The Bonk Squad
Page 1
Copyright (c) 2013 by Kris Pearson
Cover design (c) by Philip Pearson
Cover photograph dreamstimes.com
Interior layout: www.formatting4U.com
For more information about this author, visit http://www.krispearson.com/
Smashwords Edition, License Notes:
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Love and thanks to Philip for the covers and the unfailing encouragement and computer un-snarling. And thanks to my very own Bonk Squad—the Wellington/Kapiti Chapter of Romance Writers of New Zealand.
Extra hugs to Ellie Huse and Giovanna Lee, who were there from the very beginning.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s (wild) imagination, and are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is co-incidental.
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior permission of the author.
THE BONK SQUAD
Chapter 1 – Meg and the pumping thighs
Chapter 2 – Tigger taps her toy
Chapter 3 – Vi considers arousals
Chapter 4 – Tour de France
Chapter 5 – Ian goes sensuously sailing
Chapter 6 – Eloise smokes and steams
Chapter 7 – Bobbie lines up a lover
Chapter 8 – Ben and the silver Mac
Chapter 9 – Liz and assorted body hair
Chapter 10 – Meg is deflected from writing
Chapter 11 – Deepli does the dirty
Chapter 12 – Romy’s cruel corset
Chapter 13 – Tigger plans ahead
Chapter 14 – Mandy’s uplifting experience
Chapter 15 – Meg undresses the nanny
Chapter 16 – Ben’s learning curves
Chapter 17 – Liz and Marcy on the warpath
Chapter 18 – Vi is vexed in the veggie plot
Chapter 19 – Meg receives a proposition
Chapter 20 – Eloise jumps on Johnno
Chapter 21 – Vi succeeds with sherry
Chapter 22 – Ian’s tight new trousers
Chapter 23 – Three ladies lunching
Chapter 24 – Ian goes for gold
Chapter 25 – Slippery as a Neill
Chapter 26 – Meg’s birthday bonanza
Chapter 27 – Bobbie’s fire down below
Chapter 28 – Ian on an island
Chapter 29 – Mandy has mail
Chapter 30 – Time at Tony’s
Chapter 31 – Fork me!
Chapter 32 – Bait for ‘The Bastard’
Chapter 33 – The Highland fling
Chapter 34 – Johnno submits; Eloise sneers
Chapter 35 – Romy lets it slip
Chapter 36 – A trifle too much
Chapter 37 – Thar she blows
Chapter 38 – Hanky panky spanky
Chapter 39 – Another dinner at the vineyard
Chapter 40 – Wet dreams
Chapter 41 – Marcy messes up
Chapter 42 – The cross Maltese
Chapter 43 – New Year’s heave
Chapter 44 – Tropic of Capricorn
Chapter 45 – Back to the bathroom
Epilogue
About the Author
Also By Kris
CHAPTER 1 - MEG AND THE PUMPING THIGHS
I think about sex far too often, Meg thought—thinking about sex again as she watched a lanky boy in hip-slipping jeans kissing the bare shoulder of his skimpily dressed blonde girlfriend. It was all too easy to imagine his hungry young mouth on her own skin.
Maybe that boy is a car thief just out of jail? And the girl is a pampered princess from the richest stud farm in the Havelock hills? Plenty of conflict and angst there. No happy ending without a lot of clever writing.
Meg was trying so hard to become a romance novelist...
Sighing, she turned away, half closed her eyes against the late afternoon sun, and waited for the traffic lights to turn green. Something catchy burst and buzzed from the old car radio. She wound the volume up and tapped her fingers on the steering wheel in time with it.
Summer had almost arrived in New Zealand. Christmas was a bare month off. The brilliant weather had peaches and apples swelling on thousands of trees in the orchards around Hastings, and people wearing fewer clothes. Inspiration for a romance novelist sprang out everywhere she looked.
The old green Toyota rocked a little, shaking her out of her reverie. A cyclist leaned on the car, gripping the corner pillar. Meg’s eyes widened as they strayed over his bulging bicep, down his strong, corded forearm, and on past long tanned fingers protruding suggestively from his cutaway cycling glove.
I’m doing it again.
She could easily imagine that hand caressing her face, moving down the sensitive column of her neck, sliding insistently lower to her aching, tingling—
PAAAAAAARP!!!!
The huge farty toot from the truck right behind jerked her back to reality and she stalled the car. Cursing, she wrenched the key around and pumped the accelerator.
“Yer-yer-yer-yer-yer,” the Toyota said, without firing. By the time it did, the lights had changed again and the cyclist was way across the intersection, Lycra clad butt high in the air, long legs pedaling like pistons.
Meg sat there dazed and distracted, and mentally assigned his tight muscular backside to the assortment of characters in the stories her writing group was working on. It might be just the right rear for Higgins the pot-boy in Vi’s tale about Mistress Golightly and the handsome but impoverished vicar. Or maybe the dashing vicar himself was the owner of the excellent ass?
Eloise could use it, perhaps? For the stable lad who was giving Duchess Davinia a spot of rumpty-tumpty when the old Duke wasn’t about. Yes, that was more like it. The stable lad in the tight velvet breeches and ripped ivory-colored shirt. Eloise had read out a very cunning little scene at the last meeting where the Duchess had flicked a horsewhip onto his rippling golden back—just lightly, to spur him on. It had worked a treat. (The scene, as well as the whip. Meg pressed her thighs together as she recalled her reaction to it.)
She groaned; her friends were right—she needed a new man if she had all this sex on her brain. Ben would be off to university in a few months, and then she’d be on her own.
Fat chance of finding another pleasant looking, nice natured man who’d be happy with her incessant writing though!
I’ll do some housework tonight, she promised herself, dragging her thoughts away from possible future pleasure. If she left it until the morning she might never get around to it—and her writing group did tend to move the chairs about, exposing the fluffy pieces of floor for anyone to see. She needed to throw herself into some serious dusting, too.
And put some decent soap and a pretty hand towel in the powder room. Surely elderly Vi would have turned her nose up at the raggy old Star Wars towel Ben had hung there for the last meeting?
But she was itching to get back to the Italian billionaire plot she was playing with. Carlo. And the very English nanny, Angela, who had gone to his palazzo, which was furnished with priceless antiques, to look after his lively dark-haired chil
dren. The handsome billionaire needed to somehow discover Angela in her underwear. Real silk and French lace. Navy and cream? Coffee and cream? Black and lavender? Meg considered the myriad possibilities.
At last the lights changed again. She made an efficient getaway this time, just as Bruce Springsteen’s husky voice assured her he had ‘a bad desire’ and that he was on fire. Imagine having Bruce-baby crooning to you in bed! She drove on, nodding in time to the syncopated guitar breaks between the verses, and enjoying the smoldering sensuality of the song. In no time her imagination shot into overdrive again.
“I have a bad desire,” raven-haired Valerian murmured as he gazed down on Celia’s pale neck. Her veins showed tender blue under her silky skin. He smelled the faint richness of her delectable blood. His fangs throbbed as they slowly extended...
“No!” Celia gasped, trying to writhe out of his arms. “You promised you wouldn’t.”
He fixed his hypnotic eyes on hers, willing her to let him bite. Around them the trees thrashed in the gale. Fitful moonlight flickered between the branches, but apart from this faint silver glimmering, everything was dark. As dark as her eyes. As dark as his desires.
He bent lower. Gave her jugular a tender lick as she shuddered in his arms...
Meg stomped on the brake, finding herself going far too fast at the next corner with no recollection of how she’d got there. She let her fantasy fade, knowing she’d left it too late to break into the vampire market anyway. But she’d almost drawn level with the hunky cyclist again, so virtuously kept her speed down to appreciate his long sinewy legs pumping the pedals around and around.
Pumping—dangerous word, Meg.
She grinned to herself. It was second only to thrusting. Thrusting was excellent.
Enjoying those legs almost caused her to miss stopping at the Spots Off to collect her dry-cleaning. She’d vowed to make more of an effort with her appearance from now on, and planned to wear her good black trousers and the new taupe cotton jersey with the plunging V-neck tomorrow. Helpful for diminishing a generous bosom—or so Trinny and Susannah insisted. And Meg’s bosom was undeniably generous these days. Her hips were trying to balance the bosom up, unfortunately. She didn’t mind the boobs but she rather resented the hips.
“It’s much harder to lose that weight after forty,” her disciplined and stringy mother had warned her. Still, Meg knew she’d rather be a rounded thirty-nine than a skinny sixty-seven. And only rounded—not fat, you understand…
The Toyota chugged on in a cloud of music and exhaust smoke. The small commercial buildings started to thin out toward the end of Heretaunga Street. The old converted church stood aloofly on its corner, spire covered in lichen. A tall privet hedge burst with feathery full-sneeze white bloom. An over-optimistic Cambodian café had tried and failed; the signage lived on but the chef had long gone.
Meg trundled around a corner into middle class suburbia—past pastel colored timber houses with gardens where dogs barked behind gates, trees hung over walls, and impatiens and petunias ran riot in terracotta pots beside barbecues as big as bullocks.
She steered the car into her driveway and just about collected the side fence with surprise. The cyclist had obviously kept his sinewy tanned thighs pumping with great efficiency while she’d been waiting at the Spots Off, because he was knocking on her red front door. One long arm supported his racing cycle.
He turned as she lurched to a rather undignified halt. The late sun lit his dark hair with warm chestnut highlights. A most satisfactory bulge filled the front of his tight black bike pants. Curly hair burst from the neckline of his stretchy shirt. And he inspected her with arrogant eyes. Or possibly piercing eyes? Eyes as dark and watchful as a jungle predator? Jolly nice brown ones, anyway.
The door swung open. Ben ushered him in. To Meg’s amazement he took the bike inside with him. One of Ben’s friends? He’d looked quite a bit older than that.
She grabbed her handbag and the dry-cleaning, and forgot to lock the Toyota in her haste to catch up with them.
Sunshine drenched the house next morning.
God— ten o’clock already.
Meg stretched until her bones popped, no longer able to ignore the bright light at the faded edges of the floral curtains, or the accusing green numbers on the bedside clock.
Orlando and Bella sprang up from the foot of the bed, quite used to dry kitty-nibbles on Saturday mornings—but maybe their luck was in today?
Meg heaved herself out of bed, and the two sleek cats bounded ahead of her.
“Not yet, you two,” she called after them as they skittered down the stairs.
First she needed headache pills. Plural. She’d not had that much to drink for years. And never with a man with such a body.
Alan.
‘Call-me-Al’.
Father of Ben’s friend Michael. Computer expert, and owner of the pumping thighs.
She flinched as the pills hit the water and made a terrible noise. Once the fizzing had finished she gulped the mixture down, grimacing at the taste.
Two bottles of Chardonnay. One glass each for seventeen-year-old Ben and Michael, and all the rest for the adults.
Who’d been acting like stupid kids, she had to concede.
With some ancient Drambuie to follow, just to make really sure she’d be hung-over.
No housework done. No progress with Carlo the widowed Italian billionaire and his pretty nanny who had to get her underwear on display somehow. No flowers in the powder room. The powder room—what a penny-pinching cop-out! Why hadn’t the builder squeezed in a shower box and put a pedestal basin instead of the over-large, wall hung vanity unit beside the toilet? A complete second bathroom would have been heaven.
Meg sashed her dark blue robe, picked up a suitable looking bottle of body lotion, and regarded herself blearily in the all too bright bathroom mirror. Lord! She shook her head at her rumpled reflection and staggered down the stairs, running her fingers through her tangled fair hair.
She decided the top of the vanity unit looked quite clean enough, placed the body lotion on it for decoration, and snaffled the crumpled lime green towel for the wash.
Grabbed a small glass vase and filled it with water, wrenched a strongly-fragrant white lily off the bunch on the sideboard, and set her floral highlight beside the body lotion.
Found a good thick cream towel with a band of useless scratchy embroidery, and hung it with exaggerated care on the towel rail.
Pulled the powder room door shut, closed her eyes, and leaned on the wall for strength. Right—one room finished.
The living area would take a bit longer. It looked and smelled like a neglected Italian café, decorated with empty pizza boxes and sticky glasses. Coffee mugs and pages from last night’s newspaper were strewn about. And something that looked like a puddle of congealed custard clung to the top of the dining table. Meg was surprised the cats hadn’t cleaned that up.
Or maybe they’d produced it? Eeuw!
She stepped cautiously closer, and relaxed. Definitely custard. Vague memories now of making custard in the microwave oven to pour over Watties tinned peaches. Over the table, too, it seemed.
“Here cats!” she called, wincing at the sound of her own voice. Orlando sailed up and began investigating the tasty offering. She gave him an affectionate stroke and turned to make coffee. Strong coffee. She collected plates, glasses and mugs, and dumped them all in the dishwasher; squirted some air freshener around, and collapsed into her favorite armchair, trying to remember exactly what had happened.
Okay, the man had disappeared into her house wheeling his mean looking bicycle. Fine. She’d followed. Found it leaning against the wall in the front entrance. Ben and Muscles had been stroking it and muttering things like ‘carbon fiber’ and ‘nine grand’.
(For a bike??? She could get a good secondhand car for that.)
Muscles had thrust his hand toward her in a very hearty and confident manner.
“Alan Sabatini. Call-me-Al. G
ood to meet you at last, Meg.”
She must have looked less than enlightened because Ben added, “Michael’s Dad. He’s helping me sort out the computer.”
She’d shaken handsome Call-me-Al’s hand and tried not to look like a gulping goldfish. “That’s very kind of you,” she’d managed.
Call-me-Al seemed not the least bit embarrassed his genitals were displayed in snug detail by the tight Lycra shorts. Or that his long muscular legs had been completely and beautifully shaved—rather better than Meg’s own were by the end of a busy week.
She’d gone upstairs to stow her dry-cleaning so she could recover for a moment. He was overpowering up close. A lot taller than her. And wafting the twin intoxicating scents of fresh perspiration and expensive cologne around her home. She’d squirted on some of last Christmas’s Opium to level the stakes, and taken a book downstairs so she could stay within earshot.
“Bloody machine!” she heard Al exclaim.
“What’s wrong?” she called.
“Your computer’s not co-operating.”
“Now there’s a surprise. Ben can make it behave, but not me. Do you two want coffee?”
Angry mutters continued to reach her after coffees were provided.
Time slid by. Ben’s cell-phone did its duck-quacking noise and there was a brief conversation. Soon afterward, someone knocked on the front door.
She put down her book. “I’ll go,” she said, feeling pretty sure no-one else would.
“Hi, Mrs Josephs—is Dad still here?”
It was Michael to see what had become of his father. So Meg took a few moments to review the contents of the fridge and decided there wasn’t enough of anything to feed four. She leaned around the doorframe to Ben’s bedroom. By now there were three annoyed males to glare back at her.
“How about I go for pizza?” she suggested.
“Get a couple of bottles of wine, too,” Al insisted, producing warm banknotes from somewhere mysterious inside his clothing, and insisting it was his shout. Meg decided that was fair enough if he could afford to spend so much on a bicycle. She’d provided the venue and would be stacking the dishwasher, after all.