by Lyla Dune
Gathering her wet and knotted golden strands, he smoothed her hair into a ponytail. Gently, he began working the brush through the ends, making sure to hold her ponytail firmly in his fist to keep from pulling her hair too hard and hurting her. Little by little, he loosened the knots until he reached her scalp. She sat up straight and lifted her chin. He flipped her mane away from her face, shuddering at the sensual slapping sound it made as it hit her back like the gentle spank from the leather tassel of a cat o’nine tails. As lightly as he could, he used the pads of his fingers to push her hair out of her eyes. Her lashes fluttered and tickled his skin.
She sighed again and lolled her head to the side until her silky cheek rested against his palm. With long, slow strokes, he brushed her hair from scalp to ends. Her delicate skin shimmered in the magnolia moonlight streaming from the window and sliding door.
Her bounty of supple curves tempted his fingertips, especially those puffy, pink nipples he longed to suckle. She turned and stretched her lean body face down across the mattress. Her tresses cascaded over her back. She murmured, “Don’t stop.”
Seated on the edge of the bed, he pulled the brush through her hair, letting the bristles gently rake over her scalp, neck, and shoulders. As his overlapping strokes neared her ribcage, she moaned and arched, lifting her hips, pushing her bare bottom toward his face.
He wanted to sink his teeth into that plump pillow of sensuality rising to meet his hungry mouth, but he forced himself to pull the sheet over that nude piece of heaven before he took things too far. Seeing her like this—vulnerable and spread naked before him—was lightyears beyond any fantasy he’d had of her, or any woman.
His stiffened body ached to make love to her with his grinding pelvis rocking her to sleep as only a slow, passionate, eyes-locked, loving exchange of moans and naughty whispers could.
In a slurred, drunken whisper she said, “My mother used to brush my hair when I was a little girl. I loved that. It was always so comforting. My mom had a gentle touch like you, soothing and tender. Whenever I was upset, she would have me lie on my tummy on the bed. She would brush my hair as I told her all about my troubles. Looking back, I see they weren’t actually troubles, but when you’re six years old, and your best friend says she doesn’t want to play with you anymore because you broke her red crayon, it’s devastating.” She released a half-hearted “ha.”
Sam was a chatty drunk. Brock could sense she needed to keep talking. He ran his fingertips down her arm, “Is anything troubling you now?”
She shivered, and goosebumps formed on her arms. He stood and pulled the sliding glass door shut.
She sat up in bed, her eyes panicked, “Leave it open. Please, you have to leave it open.”
He slid the door open and sat back down beside her. “You looked cold.”
She trembled. “You don’t understand.” Burying her face in her hands, she said, “I know I seem crazy.”
“No, love, you don’t seem crazy. Talk to me.”
He placed a finger under her chin and nudged her head up. “Take a deep breath.”
She inhaled. He did the same. As he demonstrated a long exhale, she joined him and let out a deep breath of her own.
He forced himself to keep his eyes on hers and not look at her tantalizing body. “What has scared you?”
Her chin trembled. “When I was eight years old my parents were killed in a plane crash.” With her words slurring together, he had to concentrate on her lips, reading them as best he could.
Discovering she was an orphan tugged at his heart. His mother was orphaned at a young age and even though she seldom opened up, she had shared enough of her past for him to know her grief over her parents’ death wasn’t something she’d ever outgrown. He often thought it had shaped her, made her more reluctant to bond than most. He suspected Sam didn’t freely share her hurts with people either. She seemed far too tough and bristled to reveal her tender underbelly with ease. He knew the alcohol had a lot to do with her forthcoming information, but he also knew, it was good for her talk about it.
He wished his mother had talked about a lot of things with him. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind that communication was the key to bonding.
She took a deep breath and continued. “My dad got called to fill in for the bassist with a top notch jazzer who was touring in upstate New York. Dad had big dreams of living the life on the road, playing jazz with some of the world’s finest musicians. He was really good.” She froze and lowered her head.
Brock caressed her knee. He’d been around plenty of drunks and found that there were four basic types—those who became hostile, those who became silly, those who became dare devils, and those who poured out their hearts to anyone who’d listen. Sam was definitely the heart-pouring variety, and she needed a good listener.
He was more than willing to oblige. “So are you, love. Go on.”
“I had no other family so I became a ward of the state and ended up being passed from one foster family to the other until I was eighteen. All I had to keep the memory of my parents alive were a few pictures, the baby blanket my mother had crocheted for me, and my dad’s double bass. He’d taken his electric bass on the plane.”
She crossed her arms over her chest and squeezed her biceps. “I really missed my folks, and sometimes when I’d have a bad dream or felt lonely, I’d take my dad’s bass out of the case and crawl inside with my baby blanket. The interior smelled like Dad. The blanket felt soft like Mom. One night, I fell asleep in there, and my foster sister closed the lid and locked the latches. I couldn’t get out. It’s not airtight so I could breathe, but I hyperventilated and had the sensation of suffocating. It seemed like I was in a coffin, but I didn’t want to kick too hard or scratch the case, because it meant too much to me. I was trapped inside for hours. My foster mother didn’t hear my screams. She drank a lot and was passed out upstairs. My foster father worked third shift. I was probably in there for eight hours or more before my foster dad came home and found me. Ever since then, I’ve had a fear of being trapped. I can’t sleep without a door or a window open. I don’t care how cold or hot it is outside.”
Her horrific story touched him. She was such a tough, independent woman on the outside, but inside she was a lonely little girl who deserved to be loved and cherished. “I’m sorry you had to go through all of that. Losing both parents at such a young age must have been very difficult for you. It sounds like your foster situation only made matters worse.”
She nodded and shrugged. “My foster mother burned my baby blanket because she said I made her husband mad at her for not finding me sooner.”
“That’s horrible.” Brock couldn’t imagine how anyone would could be so cruel to a child.
Sam nodded. “She was the worst foster mother I had.”
“How many did you have?”
“Four total, but she was my first. Shortly after she did that though, I was moved to another family. They weren’t as bad, but the lady was a psycho therapist, and she analyzed every move I made. It drove me nuts. Ironic, right?” She smiled a genuine warm smile.
“You have a contagious smile. Thanks for opening up to me, Sam.” He was grateful to learn more about her. It made him feel closer to her, but he also knew she was blitzed and may be telling him far more than she intended.
She nodded and said, “I have a confession.”
“What’s that?”
“I lied to you about something. I’m not actually gay. To be honest, I’ve never even kissed another woman, nor have I had the desire to.”
“I’ve suspected that all along. But why did you tell me that?”
“Have you seen you? You’re freaking hot as hell. I had to do something to keep myself from crawling all over you on day one.” She laughed.
“I wouldn’t have minded, love. Still wouldn’t mind.” Rebel stirred. Rebel wouldn’t mind either.
She giggled. “Look. I’m sure you’re a great guy. In fact, you’ve proven it many times.” She pointed a wa
ving finger and seemed to struggle to focus on him. “The thing is, I have bad taste in men. I thought if I were drawn to you, you must be bad news. I mean, you’re the reason I gotta move out of this awesome house and all. That’s kind of a super-sized, red flag, right?”
“If you say so. But you just admitted I’d proven I was a good guy, so I’m a bit confused.”
“That makes two of us. When you kissed me, I nearly blurted out the ‘L’ word. You know, the love word. For the record, I never blurt out the ‘L’ word. I thought it’d scare you off. You know. I figured you were just looking for a good time. I mean. You were kissing a woman you barely knew, a woman who said she was gay, a woman who fusses one minute and flirts with you the next.”
“I was kissing you, love. Notice I use the ‘L’ word when I’m referring to you quite often?”
She nodded in a circular motion. “You call all the ladies love. You even called that nurse love.”
She’d never let him forget that nurse. “If I kiss you again, will you promise to blurt out the ‘L’ word?”
She stared into his eyes and nodded yes.
He felt himself falling for her hard and fast. She did him in with her big blue eyes, sad childhood, sexy body, and sweetness mixed with the perfect amount of spice, but he couldn’t make a move on her right now. She was drunk. He needed her to confess her attraction to him when she was sober. Now that he knew all her secrets, he was confident he could seduce that confession right out of her.
“Lie back, love.” She settled back down, and he pulled the covers over her. “I’m glad you told me.”
Mazy entered the room with a throw wrapped around her. She stumbled over the hem of it and fell onto the bed next to Sam. She didn’t even acknowledge Brock was in the room before she did a face-plant into her pillow and snored.
Sam’s eyes flutter closed as her breathing slipped into slow sleep rhythm.
Let them sleep it off. They may feel like death tomorrow, but for now, they were safe and sound.
He’d sleep on the couch for the night. On second thought, after seeing Sam naked like that, he’d be awake for hours.
When he reached the bedroom door, Sam called his name, summoning him back to bed. He grabbed the doorframe and thumped his head against it. “Go to sleep, love.”
She rolled onto her side and mumbled, “Goodnight.”
He definitely deserved at least a day pass beyond the pearly gates for not making a move on her tonight.
Saint Peter, I hope you jotted this down.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Hangover
“SAM. SAM. WAKE up.”
Sam pried her eyes open. Groggy, convinced her tongue wore a fur coat, she struggled to focus. “What?”
In the bed beside her, Mazy tugged the sheet to her chin. “You took things too far.”
“What are you talking about?” Sam glanced down. Holy Crap. She was naked. And in Brock’s bed with Mazy.
The sheet slipped from May’s grasp. She was naked too. Sam’s heart morphed into a Mexican jumping bean. “Oh shit.”
“Yeah. You can say that again. What happened?” Mazy pulled her knees to her chest.
“I don’t remember.” Sam rubbed her forehead. It felt like her brain was par boiled inside her skull.
”I have a vague memory of being squished in a truck next to Myrtle Pinkerton.” Mazy wiped her eyes, smearing her mascara further down her cheek until she looked like a chimney sweep from Mary Poppins.
Sam thought for a moment. Not sure if Robirrrda was real or a dream. “I think I remember talking to an ostrich.”
Hoarse laughter rattled from Mazy. “I don’t think that was a dream.”
“Do you think we…Brock? No….”
A quiet knock on the bedroom door was followed by a familiar British voice. “You ladies awake? Care for a special-hangover-remedy breakfast?”
Mazy called out. “We’re awake. Yes. Breakfast sounds great. With a side of hair of the dog.”
“You had enough hair last night. Trust me. I have just the thing for you. I’ll be in the kitchen. Get dressed and come down.” Sam could hear the amusement in Brock’s voice.
She held her breath until she heard footfalls descend the stairs, then she exhaled and leaned in to whisper in Mazy’s ear. “You can’t be serious. Breakfast? With him?”
“Why not? I’m hungry.”
“You’re bonkers. We can’t just act like nothing happened. We slept with him. Together. Know what I mean? Together as in—a ride on a bicycle built for two.”
“I’m not stupid. I know what you mean. I’m as mortified about that possibility as you are. The thing is, whatever happened is over now, and nothing is going to change it. The best thing we can do is act cool and not let him know that we don’t remember jack-shit. Just play it off like last night was an everyday thing, nothing special, nothing at all. Just a wee itty bitty thing.” She held her hand up with her index finger centimeters from her thumb to indicate just how small. “Don’t underestimate the male ego. If we make him self-conscious about his sexual prowess, he’ll be more worried we’ll run our mouths than we are he’ll run his.”
Sam thought about it and saw Mazy’s point. If they were low key, Brock wouldn’t have anything to tease them about. He’d be less likely to boast to others about his score. Especially if they alluded his penis size was insufficient. They needed to give him the impression that no one would be shocked by their salacious actions, and that she and Mazy didn’t think he was good in bed. That was their only chance of surviving this thing without having their dignity shredded. They weren’t going to breathe a word of it to anyone else, so they wouldn’t be spreading rumors about him. No one else would ever know. Hopefully, their performance rating of his member wouldn’t cause him to become dependent on Viagra.
THE VIEW OF Brock manning the stove made Sam falter as she stepped into the kitchen. She grabbed the bar for balance. Luckily, he and Mazy didn’t seem to notice her clumsiness. She stared at his back, taking in the display of his muscles working in concert as he churned the whisk. He wore a pair of low slung, blue, board shorts and nothing else. Nothing she could see that is. But she had a pretty good idea he was going commando. He was in swim trunks after all.
Damn. If she had done the deed with him, she got cheated by not being able to remember, because she was sure those were some juicy memories.
Mazy looked over his shoulder. “Yum. Tiny sausage links. You know how I love tiny sausages.” She slapped Brock on the butt.
He didn’t react. “Take a seat, sausage hound. I’ll plate this up for you in a second.”
Sam pulled herself onto a barstool and eyed the humongous omelet he folded in the skillet.
He grabbed three glasses out of the cupboard and a pitcher of some sort of dark red juice from the fridge. He poured the thick juice into the glasses and said, “Drink this down and your headache will dissolve.”
Mazy held her glass up to the light. “What’s in this?” She sniffed it. “Mmm. Smells like raspberries and peaches.” She took a sip. “Wow. That’s yummy.”
“It’s filled with antioxidants. My secret recipe. I’m glad you like it because you’re going to need to drink two glasses of it with your meal.” He gave Sam a stern look. “You too, young lady. You need to replenish your body.”
Was he implying she’d exerted herself the night before?
He fixed three plates of food and put them on the counter then sat beside Sam. His thigh brushed hers as he scooted himself closer to the bar. Her whole leg zinged with a tingly awareness of him. And that awareness was migrating toward her groin.
Sam stabbed the omelet with her fork. Melted cheese, caramelized onions, red and green peppers, all in a pocket of fluffy egg. The perfect bite. She opened her mouth and savored the textures and tastes on her palate. He’d sprinkled some sort of spices in this mixture. A hint of smokiness like cumin and a slight twang of mild curry hit her tongue as warm, savory goodness filled her mouth. She closed her eyes a
nd chewed, moaning in the process.
Brock coughed and reached for his juice. He took a big gulp.
She faced him. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. I’m fine.” He shifted on the barstool.
She dipped her fork back into the omelet for another bite. From the corner of her eye, she saw Brock staring at her. She paused with her mouth wide open, the fork poised at her lips then slowly guided the fork into her moaning, appreciative mouth.
He groaned and picked his plate up. “I’m going to eat on the deck. You ladies enjoy.” When he stood, she noticed the bulge in his shorts. The man was far from tiny.
Mazy spoke up. “Hang on. I wanted to let you know that my brother has the same problem you do about…you know….maintaining. He takes some sort of testosterone supplement he gets from a health food store in Crystal Cove. Want me to have him pick you up some?”
“I don’t have any problem…maintaining. Thank you kindly.”
“Oh. Well, you did last night, but a lot of guys do. Satisfying two women at once requires a little extra. It’s nothing to be embarrassed about.”
If Brock’s head had been a tea kettle, Sam swore his ears would have whistled, judging from the redness rimming his lobes.
He ground out, “Yes, keeping up with you two ladies does require extra. You are correct about that.”
“Yeah. We hear that a lot. But don’t worry, we won’t tell anyone about, you know, any of that stuff. Gossip gets around like lightning on the island. We wouldn’t want to hurt your chances with other women. Sam mentioned you had eyes for a nurse.” Mazy bit a sausage link in half and flashed a greasy smile.
Brock lifted an eyebrow and locked eyes with Sam. “I won’t breathe a word of what happened to anyone either. Thank you for being so compassionate about my…shortcomings as it were.” He stormed toward the deck.
Mazy waved her hand in a don’tmention-it gesture. “No problem, dude. We see it all the time. By the way, awesome breakfast.”
When Brock closed the door behind him, Mazy said, “See? We don’t have anything to worry about. That worked better than I thought it would. I will say one thing though. The man can cook.”
