Toby grinned. “An editorial about ironing and lace curtains?” As Faith opened her mouth to protest, Rusty reached out a foot and pushed Toby’s chair sharply so he nearly fell in the pool, and he squawked. “Hey.”
Rusty raised an eyebrow at him. “Don’t be so patronising. She deserves a bit more credit after all her hard work.”
Faith nodded. “When you’ve read it, then you can pass comment on it.”
Toby snorted. “Why would I want to read a website about periods and stuff?”
“Don’t be such a bloody Neanderthal,” Faith said. “I hope it’s a bit more interesting than that.”
“It is,” said Rusty.
“Like you’ve read it,” Toby scoffed.
“As a matter of fact I do read it. Every week.” Rusty shrugged as everyone looked surprised. “Hey, rule number one, know thine enemy.”
Faith laughed, pleased he’d made the effort. “Sounds very sensible to me.”
He grinned. “So what are the new articles about?”
“Well, I did one a few weeks ago about women’s sex lives. It was really popular, and it raised some very interesting statistics.”
“Like…” prompted Dan.
“Like the fact that four out of ten of the women who commented rarely have oral sex performed on them.”
“You’re kidding.” Dan spoke, but they all looked horrified.
“Nope. And for women over thirty, sixty-five percent of them had sex less than once a week.”
Eve sighed. “Well that’s something to look forward to.”
Faith nodded. “It’s quite a shocking statistic. Anyway, they’ve asked me to write a series of further articles about ways to spice up your love life.” She sipped her wine. “I’ve had a think, and I’m going to call it ‘Seven Sexy Sins’. I’m going to base it on the seven original sins, with each one relating to a ‘sexy sin’. The idea is that your average housewife, who’s struggling in the bedroom, could show her partner the list and work through them with him.”
They all nodded. “Sounds like a good idea,” said Dan. “So what are the seven sins then? Run them by us, see if we agree.”
“Okay.” She took another sip. “Number one: envy. I’m thinking of relating this to watching porn, you know, looking at other people’s bodies and what they get up to, so housewife and hubby can come up with some ideas for things to do themselves.”
They all seemed to agree with that. “Two?” asked Toby.
“Sloth. Oral sex. Letting your partner do all the work.”
“Absolutely.” Dan frowned. “I still can’t believe four out of ten women aren’t getting it.”
Faith cleared her throat. She had her own views on that statistic but didn’t want to share just yet. “Three, gluttony. I’m thinking…sex and food. Whipped cream, chocolate sauce. Spreading it on and licking it off. Like in Nine and a Half Weeks with Kim Basinger. Remember the ice, and the strawberries?”
“Oh yeah,” said Rusty.
“Sounds calorific,” said Eve.
“Well, there are low-fat options if you’re watching your weight. And ice hasn’t got any calories in it.”
“True. Number four?”
“Pride. Having pride in your own body—doing a striptease for your partner. Dance of the seven veils and all that.”
“Another good point,” said Toby. “Five?”
She grinned. “They’re getting a bit naughty now. Number five’s wrath.” She saw Rusty’s lips begin to curve. “You can see where I’m going with this one. Some light bondage. Nothing scary, fur-lined cuffs or scarves, tying each other up.”
“Six?” Rusty asked, looking more interested with each sin.
“Avarice. Greed. For orgasms. Multiple. As many as you can both manage in one night, using as many methods as you can think of, oral, sex toys, you name it.”
They all started laughing. “I hate to ask what seven is,” said Dan.
“Well it’s lust. But ending on a nice, romantic note. Tantric sex.”
“What’s that?”
“Thinking about sex all night and then not doing it at the end,” said Eve.
“Sounds like your average night to me,” said Toby ruefully. He hadn’t had a date for several weeks.
They all giggled. “Actually,” said Faith, “in this case I plan for it to mean taking time to just be with one another. Not touching, looking into one another’s eyes, then when you do get down to it, taking it really, really slow.” Unintentionally, her eyes met Rusty’s. He’d been watching her as she spoke, an elbow on the arm of the sun lounger, resting his head on his hand. His reddish-brown hair, which had given him his nickname from a very young age, was curly and ruffled from repeated dips in the pool. His real name was Richard, but she’d never heard him called it. He wore only his swimming shorts, and the hot sun had turned his arms and chest a deep brown. Unlike the rest of them, Rusty hadn’t been drinking, and his eyes were half-lidded from tiredness rather than alcohol. But there was still a spark of something deep within them, twinkling like a faraway star, something she couldn’t quite place.
Available from August 7th
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If you enjoy books by Serenity Woods, you may also enjoy stories by Kris Pearson.
OUT OF BOUNDS – Kris Pearson
Prologue
Jetta Rivers despised herself for snooping on him over the old fence, but with her face hidden safely in the foliage of Gran’s jasmine vine, her eyes still followed his every move.
He was sex on legs. Sex on very long legs. Maybe thirty—with strong arms, and a smooth tanned back flexing in the bright Kiwi sun as he polished the silver flanks of an impeccable old Porsche.
She imagined running her hands over his taut muscular body as sensuously as his were caressing the car.
Then, quick as a wink, her naughty brain stripped the jeans off his very cute butt.
‘Stop it Jetta!’ she snapped at herself, adding a couple of frustrated curses as hot little ripples of pleasure pulsed between her thighs. Why did she feel like this when she couldn’t do anything about it? Her body might be bursting with lust but her brain always put the brakes on. In twenty-six years, she’d had exactly one night of sex.
And it had been terrible.
Chapter One
A week later Jetta swiped at a trickle of tears and drew a deep determined breath. The house she’d just inherited was far from beautiful—Grandma’s loving welcomes had somehow disguised the awful details and softened the scruffiness.
But it was hers now, and chipping up the old kitchen floor with Grandpa’s spade was only the first of dozens of jobs she had planned.
Wincing at her new blisters, she gathered up some of the larger pieces of linoleum, carried them along the hallway, and threw her armful of rubbish onto the growing heap beside the path. Then she took a few gulps of fresh summer air before retreating to the dusty kitchen.
“Hello...?” a man yelled through the open door a few seconds later.
As Jetta turned to investigate, she caught sight of herself in the small mirror on the back of the kitchen door. Under Grandpa’s ancient painting hat, her face was dirty, tear-streaked and bare of make-up. She looked about sixteen, and really didn’t need a visitor.
“Hello?” His voice was softer now and very close.
She whirled further around, heart racing, grabbed for the spade handle, and clutched it tightly. There was only him and her. No one else to save her.
“What the hell are you doing to the house?” he asked.
She stood there trembling as the man she’d nicknamed ‘Mr Porsche’ gazed about with very obvious amusement on his far-too-gorgeous face. She’d never seen him up close before. Never expected his eyes would be so disturbingly blue or that he’d have that little sprinkling of dark hair showing at the open neck of his polo shirt. “It’s my house—I’ll do what I like with it,” she managed.
“It’s our house, and I’ll be demolishing it,�
�� he replied. “Anton,” he said, thrusting out a big hand. “Anton Haviland. And you must be Jetta Rivers.”
Already way on edge, Jetta sagged onto one of the 1950’s chrome and leatherette chairs in case his outrageous suggestion was for real. Demolish her house? Never!
She wouldn’t shake his hand.
She wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole.
“Didn’t you know?” He telescoped down to a squat—no point in making her even more nervous. She was younger than he’d expected. Looked a lot younger than Horrie Winters had said, and in total denial.
“Know what?” Her words came out in an anguished croak. Her knuckles shone white with the death-grip she had around the old spade-handle.
Anton shrugged. “That I even existed, by the look of things. That the house was left to the two of us, fifty-fifty?”
“The house was left to me,” she snapped. “Gran told me again and again it would be mine after she’d gone.”
“Your Gran,” he said, choosing the words with care, “was a long way from her original self. I gather she had dementia and didn’t know what was going on half the time.”
A variety of expressions flitted over the girl’s small dusty face. Disbelief. Outrage. Acceptance for her grandmother’s condition, but not yet for the shared ownership of the old timber bungalow.
“Gran worried about a lot of funny stuff,” she agreed with apparent reluctance. “I didn’t think she was too bad until a couple of months ago.”
“Your Grand-dad arranged for their solicitor, Horrie Winters, to have Power of Attorney,” Anton said. “Way back before he died, because he wanted her looked after. He didn’t want to burden you.”
“Five years ago?” Her eyes accused Anton of crimes he’d never committed. “So why didn’t this lawyer give Gran more money? Her clothes were in rags. I was shocked when I went through her wardrobe.”
Anton shrugged again, wanting to stand. “She should have been fine. She had her pension for food and clothing. Horrie had all the household bills direct-debited from their bank account. I know that much.”
Her eyes narrowed in accusation. “How do you know? She was my grandmother!”
He sighed. He was in no mood to be cross-examined by a girl he’d never met about an old lady he knew only the barest details of.
“Didn’t you keep in touch with Horrie?” He hoped his exasperation wasn’t too obvious.
“I’ve never heard of him. I thought now Gran was dead I’d get a letter from someone confirming the details of my inheritance. My inheritance,” she insisted. “My house I’m going to renovate and live in.”
“Our inheritance,” Anton corrected, trying not to sound too sharp. “Old Lucy had the house for her lifetime. Now it comes to us jointly.”
“Hah! According to you. Who are you, anyway?”
He adjusted his balance; squatting on his heels wasn’t easy. “Anton Piers Scott Haviland if you want the whole mouthful. Some sort of relation? A distant cousin I suppose? Sounds like you’ve never heard of me.”
Her pretty mouth fell open and her eyes expanded to huge black pools of disbelief. Her spare hand grasped at the air as though she was clutching for sanity.
She lurched up from the old chair and stared down at him in horror. “I don’t have any cousins,” she insisted. “There was my mother Margaret, and that was all. She had no brothers or sisters, so I’ve no cousins. Dad had one brother, but he left New Zealand and he’s been in Canada a long time now. Since...um ...”
She started to tremble again, and Anton rose to his feet, too, seeing her tiny silver tassel earrings shaking and catching the light. Was she going into shock? What the hell should he do?
“And you don’t sound Canadian,” she added, aiming a savage kick at the half-stripped floor.
He assumed she’d rather be kicking his head in. Annoyance more than shock, he thought with relief. “Definitely not Canadian,” he assured her. “Total Kiwi. Born in Auckland, grew up here in Wellington. Spare me the family tree though—second cousins twice removed and all that sort of thing.”
“So how do you think you fit in?”
“Not the foggiest. My mother is Isobel Scott if that means anything to you? My father was never...interested.” Her expression softened very slightly. “Your grandfather was David Haviland?” he asked.
She nodded, dark eyes still fiercely dilated.
“And I carry his unusual surname. Isn’t that enough proof I’m somehow part of the family?”
“You could have changed it by deed-poll.”
Anton breathed out slowly, trying to avoid the sharp reply that sprang to his lips. “I didn’t. I didn’t need to. It’s the name on my birth certificate.” He tried for a more conciliatory tone. “This seems to have come as a total surprise to you; we’ll have to go and see Horrie together.”
She continued to stare at him, eyes ablaze, and then dropped onto the chair again as if wanting to keep some physical distance between them. He couldn’t blame her. In one savage blow, she’d lost half her home and gained a part-uncle or a half-cousin or whatever the hell he was.
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