking open into a broad grin, which the other man returned.
God, that smile...
His face suddenly looked completely different. He actually looked likable. Which was why she supposed he was such a good actor because he really wasn’t.
He was a complete thug, if her sister and press rumours were to be believed.
Curt Gunner slid into the back seat next to her and she pushed herself as far up against the passenger door as she could. Jeremy, who sat opposite Doris smiled at the newcomer, and rapped his knuckle on the dark glass of the dividing window that separated them from the chauffer. The limo pulled away.
“Hello Curt, Are you all set for your big night?” Jeremy said.
“As I’ll ever be. Hello Dahlia. You’re looking fat.”
Inside, Doris shrivelled. It was true that she was bigger than her identical twin. In her quest for Hollywood perfection and because of her drug addiction, Dahlia was rake thin. Doris, on the other hand, loved her food and had no such problem.
I can’t do this, she thought for the millionth time. I look like a beached whale, I’m going to be a laughing stock…
“Hello Curt. How lovely to see you again. I so missed your witty banter.”
She spoke with a smooth confidence that belied her wildly beating heart. And hopefully she was wearing so much makeup that he wouldn’t see her blushing.
“Is it the uppers or the downers that have made you bloat?”
The cheek of the man! What a complete and utter foul pig he was…
“Dahlia has put on a stone for a new film role in the pipeline,” Jeremy injected.
“Oh yeah? What film is that? Is it a documentary about the adverse effects of too much fast food?”
Doris couldn’t speak. She was dangerously close to tears. What a horrible, horrible man. When she managed to compose herself she let out a bitter laugh.
“Yeah well, maybe we should film some more love scenes together. Your breath and your face are enough to put a girl off food for life. No wonder I was so thin.”
His pale blue eyes sparkled with barely constrained aggression. Or at least, that was what it looked like.
“That’s not what you said in my trailer.”
This time there was no disguising the hot blush that stained her cheeks, and, even more mortifyingly, her chest. Dahlia had never said that she had actually slept with him during the shoot. She could’ve warned her, for pity’s sake…
“Now, now, You have to smile nicely for the paps and pretend you adore each other. You’re both actors, are you not?”
“Dahlia can’t act. She played an android in Brick Face.” He turned his devastating gaze on her and she melted inside. “Still, I suppose it suited her somewhat wooden acting abilities and personality.”
Despite herself, she laughed, the threat of tears having passed. Or snorted, as she was apt to do when a rush of laughter caught her unawares. He was right. Dahlia did have the acting ability of a dead rat.
Then she remembered that she should be insulted seeing as she was pretending to be Dahlia.
“Yeah, well, I’m not the only one to play myself, am I? Your character was a womanising thug who goes around beating people up. Hmm, who does that reminds me of? I just can’t think.”
“In the film he saw the error of his ways when the right woman tamed him.”
“Yeah, the android with no feelings who learned human emotion.”
“So tell me Dahlia, have you learned how to feel yet?”
The intensity of his pale gaze bore into her. It was the sheer magnetism of the man that surprised her, he oozed masculinity and barely constrained aggression that had her squirming on the limo seat in an unwelcome arousal.
“Yes, I’ve learned how to feel. I’ve learned how to really hate you.”
Her words were a surprise, even to her. She knew it was because she was overcompensating for her entirely illogical attraction towards him.
Something flashed across his face, and for the briefest of seconds she thought it was hurt.
As if. Curt Gunner is incapable of emotion.
Just as quick it was gone again, and the languid, permanent semi-scowl was back.
“Whatever. Don’t forget to walk a few steps behind me down the red carpet. You’re gonna look massive in the pictures if you stand next to me.”
Rude bastard…
“And don’t you forget to
keep your face in profile, or you’re gonna look like a brain damaged boxer with a full frontal of that nose.”
They drove the rest of the way without exchanging a word, and let Jeremy take the reigns and brief them of the evening’s itinerary.
Less than ten minutes later, they had reached the theatre in the West End. They drove to the back entrance first to drop off Jeremy.
“I’ll see you kids inside. Just relax and have fun,” he said, speaking directly to Doris as he climbed out of the limo. “Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” Once outside, he rapped his knuckles on the driver’s window. “Drive round the block a few times, will you? We’re a bit early.”
With a final tap on the roof, the car accelerated away.
Curt was the one to break the silence. “Do you ever think about what we had together, no matter how brief it was?”
“No,” she answered truthfully.
“I know there’s good in you Dahlia. I felt it when we fucked.”
The coarse language made her blush. She was no virgin by any means, but at twenty-seven her sexual knowledge and prowess was somewhat limited, confined to the sum total of three steady boyfriends and no other sexual escapades of any kind.
“I know I’m hard to get over, but you’re going to have to try.”
Her voice dripped with sarcasm but inside she trembled.
She gasped when he closed the gap between them, pinning her against the passenger door.
“Don’t worry, I won’t smudge your lipstick.”
His mouth grazed the side of her neck, sending a shiver of delight radiating through her. A hand easily found entry into the front of her midnight blue, plunging gown and a rough, dry palm cupped her breast. Instantly her nipple hardened and a soft moan escaped her lips, a heavy, wet throb growing between her legs.
Because the dress was so low cut, she wasn’t wearing a bra. The dress had been specially designed for her with hidden, inbuilt wiring and support around the sides of the bust that made her C cup breasts look plastic perfect. To Doris, the dress was a feat of engineering that left her dumbfounded.
And it was also very easy to free her breasts through the gaping neckline. Before she had even properly realised her had done it, both her breasts had been freed, every last inch of them visible and pressed together through the gaping neckline of the dress.
Both his hands clamped down on her breasts and roughly needed them, squeezing her nipples hard between his thumbs and forefingers.
The affect was devastating. The wet heat of his lips and tongue and his breath on her neck left her dizzy.
One hand left her aching breast and shoved up the thigh high slit of her skirt and quickly sought the place it needed to be.
She gasped in shock when his fingers easily shoved the elastic edging of her panties to one side and roughly jabbed inside her with no hesitation whatsoever.
Doris was being finger fucked in earnest and her thighs involuntarily fell open to allow him better access to her soaking wet pussy that squelched under his violent assault.
“Yeah, you like that don’t you, you dirty fucking bitch.”
His vile words snapped her back into the moment and she squirmed away from him, rearranging the front of her dress as she did so.
“If you ever touch me again Curt Gunner, I will have you up on an assault charge quicker than you can ever call me a dirty fucking bitch again.”
“You never complained before.”
Did Dahlia like being called a dirty fucking bitch?
You do too, your pussy has never been so wet….
She pushed away the horrible, uninvited thought. She was just stressed at posing as her sister, stressed at having to walk down a red carpet when the only carpets she had ever walked on before were in living-rooms, bedrooms and hallways.
“Just don’t, OK? All we have to do is get through tonight so we never have to see each other again.”
“Here.” He reached out for her face, and she flinched. “Hey, relax, I’m just smoothing your hair back into place. I like the new shorter hair, by the way. It suits you.”
Doris and Dahlia were blessed with thick, natural blonde hair. Dahlia wore hers down to her waist and Doris’s skimmed her shoulder blades. Doris had been forced to lighten it to match Dahlia’s unnatural platinum shade of blonde. Right now she had been made to wear it in a Veronica Lake style side parting, complete with carefully coiffed waves.
“Just keep your hands to yourself, OK? I’m nervous enough as it is.”
Curt started to laugh until he realised she wasn’t joking.
“You’re serious aren’t you? You are looking a bit pale.”
Doris was suddenly very nervous indeed. So nervous in fact, she could feel her lunch was threatening to stage a comeback.
“Oh God, stop the car, I’m going to throw up,” she wailed.
Curt sprang to his feet and banged on the patrician.
“Stop the car,” he bellowed.
As soon as the car came to a halt Doris threw open the door and heaved up her guts. She could feel Curt’s hands on her hair, holding it back so she didn’t puke up on it.
I can’t believe I’m throwing up in a limo sat next to Curt Gunner on the way to my own film premier…
“I’m sorry,” she said, hanging her head outside the door and tears stinging her eyes. “I’m just so nervous.”
Luckily, the theatre wasn’t in sight. The paps would have a field day with shots of Dahlia Dean throwing up on the pavement.
And equally luckily, her door opened out onto the oncoming traffic so no one passing could see her from the pavement.
Horns blared and Curt leaned over and yanked her back inside the vehicle, slamming the door shut behind her.
“Drive round the block a few more times, will you,” he said, taking Jeremy’s vacated seat opposite, sliding the glass patrician open to talk through it. He turned his full attention to her. “Are you OK, sweetheart?”
The kindness in his voice threatened to undo her, she didn’t know why.
“I’m fine. Let’s just get this over with.”
“You really are nervous, huh? You’ve smeared your makeup and have vomit on your cheek.”
Wonderful. Just wonderful.
It was all too much and the she burst into tears.
“I’m such an idiot. I’m a stupid, fat idiot. I don’t even have anything to wipe my face on.”
“Yeah, you do.”
Curt shrugged off the immaculately cut jacket and unbuttoned his crisp white blouse.
“What are you doing?” she gasped.
“My Sir Walter Raleigh bit.”
Now Curt was shirtless in the back of the limo. He took his place next to her and ever so gently mopped up her tears with the back part of his shirt.
“Hold still. Stop crying. It’s hard to mop up tears when they keep falling. Do you want something to drink?” he asked.
“I’m not much of a drinker,” she said between hitching sobs, temporarily forgetting who she was supposed to be. “I’ll be wobbling down the red carpet like a ninny.”
“You’re taking the piss, right? Like a ninny?”
Oh dear.
“Yeah, course I am.”
Beneath the seat opposite was a drawer, which Curt opened. Inside was a bottle of whisky in a padded compartment, along with three tumblers.
He pulled them out and opened the bottle.
“Here, get this down your neck.”
The whisky went some way to calming her nerves.
Once she had come back to herself a little, she realised how very shirtless Curt Gunner was. His chest had a smattering of dark blonde curls, which matched the hair on his head.
And boy, was he ripped. Against her better judgement, Doris was having a hard time taking her eyes off of his glorious torso.
What a hunk. No wonder my sister fell into bed with him.
She shook her head to dispel the dirty thoughts. It was just the whisky taking effect. That, and the aftermath of puki
ng her guts up which had left her light headed.
“Feeling any better?”
She nodded slightly, tearing her gaze up to meet his pale blue eyes which were watching with something that very much resembled concern.
But of course, it couldn’t be. That would just be silly.
“Good,” he said.
He lay his shirt out on the seat next to him, presumably to dry off the sick, makeup and tears.
“I’m sorry,” she mumbled, confident that she had managed to get herself sufficiently under control. “You must think I’m such a nit-twit.”
He raised an eyebrow, that famous, ironic arch that made every woman in Britain swoon.
But not her, of course. She was immune to his bad boy charms.
“You’re a nit-twit now? Have you learned a whole new language or something since we quit filming? What’s happened to the foul-mouthed Dahlia that we all know and love?”
Holed up in rehab after a nasty, near death experience with too much cocaine…
She reminded herself that she needed to swear more, like her sister did. It wasn’t that Doris had anything against swearing particularly, it’s just she didn’t do that much of it. Her circle of friends in the tiny village she lived in didn’t really swear either. Neither did her job encourage swearing. She wrote sweet romances for a living and they were very much a part of her personality. A big publishing house had taken her on for their ‘sweet, moral, and sex after marriage’ line. She wrote under the pseudonym Louise Lovestrong and her flimsy paperbacks adorned supermarket shelves, library stores and airport terminals the world over.
“I’m fucking great, thank you very much.”
Curt burst out laughing.
“What the hell is with you, Dahlia? You’re being so weird.”
“No I’m not.”
“Yes you are.”
She took another swig of whisky. She was going to blow her cover if she wasn’t careful.
I have to be a cold bitch. Come on Doris, you can do this.
By the time the limo pulled up to the red carpet Doris had got herself as in control as she was ever going to be.
“You ready?” he asked her.
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