Passionate Kisses

by Various

  When those lithe hands moved downward and dragged his zipper open, he let go of the bed and pulled her hands away.

  “Baby,” he said, his voice ragged. His dick lay full and heavy against his stomach, the head poking over the band of his briefs. Every breath he took made the elastic rub and shoot sparks of pleasurable agony through his groin. “It’s time for dinner,” he said, starting to sit up.

  She pushed him down. “You’re not letting me,” she scolded, but the gentleness in her tone revealed more than determination on her part. He recognized the slant of her eyebrows and the set of her jaw. She was concerned for him. Offering comfort came naturally to her, and apparently, she thought he needed it now.

  He didn’t. He needed a cold shower and a peaceful evening with her. He’d find his peace in making her dinner, rubbing her back and shoulders, helping her with her PT, kissing her over and over again, and just being with her.

  “I let you any more, and my nuts’ll explode. Come on. Let’s go eat.” He sat up again, this time lifting her with him as he slung his legs over the edge of the bed.

  “After the accident with my dad, all I had was my mother. But I’d caused her more pain than anyone else ever had.”

  He stopped her with a squeeze. “Don’t.” Thinking about all that past hurt would just upset her. “Don’t go back there.”

  “Let me,” she said, and she cut him a look that made him shut up. She sat back on his thighs, eyeing him to make sure he didn’t interrupt again. “She kept baking all my favorite things and buying me the stupid teen magazines I used to like a few years before. It was like she couldn’t stop trying to get me to smile. But I didn’t want to smile. I wanted to hurt. I wanted to be punished.”

  He bit the inside of his cheek to keep from telling her this wasn’t the same thing.

  “The more she tried to be nice, the more I hated myself until finally, something had to give.” She shifted in his embrace and held out her arm. She touched her thumb to the skin on the inside, above her elbow. It was the place he’d seen her absently stroking in the hospital, when he’d pushed her too hard and almost lost her. The place would normally be hidden against her body. No one but a lover would ever touch her there.

  He blinked up at her, confused. Why would she show him her arm?

  “Look,” she said.

  He did, and when he made sense of what he saw, his lungs contracted, right along with his heart. The perfect satin of her skin was interrupted by fine, barely visible ridges that reflected the light differently. Dozens of horizontal slashes marched up her arm from elbow to armpit, each about two inches long.

  “No one else seemed to think I needed to be punished. In fact, everyone went overboard being nice to me. I couldn’t stand it. So I took matters into my own hands.” She showed him her other arm. As his horror built, she guided his hand to the inside of one thigh. Then the other.

  She’d found the places where her skin was most sensitive and she’d cut herself. Over and over. Hundreds of times, maybe more. Probably with a razor. And she’d cut deep, or there wouldn’t be scars this many years later.

  Fuck. He scrubbed a hand down his face. The thought of her feeling that much pain—not only from the cuts but enough emotional turmoil to make her want to do that to herself—made him want to throw up.

  She framed his face with her hands, and he lost himself in the calm sea of her eyes.

  “Skin-deep pain beats soul-deep pain any day of the week,” she said. “At first it was just a way to feel something different than disgust for myself. But then it became kind of a penance. If I bled enough, I thought I’d somehow be able to forgive myself. Maybe even love myself again.”

  He didn’t want to hear this. He jerked his face away, breaking the spell she had him under.

  “You’re doing the same thing,” she said, bringing him back with a caress to his jaw.

  “No, I’m not. It’s not the same thing.” He shot her a look the old insecure Camilla might have flinched from.

  She smiled gently and pressed on. “You think you don’t deserve to feel good.”

  “No. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she said, and she closed a hand around the tip of his dick. He’d gone semi soft after seeing her scars, but the second she touched him, he surged to rock-hardness. “So if I sit right here, real careful, and just touch you like this, and promise not to bump my head or get hurt, you’ll let me jerk you off?”

  She rubbed him roughly, and the combination of her words and her touch had him fighting not to fuck her hand.

  He gripped her wrists, making her stop. “Don’t.”

  “Because I might get hurt?”

  Shit. She was right. No way would she get hurt giving him a hand job on his lap like this.

  But he still didn’t want it. He wanted to serve her in every way, but the thought of her serving him made him despise himself.

  He didn’t deserve her. She should be with someone much kinder, much gentler than him, someone who had some frigging control over his temper.

  Feeling that way might be fucked up, but it made sense in the same way it had to her all those years ago to take a blade to her skin. Maybe he was punishing himself.

  As if she sensed him considering it, she touched the tiny scabs on his knuckles.

  Damn it. He’d punished himself then too. He’d bloodied himself pretty good that night. He’d never told her about it, but somehow, she knew.

  She scooted off his lap and knelt on the floor between his legs. With a firm grasp on his shaft, she licked her lips and peered up at him out of heavy-lidded eyes. She looked like a cross between some innocent fairy princess and a schooled seductress. Even that helmet looked sexy, because it was on her.

  “Tell me to stop,” she said.

  No fucking way. Even if he could at this point, doing so would only hurt her. He’d pushed her away enough, no doubt straining her newfound confidence. What a shithead he’d been. No more. Time to make things right with her. It started with letting her do this for him, this beautiful thing he’d been fantasizing about for over a week.

  She feathered kisses over his sensitive skin, making his breath catch.

  He groaned, loud and long and with a release of so much tension, his head fell back in relief. God damn, her lips felt hot and perfect on him. He wanted her tongue next. He wanted to feel the frigging back of her throat.

  “Think we can do this without me getting hurt?” With each syllable her breath caressed him provocatively.

  Shit, he was close to coming apart, and she hadn’t even taken him into her mouth yet.

  Incapable of speech, he nodded.

  She smiled. Then she took him to heaven. Well, most of the way there, anyway.

  “God, I love you,” he said as she worked him. Her glittering eyes told him she loved him too.

  He cupped her neck with one hand, his thumb caressing her ear where the helmet left it exposed. He loved her thick, auburn hair, but she didn’t need it to be stunning. Bald and bruised, she was still perfect, still the most beautiful thing he’d seen since Haley had been born. Like his little girl, this woman would always be perfect to him.

  “Let’s go there together, sweetheart.” He pulled her up so she straddled him and lowered her onto the bed, careful of her head. His open jeans cut into his hips and ass. His shirt rode up when he came down on top of her and their stomachs brushed. He didn’t give a shit. Clothed or naked, it didn’t matter. He just needed to be in her. They’d do this again later, and he’d be slower, sweeter.

  For now, he took her the way they both needed.

  He kissed his woman as he made love to her. They breathed each other’s air, and they soared. Pleasure wiped out the urge to punish, love erased guilt, and the promise of a bright future eclipsed the shadows of the past.

  Thanks for reading Reckless. I hope you enjoyed it!

  Jade’s Spirit

  the next in Jessi’s Blue Collar Boyfriends series will be available Augu
st 1st.

  A stripper with a sick grandmother, a hot lawn-guy with commitment issues, and a ghost with an agenda. It takes an act of selfless love to show Jade she has the spirit to fight back against the abusive men in her life, both living and dead.

  About the Author

  Jessi lives with her husband and children in the Seattle area. She’s a passionate reader of all genres of romance, especially anything involving the paranormal. Ghosts, demons, vampires, witches, weres, faeries...you name it, she’ll read it. As for writing, she's sticking to Highlanders and contemporaries with a paranormal twist (for now). The last time she imagined a world without romance novels, her husband found her crouched in the corner, rocking.

  Contact Jessi at jessigage@gmail.com.

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  Against Her Rules

  by

  Victoria Barbour

  ONE

  The one thing no one ever tells you about royalty, either of the Hollywood or Aristocratic variety, is that they all leave a hell of a lot of mess behind them. Elsie Walsh had scoured the stained sheets of a prince, and had to use a full bottle of Javex on the jacuzzi of a certain female Oscar winner. No, sometimes playing host to the rich and famous was not that glamorous. As she surveyed the room she admitted that it could, after all, be worse. The worst this room had was a mud stain on the rug, and with the constant wind and rain of a Newfoundland November, that was run of the mill.

  With a sigh, she began to strip the butter cream luxury sheets off the king-sized bed. She’d normally leave the room until later when one of her staff came in, but this particular guest had asked that no one other than his hostess see the room. It wasn’t that bad, but he had some major trust issues ever since a cleaning lady at an upscale New York hotel had bugged his room, which resulted in the dissolution of his marriage, and in confirming the long-swirling rumours of his homosexuality.

  He, and many others, came to the small outport of Heart’s Ease, and its five-star bed and breakfast “Heart’s Ease Inn” in no small part for the privacy it offered. At least that’s what brought them the first time. After that, their reasons for returning were varied. Some came back because they fell in love with the sheer old-world peace that only a community of 233 people spread over six kilometres of grass, rock and barrens can offer. They found the idea of limited cellphone service and a grocery store that closed for lunch and supper charming. Others came back bringing friends for the surprising gourmet meals, and to marvel at the jellybean coloured houses nestled into the cliffs surrounding the harbour of the town. And a smaller number returned in the hopes of convincing the elf-like owner of the inn to fulfill their lustful fantasies.

  To her credit, Elsie had broken her rule of keeping her relationships with her guests to a professional level of friendship only once in her six years of business. The problem was, she kept breaking it with him time and time again.

  On Asher Corbin’s first visit to the inn he’d come with his then-girlfriend who was shooting a movie a few communities over. She won a Golden Globe for her performance. He won the rare prize of a night with Elsie. To this day she had no idea why she’d given in. Certainly, other, more famous guests had crossed her path, although he did have a fine heap of Grammys tossed in a closet in his townhouse in London. She’d stumbled on them when she’d agreed to spend a weekend with him. That ranked as number four on her list of “Big Mistakes Never to Make Again.” Nope. It wasn’t his fame. It wasn’t even his brooding, soulful looks, common in so many dreamy singer-songwriter types. Maybe it had something to do with the over-indulgence in her father’s partridgeberry wine, but she didn’t think so. Deep down she knew it was her fault.

  She didn’t feel lonely that often. It was hard to find the time to dwell on it, really. But there were times when she’d see a couple heading out for a walk hand-in-hand, or catch her mother making a playful swat at her father’s rear-end as he walked by, and she’d feel a little pang of longing. It was hard to meet someone special when there were about ten single men combined in the three towns in her general area. Even harder when two of them were her cousins, and another four were too closely related for her own comfort, regardless of what her great aunt Ida said.

  Elsie kept reminding herself that it was her choice to stay in Heart’s Ease and turn the crumbling old manor into the home of her dreams. As a little girl she’d often hike up the hill to the house. It was always a magical place to her. Her child’s mind concocted grand stories to explain why such a majestic old mansion towered above the narrow saltbox two-storey houses that made up the small town below. It had stood vacant since long before her mother was born. Elsie’s imagination took the facts—an English merchant built the sweeping home for his family but they left after just a couple of years—and turned it to a tale of romance and heartbreak. Elsie’s version had tragic deaths, mad old relatives locked in the attic, and a wicked storm that sent them all back to the tame confines of England.

  It wasn’t until she’d gone in search of the owner to buy the property that she’d learned the real story. It was 1887 and the merchant and his family hated the loneliness of Heart’s Ease. Instead, they moved to America and built a grander home in Cape Cod. They still got the salt air, and the sweeping views, but with neighbours of their own class, and a vibrant social scene.

  Their loss, she figured.

  Elsie’s initial plan had been to rent out the rooms so that she could pay off the loans on the house and then turn it into her own personal home. But she’d always had a knack for success, and so it was to no one’s surprise, other than her own, when the first famous face was spotted walking up to her door. Her loans were practically non-existent at this point, and yet she was happiest when the house was full of laughter, and music, and glamorous people mixing with the fishermen and storytellers of Heart’s Ease.

  As she folded the towels and restocked the toiletries, she conceded that she had a pretty great life. One of the perks of being single and child-free was that she could accept tickets to a world premiere, or exclusive concert. The only thing that she was tied to was the inn. The only people who depended on her were her guests. And that was fine by her—most of the time.

  “Elsie! Ellll-seeee!” The shrill call of her great aunt shook her from her thoughts. “Where are ya, me ducky?”

  “Don’t come up over the stairs, Aunt Ida,” she called. “I’ll be right down.”

  The tell-take thunk of the ninety-six-year-old woman’s cane on the wooden stairs told Elsie to hurry.

  By the time Elsie got to the top of the stairs, the elderly woman had managed three steps. Her weathered face was red with the effort.

  “Auntie. Stop. I’m coming. You know what happened last time you tried these stairs.” It was the reason she now needed to walk with a cane.

  “Well, I thought that Hugh Grant was up there.”

  “And if he was, I would have asked him to come say hello. Don’t I always bring your favourites around for tea?”

  “Not all of them,” the old woman grumbled as Elsie helped her down the few steps.

  “Oh Auntie. How many times do I have to tell you? Not every famous person in the world comes here. If Hugh Grant or Brad Pitt or...”

  “Channing Tatum, dear. He’s the newest most sexy man according to People.”

  Elsie rolled her eyes. “Or Channing Tatum ever come here, I’ll be sure you know about it. I promise.”

  “I don’t know why you just don’t write them and tell them you have an old dying aunt and that you’ll offer them a room for free if they’ll come.”

  “Aunt Ida,” Elsie scolded. “First of all, you’re nowhere near to death, and second of all, they can afford to pay for the room.”

  “Just because they’re rich doesn’t mean they can afford what you charges. Sure no one around here can afford to even have a bite to eat in that fancy d
ining room. I read in the paper that one poor feller had to save up for months just to bring his wife. I’m tellin’ ya, Elsie, you don’t need no more money. Let good decent folks have a turn sleepin’ in those big beds. Although I suppose you needs a ladder just to get up into one of ‘em.”

  This was an ongoing complaint Elsie heard nearly daily from one person or another. They were happy to see money coming into the community, but still couldn’t wrap their minds around the cost to spend a night. The money the new oil industry was bringing to Newfoundland hadn’t been seen in Heart’s Ease, where most of the population collected their old age pensions, and those that were still working made their living fishing.

  Elsie had just learned to ignore it. She also made a point of ensuring everyone in the harbour was invited over for some sort of function every month. In reality, there were far more days when her guests were from the city, than from somewhere exotic. With the departure of this morning’s movie great, she had only three rooms out of twenty booked. Once today’s guest checked in there would be six ordinary, non-famous guests at the inn.

  “Do you want a cup of tea, Auntie?” Elsie asked as she ushered the woman into a cozy, upholstered rocking chair by a huge bay window that overlooked the water.

  “Your mother is getting me one,” Aunt Ida said, as she brushed a white curl away from her face. “Now sit down because I want to talk to you before she comes in.” She lowered her voice. “It’s personal.”

  “What is it?” Elsie asked, settling into a red damask wing-backed chair.

  “I wants a job.”

  “A job? Here?”

  This was not what Elsie had expected. The last personal conversation between them had involved her aunt trying to fix her up with a recently widowed sixty-four-year-old man. Apparently a thirty-three year age difference was quite common when Ida was a young girl.