The Bonk Squad

by Kris Pearson

  His dark eyes surveyed her often over his disposable mask. A predator’s eyes. Assessing his prey. Calculating the best method of attack. For he would take her, of that she was certain. She’d felt him issuing his silent and sensuous invitation, day after day, week after week.

  “Doctor Peters!” she gasped, halfway between shock and longing. He looked so handsome in his expensive dark suit.

  “Nurse...?” His left eyebrow rose.

  “Nicholson,” she whispered.

  “Of course. Nurse Nicholson. Or Sister Nicholson if we’re going to do this properly.”

  “Properly?”

  “Improperly then?”

  “Oh Doctor!”

  He chuckled. “You like the sound of improperly, do you? And how would you like me to be improper with you?” A lazy smile touched his lips. He reached out and tipped her chin back with a careless hand. “Like this?” His other hand tangled into her long, vivid red hair. He held her powerless, and she waited for his voracious, sharply-chiseled mouth to claim hers.

  He stared down at her for long seconds, and then bent to nip and lick her soft white throat.

  “God,” he groaned. “I know just how a wolf or lion feels. I could tear your life out with my teeth in a few seconds. Now that’s a real turn-on...”

  His hot breath and damp lips progressed up and down her tender neck. She trembled at the thought of his sharp teeth slashing into her jugular vein, biting hard.

  With slow deliberation she raised a thigh and insinuated it between his until she was pressing against his most masculine flesh. Oh yes, he was turned-on all right... She smiled to think of the power she had over him now.

  “So bite,” she invited. “Bite me wherever you want to.”

  She heard him snarl with barely leashed need as her thigh continued to rhythmically and slowly massage him. His arousal was hard as bone, hot as newly-sterilized instruments, enticing as morphine. She knew he’d have her in heaven in seconds.

  But still he held back from kissing her. His mouth hovered a bare inch from hers now. She burned to close the gap between them...ached for the intimate contact his eyes had promised for hours each day in the intense atmosphere of the operating theatre.

  She moaned.

  And he crushed his mouth onto hers.

  She thrilled as his slippery muscular tongue forced its way between her lips and into her warm wet cavern. He explored her mercilessly, sliding over her gums and teeth, inviting her own tongue to join his in play.

  She stretched it toward his; felt the firmness of his warm male lips, and then gasped as he sucked her tongue into his mouth to tangle and tumble and twist in a tantalizing teasing tango.

  She shuddered and shivered as the sensations jolted through the length of her body. He was paradise! And this was just a kiss!

  Then his hands descended onto her shoulders, pushing the slender straps of her party dress down her arms. Now he could plunder her breasts of their creamy sweetness and rosy raspberries—and he did. She arched to meet him in response. He suckled and sighed. His breath burned hot on her perfumed skin.

  With no restraint left, he pinned her against the hard wall of the elevator. Glued together, panting like animals, they dived into each other’s clothing.

  She unzipped him and pulled him from his confining trousers and soft white cotton Calvin Klein briefs (stretched thrillingly far beyond their normal capacity...)

  He pulled her skirt up past her slim thighs and groaned at the saucy little lace panties that hid almost nothing. He pushed one hot finger inside...um...the elastic, and peeled the tiny garment down. He settled her against his throbbing and impatient manhood. He would take her there, supported by the wall. He yanked her up.

  “Ow!” she yelped as his belt buckle scraped her inner thigh, snagged her new party dress, and ripped the fabric with an unholy screech.

  Mandy heaved a huge sigh of disappointment. Damn—that had been going so well. She easily imagined Eloise’s dramatic voice reading the scene aloud to the rest of the group. They’d hang on her every word, impressed at the atmosphere and anticipation Mandy had summoned up. And for sure they’d imagine this was her and her secret lover...that they’d enjoyed an interlude just like Doctor Peters and his beautiful nurse.

  In truth very little had happened between herself and Doctor Baldwin the pathologist. Yes, they’d kissed on the way up to the party. She’d been amazed when he jabbed the emergency stop button, dragged her into his arms, and pressed his already beer-fumed lips to hers.

  With her husband so often absent at sea, and her libido too seldom attended to, Mandy found this sudden Neanderthal need entirely understandable.

  Doctor Baldwin had been pleasant and attentive throughout the evening—and then taken her home to his rather bare bachelor flat and inserted himself for a fast and furious fuck.

  But that had been all. No flowers or chocolates. No follow-up phone calls or cards with kittens and red roses and ribbons. No dreamy little chats in the hospital corridors.

  To begin with, Mandy had been devastated.

  But then the relief took over. He dealt in dead flesh, and in truth had been somewhat inept with her warm living body.

  And Max Nicholson guarded what he considered to be his exclusive property—even if he wasn’t home to enjoy it very often. Mandy could do without the drama and danger a real-life lover would attract; Max was bad enough if he discovered any of her hypothetical lovers lurking on the pages of her manuscripts.

  Doctor Brad, Doctor Piers, and Doctor Robbie needed to keep a watchful eye out for a fierce and frenzied fisherman stalking the imaginary hospital corridors, razor-sharp gutting knife in hand.

  She slid a frozen dinner into the microwave oven, pushed Heat and Hold and returned to the keyboard again.

  Was it worth trying to recapture the scene in the elevator, or should she press on with the first three chapters of the Addy/Brad/Ankylosing Spondylitis novel? She had just a few more pages to go before she could send it off to be evaluated.

  Would they ever want the rest of anything she wrote? She had twenty-six three-chapter ‘partials’ packed away in her desk, and had been spending enough on postage to support an orphan in Africa. It was at last possible to email her submissions, but what if they ended up in the editor’s Spam folder? Or were accidentally deleted? Mandy gnawed on the piece of rough skin beside her thumb-nail—her constant worry-site.

  The microwave dinged just as she drew blood.

  CHAPTER 15 - MEG UNDRESSES THE NANNY

  Al had collected her in a late model silver-gray Audi. Greeted her with a casual kiss on the cheek. Opened the door for her and closed it after she’d settled into the fragrant leather passenger seat. And driven a little too fast—but with the air of a man used to the road rather than one showing off. His cologne and her Opium warred for supremacy in the enclosed space.

  “Where are we going?” she’d asked, once the car was growling along the main highway.

  “There’s a nice little winery out by the Tuki Tuki. I’ve eaten there once or twice.” He sent her a brief smile. “It’s been good each time. Orlando’s.”

  “That’s the name of my cat. One of my cats. Two Burmese. You probably saw them last night. They get lonely without a friend and go wandering.”

  “Don’t we all?” He sounded bitter.

  She glanced sideways. “This seems,” she said with care, “a reasonable time to ask about Michael’s mother.”

  “She got lonely and went wandering, too. Enjoyed all the perks my well paid job provided, but wanted me around instead of tied to the work.”

  “Difficult combination.”

  “Absolute killer. We split about eighteen months ago. Not good for Michael.”

  “He’s a nice boy, from what I’ve seen. He and Ben get on well. He lives with you?”

  Al nodded. “One in the eye for his mother. His choice.”

  They were silent for a few minutes.

  “In case you’re wondering, Gary’s dead. U
nexpected heart attack several years ago.”

  “I checked with Michael.”

  She nodded, stealing a sideways glimpse of him as he turned the car toward the Tuki Tuki river road.

  Al raised his chin and appeared to make a decision. “So—two unattached people, hoping to enjoy each other’s company.”

  “Exactly,” she agreed, thinking back to his kiss on her cheek. It had been chaste in comparison with what must have been rather drunken grappling on the sofa the night before. “I’m sorry about last night,” she added. “Things got a bit out of hand I think.” She sent him a more confident glance.

  “Hell of a way to break the ice, though!” He gave her a broad smile—sure of his charm. Olive skin, very good teeth and plenty of them, lively eyes under fierce black brows. A handsome man, by anyone’s yardstick. And with money and style.

  Why was he bothering with her?

  “Are you Megan or Margaret,” he asked, once the wine had been chosen and poured.

  “Just Meg,” she said, smiling across the table at him.

  His gaze dropped to her warm cream breasts, framed so enticingly by the plunging neckline of her taupe cotton jersey. She saw him looking, and leaned a little further toward him, drawing her arms in against her sides to increase and emphasize her fullness.

  He knew exactly what she was doing, and grinned. “You’re a tease, Meg. I can’t make a grab for them here.”

  “Who says you’d be allowed to grab?”

  “You’d be offended if I didn’t.”

  “Not at all,” she said primly, fingers playing with the gold chain necklace that hung, glittering, right where he wanted his hands. “You could—perhaps—caress...or stroke...or fondle. I’d enjoy any of those more than a grab.”

  He closed his eyes in frustrated anticipation, imagining cradling the warm soft weight of her. A woman in her prime. No longer quite young, but with interesting compensations.

  It was Meg’s turn to smile now. She inspected him across the table, wondering what he was imagining behind his eyelids. His lashes were unfairly long and dark—she should have such luck!

  “Would you choose a caress over a fondle? Or a stroke in favor of a nuzzle?” he asked after an aching gap.

  “I rather like the sound of a nuzzle.”

  “Mmmm—so do I.” He dropped his voice even lower so the other diners had no chance of overhearing.

  She leaned even closer, wondering if that was his plan.

  “Of course,” he continued, “a nuzzle can only be performed with a mouth.” He sent her a slow burn of a smile.

  Meg’s pulse thrummed faster. “And how exactly do you picture this nuzzle, Al?”

  “I think my lips should make first contact about there.” He dipped a long brown forefinger into his wine and placed its tip very precisely on her love-bite. He drew a tight little circle on her skin, then pulled away. They both watched as the drop of chardonnay danced and trembled with her heartbeat, and then ran down out of sight.

  “You’ll make me all wet,” she said, without considering quite what other inferences he could draw from such a comment.

  He raised his eyebrows above wicked eyes.

  Damn—I’ve dropped myself right in it.

  She breathed out quietly. He was fun to flirt with. He’d probably be great in bed—athletic and enthusiastic.

  He dipped his finger in the wine again and held it an inch or two above her flesh. The drop shimmered and flickered in the candlelight before falling with a tiny soft splash very accurately down her cleavage.

  “Stop it Al,” she said with no conviction at all.

  “I’ll lick you clean later.”

  Her internal muscles liked the sound of that and clenched in pleasure.

  I’m going to come right here at the table if he continues this.

  He watched her, eyes intent.

  “I’ll let you know,” she managed.

  “If I’m allowed to?”

  “If I want you to.”

  “Oh, you want me to, Meg. There’s a very sexy blush spreading up your boobs. You’re halfway there already...” He looked delighted with his progress. Guilt-stricken, she glanced down to check if she was really blushing. It was far too dark to tell.

  “I am not,” she protested.

  “Blushing or halfway there?”

  “Both, damn you!” But she laughed. Being angry wasn’t on the menu.

  She glanced around the dimly lit restaurant. No-one was taking the slightest notice of them. It was the sort of place where couples could be wrapped up in each other—separated just enough to feel private, candles flickering, music soothing, waiters attentive but not intrusive. And Al had managed to secure a corner table so they were even more secluded. She hadn’t felt so cosseted in ages.

  He let her off the hook by asking, “And you’re a librarian?”

  She nodded. “Always loved books. Always been a keen reader.”

  Should she tell him her heart’s desire? It might make her sound a bit more interesting than just ‘mother of a son’s friend/librarian/good boobs/available’. She gulped a brave breath. “And these days I write them, too.”

  He sharpened his inspection of her. Especially of her newly-inflated breasts. “Published?”

  She gave a regretful shrug. “Not yet. Trying hard.”

  “What do you write?”

  Here she faltered a little. “Relationships—new beginnings,” she said, hedging around the truth.

  “Soppy romances?” One corner of his mouth quirked.

  “Don’t you dare laugh!” she snapped. “Huge market, Al. Good money if I’m lucky. Which I may never be. The competition is incredible.”

  He reached across and clasped her hand. “Go for it.”

  Meg relaxed with gratitude. “I’m surprising myself so much. I’m absolutely hooked. I’ve always read, but never written. And now I can’t leave it alone.”

  “Ben’s mentioned it.”

  She sharpened her gaze. “Is he complaining? Am I neglecting him?”

  He shook his head. “Not at all. Absolutely not. He’s very proud of you.”

  “I bet he didn’t tell you what I was writing?”

  “Weeelll...no...not quite.”

  She sighed. “If you research the book market, Al, you’d see it’s the very best option for me. More than forty percent of all published novels are romances, one way or another.”

  His big eyebrows rose in surprise. “What about science fiction? And all these forensic crime things that seem to be the rage? Or the vampires and dragons and werewolves Michael’s been so hooked on?”

  She looped the chain necklace around her fingers, and watched his gaze slide down to her breasts again. “No, romance is the answer. Everyone loves a happy ending, even if they won’t admit it. When their own lives are crappy, they want to escape somewhere with nice clothes and beautiful houses and good-looking people.” She grinned, and released the necklace. “And have the satisfaction of knowing how it’s going to end long before the characters in the book work it out. They do put themselves through hoops. It’s such fun being the one to pull the strings.”

  “Yup—Ben said you were right into it. Don’t put me into any of your stories. I’m nobody’s ideal man.”

  “I think you’ll be safe enough. The heroes need to be desert sheikhs, or wealthy shipping magnates or classy French Counts and so on. I’ve got an Italian billionaire on the go right now. I could use your body for him, I suppose.” She inspected him over the table, head on one side.

  “Are you undressing me?” he asked with suspicion.

  She nodded, eyes far away.

  Carlo strode into the children’s quarters, rigid with fury. He’d seen their game from the balcony of his study. His children had played under the garden hose like a pair of ill-educated peasants. And the nanny encouraged them! They’d squealed together like flapping birds—even his son, Antonio—running through the spraying water with shrieks of enjoyment.

  Did the bo
y not realize he was the scion of a noble and wealthy family? Decorum was a necessary part of his life. Did the chit of a girl, the English Angela, not know this? He needed to put her straight.

  He slammed the door behind him—and froze. The nanny was barely dressed. She glistened with water as she pulled off her sodden clothing. And gasped as Carlo came to a sudden standstill.

  She was slender, pale, delicate, and quite the most lovely young woman he’d ever seen. Fragile and smooth as porcelain. His long fingers itched to caress her.

  Angela moaned and attempted to cover herself, but her hands were tiny and hid very little.

  Lust demolishing his manners, Carlo stepped closer, taking her hands in his own and wrenching them away from her up-tilted breasts so he could gaze his fill. The tiny wisp of damp silk and French lace left nothing to his imagination, merely outlining her with charming clarity.

  Embarrassed, she attempted to turn aside, but he held her with an iron grasp, drinking in her loveliness. His eyes slid lower...over her slender ribcage to a hand-span waist...and down to the luscious curve of her hips. The tiny wet panties clung to her skin, semi-transparent. He could clearly see her feminine curls pressed flat against the fabric.

  “Signorina,” he groaned. “You are beautiful, but you must not encourage...” His eyes roamed helplessly over her. “Er, not encourage my children to play such games. To be so wet...” He licked his lips in frustration. “To be so wet is not...?” He’d lost track of his thought processes again. “Is not...?”

  “Is not...natural?” she queried, seeing her handsome employer lost for words, and possibly putty in her small capable hands. “I find nothing unnatural about being wet,” she continued, flicking her pointed pink tongue over her cushiony bottom lip. “But you could always make me dry again.” She indicated a fluffy white bath towel.

  Mesmerized, he reached for it, and began to rub over her neck and chest, patting at her pretty breasts until he saw the towel was having very little effect on the damp fabric.