by Adele Hart
We’ve already figured out that I’m going to move in with Clint, which should work out nicely, since Hunter is moving out, having found love with a reporter. My parents aren’t thrilled that I’ll be moving in with Clint, but I think they can see how perfect we are together and they’re starting to trust that he has the very best intentions when it comes to their little girl. Well, mostly…
Epilogue
Clint- Four Years Later
“I’ve got her.”
“No, I’ve got her,” Dani says, one hand on her hip and the other one hanging onto our daughter’s hand.
“Babe, if anyone’s going to teach Isabella to skate, it should be the captain of the Kings.”
“As opposed to a double gold medalist and two-time world champion figure skater?”
“No way do I want her figure skating. I want her to play hockey.”
“What’s wrong with figure skating?”
“The tiny outfits.” I shake my head. “No way. She’s going to be covered up from head to toe. Besides, you shouldn’t be skating in your condition.”
“Of course I should. The doctor says I’m perfectly fine to skate.”
“Mom, Dad,” Isabella says. “I kate with both of you, okay?”
Grinning down at her, I say, “Okay. Deal.”
“Deal,” says Dani.
I take Isabella’s other hand and we skate around the rink for a few minutes, then Dani breaks off and does a single axel. When she lands, she turns back to us and smiles down at Isabella.
Our daughter laughs with delight and says, “You do it, too, Daddy.”
Dani gives me a smug look and I shake my head at her, then pull her in for a kiss. “Show off.”
“Your turn, Daddy.”
“Daddy doesn’t do jumps and twirls, but I’ll tell you what? I’ll teach you the secret to the perfect slap shot.”
“No, thanks. I want to twirl.”
Dani bursts out laughing, then pats her small tummy. “You better hope this one’s a boy.”
“I still have time to work on this one. I’ll change her mind yet.”
That night when I finish getting Isabella to bed, I find Dani fast asleep on the couch. Pregnancy takes it out of her, in spite of how she pretends it’s no big deal. I shut the television off and carry her up the stairs to our bedroom, laying her down gently on her pillow. Covering her up, I kiss her on the head, then go take a shower.
When I come out, she’s fast asleep. I get under the covers with her and put my arm over her, then pull her in tight. After a few minutes of snuggling, she stirs, and presses her ass against my cock. I slide my hand between her legs and feel that she’s not wearing any panties under that nightie. My cock twitches with excitement as I feel how wet she is for me, even in her sleep. Dani turns her head toward me and I lean over and kiss her. She sighs and arches her back, giving me access. I slide inside her pussy, feeling how tight and wet she is against my bare skin, loving the feeling of her full breasts in my palm. I rock my hips, as our bodies move together, perfectly in sync with each other, just like we’ve always been and like we always will be. Our love may have gotten off to a fast start, but it’s the kind that will last a lifetime.
The End
Take Me-Sneak Peek
One
TABITHA
I have the greatest job ever. Which is odd because I’m the unluckiest girl in the world. Don’t believe me? In grade ten, I was on the debate team (yeah, I know, geek alert!), and I was on stage in front of the entire school, about to make my final speech about why plastic should be banned, when my shirt buttons decided to quit on me. I took a deep breath and ‘pop’! All of them. All at once. It was like they said, ‘Ready? Now!’ In front of twelve hundred kids.
Good thing I was wearing my oldest cotton bra that I had turned that sickly gray when I washed it with my black jeans the day before. It wasn’t even underwire, so I had that whole saggy boobs thing going on. That little incident earned me the nickname ‘Gray Boobs’. My last name is Gray, so that made it extra easy for the jerk who came up with it.
After that, I learned about the glories of good lingerie, which I had to hide from my super religious step-mom, Lorraine. She spent my teenage years telling me about the dangers of boys and sex and the diseases you can get from them. She’s so disgusted by the whole thing that I swear I don’t know if she’s ever had sex, even though she has three kids of her own. All boys. All dick-heads. Lorraine and her boys are the reason I’m still a virgin. Between the four of them, they managed to turn me off guys and sex right around the age when most girls are starting to get curious about those things.
My dad married her three months after my mom died. Told you I was unlucky. We lost Mom to type one diabetes when I was ten. My dad was working nights, so the two of us were having girls night in. She and I were going to snuggle up and watch Beauty and the Beast right after she had a quick shower. She kissed me on the top of my head and told me to work on my spelling until she came down. Twenty minutes later, I realized something was wrong and went up to find her. By then it was too late. She was already gone.
That’s when Lorraine swooped in and snapped up my dad. He was a cop. A good one. And a great dad. Generous, but careful enough with his money so that we had a pretty nice house and no debt. Lorraine and her boys moved in, all traces of my mom immediately disappeared, and I was suddenly part of our ‘new family’. Three years later, my dad died. He got shot trying to break up a domestic disturbance.
And that was that.
I was alone with Mother Mary, Huey, Dewey, and Ewey (the one who always had a finger jammed up his nose).
As soon as I finished high school, I packed my lacy unmentionables and got the hell out of Virginia for good. Gray Boobs has left the building. I went to Washington University where I got my degree in economics, then managed to score my new job. I work for Theo Breckenridge—you know the one—the man who owns half of the western seaboard, the airline bearing his name, and most of the skyscrapers in downtown Seattle.
Mr. Breckenridge put an ad in the newspaper (seriously, the freaking newspaper) looking for a ‘bright, fun assistant’ and I answered it. It had nothing to do with my degree, but after six months of trying to find work and discovering that an economics degree is basically useless in the real world, I was willing to do just about anything to avoid going home again.
I’ve been working for him for almost a year now, and it’s been incredible. First of all, it pays well as far as assistant jobs go. But it’s the perks that really make it amazing. Mr. Breckenridge is eighty-five years young, and he’s trying to decide which charities get his billions. I know that sounds kind of sad, but it’s not. First, he’s super healthy and with it, so it could be another decade (or even two) before he says his final farewell. Second, he’s so happy that it’s impossible not to feel good when you’re around him. He’s a bit of a dirty old man, and he makes passes at me here and there, things like, ‘would you like me to share my endowment with you, Tabitha? It’s very generous.’ Wink, wink. It doesn’t bother me though because he’s harmless, and he’s only joking.
Besides, it’s kind of flattering in a weird way. This is probably because other than my ancient boss, I’m not exactly popular with the men folk. I’m pretty average looking—I’m a curvy, short girl with auburn, naturally curly hair that has to be kept at chin-length or it goes hog wild. I’m also super awkward around men and end up tripping over my own foot or spilling soup all over my lap. This actually happened once on a blind date. Tomato soup. Date over.
Anyway, I’m sure I could do better with them if I weren’t so awkward. But I am, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t seem to change it.
Okay, back to the perks. I get to travel the world checking out organizations that apply for his grants. I examine ten charities per year and Mr. B chooses one that gets the big money. And I mean big, like with eight zeros at the end of a two.
Because of this, everywhere I go, I get wined and dined by desperate
people who would rub my feet if I asked (which I would never do because I’m not a total hag, and also my feet are super ticklish). They show me around, I carefully go through their books and create a report for Mr. Breckenridge.
So far in the past year, I’ve been to Japan, France, Slovenia (which is beautiful, by the way, and you should totally go), Iceland (amazing!), Peru, and Canada. (Side note: It’s true that Canadians are always super nice except for when they’re in line for double-doubles at Tim Horton’s and they’re late for work and you are at the front of that line asking too many questions, like, ‘what’s a double-double?’. Turns out it’s a coffee with two creams and two sugars.)
Okay, back to our story, right now I’m on the trip to end all trips, the one I’ve been waiting for my entire life. In exactly eleven minutes, I’m going to land in the very best place I can imagine. Tanzania. There is a conservation program there that submitted an application and I am about to spend three glorious weeks in the freaking Serengeti! I’ve spent the last twenty-two hours at airports and on planes, and I’m pretty sure I have noticeably bad B.O., and I haven’t slept a wink, but I don’t care. I’m filled with the most exciting energy I’ve ever known.
Africa is my dream. I’ve always—and I mean always—wanted to go there. Other girls played Barbies, but I played ‘safari adventure girl’ in my room by the hour. I even had one of those pith helmets. My mom bought it for me for my eighth birthday, along with a set of real binoculars (which are in my carry-on). The Lion King was by far my favorite cartoon growing up, and I’ve watched Out of Africa at least fifty times. And that video with Taylor Swift and Scott Eastwood (yum!)—you know the one—it makes me swoon every damn time I watch it. And now I get to be Taylor. Well, sort of. I’m not gorgeous like her, but still. Don’t laugh, but I even bought a big yellow gauzy scarf to hold up in the wind. I doubt I’ll actually do it, but you never know.
Two
GUNNER
“Yeah, I’m here.” I roll my eyes. I’m standing outside at the airport. It’s hot as fuck and I’m on the phone with my sister, Alicia, who loves micromanaging the shit out of everyone and everything. “Plane’s on time. She should land in ten.”
“Did you remember to bring water?”
“Yes, I picked up a pack of them on the way. They’re on ice in the jeep.” I try to control the edge in my voice because I know she’s just nervous. Everything makes her nervous, which is a strange quality for a woman who lives smack dab in the middle of the Serengeti, but she was born that way. I can still remember her tiny little fists balled up as she wailed night and day. I was only three at the time, but she cried so much that it’s burned into my memory.
To be honest, I’m not exactly what you’d call calm today, either. Today matters. I’m picking up a woman who, in the next three weeks, is going to decide if our wildlife conservation program will be given a grant big enough to keep us going for a lifetime or if we have to keep limping along with the resources we’ve got.
“What about some flowers? Maybe you should see if you can get some—”
“I’m not buying her flowers. For Christ’s sake, Alicia, this isn’t a first date.”
“Fine. It’s just really—”
“Important. I know. Believe me, I want this to work out, too.” I run a hand through my hair, and my gut tightens a little thinking about what’s at stake. “I’ll be on my best behavior, I promise. See you in a couple of hours.”
“Okay. Drive safely.”
“Yup.”
The plane lands right on time, and I watch as the stairs are wheeled into place, and the first of the passengers appear. It’s tourist after tourist, cameras already strung around their necks, safari hats on, looking tired from their long trip, but excited at the same time. I stand by the doors to the tiny airport, feeling like a total jackass holding a sign that says ‘Tabitha Gray’. I look like one of the tour guide surrounding me. But I’m no tour guide. I’m an ex-Army Ranger. I spend my days and nights armed to the teeth, chasing down poachers and securing our twelve-thousand-acre park.
I could never be a guide. I don’t have much use for most people. People lie and betray each other. Animals, though, them I understand. You know exactly where you stand when you’re staring down a lion. There’s no question of what they want from you.
A family gets off the plane—a mom, dad, and two surly looking teenagers who have clearly had so many things handed to them on a silver platter that nothing impresses them anymore. As far as I’m concerned, they can turn right around and go home. Then I see a young woman at the door to the plane. She’s a curvy little thing with reddish-brown, curly hair, cowboy boots and a short, flowy dress. My cock twitches at the sight of her. I hope to hell she’s Tabitha because I could use a few weeks pumping her full of lead.
She’s got a huge backpack slung over her shoulder, and I watch as the wind blows her skirt up and she has to hold her dress down with one hand. Come on wind, pick up.
I can’t take my eyes off of her. She squints at the cards that the tour guides are holding up. Her eyes freeze on my sign, and then she smiles up at me.
Well, fuck me, looks like it’s my lucky day after all. I give her a nod and a wide grin as she walks toward me. As she gets closer, I realize how small she is. She barely comes up to my chin, even with the lift she’s getting from those sexy boots.
“Hi, I’m Tabitha.”
“Gunner Steel.” I hold out my hand to her. When her skin touches mine, a wave of heat rushes through my body, stirring my already wide awake cock. Her hand is the softest thing I’ve ever felt, and that’s saying something because I’ve touched just about every type of fur there is. None of it compares to her.
“Gunner Steel? Is that really your name?” Her green eyes shine at me.
“Yes, ma’am, it is.”
She giggles a little, and I’m pretty sure it’s the cutest sound I’ve ever heard. “Well, nice to meet you. I thought Alicia would be picking me up.”
“A federal inspector was coming by, so she had to stay at the base camp today.” I reach up and take her bag off her shoulder. My thumb rubs against her bare skin and I find myself wanting to kiss the spot where my thumb just was. It’s been far too long since I’ve had a woman, and this one is exactly the type I like.
And then it hits me like a kick to the balls. I’m going to have to spend the next twenty-one days trying not to make a pass at her. Son of a bitch. I sling the bag over my shoulder and tell myself this is the closest we’re going to get, no matter how much my dick sits up and begs.
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My Toy Boy-Sneak Peek
One
Janey
Drip coffee makers, espresso machines, and French presses. My head is full of coffee brewing facts. My nose is full of the bitter but robust scent of perfectly roasted beans. Earlier this morning, I sat in the local Starbucks and consumed several options. Enough coffee to make me shake like a crack whore in need of a fix. Maybe the espresso on top of the black and white was too much.
I pace my gray linoleum kitchen floor waiting for my phone to ring and wondering if the floor was always gray or had it once been white but after years of abuse had faded?
My phone rings and I jump several inches into the air. It vibrates to the end of the card table before it takes a triple flip off the edge. I dive to save it mid-air.
“Hello.” My normally calm and even-toned voice morphs into a two pack a day smoker with a case of bronchitis. I cough to hack up the hairball or frog that’s lodged in my throat. “This is Janey.”
“Hello, Janey,” A deep thick espresso voice filters through the line. “This is Caine Stark from the Grynd.” There’s a shuffle of papers in the background and a muffled announcement. “I’ve got to make this quick.” His chuckle is low and rumbling. “Fast isn’t generally my style, not something I’d brag about, but I’m about to board a plane back to the United States.”
“I understand.” Although my pulse is double-shot hyper, m
y heart sinks a little because a fast interview means he’s going through the motions and has probably already chosen a person for the position. Rather than waste the opportunity, I decide to use this experience as a way to better my interviewing skills so the next chance I get to impress an interviewer, I’ll be relaxed and prepared.
Sadly, I know more about coffee than the average person at this point. It’s not like it’s going to serve me any purpose unless it’s trivia night and the subject is java, or Starbucks puts a ‘now hiring’ sign in their window. I may not be able to make a vanilla bean soy latte but I can tell you where the bean is harvested, how it’s roasted, and this year’s yield.
He breaks my rambling thoughts with a question—my first question.
“I assume you’re familiar with the product?”
This is where I’m going to excel. I’m tempted to blurt out everything I know in one long run-on sentence but I wait. “Of course. The Grind is the perfect product for me.” I wanted to sound knowledgeable, but not in the way that would tell him I spent the entire week memorizing their inventory. Their store locations. Their employee handbook.
He clears his throat. “So, you use our product?”
I laugh. “Yes, regularly. In fact your product starts every one of my mornings. Sometimes, I need it several times a day. You never know when you’re going to need that extra pick me up.”
Silence fills the space and I wonder if we’ve been disconnected. But that smooth dark chocolate drips over me. “I agree. I’m told our best-selling products have the perfect amount of buzz.”
