EASTER SUNDAE
HOT HOLIDAYS SERIES (BOOK TWO)
BY RACHEL DUNNING
Copyright © 2014 Rachel Dunning.
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Smashwords Edition
Cover Design Copyright © 2014 Rachel Dunning.
Cover Photo of Male Model - Copyright © 2014 CURAphotography
ISBN: 9781310718403
All photos obtained from Shutterstock and used with permission.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Also by Rachel Dunning:
Know Me, #1 Truthful Lies
Find Me, #2 Truthful Lies Trilogy
Finding North, #1 Naïve Mistakes Trilogy
East Rising, #2 Naïve Mistakes Trilogy
West-End Boys, #3 Naïve Mistakes Trilogy
Like You, #1 Perfectly Flawed Series
Christmas Comfort, #1 Hot Holidays Series
Girl-Nerds Like it Harder, #1 Girl-Nerd Series
Girl Nerds Like it Faster, #2 Girl-Nerd Series
Girl-Nerds Like it Deeper, #3 Girl-Nerd Series
Girl-Nerds Like it Longer, #4 Girl-Nerd Series
For news of upcoming releases, visit:
http://racheldunningauthor.blogspot.com
To the one who keeps my romantic heart beating.
I love you endlessly.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
FOREWORD
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
EPILOGUE
FROM THE AUTHOR
ALSO BY RACHEL DUNNING
FOREWORD
WARNING: ADULTS ONLY
Although the title of this book may seem fuzzy-wuzzy, make no mistake, this is a tale intended for adults only. It is an Adult Romance with plenty of explicit and detailed in-the-bedroom scenes! If you’re looking for a Sunday School tale, this is not the place to find it. If you’re offended by such content, go get another book. I’d prefer that to the one-star review that says, “Oh my it’s so graphic!” Don’t say you weren’t warned.
That being said, it’s also a good story, a sweet story. (All authors think their stories are good, don’t they?) Sex is by far not the only theme of this tale and, in fact, it only takes up a portion of its content. There’s laughter, character development, etc etc etc—all those things us authors have to worry about so you can just sit back, forget all about it, pull out the Chardonnay, and read.
This is an easy read (I hope), a “feel good at the end” read, so sit back, laugh a little, smile a little, and, most of all, take your shirt off if it gets too hot...
Happy reading!
Love,
R
PROLOGUE
EGGS
“Whenever Easter comes around I get to thinking about eggs. My eggs. And how they’ve been sitting there unvisited for over eight years.”
Melissa Daniels
ONE
THE SWOON
-1-
Melissa Daniels took orders from no one, except her son.
Jacob Daniels (the order-giver) was born seven years, eight months, and eleven days ago. He kept count.
Mommy Melissa was currently standing at the corner of Grande and Long, holding a uniformed Jacob by the hand, trying to cross the street. She’d caught herself almost looking left for oncoming cars, even though she’d now lived in England for a good eight years and two months (more or less; she didn’t really keep count) and was pretty certain that traffic actually approached from the right.
Or was it the left?
“But I want it now!” Jacob cried from below, hand tightly clasped in hers.
It was all she could do to not scream out “For fuck’s sake, shut up, child!” but she knew that was really just latent hatred for Matthew Richardson, Jacob’s father, resurfacing, and fought hard to restrain the vile feelings she harbored for the man who did her and dumped her eight years and zero months ago—more or less. (He did her eight years and five months ago. He dumped her five months later...after doing her again.)
Matthew Richardson was the source of all she hated in men, and all she loved in her little boy.
Cars whizzed past them furiously as they stood staring at the green Bookworms store (England’s equivalent of Barnes & Noble, only bigger) across the street, which Jacob was vehemently demanding he visit so he could get his hands on the latest Rick Riordan book.
How could you not love a boy like that?
She’d often pondered what other boys his age might be doing: Collecting stickers, learning about that dark side of the internet that begins with a P, perhaps even beginning to ask the types of Doctor Doctor questions every parent dreads? But, no, Jacob Daniels was just like his mother. He read, and read, and read, and read, and—
Melissa was sick of reading. What she needed was a good—Is Jacob listening?—fucking lay!
She had the itch, the need, that tight and taught feeling of muscles clamping and her head feeling frazzled, which only comes about from almost a decade of not having...simply...gotten it on!
A decade. Oh, god, how did it get so long?
“MOM!”
Jacob pulled his mother out of her lustful reverie, and tugged at her hand, indicating it was time to cross. There was urgency in his innocent eyes—eyes so blue that they would undoubtedly one day be the undoing of some unsuspecting girl who’d be walking past the graveyard while Jacob’s eyes pierced into her armor and left her forever in his power, willing to travel across the world for him, to bear his child for him, and to love him eternally. Eyes like his father’s. The bastard.
Melissa Daniels looked left (No! Right!) and they crossed. A moment later, jostling past the rush-hour foot-traffic of their small little town (East Windsor), they were in Bookworms.
The store was busy, barely any room to move in. She’d never seen it like this before. Bodies cramped up around her.
But the scent of freshly pressed paper was there, unmistakably there. It made Melissa think of all the steamy romances she’d let herself get carried away in while sitting in a scorching bubble bath, letting her soapy hand slide down to her needful center, putting the book down, leaning back, grabbing the glass of red wine (or the chocolate sundae) on her left and just...dreaming of it, with the right man, the man I’m reading about now...
She was dreaming right now in fact, dreaming so much that, when she heard the polite English gentleman’s accent from a little behind her saying “Ma’am, may I help you?” she startled, swung around, rapidly moved her hand away from her chest (she did that when she got wistful) and looked at him to answer.
But when she saw the...er—what shall we call him?—absolutely gorgeous hunk of a—what is he, not a sales clerk, surely?—man, she swallowed, hard, and stood still. Saying nothing. But salivating. Definitely salivating.
And then smiling. As seductively as humanly possible.
-2-
Her skin went hot instantly, an odd thing for a woman of thirty-two. But it did. It was so hot that she felt the sudden need to fan herself but realized this would make it mortifyingly ob
vious to the black-haired deity in a suit standing in front of her that all she was focusing on now was keeping herself cool. And not saying anything fucking stupid!
Trying not to say anything stupid resulted in her not anything at all.
She just stood there, looking at him, looking at his deadly green eyes and his chiseled jaw... What is he—thirty-four, thirty-five? He was tall, at least a head above her. His skin was tanned. His accent was all upper-class. None of this leaving out the Hs or the Ts when he spoke—
“Ma’am?” he said, looking concernedly down at her. Then he looked at her hand, the one holding Jacob who—
Is he tugging at my hand? she wondered.
With a sudden whoosh, all the sound came back into the room. She realized now that it had all gone silent. Before, there’d been only this odd, tingling sizzle of a sensation on her skin; the feeling that she could suddenly breathe more easily, as if someone had rubbed Vicks Vapor Rub on her chest; and the view of Mr. Sex-Appeal-in-a-Suit (a pinstripe, no less) in front of her now, peering down at her in such a way as to make her feel oh so his if he wanted her to be. His tie was purple silk. His face was unshaved, rugged and manly. And his chest looks like it’s about to burst from its shirt.
She swallowed again, her throat absolutely dry by now, and she became aware that she hadn’t answered his question yet.
One thing at a time.
Tug, tug, tug, tug. Jacob at her hand.
Then, the man in front of her again, looking far more concerned now, “Ma’am? Are you”—his hand stretched out to her arm and actually touched it!—“OK?”
Which is when she felt the strength leave her legs.
Oh my god, I think I’m actually going to faint.
And then she almost did.
-3-
He caught her, and when his chest touched hers...
Hell, his arms are so huge I can only imagine—
Get a hold of yourself, Melissa!
...she inhaled his cologne and that almost sent her off to Neverland again.
By now, she’d let Jacob’s hand go. She realized that the reason for the tugging earlier had been that she’d been gripping his little fingers for dear life and hurting him while staring at Mr. Dreamy. Jacob had since rushed off into the children’s section, probably with his nose already buried in a Neil Gaiman or Suzanne Collins story (her earlier ones, not the later ones. Mel thought those were too violent for little Jake.)
Mel leaned back on a table with a million books on it and heard a few fall on the floor. She didn’t bother to turn and look at them. Any excess movement might bring about the almost-swoon again.
And that would be bad.
Mystery Sexy Cologne Man let her go. “Miss, are you certain you’re OK?” His brow was creased, the surrounds of his eyes dark as thunderclouds. But the eyes themselves... Wow. They were like brilliant grass.
“I’m...OK,” she said. “It’s just...perhaps a little stuffy in here. And warm.” It was a good excuse. Bookworms was packed, strangely so. It was like being at the premiere of a big Hollywood movie. And the growing odor of human sweat in the store was unusual. She hadn’t noticed it when she’d first entered. People jostled about, books were being bought by the ton, discounts offered for bulk purchases.
The warmth definitely came from the body-heat and not the weather, because southern England was never warm in early April. Or even in May for that matter. June was nothing to write home about either.
“Let’s get you outside,” said the man, holding his arm out and just touching the upper part of hers to guide her through the buzzing throng. The touch sent a shock down some or other major nerve of hers, making her leg feel suddenly tense, and her neck feel like it had just been stood on.
Mel, you’re hitting early menopause. Get a grip!
She realized that not having had sex since four months before Jacob was born (eight years, zero months and eleven days ago—ok, fine, she kept count!), had induced an incomparable level of sexual frustration in her. It was unheard of, she knew, for a woman to go so long without being with a man. She was attractive, even she knew this. She had the blonde hair that turned all men on, light-brown eyes that almost glowed (she’d been told.) She had no blemishes on her face and her features were dainty—not ugly. She’d gotten a few handles since Jacob’s birth, but the extra weight had merely accentuated an already substantial chest—a chest which had made her a rather popular girl at school, and caused her to know much of what she was doing in the bedroom by the time she’d met Jacob’s father.
Maybe that’s what it was: She’d been there and done that. She’d done it all by the time she was twenty-four. Having a child was something she hadn’t done. It was something new, something fulfilling that she could imagine spending the rest of her life doing: Raising a son.
That is, until she read Fifty Shades of Grey.
-4-
She could strangle E.L. James. Really, she could.
After closet-reading books one, two, and three, she’d found herself perusing the New Adult section, erotica, anything she could get her dirty hands on! Baths were taking longer; late-night reading after Jake was asleep was becoming more frequent (two, three A.M.) And the need to have the real thing had now become unbearable, a daily mammoth-weight she had to carry on her shoulders as she walked the streets of East Windsor.
But she was no fool, no hussy. She could satisfy herself and then be done with it, even for days sometimes. (Before Fifty Shades, she’d be satisfied for months on end. Being satisfied for more than a week now was a blessing.)
She didn’t need a man. She certainly didn’t need anyone around to confuse her son. It was her and Jacob now, and he was going to be brought up to be a good man, an honorable man—by her! He was going to be brought up to be a man that didn’t leave his pregnant girlfriend standing around, five months pregnant, because “uhm, actually, I’m married, Mel...”
To do that, she needed all the free mental attention she could muster. A fling on the side was too risky for her, and irresponsible, and so she’d avoided it all these many months (Fifty Shades had been read a little over a half a year ago.) But no matter how much she told herself this, this man in front of her now—Mr. Jewel Eyes with the Sexy Stubbled Jaw—was disintegrating all the resolve she’d built up since that first clandestine encounter with Ms. James, and Mr. Grey...
-5-
Melissa checked on Jacob (his head was buried in Gaiman’s The Silver Dream) and, on finding him snuggled up on a beanbag with other children who were reading books far less advanced than he was accustomed to, accepted the Dreamy Gentleman’s offer to take her outside for some air.
She and the man jostled and bumped and pushed through the absolute maelstrom of people inside. Just before getting outside, she was struck by something she’d completely missed when she’d first entered the store: There was a signing going on. And the author was E.L. James!
She snickered at that. And took it as a sign of things to come...
Outside, the April air was cool. She inhaled deeply of it and then looked around to get her bearings. A long line of teens and junkfood addicts had formed outside the KFC across the street. The light-orange street lamps glowed like massive fireflies ahead of a twilight sky. The foot-traffic on the street had died down. All the other stores had closed already. Mel dug in her purse and pulled out a pack of JPS Menthols, flicked one in her mouth. She rummaged for a lighter but was quickly facing a burning fire from a Zippo two inches from her nose.
Green-Eyed god was holding it. She moved the smoke in her mouth to the flame, inhaled, and took a deep drag. The nicotine imbued her mind with peace and, for the first time since she’d met this man, she actually felt like she could talk to him. Yes, she was a drug-addict, and she knew it.
She offered the man a smoke but he said, “I don’t smoke.”
Her eyebrows rose suspiciously. “So you just keep a Zippo in order to offer attractive women a light?”
“That’s precisely why I carr
y it.” He smirked at her, and put his hands in the pockets of a long black trench-coat he’d put on just before exiting the store.
She began to shiver. He took off his coat and—
“No, it’s fine,” she said. “I need the chill.”
He didn’t stop in his motion, and before she knew it, it was wrapped around her shoulders and—secretly INHALE!—she was in that place again, the one where she’d felt woozy and...extremely aroused.
Can I take your coat home and sleep with it in my bed? she thought.
She peered inside the store, looking for Jake again, hiding the smoke behind her back. When she saw he was still well-ensconced in his tale, she took another drag. “Secret smoker?”
She smiled. “Is it that obvious?”
And he smiled back...and his smile is too good to be true.
“Keith.” He stuck out his hand. (He had a beautiful hand.) “Keith Devonshire.”
God, even the name felt like pulsing flesh in her mouth... Say what!??? She couldn’t believe the thoughts going through her mind at the moment...
“Melissa. Melissa Daniels.” She shook his hand and made sure to hold it longer than she should, just to feel its texture, and thereby judge the man’s character—maybe. Yeah. Whatever. She just wanted to hold the damn thing. It wasn’t a worker’s hand. But it was firm and large. Sturdy.
He gave a solid shake. “Pleasure to meet you. American, I hear?”
“Yeah, Brooklyn. I moved here...some years back.”
“Ah, but I can tell that the English is seeping into your accent a little bit.”
She frowned. “It is?”
“Yes, indeed.”
“Must be my son’s influence.” Because he’s the only person I actually talk to on a daily basis. He and my best friend, who speaks with an Indian accent. She didn’t tell him these things.
Easter Sundae (Hot Holidays Series Book Two) Page 1