Waiting for a Girl Like You: (Kissables Duology Series, Book 1)
Page 1
Waiting for a Girl Like You
By
Gina Conkle
COPYRIGHT
These stories are for your personal enjoyment only. They may not be sold, shared, or given away. Both stories are a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. Waiting for a Girl Like You, with The Proper Care and Feeding of a Broken Heart and Anything But Safe Copyright © 2016 by Gina Conkle
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ISBN: 978-0-9983056-0-8
Cover Art: Rebecca of Dreams2Media
TABLE OF CONTENTS
The Proper Care and Feeding of a Broken Heart
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Anything But Safe
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
BOOK LIST
A note to my readers
Dear Reader,
This book veers off my usual writer’s path. The Proper Care and Feeding of a Broken Heart is steamier than my typical fare and it’s written in first person. I put the heat level as 4 out of 4. One advance reader wrote that it’s 10 out of 10! But, story is still first. You get a strong sense of romance, conflict, and some of my signature banter…this time with ramped up heat. Be warned!
Anything But Safe was one of the first novellas I’d ever written and then promptly shelved. I dusted off the long forgotten manuscript, gave it some tweaks, and here we are.
This is a dip into hotter, contemporary romance territory. Let me know what you think.
Enjoy!
~Gina
The Proper Care and Feeding of a Broken Heart
By
Gina Conkle
CHAPTER ONE
“She’s naked in black stilettos as you requested.” Mrs. Smith’s voice echoed down the hallway. “A fresh face…a California blonde.”
Mrs. Smith’s real last name was a string of unpronounceable consonants, something eastern European. About an hour ago she’d smiled at me like a pageant queen with Vaseline-slick teeth. “We avoid names, dear. It keeps mistakes to a minimum.” She’d also dubbed employees and her clientele dates. “It gives atmosphere.”
Names or not, my new employer led a brand new mistake my way. I had life errors galore, not all mine, but at twenty-six, I’d lost count. Life came down to the people I loved and numbers. Big numbers owed and puny ones in my bank account.
Scooting to the edge of the bed, sheets bunched around my butt. My palms were sweaty as I smoothed yards of black silk. Just how was I supposed to wait for him? Stretched out on the mattress, playing the seductive vamp? Or standing? Either way my date would see how shit-scared I was. How I waited for him didn’t matter. He was paying to tie me up.
Cold air pinched my nipples, the icy bite uncomfortable. I’d better get used to it. One large decorative iron hook stuck out of the ceiling, perfect for ropes and chains in the bare bones room where a single red bulb cast more shadows than light on plain plaster walls. The hook got me shaking with that chilly urge-to-pee feeling you get before public speaking.
This is going to hurt.
The door swung half open, but I couldn’t take my eyes off the hook. I was about to let a strange man hurt me, spank me, put clamps on my nipples. I hugged myself, covering my breasts. Who in their right mind wanted their nipples pinched hard? And why would a man want to do it in the first place? Only the depraved.
Mrs. Smith’s muffled voice dragged my focus off the hook to the masculine shoulders filling the doorway. She was upselling, offering him a double date if he was so inclined. The man gave her non-committal grunts, the kind of sounds men make when a woman rattles on and he tunes her out. My date finally shut the door. He stayed there head bent low, one hand on the knob, a black nylon gym bag clutched in the other hand. A cracked surf graphic stretched across his back, expanding and contracting when he breathed. His fist worked the gym bag’s handle. He was tall but not overwhelming. Maybe he stood six feet.
I cleared my throat. “Hello.”
He swung around, the soles of his shoes squeaking on cement. A wall of heat and lust emanated from him. Darkness covered most of his face but when he tipped his head, red light slanted across eyes doing a slow burn over my body, catching on my plain black panties before drifting down to my stilettos. Goosebumps sprung wherever his gaze touched. His longish brown hair hadn’t been trimmed in months. With sun-bleached streaks in his hair and tanned arms, I pegged him as one of those guys who tended bar or waited tables because they lived to surf.
I expected a dark, brooding dominator, not Surfer Man.
“You’re supposed to be naked,” he said abruptly.
“It’s cold in here.”
He took two steps and dropped his gym bag, the corners of his mouth curving without humor. “You expect bikini underwear to keep you warm?”
“Better than standing in nothing but—” I froze when he hooked a finger under my chin, intense eyes narrowing above me “—my shoes.”
Surfer Man was a hawk, and he’d come to taste me. He sized me up, giving me the chance to do the same to him. He was handsome enough…long straight nose, firm serious mouth, and fine lines at the corners of fuck you blue-grey eyes. This man wasn’t big on smiling, nor would he work hard to give me warm fuzzies tonight. He didn’t have to.
“You’re older than I thought.” His voice was sandpaper rough.
“Is that a bad thing? Like you need a refund?” I joked.
His eyes widened a fraction. Goofy humor was my default or else Surfer Man would notice my trembling. This whole situation was ludicrous. Never in a million years would I be here except for an intersection of lousy circumstances and a fringe-living friend who paved the way. My signing on with Mrs. Smith yesterday was never in my plans. Yet, here I was with an older, not so-bad-looking guy who looked like he owned me.
For tonight, he did.
My knees stuck together and my body dropped a degree of warmth. I wasn’t lying about the room being cold.
“What do you want me to do?” I asked, trying to smile.
Sincere smiles and eye contact were the best way to connect, better than conversation or sexy clothes…or in my case, no clothes. Surfer Man’s severe mask slipped as his hand fell away, the concentrated stare softening before he gave me his profile. His Adams Apple bobbed noticeably, and I got the feeling he too debated the sanity of being here —for vastly different reasons than mine.
“I’ve never done anything like this before,” I said, filling the void.
“I can tell.” He exhaled long and loud. “Truth is I
’m a bit rusty. It’s been awhile.”
“For BDSM?”
His laugh was a dry broken sound. “For anything.”
He zeroed in on the rumpled bed, and I’d swear a bead of sweat glistened on his temple. He was lost on the sea of black silk. Not able to dive in. Not ready to walk away. What could possibly make him hesitate? Or come here to pay for an evening of sex in the first place? Laguna Niguel was crawling with women on the hunt for surf gods like him. Faded jeans molded to athletic legs. His faded blue T-shirt hugged a rock solid chest, going snug around the swell of his biceps.
Sure, nice-looking guys can be weirdos, but my creep-meter registered…nothing.
Surfer Man was intense but normal.
“Isn’t it like riding a bicycle?” I said. “You get back on and it all comes back?”
Where did that come from? My date didn’t need encouragement, yet I wanted to be nice to him. His gaze dropped to my chest. He stared at curves squashed by both arms still hugging an X over my chest. I wasn’t big, but side boob showed. A mouth-drying lump gathered at the back of my throat the longer he stared. What was I doing? His hesitation was my escape.
“Maybe another night.” I stood up fast. “I’ll get Mrs. Smith—”
“Hold on.” His hand shot out.
Shoulders hunching, I waited for his touch. We stood in limbo, watching each other before his hand dropped to his side. The room crackled with nervous energy and a low, awkward strum of arousal sticking to my skin like humidity.
We didn’t say a word, but a man’s deep voice seeped through thin walls followed by a high-pitched, feminine giggle. Beyond the closed door, Mrs. Smith’s accented voice mixed with two men until their conversation ended with a door being shut. Everyone was having a good time tonight except Surfer Man. Standing closer to him, the red light painted his blue shirt a shade of purple where male nipples poked the cotton. I looked higher. He’d shaved for this, his jaw’s shiny smooth skin giving him away. My lashes drooped and I peeked at his fly. He hung to the left. I could tell by the faded spot on his jeans where his package bulged.
Glancing up, his dark gaze touched mine, sparking currents throughout my body. The corner of his mouth twitched at catching me eyeballing his crotch.
My cheeks burned but I stood taller. “I don’t know what Mrs. Smith told you but when she said ‘fresh face’ that was code for I don’t know what I’m doing. I’ve never done this before. Any of it. Not sex for hire. And certainly not BDSM. Much as I want to bolt, I need the money. So can we get this over with?”
Another dry chuckle. “You know how to get a man going.”
I glared at him through my bangs and hugged myself tighter. Music pulsed from the room next door, but I couldn’t say what the song was. Did they need a sound track to get going? The frazzled side of me surrendered to how little I knew about sex. Despite standing bravely, I was small and adrift on an unknown sea.
Surfer Man stepped within touching distance, his blue eyes on the verge of grey, lit with a strange mixture of hard shell and tender patience. A faint line traced the left side of his mouth like contempt came easy.
“First rule,” he said evenly. “You only talk when spoken to.”
“Then what am I supposed to call you?”
The question startled us both. I was throwing out the no names rule and for good reason. Something dawned on me. With the closed door, it was just the two of us. This square room was my island. Control could go either way. Surfer Man’s mouth opened, but an adrenaline rush took over and my hip cocked sideways. In the world of fight or flight, my body tensed with its version of fight.
“Oh, let me guess. You’re going to say Call me master or some crap like that. I work at a bookstore. I’ve read those please spank me Mr. Billionaire books.”
I liked a few of them. Reading the books was one thing. Living them was another.
One side of his mouth curved up. “Maybe you should tell me how you really feel.”
I exhaled slowly, blowing bangs off my forehead. No sense in telling him what I really thought. Talk about a mood killer. No man wanted to hear me say this place is for losers who can’t find a girl. Yet, this guy was no loser.
“Real billionaires don’t look like you do in those jeans of yours.”
He chuckled, his blue eyes flaring wider. “I’m no billionaire.”
Oh, but you are one hot man. Thankfully my filter worked and I kept that to myself.
“You know what it is? It’s the whole BDSM scene thing. Sex isn’t a scene. It’s sex. Two people being honest skin to skin.”
Sinews under his forearms flexed while music cranked louder in the next room. His hard shell scrutiny narrowed, and I cringed. Sneering at my customer’s preferences wasn’t a smart idea. How he got his rocks off was his business.
“Honest sex.” He let the words settle in his mouth. Surfer Man shook his head and made for his gym bag.
“What? Are you leaving?” My voice notched higher. I didn’t want him tying me up, but I didn’t want him to leave.
“This wasn’t a good idea.”
Scowling at me, he stood under the bulb, the red light pouring over him. How was it a nice looking man in his thirties paid a hefty price to tie a woman up yet he was the one getting all contorted about it? I was pretty sure he could get the average beach bunny to shed her bikini and play sex games for a night. Unless his tastes ran too dark.
I eyed the bag at his feet. Dust lined a few creases. “Maybe we could talk instead.”
He laughed harshly. “You’re naked. I paid for sex with a pretty woman.
Not conversation.”
“Want me to cover myself with the sheet?”
“No,” he said, his face screwing up like I wasn’t playing with a full deck. “I don’t want you to cover yourself.”
Feet planted wide, the bulge in his jeans was gone. The lost reaction bugged me. He didn’t find me attractive anymore? To add to the strangeness, my reversal irked me. I should be glad. I could run down the hall, grab my clothes and purse, and run out the door and never come back.
Red-tinged light cast shadows over his features. He set both hands on his hips, his raw voice reaching out to me. “Why do you want me to stay?”
CHAPTER TWO
Her stiletto’s pointy toes rubbed together. My date for the night didn’t know how hot she looked hugging herself to hide her boobs, all that long sandy blonde hair falling around her shoulders. I wanted to see her in regular light not the faux sex-red bulb hanging over my head. Staring into her blue-green eyes was the same as standing on a remote cliff in Mexico, facing deep water, wondering if I’d survive the jump or smash myself on hidden rocks.
Arms crossing lightly, I waited. Despite what I’d said about paying for sex, I wanted an honest answer more than I wanted sex. The realization shocked me. It wasn’t what I came for, but I was thirsty for it. I needed it. My date’s perceptive eyes told me she knew my being here had nothing to do with the bag at my feet and everything to do with my head. Talk about a mind fuck.
Her eyebrows furrowed softly. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s partly the money.” She searched my face. “And maybe…I…I like you.”
The last part came out whispery, unwinding the dark force that drove me to Mrs. Smith’s establishment. Liking me wasn’t required, but her asking me to stay added a new dimension. It was real. What could I do with real? Her scorn for kink and its terminology didn’t put me off. Scenes plumbed depths that weren’t always pretty. The BDSM acronym didn’t ward off awful sex. A partner could run cold. Or a scene could get stilted.
The recipe for bad sex was just as varied for good sex.
The couple next door was getting busy, their mattress squeaking, crazy moans coming through thin walls. Tonight was supposed to engage nerve endings and give me release, one body arousing another, no conversation or meeting of the minds
. I didn’t need to know my date’s favorite color or if she was well read. I needed a hot female body for sex. Period. Then she had to go and talk about honesty and say something about books. My weakness —smart women. Her diction didn’t impress me, but usually women who read books had a few brain cells upstairs.
“Maybe if you take it slow and guide me,” she said, her shoes scraping the floor. “You did ask for someone new to…bondage.”
My cock lurched when she rubbed her black stiletto toes together. The wide-eyed, good girl expression on her face was priceless as if bondage was a box you shouldn’t open. I’d put her about mid-twenties, but she’d not gotten out much. The sweet blonde facing me was an innocent in a dirty place. She was bare-skinned and open-hearted. No guile. No pouty, put on sexiness. Maybe she was broken in places but more whole than me.
Air conditioning buzzed through the vents. Someone turned up a Stones tune in the other room. My date squirmed, watching me watch her. I was in no rush to fill the silence. Her talking was revelatory because unlike her I’d lived in those do not open boxes.
She licked her lips, her arms still in a death grip over her boobs. “The thing is it’s been a long time.”
“A long time for what?”
“Sex.”
“How long?”
“Almost a year.”
“That right?” My attention sharpened. “What do you do? Use a vibrator?”
“What?” she asked through nervous laughter. “No…I…” Her round-eyed gaze rolled down to her shoes. “No.”
I chuckled at her blush. “I shocked you.”
“No one’s ever asked me anything like that.”
“You’re in a brothel, babe.”
A woman’s tinny peal of laughter carried through the air conditioning vent.
She eyed the vent high up on the wall. “Yeah. I know.”
“Then if you don’t use a vibrator,” I said carefully. “What do you do?”
I leaned closer, hungry for what she’d say next. Whatever her answer, it’d be proof of life outside of mine. Eleven months ago I’d gone to a black place and came out raw. Being here tonight was as much to shut old doors as to open new ones. Truth was I couldn’t say what the fuck I wanted next, but the sweet blonde standing opposite me was a key shining through the fog in my head.