Journey: A Cariad Romance Three Book Bundle (Cariad Collections)

by Grace, K D

  ‘She told me about a lot of things. Val, my point is that they both love you and want you happy. And they’re hoping, and I’m certainly hoping that your happiness will at least in part involve me.’

  Suddenly they found themselves on the viewing platform at the top of the falls, surprisingly invisible from below. ‘Oh my God!’ She spoke over the roar of the falls, as they took in the dizzying view of the Columbia River and the world beneath that now looked miniature and toy-like.

  She leaned out over the metal railing into nothingness. Her insides quivered low in her pelvic girdle and her stomach flip-flopped. ‘You feel that?’ she breathed, as he moved in behind her and slid his arms around her waist. ‘I love that feeling of almost falling, almost flying, you know, the way it feels to be up so high and looking down. I wonder if that’s what birds feel. I dream about that sometimes, flying like they fly.’

  ‘Oh yes, I feel it,’ he said, ‘But that’s not nearly all I’m feeling, Val, not nearly.’ He started by nibbling the nape of her neck, and as he moved in close enough that she could feel the tight undulation of his groin, the delirious free-falling sensation intensified until she shuddered and quivered against him, feeling goose flesh tickle up her spine. She guided his hand down inside her tank top to her breasts, cupping him to her until her nipple caressed his fingertips and he gasped against her ear. ‘God woman, I wouldn’t trade this. I wouldn’t trade this for the best thing any bird might feel.’

  She wore a light summer skirt, and though easy access hadn’t been her plan at the beginning of the day, she was certainly happy for it now as his fingers scrunched the fabric until they made contact with bare skin, and the squirmy falling, flying feeling was joined by the thrum of ravenous arousal. She shifted her hips and opened her stance, taking care to rake herself hard against him as she did so. He gave a low belly-grunt in response, and she caught her breath in a little whimper as his hand slid over the crotch of her panties teasing the landscape below to full, humid attention. He thumbed the rise of her clit and drew a heavy finger up the length of her pout, pressing the soft gusset deep along the folds of her until he found her hole, wet and grasping. Then he wriggled and burrowed into it, fabric and all, making her squirm and bear down until the fabric was drenched and clinging. ‘You’re so soft and warm,’ he whispered against her nape. ‘And you smell like honey, hot and sticky and so ready.’

  She heard his fly open, but as she reached around behind to grasp his heavy smoothness, he pushed her hand a way with a tight groan. ‘Don’t do that. I’m so full I’m not sure I can control myself and I don’t want to come in your hand. I want to come inside you.’

  She heard the rattle of the condom wrapper as the hand stroking her through her panties at last slipped the crotch aside. She pulled a tight breath and rubbed herself against the flat of his palm.

  ‘Grab the rail.’ His voice came in tight staccato bursts. ‘That’s it. That’s my girl. Push your butt back. Open your legs for me.’

  She did as he commanded, feeling the giddy clench of the height as she looked over the edge of the fall. The cool caress of evening air bathed her bottom as he lifted her skirt up over her hips, worried her panties until they were uselessly stretched over one butt cheek then he shoved into her with a trembling moan. ‘Oh God,’ he breathed. ‘Oh my God.’ Then he pushed in close, and she could tell by his gasp that they both felt the vertigo of the view into nothingness. The tingling gripping sensation was made all the more exquisite because it culminated in the place that already buzzed with excitement, the place where his cock pushed into her cunt.

  And suddenly, they had company.

  Fortunately, the couple wasn’t quiet in their approach. Val and Hawk heard them coming down the path talking happily about the lovely drive they’d had down the Gorge. Hawk placed a pussy-scented hand over Val’s lips in warning. ‘Don’t move.’ His words came out in a whispered rush. ‘I’m not about to take my cock out of your sweet cunt for polite company or otherwise, so stand still and let me take care of this.’ Careful to keep her pressed up tight against him, he straightened, smoothed her skirt in front then wriggled in very close. She arched her back, shifted her hips and pushed her bottom out to keep his cock from dislodging. He quickly straightened her skirt around his open fly and shoved his groin forward to settle himself still deeper in her pussy. Then he carefully rested a hand either side of her on the metal railing. ‘Now,’ he breathed. ‘Just act like you’re enjoying the view.’

  She gave a nervous clench with her cunt lips and he gasped. ‘Stop that, or I’ll fuck you hard right here in front of them. I’ll grab your tits and hump and grunt and make such a scene that they’ll send for security.’ He nipped her earlobe enough to make it sting. ‘But you’d like that, wouldn’t you?’

  Just then the woman came to the rail beside them. Fortunately her full attention was on the view. ‘Lovely, isn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘Mmm. Lovely.’ Hawk managed. His voice vibrated down through his cock and made Val’s breath hitch, but she disguised it with a cough, which did nothing to ease the tight, tetchy sensation growing where her pussy gripped his cock.

  ‘You two here on vacation?’ the man asked.

  ‘Mmm. Vacation, yes,’ Val replied, fighting the overpowering urge to thrust.

  ‘Us too,’ the woman said, taking her husband’s hand. ‘Well honeymoon, actually.’

  ‘Congratulations,’ both Val and Hawk managed in unison. Val noticed Hawk was white-knuckling the railing, and her toes were curled so hard that she feared she’d dig holes through her sandals.

  As the couple moved around the platform to view Little Multnomah Fall flowing into the deep pool beneath, Hawk’s hand migrated under the front of Val’s skirt to stroke her mons. Then he gave a subtle but deep thrust and tweaked Val’s clit until her knees nearly gave with the thrum of animal lust and vertigo pulsing up through her. ‘Feels good being sneaky, doesn’t it? Makes you even wetter, doesn’t it?’ He nuzzled her ear. ‘Makes my cock feel like iron.’

  Fortunately the couple didn’t linger over the view, but turned and disappeared back down the path.

  In spite of himself, Hawk burst into laughter, a feeling that was anything but unpleasant vibrating through Val’s pussy, ‘Woman, you’re gonna get me in trouble yet. Can you imagine the headline on the front of your Aunt’s next copy of The National Enquirer; ‘Eco-warrior caught with his pants down porking sexy ornithologist.’’

  She wriggled against him and tightened her grip. ‘The question is, does your ass look as good on the front page as that smug face of yours?’

  ‘You’ve seen my bare ass, honey,’ Hawk breathed. ‘You be the judge.’ Then he began to thrust in earnest, with Val braced against the rail, the view sending delicious prickly shivers up her spine.

  ‘Can you feel that,’ she gasped. ‘Oh my God, can you feel that? Feels like I’m gonna explode, all of me, and just drift away on the breeze out across the Columbia.’

  ‘Then let’s do it together,’ he breathed. ‘Let’s make the biggest explosion ever.’ And they did. They came in quakes and tremors that felt like they were falling, that felt like they were flying, that felt like all of Multnomah Falls was happening inside their joined bodies. Then they collapsed against the rail of the viewing platform in bursts of laughter and gasps for breath as the last rays of sun stained the waters of the Columbia mauve.

  When they could breathe again, there was frantic straightening and smoothing of clothing, then with one hand holding Val’s and the other holding his Blackberry to his ear, Hawk called Aunt Rose. ‘Harry arrived OK? Good. Yes, we’re on our way down. Yes, go ahead and order for us. Some nice, juicy red meat would be good.’ He winked at Val. ‘We trust your judgement. See you soon.’

  He shoved the Blackberry in his pocket. ‘Aunt Rose is ordering us prime rib, and she says there are some nice Oregon wines on the menu. And afterwards.’ He squeezed her hand and gave her a fleeting, almost shy glance. ‘Well what happens afterwards all
depends on you.’

  She could feel her pulse hammering in her throat as though it were about to jump out. She took a deep breath and found it was suddenly difficult to speak. ‘Well, actually, I was kind of hoping that, since it’s so important to my family and all. Well, I was hoping that maybe my happiness might, to some degree, involve you, I mean if you’re all right with that, and you don’t need to rush off to New Mexico or do important business stuff that spoilt rich kids are required to do. Only if you’re all right with that.’

  There was a long moment of silence, and she was just beginning to wonder if she’d misread the whole situation when he kissed her hard, then gathered her to him and held her close to the rapid thud, thud of his heart. ‘I could be,’ he said. His voice sounded tight in his throat. ‘I could be very, very all right with that. If it’s acceptable to a burgeoning young ornithologist, that is, and it won’t cramp her lifestyle too much.’

  They stood for a long moment, wrapped in each other’s arms, bathed in the deepening shadows, then Val spoke in a breathless giggle. ‘Come on, we don’t want to keep Aunt Rose waiting. She has hypoglycaemia, you know. Besides I’m starving. I’m looking forward to lots and lots of juicy, succulent red meat.’

  He gave her one last sloppy kiss, and they turned and continued down the path picking up speed as they went.

  Curve Ball by Charlotte Stein

  Chapter One

  The trouble with this holiday is the heat. I just didn’t think of the heat. It’s unrelenting and raw, turning everything a blinding white while it roasts me to an embarrassing shade of red. I step out in it for two seconds and my shoulders lose a layer of skin. I can’t lie out on the slippery surface of my brother’s yacht, because the heat tries to eat me. But I can’t go below deck either, because down there it’s a suffocating, stifling cave.

  Even at night, I have the urge to lie on top of the covers, stark naked. Only I can’t, I can’t, because of the other trouble with this terrible holiday: Steven bloody Stark, and the fact that his door is three feet from my bed. He could open it at any time and find me like a great unclothed wedge of flesh, sprawled out on top of my duvet. He wouldn’t even have to go through another door to stumble across me, seeing as how my room doesn’t have one.

  I don’t actually have a room, at all. I just have this open space between the kitchenette and my brother’s boudoir, and when I’m done sleeping my bed turns into a table. My wardrobe is more typically known as a suitcase, and every night I doze off to the scent of whatever we cooked three hours prior, for dinner.

  I really don’t need to be told that this was the worst idea in the history of the world.

  Though, in my defence, it sounded nice when my brother and his wife invited me. They didn’t even turn it into one of Jason’s patronising “so you won’t be alone” sorts of sermons. He’d made it sound, instead, like something that would take my mind off things – help me get over yet another failed relationship.

  And in all fairness, it has achieved this. I’m no longer thinking about Frank, at all. I can barely remember his face, in fact – though I’ll admit that probably has more to do with the Mediterranean heat and its ability to melt my brain, than anything else.

  Not to mention the effect of Steven Stark, and his ability to be absolutely everywhere, all at once. I turn around and he’s right there, like the Incredible Hulk. Only bigger. Oh God, he’s so big that his presence everywhere is practically a law of physics. He has to be in ten places at once, just to cram in his massive pecs.

  Because honestly, I’ve never seen pecs like his in all my days. I almost asked my brother about it, once – after we’d had that pool party and Steven had turned up wearing a T-shirt so tight it almost qualified as a secondary layer of skin. But of course, I’d chickened out at the last minute. What sort of person asks their brother about his best friend’s manboobs? Not a normal person, that’s for sure.

  And besides … What did I really think he was going to say? “Ah well, he developed those rock hard bosoms with a strict regimen of daily squeezings?” That’s just me, hoping for something daft, in my head. When really it’s something awesome and sweaty and sexy, like 17,000 push-ups using just one hand.

  He probably does them half-naked. He probably does them half-naked, while covered in baby oil. And then when he’s done, he goes out to a nightclub and laughs at girls like me, for being so fat and awful and useless – because that’s the other problem with being in close proximity to Steven Stark. It’s not just his size, or his fast-talking-always-moving mouth. It’s not just his face, which tends to haunt my dreams a bit.

  It’s his ability to make me feel like nothing. Like less than nothing.

  And he just does it so effortlessly too. I’m there, busy minding my own business, book in hand. I’m not even paying attention to the conversation going on next to me, in all honesty. I’m still mad at my brother for springing a surprise Steven on me, for reasons I really don’t want him to go into.

  So I’m doing my best to keep to myself. I’ve reduced my presence down to almost nothing, in fact. You’d barely know I was there, if it were not for the half-eaten slice of pizza on my plate and the two-thirds of a bottle of wine that’s now missing, thanks to me. I’m slightly woozy and nicely relaxed, when Steven blunders in with his size 57s.

  ‘So I picked up this cute little fat chick,’ he says.

  And suddenly every inch of skin on my body is prickling and bristling. My armpits feel like an alarm has gone off inside them, and the already unbearable heat intensifies. If it gets any hotter, my face is going to melt right off the bone beneath – and all because he said that one magical word.

  Fat, I think, and then I’m picturing myself beneath it in Steven Stark’s dictionary. I’d definitely qualify as that very thing – it can’t be denied. Anything over a size two would likely make the grade, in his eyes, and I passed that stage around 12 levels ago. You could times his ideal size by seven and still not get where I’m at.

  So of course this story is going to apply to me. I can feel how much it’s going to apply to me. It might even be aimed in my direction – you know, like one of those helpful passive-aggressive tossers who talks loudly about Weight Watchers around you in the hopes you’ll get the hint.

  Though I don’t know I’m right until he gets to this part:

  ‘And I mean, she was a big girl. I could hardly get my arms around her waist.’

  That’s definitely me. Even though he could wrap one of his massive arms around my waist twice and still have room for half a rugby team.

  ‘And her arse … Man, her arse was the size of a small planet.’

  He’s practically reading my bio!

  ‘But the best part was these thighs she had … These big, billowing thighs.’

  Oh God … My thighs billow? I didn’t think they were that bad. They’re actually quite smooth and cellulite-free, in truth, and up until this point I’d almost dared to wear a swimsuit a couple of times, because of them. My legs are quite short, but I definitely didn’t think they were this horrible.

  Until right now.

  Until Steven Stark, and his almighty gob of horrendous awfulness. He just keeps going on and on about this poor girl who’s probably really me, every word punctuated by a snigger as though he’s the most hilarious person in the world. And what’s worse – my brother agrees with this assessment. So does his wife, Kimberley. They’re both laughing away at Steven’s nightmarish tale of soul-crushing cruelty, while I quietly die inside.

  Seriously. I want to die. I don’t know why no one will let me. This wasn’t just the worst idea in the world – it was the worst idea for several solar systems. Aliens are busy wondering what the fuck I was thinking, agreeing to this holiday. Hell, aliens are busy wondering why I haven’t killed my brother, for allowing this to happen.

  And I can’t find a flaw in their logic.

  My brother is currently guffawing, over this:

  ‘It was like an avalanche of flesh, on top o
f me. At one point, I was genuinely afraid for my life – one false move and I could have been crushed.’

  While something like mild anger brews in my belly. And of course, once I’ve let the mild anger take root, it starts mutating into more than that. Before I know where I am, it’s become a small bonfire lowdown in my body – which is never a good thing, when the outside temperature is already akin to the surface of the sun. The two problems just mix together until they’ve made some sort of natural napalm.

  So really, it’s not a surprise to me that I do what I do.

  It’s just a surprise to my brother, and to Steven, and to Kimberley. In fact, I think it would be a surprise to anyone who knew me, considering my inability to say anything to anyone ever. But it’s not unusual to my suddenly scorching soul, which practically combusts when he ends on this doozy:

  ‘But then it turned out that she was a total maniac who liked to eat paint. Thank God she was heavy … I didn’t have to run all that fast to get away from her.’

  I swear I barely know what happens to me. Great gouts of burning debris blaze through the rational centres of my brain, and suddenly I’m saying this:

  ‘Yeah, because all fat chicks are so desperate for a man they just can’t wait to chase after you, right? Give me a fucking break. I’d sooner catch gonorrhoea than you – which would probably happen, if I was ever stupid enough to touch you.’

  And naturally, it’s only after the words are out that I realise the mistake I’ve made. In fact, I realise several of the mistakes I’ve made. For a start, I just yelled while on a yacht, in the middle of the ocean. The silence out here is so total and dream-like that anything above a whisper sounds loud.

  So this … This sounds really loud.

  And then of course there’s the fact that I said all of this to Steven. Steven, who was my brother’s best man. Steven, who once fixed my scooter for me when I rode it right off the kerb and into my Dad’s car at the age of 13. Steven, who’s now looking at me with a face like a deflated balloon.