Deep in You
Copyright © 2016 by David S. Scott
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Darkmantle Designs
Edited by Matt Schiariti
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 permission in writing from the author.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: June 2016
Published by Seraph Wing Publishing
ISBN-13 978-0-9907111-6-2 (ebook)
ISBN-13 978-0-9907111-8-6 (print)
Acknowledgements:
A huge thank you to my incredible wife, Stephanie. Your love and support mean so much to me. Most of this story would not have been possible without your encouragement and faith.
To my personal assistant (PitA), Melissa Ann, how you put up with my nonsense (I was going to use a different word but was told it was bad to curse in acknowledgments) each day is beyond me. Yet here you are, making me write, organizing the street team, and tirelessly promoting and supporting me. You’ve been with me since the start of this crazy adventure, back when Xander was a tantra instructor. My how things changed. But you stayed with me, encouraging me and guiding me. I can’t ever thank you enough.
I’d like to thank my editor, Matt Schiariti, for all your help and ideas. You may have made me wonder if I even know how to speak English, but the book wouldn’t be anywhere near as good without you so I’m glad to have endured the torture.
A special thanks to the very talented Darkmantle Designs for the awesome job on the cover and formatting.
To all the members of my street team, David’s Decadent Divas, I appreciate everything you do. You ladies promote every day, and have done so even before my books were even close to being released. If it weren’t for you, no one would have ever heard of me or my books. Thank you so much for everything.
To my Beta Readers—Melissa Ann, Ella Medler, Elizabeth Booth Bennett, Lacia Carabas, Marcia Mason-Heaston, Tammy Markowski, Terrie Meerschaert, Rachelle Pianalto Jones, Cristiane Karamanolis, Denise Williams, Tosha Merritt Rabideau, Kathy Atwell, Chrisstine Hague Pearce, and Donna Tripi Salzano—thank you for everything you have done. Each and every one of you has touched this book in some way, and helped to make it better.
Last, but not least, a huge thanks to you, the reader. Without readers, there would be no reason for writers to write. I hope you enjoy Deep in You and consider leaving a review to let me and other readers know what you thought about this book.
This book is dedicated to Steph and Melissa. Both of you should stop nagging me to sleep. Plenty of time to sleep when I’m dead. Besides, I’ll have more time for that now that I’m done writing this book. Theoretically. Um… right?
Chapter One
Power.
Strength.
Control.
These were the attributes I valued, lived by. They had become my mantra.
Power. Watching the gymnasts as a child had fascinated me, and my parents had been quick to capitalize on this and enroll me in classes. It got me out from underfoot, and I loved the feeling of power and strength that coursed through my body. I learned to contort myself into impossible positions and hold them until the exertion almost proved too much… and then push myself even further.
Strength. Gymnastics taught me a lot about myself. I craved a good challenge; the thrill of winning seduced me. I was damned good at it, too. Over the course of my career, I’d won five gold medals and four silver in the last two Olympic Games, as well as countless other awards in other forums. Much more civilized than contact sports, gymnastics tested both my mind and body. On an apparatus, there was only me. Not my competitors. Not my coach. My greatest opponent was always, and would always be, myself.
Control. Power and strength are great, but without control you run into trouble. I employ control in every aspect of my life. Exercise, my free time, and sex. Especially sex.
My arms and abdominals strained. My spine was held upright, with my legs parallel to the ground as if I were sitting… except I was nearly ten feet in the air, suspending my full weight from two rings hanging from the ceiling in my home gym. I grunted, forcing myself to count. Finally reaching five hundred, I extended my legs farther in front of me and lifted slowly into a handstand. I held that position for a few seconds, then lowered myself down into an Iron Cross formation.
Power. Strength. Control. My body was an extension of my mind. If I could imagine it, I could do it. Nothing would stop me from reaching my goals. Only one thing left of this routine.
I raised back into a handstand and started to spin. Two revolutions, then release. I curled in on myself, tumbled three times, and landed. My right ankle was slightly off, and my leg collapsed beneath me.
“Shit! God fucking damn it!”
I dropped onto the ground and folded my right leg to my chest. Fire shot from my ankle into my foot and up toward my knee. Fuck, that hurt.
“You okay, Xander?” My coach jogged toward me, concern etched on his face.
“Do I fucking look okay?” I snarled.
“Let’s see it.”
I waved him off. Sam meant well, but I really didn’t want to be treated like an invalid. He’d been my coach since I was a child. We’d been through everything together.
“Xander, I need to see if you’ve injured your leg.”
I rolled to the left and rose to my feet. My leg still hurt like a son of a bitch, but a glance at the clock told me I needed to get moving. It was Friday night, and I had promised a buddy I’d meet him at a local club downtown for drinks.
“I’ll be fine. Don’t sweat it. Just a strain.”
“Alexander–”
“I said I’m fine. Leave it be.”
“Don’t start that shit with me, hotshot. You don’t pay me to stand to the side and look pretty. This is what I do. Let me see it.”
I folded my arms over my chest and glared at him, but remained where I was. Sam squatted next to me and unwrapped my ankle. I always wore ankle wraps on both ankles when working out.
“Flex.”
I rotated my foot, wincing. Sadist, I thought as Sam pinched and kneaded the top of my foot and ankle.
“Nothing looks or feels broken. I think you’re right. It’s just a pulled muscle. It’ll likely bruise pretty good. You should stay off it.”
“I’ll get right on that. Tomorrow. I have plans tonight.”
“Of course you do.”
“I’ve had worse injuries, you know that. This one is no big deal. Seriously.”
“It’s a shame that happened. You were looking good up there. Strong. I hate to say this, but–”
“Then don’t. I don’t want to hear it. Listen, I have to get ready. You can come in and have a drink before you go if you want.”
Sam shook his head. “If you’re sure you’re all right and can manage the stairs, I’ll just take off. My wife asked me to pick up some stuff on the way home.”
I gave him a brief nod as I limped to my gym bag, passing the pommel horse and beam. He knew the way out.
My two-story house had been custom built per my specifications. The gym took up a third of the space. It housed all o
f my gymnastic equipment and a selection of weights and bars for strength training. The room had been constructed double-height to accommodate the rings and horizontal bar. The master suite was located upstairs, while a single guest room occupied the ground floor, along with the living area and kitchen. There was a full bathroom on each level, but nothing else. Some of my friends called me eccentric, and maybe I was… but I knew what I wanted and needed. Nothing else mattered. I strode through the large double doors into the house and eyeballed the stairs. I needed to go up there to get my clothes but, for now, decided it would be better to shower in the guest bathroom.
I turned the hot water on as high as it would go, then sat on the edge of the tub to get a better look at my ankle. Yup, Sam was right. I could already see the tell-tale signs of swelling. A few rotations of my foot told me all I needed to know; it was sore, but not broken or sprained. It would end up being an ugly bruise that would ache for a few days. I should ice it, but I didn’t have time, and heat felt better, anyway. I’d keep it wrapped for a few days, but had nothing to worry about. Once I’d moved it around a bit, I realized it didn’t even hurt that much anymore.
I unwrapped my other ankle and stepped into the shower, wincing as the scorching water hit my back. I shifted around so that the spray was concentrated on my leg.
I was no stranger to injuries. Minor ones like this, at least. They came with the territory, but they were annoying. Giving in was like losing, though, and I hated to lose… in life as well as gymnastics.
Chapter Two
I pulled up to the club in my electric blue Shelby Mustang GT350R. I loved this car. I drove it the same way I had sex: aggressive yet always in control. The slightly darker blue racing stripes along the hood never failed to turn heads, and the roar of the engine was simply exhilarating. I parked the car at the entrance and stepped out, the oppressive Florida humidity washing over me. I was used to it, though. I’d lived here all my life. I tossed the key to the valet and adjusted my tie. My ankle still ached, but I knew it would until the bruise cleared up. I strode to the front of the line, ignoring the scathing looks from the people waiting.
A glance at the bouncer made him wordlessly lift the velvet rope to allow me access. I gave him a nod as I passed, slipping him a fifty. He’d have done it anyway, but I’ve found that you get more cooperation when you give them a good reason.
The club pulsed with energy, an almost tangible thing. I knew my friends would be around somewhere, and I would find them eventually… unless I got a better offer. I ambled through the dance floor, moving to the music and grinding with a hot blonde with a huge rack as I passed. She seemed fun but was way too easy. I preferred a challenge.
I approached the bar and settled onto a stool at the far end.
“Xander Phoenix. Been a while since I’ve seen you here.” The bartender was cute and slender with spikey pink hair, tattoos, and lots of piercings. “What can I get ya?”
“Jameson, neat. Make it a double, Chrissy.”
She poured the drink while I examined my surroundings. It had been a while since my last random encounter with a woman—at least three days. Practically an eternity. I enjoyed the thrill of the chase, the anonymity of a one-night stand. I never did repeat performances. That was just asking for disaster. No commitments, no mess, no emotions.
The image of long auburn hair and bright green eyes swam in my vision, but I shook myself out of it. No. I couldn’t think of Faith, the awkward reporter who had once interviewed me in my own home, disarming me with every glance. She was gone. She wasn’t even part of the equation and never had been. I’d only fixated on her because I’d never had her. I was sure of it. It did irritate me that no matter how many different women I hooked up with, it was never enough to get her out of my head.
A nearby couple talking together intimately captured my attention. Closer examination, however, proved they may not be as intimate as my first glance led me to believe. The woman was stunning, her dirty blonde hair tied in an elegant twist on the top of her head. She sipped her martini slowly, but never lowered the glass from her scarlet lips. Her deep brown eyes scanned the bar as if looking for an escape. She clearly didn’t like this guy and was trying to avoid having to speak to him.
For his part, the guy with her was horrible at taking hints. He leaned far too close, as though he were trying to claim her. He spoke animatedly, and I was able to catch bits and pieces of what he said. Stock market, retirement pensions, insurance premiums. No wonder she wanted to escape; the guy was trying to bore her to death. I signaled to the bartender and got up from my seat.
“Hey, Xander, you made it!” The voice of my buddy, John, filled my ears. I rarely ever saw John outside his shop or his home. He owned a gaming store and practically lived there. I occasionally turned up for a game of after-hours poker, but that crowd wasn’t my scene.
“Yeah, I’m here. Listen, it’s good to see you, but I can see that a very good friend I’ve never met needs my assistance.”
John followed my gaze. “Already? Damn, you move fast. I think that one’s taken, though.”
“Not for long. See you around.” I gave John the brush-off, prowled my way around the bar, and walked up behind my target.
I deliberately set my drink down and placed my hands on the bar on either side of her, protectively, like she belonged to me. I smiled down at her, resisting taking a blatant glance at the obvious bird’s-eye view of her tits.
“Hey, baby, I’m back. Did you miss me? Who’s your new friend?”
She blinked up at me, astonished. I winked, took her glass from her hand, and took a long pull. It was sweet and fruity. Definitely some sort of girly vodka martini.
“What are we drinking tonight? This is a far cry from the shots you normally do with me.”
This was the moment of truth. She could choose Mr. Retirement Fund… or me. It only took a second before I saw the gears click into place.
“Hey! Glad you made it. Of course I missed you. Why did you keep me waiting? As for this guy? He’s…”
We both turned to stare at him.
“I–I’m j-just leaving,” he stammered. “It was good meeting you, Lily. I’m sor–bye.” Mr. Retirement Fund bolted toward the door.
I stepped up onto the recently-vacated barstool and smiled at her. I finished off my drink and gestured to the bartender, who immediately brought over a fresh whiskey and a replacement martini for my new friend.
“How did you know I don’t normally drink martinis?” she asked me once the bartender moved on to another patron.
I smirked. “I didn’t. I just wanted him to see I was comfortable taking your drink. Showed him that we were together and got rid of him.”
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Me? I’m just a guy who likes to help.”
“No, really. You look familiar.”
“Just one of those faces.” I downed the second shot. Here’s the thing about me: I don’t like to go the easy route. Sure, I used my status and celebrity to skip the line outside, but that’s pretty much where I prefer the special treatment to end. I leaned back on my stool and very obviously looked her over from head to toe, enjoying the blush that colored her cheeks. She picked up her martini glass and took a long swallow. Her tongue flicked out to lick her full, perfect lips as she lowered her glass. I found myself entranced. Those lips would be so beautiful wrapped around my cock later.
I cleared my throat. “So, seeing as how I rescued you from a dull evening of stock exchanges and retirement plans, do I get to know your name?”
She chuckled, a full, throaty laugh. “You were listening that closely, were you?”
Shit. I’d lost focus. I never should have let that slip. I was rapidly losing the upper hand. I leaned forward, my blue-gray eyes boring into her brown ones. “No. I know his type.”
“What type is that?”
“The boring nine-to-five type. They think the way to get to a woman is through their bank account. They may be stable, but rare
ly have the kind of money needed to really impress anyone. Simple, uninteresting, predictable. I’m sure he seemed like a nice guy, but he probably doesn’t know how to please a woman in bed.”
There it was. Her eyes darkened, and she licked her lips again. “And I suppose you do, then?”
“What do you think?”
“I think you’re overly cocky if you think I’m nothing but a cheap blonde bimbo who will just fall into bed with you at the snap of your fingers. While I appreciate your help, I see no reason why you’d be considered an improvement.”
Oh, I liked this one. She had spirit. I leaned toward her, conspiratorially. “It’s not cockiness if it’s true.”
“So you do think I’m a cheap blonde bimbo?”
“Not at all. I can tell that isn’t the case just looking at you.” I checked her out again. “Beautiful. Classy. The kind of girl who knows the difference between a mustang and a mule.”
She snorted. “Definitely cocky… and corny. I know your type.”
“I would be happy to back up my claims.”
“You should be so lucky.”
She sounded tough, but she had put her glass down and was giving me her full attention. “I think you’re the one who brought up the idea of us going to bed together. I merely spoke of your friend’s apparent inability to please a woman.”
“He’s not my friend.”
“I’m very glad to hear that,” I murmured, knowing she’d be the only one who could hear me. She didn’t answer, but she didn’t have to. I knew I had won. Game. Set. Match. “Dance with me.”
She looked a little surprised. “What?”
I grinned. “Dance with me.”
I stood, and pain shot through my right ankle. Not too bad. Tolerable. Dancing probably wasn’t the best idea I’d ever had, but my ankle was wrapped up, and I was determined to close the deal. I held out my hand to help her from her seat. She hesitated, but I stood still, determined. I waited for her to make the right decision.
She relented and slid down from her barstool, refusing my hand. I gestured for her to lead the way, but she stumbled. Without thinking about it, I was at her side, assisting her, my hand at the small of her back.
Deep in You (Phoenix #1) Page 1
