Bed Shaker

by Penny Wylder

  Table of Contents

  Books By Penny Wylder

  Ram

  Cadie

  Excerpt of QUICKIE

  Bed Shaker

  Penny Wylder

  Contents

  Books By Penny Wylder

  1. Ram

  2. Cadie

  3. Ram

  4. Cadie

  5. Ram

  6. Cadie

  7. Ram

  8. Cadie

  9. Ram

  10. Cadie

  11. Cadie

  12. Ram

  13. Ram

  Excerpt of QUICKIE

  Books By Penny Wylder

  Copyright © 2017 by Penny Wylder

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Books By Penny Wylder

  Filthy Boss

  Her Dad’s Friend

  Rockstars F#*k Harder

  The Virgin Intern

  Her Dirty Professor

  The Pool Boy

  Get Me Off

  Caught Together

  Selling Out to the Billionaire

  Falling for the Babysitter

  Lip Service

  Full Service

  Expert Service

  The Billionaire’s Virgin

  The Billionaire’s Secret Babies

  Her Best Friend’s Dad

  Own Me

  The Billionaire’s Gamble

  Seven Days With Her Boss

  Virgin in the Middle

  The Virgin Promise

  First and Last

  Tease

  Spread

  Bang

  Second Chance Stepbrother

  Dirty Promise

  Sext

  Quickie

  1

  Ram

  “So, Ram, who’s the lucky lady tonight?” Tim asks. He sits on a mound of dirt, planting flowers. He’s my boss at the landscaping outfit I work for part time. He’s an older man, married for twenty years and faithful as hell, but that doesn’t stop him from living vicariously through me. I have a reputation around town for my prowess in the bedroom. That’s a polite way of saying it. In other words, I’m the best fuck a woman will never pay for. I didn’t set out to cause a stir with the ladies, but word got around and now here we are.

  “Your guess is as good as mine,” I say. “We’ll just have to wait and see what happens.”

  I dig a hole in the center of the yard for a palm tree. With Tim’s weathered back, I’m the muscle around here and do all the heavy lifting and grunt work. It keeps me in shape, so I don’t mind it.

  “Are you about done with that hole?” Tim says.

  “Yeah.”

  Tim wipes his forehead with a rag he keeps in his back pocket and squints his eyes against the flaring sun. “Why don’t you go ahead and take off then. I can finish up here.”

  “Thanks man.”

  “I want a full report on your activities tonight when I see you next.”

  I laugh. “You got it.”

  I load my tools into the back of the truck with my surfboard. It’s well worn, scuffed on the bottom from hitting rocks and coral. It’s seen better days but it’s perfect for me. I know this board like the back of my hand and can control it as if it had a steering wheel. It has a lot of miles on it. Back in the day, I used it to compete in big wave competitions. I have a garage full of trophies to prove it. If I hadn’t injured my leg during a competition in Australia, who knows, I might’ve gone pro. Nowadays, people pay me good money to teach them to surf. It’s something I love to do on the side when I’m not working for Tim.

  Once everything is loaded up, I head for the beach.

  My client, a twelve-year-old kid named Ben, is waiting for me in our usual spot. The beach is packed with sunbathers, but Ben stands out among them with his bright-colored board—not a scratch on it—and his new wetsuit. I told his parents it wasn’t necessary for the expensive gear, but apparently they thought otherwise.

  I slide on my wetsuit—though it’s not really cold enough to need it. I leave the top half of the suit loose around my waist and grab my board from the bed of my truck. The sand is warm and feels amazing sifting through my toes after a long day of work in steel-toe boots. The water looks choppy despite the pleasant day. The sun is high, beating down on my forehead like a molten hammer. A few clouds linger in the distance, but nothing threatening. It’s a good day to catch a few waves.

  “Hey kid, you ready to get wet?” I drop my board on the sand and finish pulling on my suit.

  “Hell yeah,” he says, a bundle of enthusiasm. I laugh when his voice squeaks on the high note. His face turns red and sheepish, but he smiles and shrugs as if he’s accepted this new changing voice of his.

  So far, our practices have been on land. It’s important to teach a novice how to balance, and move their bodies, and where to place their feet before ever getting in the water. Normally I’ll spend an hour teaching these techniques, but with younger kids, I like to give them a few days to make sure it really sinks in.

  “All right, let’s go,” I say.

  We step into the foam where the beach meets the sea and allow our bodies to adjust to the cool water. The wind rustles my hair, the salty spray wetting my face. The ocean is where I truly feel at home.

  “Come here,” I tell the kid. He walks toward me and I hold my waterproof cellphone up. “Noob surfer selfie.”

  Ben laughs and crowds in for the obligatory picture. All of my students get pictures at the beginning of our lessons to go on my website and Instagram to promote my business. We smile and I click the photo and post it. Stuffing the phone into my suit, I lay stomach-down to my board. Ben does the same and we paddle out.

  Once we’re out of the surf, we sit up on our boards and wait for the waves to roll in. I hope the kid wore sunscreen. The glare coming off the water is brutal. I put my hand up to my eyes to shield them and wait to see what Ben is going to do.

  He waits patiently for the right one, bobbing on the backs of discarded waves. As he misses several more, it’s apparent he’s nervous. Maybe he’s not as ready as I thought he was. As the thought occurs to me, he starts to paddle into the next one. It’s much bigger than the others and I realize he wasn’t afraid at all, he was showing off. He didn’t want to ride a small wave; he wanted to impress. Except, I’m not impressed. My stomach drops at the sight of the monster wave heading his way.

  I cup my hands around my mouth and call out to him. “Wait for the next,” I shout, but he can’t hear me. The ocean throws sound like a game of catch and makes it impossible to communicate without looking at each other.

  The wave grows into a giant’s gaping mouth, ready to swallow him up. His board isn’t in the right position and neither are his hands where he’s clutching the edges. It’s as if he’s forgotten every single thing I’ve taught him. The wave is going to toss him like a dog’s plaything. He must realize that by now, but he tries getting onto his board anyway. He almost gets to his feet but the heel of his foot slips and he goes down, hitting his head on the side of his board as he falls. The wave crashes on top of him with crushing force.

  I can hear people on shore crying out as I paddle toward Ben. They must have seen it too.

  Ben doesn’t come back up. I dive underwater, swimming below the waves to keep from getting caught up in the spin cycle. It’s like a food processor down here, seaweed and sand churned up, making it impossible to see. My eyes burn, but I don’t close them. I keep searching.

  Thank God for his brightly colored board. I swim toward it and see Ben struggling to
get back to the surface. The cord around his ankle is tethered to his board, keeping him buoyed near the surface. I grab him under the arms and lift him so his head is out of the water where he’s able to take hold of his board and drape himself over it.

  There’s a gash on the corner of his head, dripping a small amount of blood. Sharks don’t usually troll this part of the Pacific Ocean, but I’d rather not tempt them to change their minds. I kick my feet and paddle hard with one arm while pushing the board with my other.

  Back on shore, several people come over to help me drag Ben’s spent body onto dry land. He coughs seawater from his lungs and makes a miserable sound. I remember my first close call when I’d taken in a mouthful of the ocean. It wasn’t fun. It felt like shards of glass had sliced up the back of my throat.

  Those who aren’t helping to make sure the boy is safe have their phones out, filming or taking pictures. I’m bent over the kid with my hands on my knees, trying to catch my breath.

  My wet hair drips onto his face. “You all right?” I ask him.

  He holds his stomach, looking as though he might vomit. “I think I did that wrong.”

  I laugh. At least he still has a sense of humor about it. I doubt his parents will think it’s funny when they find out. I also doubt Ben will tell them, but with all the busybodies around us, I’m sure it will end up on the news or social media. It’s a small town and anything involving surfing is big news.

  “You’ll nail it next time,” I say.

  I wait until his parents get to the beach to pick him up to tell them about the situation. Before they got there, Ben had begged me not to, but I can’t lie to them. So I give them a version of the truth. I tell them he wiped out pretty hard instead of telling them he almost drowned.

  On my way back to my truck, people clap me on the back and call me a hero. I smile. What do you say to something like that? I don’t feel like a hero. It’s part of surfing. I’m just glad the kid is okay. Right now, all I’m concerned about is washing the salt off my skin and going home.

  I put my board in the bed of the truck. When I peel off my wetsuit, my phone falls out. Picking it up, the backlight comes on and I see that I have several notifications on Instagram from the picture of Ben and me. Thirty thousand, to be exact. Mostly from women, and none of the comments are about Ben.

  I get home and shower, feeling better once I rinse the ocean off me. After the adrenaline rush of Ben’s near-drowning, I need to get laid. I’m not fully horny yet, but there’s a needling somewhere in my groin that I know will eventually turn into an inferno. I’m debating on calling one of the regular chicks I hook up with or trying out some of the new offers I see in the comments on Instagram. So many options. What’s a horny guy to do?

  I’m scrolling through the comments. These girls are shameless, going into full detail about the things they would do to me if they had me naked and alone. I wonder if they know the comment section is public. I laugh, my dick getting harder as I keep reading. In any other situation, that kind of blatant come-on would be a turn off—I like my women more subtle and flirty, but when my cock is hard enough to cut diamonds, blatant is good.

  I’m still scrolling when I get a text from a number I’m not familiar with. I open it.

  Cum ovr nd fuk me.

  I let out a breath of laughter. It’s a bold text and I’m not mad about it. Consider me intrigued.

  I text back: Who is this?

  I get a reply a short time later with pictures. Nothing too revealing. A below the neck shot of a woman with an incredible body. She’s wearing a sheer robe, open just wide enough to see a pink lace bra and panties beneath, delicious cleavage, tan skin, and a flat stomach. The longer I look at the photo, the harder my dick gets until it’s bordering on painful.

  Looks like we’ve found a winner.

  I text back: Address?

  She sends it and I stop at the liquor store to grab a bottle of wine before heading over to her place. It’s only a ten-minute drive. I’m digging deep into my memory to see if I can remember who she is, but I come up with nothing. I’d remember a body like that. I’m sure of it. It’s not like I’ve been with so many women that I can’t distinguish one from another—that would be an asshole move, and I’d like to think I’m not that guy. But I have to admit, the idea of not knowing her identity is exciting and keeps me turned on.

  I get to my destination. It’s a nice neighborhood in a complex of high-end townhomes. Can’t say I’ve ever been here before. Nothing’s familiar about it. Once I get out of the car, I grab the bottle of wine I brought and head for the row of townhouses. Hers is #9. I knock on the door. There’s a sound coming from within. Sounds like glass breaking. What the hell was that? I knock again. A dog barks and I take a step back. It’s not some little Chihuahua either. Sounds big, whatever it is.

  The door opens and a big black and white spotted, long-legged mass of muscle and slobber attacks me with tongue kisses—not the woman, of course, but a mammoth of a Great Dane.

  “Whoa, hey buddy,” I say, patting the dog on the rump when he turns his back to me.

  The woman comes out from behind the door. She has the most incredible body I’ve ever seen. Better than her pictures. She’s tall with perfectly sculpted legs, dark wavy hair down to the middle of her back, dewy pale skin … but that mug. I make a face that I know is a cringe, and force myself to reel it back before she notices. I’m sure her face is probably beautiful, too. Hard to tell under the mess of the lipstick and mascara smeared across it. The girl is hammered. I can tell by the drooping eyelids and the hollow stare that she’s had way too much to drink.

  “Hey sexty,” she says. Not sure where the ‘T’ came from in that word, but that’s how she says it. She takes me by the collar of my shirt and pulls me into her home. There’s an empty wine bottle on the table, but no glasses. She must have just gone for it, straight from the bottle. This girl set out to get drunk. Next to it is a crystal candlestick holder that shattered on the laminate floor. That must’ve been the sound of breaking glass I heard. Either she knocked it over while getting up off the couch or her dog’s whip of a tail did it. Either way, she’s lucky there was no flame considering the candle itself is lying right under the edge of the couch. That thing would light up like a Christmas tree.

  “I want you to fuck me,” she says, bringing me back to the half-naked woman in front of me. She fumbles with the buttons of my shirt. Her hands are too clumsy to get the job done. Then she tries to rip it off, but that doesn’t work either.

  I’m amused, trying not to laugh. I know for sure I’ve never met her. Every one of the women I’ve slept with is unique in her own way, and I have a damn good memory. Each has her own special something, whether it’s the color of her hair, her lips, tits or ass. With this one, it will definitely be those graceful long legs. But who is she? What’s her name? How does she know who I am? And the biggest question: How did she get my number?

  “I’d love to, but it’s not going to happen,” I say, holding her hands down at her sides.

  She looks down at my grip on her wrists as if she can’t understand why she can’t move her arms. She makes an irritated sound, followed by a whine. “Why not?”

  “Having sex with inebriated women isn’t my style.” I test out the waters and let go of her—I don’t want her to think I’m trying to physically control her in her own home, which, at the moment, I am. Bad idea. She immediately reaches for my hard-on. Despite her tattered state, my damn cock remains hard. That body of hers is every man’s fantasy, sleek and muscular, yet still soft and inviting. And those gazelle legs … I imagine being tangled up with her, legs wrapped around my waist as I hold her against the wall and fuck her until she screams my name. That thought then shifts to an image of those legs spread wide as I eat her pussy. These thoughts do nothing to settle the hammer in my pants, and the knowledge that I might be stuck with this boner all night with no way to relieve it, brings me a twinge of disappointment.

  I close my eyes
, trying to get the thoughts of fucking her out of my head. It’s just making me get hard to the point of it being painful, and right now, there’s nothing I can do for release.

  “That looks yummy,” she says, grabbing my dick and licking her lips.

  Jesus Christ. This is going to be a difficult one to say no to. I grumble my disappointment.

  She continues to get handsy. She’s like a goddamned octopus with those things, her fingers like tentacles latching onto me. I have to be more forceful with her, and I squeeze her wrists tighter to stop her advances. She lets out an annoyed grunt when she doesn’t get her way. Drunk people are like children. They’re impossible to reason with. I let out an exasperated sigh.

  “Let’s just do it. I’m not inebr…” She stumbles on the word and tries again. “Iberi …” Eventually she just gives up and makes a series of mumbled sounds to replace the word.

  This time I do laugh, but I keep it under my breath so I don’t hurt her feelings. Whatever made her decide to get this drunk must’ve bad.

  Her dog comes up to me, leaning against my side in a dog’s version of a hug.

  “Come on, let’s get you to bed,” I say.

  Her face lights up. “Now you’re talking!”

  I roll my eyes and shake my head, hiding my smile.

  The dog follows me as I lead the woman down the hallway toward the bedroom. There are two rooms; one is a cluttered office. The other isn’t as frilly as I would’ve expected for a woman’s bedroom. It has gray walls, and a black and white striped comforter on a king-sized bed. A shock of color here and there keeps the room from looking plain. Makes me think a man might’ve lived with her at one point, but there are no signs of one being here recently. The closet door is open. One half is full of dresses and shoes. The other half is empty and hangers are slung across the floor like the aftermath of a hurricane in department store. Whoever left this place, left in a hurry.