Fire and Ice: A New Adult Erotic Romance (6 page)
Chapter Nine
IN THE MORNING, George is not in my room, or at the breakfast buffet. This does not surprise me. I am not fragile. I do not break in half. Even so, Athena’s sorority sisters treat me gently, like I’m an invalid child who has had a relapse during the night. Even Miriam casts a sympathetic look my way.
“Catch and release,” I say to her.
If she doesn’t fully smile at least it isn’t a grimace.
We see Athena and David off on their honeymoon. I exhale. Despite everything, despite Caleb, despite me, Athena has had a nearly perfect wedding.
At the airport, I wait for my flight, secure that Caleb has paid some exorbitant price to take one long before me. Perhaps he even hopped the same redeye as George. That, I think, is its own special kind of hell. When Caleb tells this story—as I know he will—I will be the evil ex-girlfriend who bilked him out of money and love, left him stranded at a wedding reception, expensive engagement ring in hand. This will elicit concerned murmurs from potential victims. I hope they’re all smart enough to run away.
My name over the loudspeaker jolts me. My heart thrums in my chest. I listen, not sure I’ve heard correctly.
“Persephone Jones to Delta Flight 354 ticket desk.”
But no, there it is. I sling my carry-on bag over my shoulder and approach.
“Persephone Jones?” I say to the woman behind the ticket counter. I pull out my ID in case she needs it.
“Oh, yes. Let’s see.” She scrolls through her screen. “Here it is. You’ve been upgraded to first class.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Totally.” She hands me a new boarding pass. “Enjoy your flight and happy New Year.”
When the first class rows are called, I can’t bring myself to board the plane. I wait and board late, getting shoved and pushed and jabbed in the back by someone’s stroller. But I’m in first class and don’t have far to go. Actually, now that I check, I’m in seat 3A.
And sitting in 3B is George.
“I decided against the red-eye,” he says.
I can’t make my mouth move. It’s hanging slack, I’m sure. I look like a dunce. I’m immobile and blocking the flow onto the plane. At last, George grasps my wrists and tugs me into the row and into seat 3A.
“Okay?” he asks.
I can’t even nod. But my gaze—my treacherous, treacherous gaze—flits toward the cabin’s bathroom. I’m not certain, but I think he smiles.
“I thought we could take things slow.” He nods toward the front of first class, where the flight attendants are already busy in the kitchen. “Maybe with lunch.”
Yes, of course. Lunch. In first class.
“We could,” I say, and if my voice is tentative, it’s because so much has happened and I’m frightened about trading ice for fire.
“Good.”
He doesn’t push it, doesn’t insist, lets me settle into my oversized first-class seat. But when the plane rumbles down the runway and his hand slips into mine, something melts inside me. He squeezes my fingers.
I squeeze back and marvel at the feel of it.
His skin is so warm.
About the Author
Mia Myers
spent several long winters in the frozen north with nothing but a battered copy of
Delta of Venus
by Anais Nin to keep her warm. Now she pens stories in hopes others may stay warm as well.
Check back for more episodes in the Crimes of Passion series of erotic romances. Coming soon!
Also by Mia Myers
Small Town Sinners: The Halley Chronicles
Part soap opera, part erotic exploration
Free for Kindle Unlimited!
Welcome to Templeton Fields, a small town where everyone has a secret. With one rash decision, Halley embarks on a journey of discovery, but what she uncovers about her fellow citizens, her friends, her family shocks her to the core. It seems everyone has a secret, everyone has a price, and no one in in Templeton Fields is without sin.
Episode 1:
An Apple a Day
Episode 2:
A Roll in the Hay
Episode 3:
The Devil to Pay
Or … grab the three episode bundle:
Small Town Sinners
More to read?
Visit
Mia’s page
on Amazon for all the latest episodes and standalone stories.
Like erotic romance with a touch of suspense? Try
The House Sitter
:
Naked. Handcuffed. Double-crossed.
When thief Carter Reese wakes after a robbery gone wrong, he doesn't expect to be shackled to a high-end oven. He doesn't expect the resident house sitter to be so … friendly. He doesn't expect this one exquisite encounter before he’s hauled away to prison to mean so much.
But house sitter Emma Sparks has her own secret. And when the homeowners return early from vacation?
One thing’s for sure: breaking and entering has never been so sexy.
Excerpt: The House Sitter
Chapter One: Carter
MAYBE IT WAS the hand-painted Italian tile that bit into his naked hipbone. Maybe it was the handcuff that chafed his right wrist. Maybe it was the heat that rolled over his backside in waves. Whatever woke him, when Carter Reese finally came to—groggy from a blow to the head—he knew one thing:
He was screwed.
Carter pushed from the floor, the handcuff clanking. On his knees, he now sat even with the lower oven of a high-end set. Both oven doors were open. Both threw out heat, the dials set to five hundred degrees Fahrenheit. Carter went from knees to standing, bringing the oven door with him. He slammed the first, then the second, then shut each of them off.
“Christ, Tony, you can’t kill someone with an electric oven.”
Carter probed the bruise near his temple. A few inches either way, and Tony might have killed him with that. He swayed, the room growing dim, then lightening again. He jangled the handcuff that kept him tethered to the oven. He inspected the handle. Even if he could pry it loose, there was nothing within his reach to do so.
He sank to his knees. No, you couldn’t kill someone with an electric oven, but you might induce a slow, painful death from dehydration. God, what he wouldn’t give for a glass of water. He clawed his way to standing again and tested his range. Arms outstretched, straining against the cuff, he could skim the kitchen aisle, the edge of the refrigerator, and the lip of the sink.
“Water, water everywhere, but not a drop to drink.”
Damn. What had gone wrong? Other than the obvious? This was the last time he worked with a partner. Tony wasn’t bright. The oven was proof of that. But he had the moving truck, and the uniforms, while Carter had the lanky frame and the know-how. The security system on this place—high tech as it was—didn’t extend to the downstairs powder room with its just-big-enough window. All he had to do was get naked, add a little Crisco, and slip on through.
Unlocking the door for Tony had been the first mistake. No, hooking up with Tony had been Carter’s first mistake, the second was trusting him. The third was turning his back. Never trust. Never turn your back. Never ...
The beep of the electronic door lock brought him up short. Someone was unlocking the kitchen door. Through the etched glass, the shadowy form of that someone was clear. In moments, that someone would enter the kitchen. In moments, he’d confront someone who was clearly not Tony.
The owners, returned from vacation early? Whoever it was, they’d soon get an eyeful. How often did you find a naked, greased-up man shackled to your oven?
Not very.
The door swung open and a woman stepped inside, head down, her concentration on the doorknob, the bundle of groceries in her arms. She was young, her dark hair in one of those sweet little pixie cuts that made a woman’s eyes look huge and highlighted her lips.
She hummed to herself, a simple tune that spoke of contentment. She was almost to the kitchen aisle when she glanced up.
Carter had never seen shock play across someone’s face so intimately before. Her eyes grew wide—and yes, they were big and brown and under different circumstances, he’d gladly get lost in them. Her mouth made a perfect o, which under different circumstances would be enticing as well. The grocery sacks slipped from her grip, crashed to the floor, the contents scattering. A mustard jar cracked and oozed yellow blood. A pint of ice cream rolled and came to a stop next to his foot.
It was all he could do not to bend down to grab it. Instead, he covered himself as best he could with his free hand.
No scream emerged from that mouth. Her gaze darted, from his wrist in its handcuff, to his face, back down to his other hand, then—almost embarrassed—back to his face.
“This,” he began, his voice rough from dehydration. He coughed to clear it. “This isn’t what it looks like.”
Her mouth still agape, she surveyed the kitchen, then her gaze peered into the main part of the house.
“There’s no one else here,” Carter said before a thought struck him. “Fuck, no. There might be someone here. Was there a truck out front?”
Her eyes returned to him and she shook her head in uncertainty.
“Go check the drive. If there’s a moving truck, run as fast as you can for the neighbors and call the police. Okay, sweetheart?”
She nodded once, turned, and sprinted out the back door.
Damn, she was fast.
In the now-empty kitchen, Carter contemplated the ice cream that rested against his foot. The cold felt like heaven against his skin. Okay, so it was a bastard thing to do, eating some poor girl’s ice cream, like stealing candy from a baby and bilking retired veterans out of their pension—neither of which Carter had done.
Still, his throat ached. A wave of dizziness hit him. In a matter of moments, sirens would fill the air, the police would swarm the place, they’d haul him downtown to the station—none too gently, either, not this bunch.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” he said and picked up the container.
Carter pried the top from the pint, dug a finger into the nearly rock hard
Cherry Garcia
, and moaned from the taste of it.
“It’s easier with a spoon,” a voice said.
He jumped, the pint slipping in his grip before he caught it. The woman stood in the doorway to the kitchen, her gaze locked on him again. Carter considered: drop the ice cream and cover himself—however inadequately—or hang onto what was no doubt his taste of freedom?
He opted for freedom.
“What?” he said, voice strangled.
“It’s easier with a spoon.” She pointed to the pint in his hands. “Would you like a spoon?”
“I’d like a lot of things right now,” he said, “but, yeah, a spoon is on the list.”
She was no fool, Carter could see that. She kept her distance. Even so, she dug a spoon from a drawer, then leaned across the kitchen aisle to hand it to him.
The first spoonful melted against his tongue and Carter collapsed against the ovens, head thrown back. He might have groaned. In any event, he was completely undignified.
“Bad day?” the woman said.
“You don’t know the half of it.” He continued to shovel the ice cream into his mouth. Sweet as it was, it did little to quench his thirst. Maybe she’d toss him a bottle of water before she called the police. Maybe she’d let him finish the whole pint as well. Maybe ... he glanced up, narrowing his eyes at her.
Who
was
she? Her groceries covered the floor—most were small items, easily consumed, the sort you buy for a short stint of house sitting. So, the house sitter, not the owner. Still, why hadn’t she called the police? He replayed their meeting in his mind. She’d walked in on him, yes. But her first instinct was not to run back out. Or pull out her cell phone. Or even make a grab for the landline well out of his reach.