The Bonk Squad (10 page)

“
I
can’t
,” she whispered.

“
I’ll do it for you then,
shall I?” He knelt and tugged her toward him so she sat on the very
edge of the bed. “It’ll be the best thing you ever felt.
Never
?” He shook his
dark head.

Sophie trembled, desperate
to know more.

It’ll be very valuable
information
, she assured
herself.

But who was she kidding?
Now she wanted the sensation for more than her writing. She wanted
to know what she’d been missing. She wanted to enjoy Ryan’s sexy
confidence. To prolong her time with him, here in this private room
with its musky male smell and motor-bike pictures—and the pulsing
music that now pounded right in time with her heartbeat.

She tensed as his hands
slid under her red dress and peeled her panties down. Then she
leaned back on her elbows and dragged in a deep breath. Would it be
as good as he’d promised? The best thing she’d ever
felt?

His hands settled onto her
knees and he stroked a little way up her thighs.

“
Great legs,” he said.
“I’ve been looking. Have you noticed? Noticed me taking notice of
you?”

She’d had no idea—hadn’t
dreamed someone so hunky would be interested. She sent him a small
pleased smile. “Maybe.”

His hands smoothed up
higher—still gentle, still not threatening. “Lie back.”

Sophie obeyed his husky
suggestion as his fingers kneaded and stroked, up and up, until he
pushed her legs apart and touched her slippery clit.

“
Shhhhhh...” he soothed as
she gave a soft gasp of alarm. “Relax and enjoy.” His fingertip
began to circle and slide, over and around, over and around. “Top
quality research,” he murmured. “Is it nice right
there?”

She swallowed, and nodded,
speechless with sensation.

Ryan pushed her dress
right up to her waist, and bent to kiss the quivering skin of her
belly.

Deep inside Sophie turned
hot and liquid with wanting. She parted her legs
further.

Ryan licked his finger and
rubbed faster, slower, harder, lighter. “That’s it, babe,” he
encouraged. “Just like that. Let go for me.” And Sophie spun out of
control, shuddering and moaning.

Minutes later they lay
together on the bed. He looked down at her with tender amusement.
“Think you’ll recover?”

“
That was wonderful,” she
whispered. “Thank-you.”

“
You’ve never come
before?”

She shook her head. “Not
until just then,” she said with a shy smile. “That’s why I wanted
to know everything properly, so I don’t get things wrong in my
writing. I could write something great now.”

“
You don’t know the half
of it yet,” he muttered. “And I don’t want you treating me as
clinical research any more, either.”

“
I wouldn’t!”

“
I won’t let you. From now
on this is a date—a proper date. Okay?”

Sophie swallowed. “Okay,”
she agreed.

“
So,” Ryan said, I’ll put
my clothes back on and we’ll have that glass of wine, and then you
can undress me as though I’m more than a piece of meat.”

She leaned up on one elbow
and watched. He was beautiful, and still so pumped up he had
difficulty tucking himself away and zipping up his
jeans.

“
Why don’t we do it now?”
she asked as he topped up their glasses.

“
After what you’ve just
told me? I want to seduce you properly. We’ll do it, Sophie. We’ll
do it for hours if you want, but we’ll take our time and wind each
other up to fever-pitch first.”

Her lips parted in
anticipation.

“
You won’t be thinking
about your writing—you’ll be thinking all about me.
All
about me.” He leaned
down and took her mouth in a sudden savage kiss, then drew back,
lifted the glasses of wine, and held one out to her. He raised his
in a toast. “To making things amazing?” he suggested.

Tigger stretched and closed her eyes.
Not bad. People would buy that. She’d price it at 99 cents, seeing
it was short, but it was surprising how Deepli D’Amore’s e-book
sales were adding up. No-one at that afternoon’s meeting had been
into self-publishing. More fool them, in her opinion. She hadn’t
encouraged them to try it. Why add to the competition?

Deepli’s next story would be the
seduction that followed. Another 99 cents worth on Amazon.com. And
she really needed some masculine input to make it feel
authentic.

Frowning, she tapped out another email
to Tank, knowing she’d be lucky to get anything different from the
last couple of replies. They’d simply said ‘Missing U 2
Babe.’

Yeah, she just bet he was. Off with
some groupie was more his style. Well, two could play at
that…

What else could she buy her children
for Christmas? It was exactly five weeks off, and Romy knew she’d
only get busier and busier until then.

And of course she needed something
brilliant for Neill. Darling Neill, who held things together for
her.

Ten year old Natasha already invented
wildly unlikely fairy tales. Eight year old Sarah read way above
her age. And little Daniel was Neill’s, and all the more precious
for being so.

Neill Farrell had been one of the
helpers on the Community Clean-Up truck six years earlier. He’d
seen the petite divorcee struggling with some heavy old steel
piping she was dragging to the front gate for the free collection.
And he’d simply taken over. Hauled out the pipes as though they
weighed nothing. Returned at the end of the afternoon to offer any
other help she needed. Stayed to dinner. Slipped into her bed and
into her heart.

He was unfazed by her two young
children, had her pregnant with Daniel only weeks later, and
married her soon after. She’d not cooked a meal since the day he
moved in. Nor mowed a lawn or changed a light bulb or hung a load
of washing.

“
You earn the money, and
I’ll look after everything else for you,” he’d said. And somehow
their system worked.

Neill pushed out walls and added new
rooms when he was not being mother or teacher’s assistant. Created
a study for Romy and a workshop for himself. Bought her time to
relax, and loved her silly.

Romy was a Senior Account Manager for
ADverts. Her clients were blue-chip. They expected instant action,
real results, huge sales increases for the vast expenditure the
ADverts Agency extracted from them. And they expected Romy to jump
if they snapped their fingers.

She spent a lot of time on planes... a
lot of time in the transit lounges of airports. She’d started
writing to fill up some of that time—because you could only go over
and over the brief and the campaign strategy so many times before
it started to blur in front of your eyes.

She’d check in and tune out—to a
different century, where everything was less frenzied, more
mannered. Just for fun, to start with.

She’d been finishing off a chapter at
the kitchen table one night four years earlier and Neill had paused
to drop a kiss on the top of her dark curly hair. He’d flicked his
eyes to the screen to see what she was working on, and been amazed
to find it wasn’t media forecasts or TV rates or sales
projections.

Isabella studied Don
Antonio through her lowered lashes. Sooty lashes, as luxuriant as
her midnight hair. She was merely a serving wench, but prayed that
her lush figure and smooth, smallpox-free face might find favor
with this gentleman of wealth and power.

She inhaled deeply,
knowing her breasts would rise inside the gathered white blouse
with its enticing drawstring... knowing full well they would strain
against the black velvet over-bodice, and that his fingers might be
tempted to tweak the ribbon undone and investigate
further.

She saw him pause,
hesitate, decide. She raised her eyes to his.

And Neill’s big hands slid over Romy’s
shoulders and started to undo the row of buttons down the front of
her pin-striped business shirt.

“
Senorita,” he suggested.
“Allow me the pleasure of stroking your milk-white skin and
admiring your pretty boobies.”

“
I don’t think ‘boobies’
was a word they used a lot in eighteenth century Spain,” Romy
chuckled.

“
And I dinna think Don
Antonio came from Edinburgh,” he replied, hands on her breasts,
lips on her neck. “But I like the sound of that drawstring
arrangement. We’ll have to get one of those.”

“
We’ve already got one,”
Romy said, reaching around to pull his pajama cord undone. Neill’s
slippery burgundy pants shimmied down his legs and hit the floor.
Romy turned and looked, and reached, and fondled.

“
What a wonderfully
accessible body you have, Don Antonio,” she murmured. “Obedient,
too. So pleased to see me.”

“
Senorita, you forget
yourself.”

“
Milord—I’m simply admiring
you, and there’s more to admire by the second.”

“
Aye, lassie, so switch
that contraption off for the night and let me turn
you
on, eh? What’s the
writing in aid of? Have you got another career I don’t know
about?”

Romy had Saved and smiled. “Just
something to do while I’m waiting at airports,” she said as she
rose and walked with him to the bedroom. Neill didn’t bother to
replace his pajama pants. Romy slipped an arm around his waist and
stroked the warm skin over his hipbone as they dawdled together up
the hallway. “I’ve always liked history. It’s fun doing a little
research and getting things right. Details like underwear and
hairstyles.”

“
Whalebone stays and
pantaloons?” he queried. “Crinoline skirts with all those
petticoats? I’ve often thought it would be wonderful unwrapping a
woman who was so tightly laced and totally concealed...” He pulled
Romy into his arms for a sudden savage kiss.

“
Turns you on, does it?”
she asked when he released her. She could see and feel exactly how
aroused he was.

“
Not that I don’t like
removing your lacy little skanties and titty-covers,” he continued,
“but a man could enjoy investigating what’s under some of those
old-fashioned passion killers.”

And so their games had started. With
time on his hands and a magpie nature, Neill delved into secondhand
clothing shops and antique stores, placed ads on the internet
sites, and inspected all manner of alarming garments. He found
Victorian and Edwardian underwear was still to be had, and the
private presents he gave to Romy for her birthday or Christmas—or
no occasion at all—gave them much mutual pleasure.

The heroines in her novels began to
divest themselves of their clothes with great regularity so they
could display their lovingly described underwear.

And that had been the turning point
with the publishing house to which she’d sent a couple of hopeful
manuscripts. Her third novel had been just what her editor needed.
And some skilful reworking of the first two meant they were sold as
well. Sylvia Farrell became Romy Farr. Romy because she was the
first and only daughter of an immigrant couple from Romania, and
because it just seemed to go with the Farr from Farrell.

She shook herself back to the task at
hand. Christmas presents. It would be the latest ‘Samara
Sleuthhound’ for Natasha. Oh to achieve such success with her own
books!

She sipped her coffee and admired the
muscles flexing in Neill’s very good legs as he and Daniel built a
fort at the far end of the lawn. The late sunlight sifted down over
them through fingers of cloud.

Strange that something so ordinary
could look so idyllic. She reached for her ever present iPhone and
popped off a couple of shots before dragging her brain to
eight-year-old Sarah’s gifts. Money was no longer a problem.
ADverts paid handsomely in return for her body and soul. Neill had
rounded up some nine-till-three home-handyman jobs for cash as soon
as Daniel was settled at school. And the book royalties were a
pleasant extra.

The prospect of being a serious writer
now ate at her constantly. Perhaps Neill could get a full-time job
and she could write—and take back the cooking and housework? She’d
sound him out tonight.

Right after he’d laced her
into the whalebone corset that pushed her breasts up almost to her
chin. How had women survived it all those years ago? She could
scarcely breathe once Neill had her all trussed up. But the effect
on
him
was
electrifying. He’d spend hours in their four-poster bed doing
anything she wanted... pleasuring her with his hands and mouth
until she begged for mercy.

And then pull the laces apart with
infinite slowness, kissing her shoulders and breasts as he peeled
the fabric away, tut-tutting at the cruel marks the devilish
garment had made on her pale body, knowing that she suffered it
only for him and his special pleasure. Yes—she’d ask him
tonight.

She needed to find something to wear
that would be accessible without being obvious. Jeans, cut-offs,
shorts—they were all she’d brought home. And she couldn’t stand the
thought of being so exposed, with her thong and jeans crumpled
around one ankle in their haste to get at one another’s flesh,
because for sure they were going to do it.