When Sandra met Charlotte

Excerpt from Sandra's Social:

“I bet you think you’re too good for me too.” Charlotte had one of those sexpot voices that was hoarse to the point that sometimes parts of words would fade out to only slightly be heard.  When she got angry or excited it would even squeak out in some places.  And always depending on her mood, slightly tinged with a Southern accent.

Sandra side-glanced her. “I don’t even know who you are”.

“Well I know who you are.  You’re one of those women that look at me, and see a fat girl.  You see a woman who isn’t worth your space.”  She began to weep. “A woman whose boyfriend you can take. That worthless piece of donkey dung, how dare he?”

“I’m sorry you’re having a rough time, but I’m not a boyfriend stealer. I do something else entirely.”

“What do you mean?” she muttered out between sobs as she patted dry her running face.

“Can I buy you a shot?”  Sandra offered out of the blue.

While they had been having their shots, Sandra in an effort to console Charlotte, had made her privy to her theory on men and love, and what she meant to do about it.  At the tender age of sixteen Sandra had already scientifically dissected the nature of every boy in a one-mile radius.  At 18 she had graduated with the knowledge of the social preoccupations of men within the country she was in.  By 21 she had entire nations of men charted and hypothesized for good measure.  Then her adventures with Athol had settled it for her.  She had to use this knowledge somehow.  They couldn’t be allowed to get away with it.

“You see Charlotte it’s very simple.”  She downed a beer.  “Men are predisposed to be cheaters.  Men are trained at a very early age to follow their instincts. Their instincts tell them to be fruitful and multiply with as many women as it takes to propagate the species.  This started thousands of years ago before technology made it unnecessary to make enough humans that nature wouldn’t just wipe out the species.”  She glanced up at the bartender, “Two more shots of Patron mon ami.  The problem is that the mental instincts and training has been continually taught because women have been placed somewhere behind cattle since the beginning of time and only what, 70, 80 years ago we actually started minding it, and doing something about it.  We are combating thousands of years of preprogramming in a span of time that it takes a life to gestate into fulfillment.  All of us girls were being told we’re equal, and we deserve the best, and not to be treated beneath cattle.  On the other side of the fence the boys are being told, ‘Don’t mind her boy, she’ll eventually realize where she belongs.’  And the training is continued.”

Charlotte gave Sandra a startled look of understanding.  “They don’t have to be jerks they’re still being taught that we’re beneath them by their fathers and grandfathers.” She toasted with Sandra, and they downed their shots of tequila.  “I never looked at it like that before.”

“Very few of us do, that’s why we’re in this situation.  We’re uninformed.  It’s in all walks of our life.  The trick is that since they can’t legally keep us in our place they find other ways to do it.  Look at our icons and superstars.  Men like Danny Devito are stars while women like Roseanne Barr are constantly trashed for not looking up to snuff.  Our American Hollywood rewards female actresses for playing whores, adulteresses, and loose women.  Think about your last 3 years of female Oscar winners. Male doctors blow off our symptoms as being ‘silly’ and label us ‘hypochondriacs’.  And guys leave decent caring women like yourself for the sake of barely literate eye candy like that whatever he left you for. Yet when a woman satisfies herself, and her sexual needs and desires she’s labeled a whore, and unfit for motherhood and marriage. The only things we are good for by the by.” She paused looking at their empty shot glasses. “Bartender, another round.” “Well I’m not gonna take it anymore. I have decided on a course of action, and it’s called W.A.R.M.”

“Warm?” She held up her shot to meet Sandra’s clank, and simultaneously down.

“Women Assisting the Reclamation of Man.  If we leave it up to them it’s never gonna happen. We have to take this one into our own hands just like we did with our equality. Not every good-looking girl is as dumb as a post.  Most of us have good heads on our shoulders, and know how to use them. If things are going to level out then this training will have to be accomplished by women, and it has to be done in a brutal, harsh, life-altering way to insure that they don’t revert as soon as the lesson is done. My idea is to gather a group of us, and we systematically start retraining men.” She glanced up, “Bartender,” pointing to their empty shot glasses, “Yo!”

“A group; like AA or something?”

“Yeah something like that I suppose.”  Sandra frowned. “I didn’t intend for it to be that big.”

“Why not?”  Charlotte’s odd blue-green eyes started to glint as her mind raced with the tequila, and the possibilities.  “How is this supposed to happen if you keep it on a small scale?  First thing we should do is get a website.”

“Charlotte, I don’t know—”

“Then we can have meetings, and when we get a membership too high for local meetings there will be seminars.”

“Charlotte, I don’t think—”

“And there has to be a fan club. You know for women who support us, but don’t have the balls to get out there and do it.”

“No fan clubs—”

“Whose gonna train all of these women?” She stared at Sandra. “It’s your ideal, so it should be you.  How does a woman reclaim a man anyway?  In a brutal and harsh fashion that is?”

When Alex met Thomas

Excerpt from Sandra's Social:

This morning was the clearest Alex’s mind had been since the accident.  He focused on the girl Danielle as she brought over his breakfast.  She looked like she fell right out of the 17th century. Her skin looked like cappuccino froth dusted lightly with cinnamon.  The long plain beige skirt she was wearing looked made of cotton.  The simple white top was too big for her as the large scoop neck toyed with falling off her creamy lightly freckled shoulders with every movement. It was held to her form by a simple white apron cinched tight to her small waist. She had a brown bandana tied around her gold-laced brown hair holding it out of her face.  With no makeup, and only a freshly washed face with broad evenly placed features, golden amber eyes sparkled mischievously with an even broader smile.

“Morning Beautiful; here’s some eats for you.  Hope this day finds you blessed.”

“Who is he to you?”

Danielle gave him an odd look as she placed the steaming plate of eggs and hash on the table near his bed. “That was a complete sentence. This day sees you blessed indeed.”

“Answer the question.”

“My name’s Danielle by the way.  He told me you were Alex, -”

“Please, answer the question.”

“My brother, now can we move on to more civilized conversation?”

Alex merely regarded her with hooded eyes.

“I suppose that’s a no.  Pity I figured you had something interesting to say.”

“When is Glendel coming back?”

She shrugged as she turned, and started to leave the room.

Alex stewed for a second over Danielle’s uncooperative nature.  He then took a mental detail of his physical condition.  He moved both legs successfully, but the truth would come when he tried to put weight on those legs.  His right shoulder was definitely wrenched.  He had pain in various places; his face, his chest, and back. It was safe to say he truly hurt from head to toe.  He was staring at his feet dangling over the end of the bed when Glendel casually strolled into the room.

“Done with your vacation? Talk about an inopportune time to take a break.” His gold eyes pinned Alex where he lay as the deep smooth voice of the man filled the room.

Glendel stood at the doorway in pretty much the same ensemble he had been in when they had met three weeks ago, but without the hat.  His brown hair was greasy, and lay flat to his skull as if he had been wearing a hat before he came to the bedroom.  

Alex really wasn’t in the mood for this man’s off color sense of humor, and said so. “I can’t say that I’m in a good frame of mind for your particular brand of wit.”

Glendel arched a brow mockingly. “Why that was slightly British. Odd from a big slant eyed Bolshevik like you. What’s your story Stefanov?”

Alex merely glared at the man.

“Okay, I see you woke up in a grand mood.” Glendel commented as he went over to a chair that was by the bed.  It was the perch that Danielle had maintained during her vigil over his prone body.

“Where’s McNeil?” Alex slanted his dark blue eyes at Glendel.

“Back to his charmed lifestyle.” His expression appeared bland at most.

Alex stared at the ceiling as he thought about the places Shane McNeil could hole up. “How did the rest of the IRA feel about Shane’s statement?”

“They claim it, but I happen to know firsthand that it leaves a sour taste in the mouth of many of them.  They want Shane dead.” This was accompanied by an even blander look on his face considering the subject.

Alex fixed Glendel with a hard look. “How do you know so much?  How long have you been working this?”

“Since it started it seems. This is my home Alex. I see to what’s mine.” Glendel ended fiercely, his tone defying the unresponsive features of his face.

“Will you get in my way when I go after McNeil?”

“Not at all, I intend to help.  Unfortunately if I want to maintain my inside you’ll have to be the one to kill McNeil, and then I’ll do the right thing, and kill you.”

“You’re breaking my cover.” Alex jerked wanting to sit up, but flinching instead, and staying prone.

“Yes I want you out of Ireland mate,” he said deadpan.

“My orders-,” Alex started raising his voice.

“Are superseded by mine,” was said softly, but with force.

“No fucking way will I just roll over and let you kick me out.”

“You aren’t being given a choice in the matter.  I’m offering you plenty by giving you McNeil, and a fake death. I could give you neither.” Glendel’s eyes gleamed with malicious intent. The most expression he had showed yet.

Alex frowned at the man that he was quickly beginning to not like one bit. They were on the same side. Why was he being told to run home with his tail between his legs?  It wasn’t even from his superior, but by some CIA field agent. It made no bloody sense.  Then realization dawned on him.  The man being in the right place at the right time, his unreadable countenance, and obvious community ties.

“You’re first wave intel.”

Glendel’s answering smile was dark and cold. “Now you’re catching on laddie; much bigger things here than the IRA.”

Alex closed his eyes in frustration, but knew that he had to heed the man before him.  

Charlotte's Chance

Near the end of Chapter Six:

'It was a very near thing because they had almost made it out of the club.  Sparked by whatever insane notion, she stopped on the dance floor as “World in My Eyes” by Depeche Mode started to play.  All of a sudden she was 19 again, hanging out in one of these places for the last time, as she knew she was heading to design school.  That night she had let everything go.  She had danced her heart out, drank too much, and flirted too hard.  She would remember that night till her dying day as being one of the best nights of her life. 

The day after tomorrow she could be dead.  It wasn’t just a morbid thought any more.  It could be the truth.  Just like that this trip could be over.  She was in the company of one of the most delicious men she had ever had the chance to encounter.  Even if her over wrought moral code wouldn’t let her sleep with him, it would let her dance with him.  It would not only let her dance with him, it would even allow her to dance dirty with him.  She looked back at Thomas, and started to dance. She began moving slowly, seductively.  For a few moments he just watched her not moving, and not saying anything.  Then he pulled her into himself. 

Most people who witnessed what happened on the dance floor would call it what it was, vertical non-penetration sex set to song.  But it was a gothic club; there was a lot of that going on.  Most of the time he let her set the rhythm, and then he would take over by pulling her hips in the direction he wanted. When the song ended she had her arms around his neck, her body pressed intimately to his, and his hands on her ass as she nearly rode his thigh.  His hands slowly slid up, and lifted his hood just enough that she could see his lips. He then he lifted her veil only enough to settle his lips over hers.

She moaned into his mouth when he pushed his tongue between her teeth as the original German version of “99 Luftballons” played overhead. Her arms tightened around his neck as his hands trailed down her back pressing her even closer than when they had danced.  Suddenly he pulled back his eyes closed.

“Slap me,” he ordered in a husky but sharp tone.

Charlotte frowned, but more at the fact that he wasn’t kissing her anymore. She opened her mouth, and he cut her off before she got any words out.

“Just do it, hard.”

So she wasn’t waiting till they got back.  She pulled back, and wailed across his face as hard as she could.

He grabbed her hand, and they finally made it out of the club.  Thomas had needed that slap.  While he had been kissing her he hadn’t been able to find one single solitary good reason why he shouldn’t just pin her against the nearest wall, and have her.  However he had been reasonable enough to understand that not being able to think of a single good reason not to take her against some random nearby wall was very unreasonable.  Charlotte muddled his mind when she was being a good girl.  Naughty Charlotte was sending him into premature meltdown, and he needed to get her secured, and back to her old self quickly or his self-control wouldn’t last the night.

“I’m sorry” Charlotte whispered in the quiet of the long drive back to their base of operations.

Thomas was a little distracted making sure they weren’t being tailed, but he did eventually respond. “For?”

“I was an unmerciful tease tonight.”

“Yes, but you were supposed to be.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Got reminded of who you used to be. It’s unsettling.”

She paused, and nodded knowing that he was right, and that really had been her problem. “I’ve come a long way. I don’t want to start back peddling.  But with you---,” she stopped herself.

“Charlie, I’m not going to judge you, not now, not ever.  There’s a saying about whores, stones, and glass whorehouses that I’m sure you’re familiar with.”

Despite herself, and the twinge of self-hate she was feeling, Charlotte giggled a little.  Then started to laugh in earnest. “I fogged up your glasses pretty good huh?”

They came to a red light, and he looked over at her until she locked her eyes with his. “There aren’t words to describe the type of desire you make me feel. You respond to me without being ashamed of your own reaction, and that’s hot enough.  But when you bait me without feeling guilty or without being apologetic it’s like tossing out the Bunsen burner for a flame-thrower.  I was nearly unmanned.”

The light changed, and the force of his golden eyes was pulled away from her.  Charlotte tried unsuccessfully to suppress the shudder of sheer desire and awareness that flooded through her at his words.

“I can’t be the only woman that’s ever tried to entice you.”

His eyes didn’t leave the road as he answered. “You are the only one that has done this for the most basic reason.  It’s not because you want me to save you, protect you, or back your play.  You already have that from me. You bait me because you want me to want you for the sake of your own desire.”

Charlotte understood now why this was uncharted territory for him.  Honestly she had never had a man just desire her for the sake of desiring her.  There had been guys that had cared for her, but it hadn’t been insane love or even nearly unmanageable desire.  There had been the guys that had just wanted to get laid, and for them any woman would do.  Then as her self-esteem had done a real noise dive there were the guys that had wanted her to support them because of her business.  Charlotte had been in love, and in lust before, but she had never felt the type of emotions that Thomas Glendel made her feel. As they spent more and more time with each other she was starting to understand that he could say the same for her.

“Thomas—” she started.

“I meant what I said tonight. We’ll get to it.”

~ CHARLOTTE'S CHANCE Book 2 of The W.A.R.M. Front Series Available on Amazon and Barnes & Noble.

Excerpt From Brenda's Bounty Book 3 of The W.A.R.M. Front series

A little insight into the self-made woman:

Brenda was on her third shot of Patron, and not really understanding why that memory had presented itself so freshly upon her getting home.  All she knew was that she needed to drive it out right now. It had been her first lesson in love. Only she had been too young to understand what it meant.

“Brennie Ann. .”  Brenda started in the heavily accented way her mother used to say it. “I should’ve told you, what trouble men will make ‘or ye. The greatest disservice I ev’r did to ye was ‘ot ‘elling you what a bleedin bastard yor father was for ‘eavin us till I died.”

Her mother hadn’t lived for much longer after that night. She had been near the end when the doctor relegated her to bed rest.  Instantly her gaggle of sisters that hadn’t been able to stand Anthony Margiani had not hesitated to come to their sister’s bedside. Each and every one of them, Aunt Sarabelle, Josephine, Margery and Carolyn had come to Willie’s home and stayed to make their sister as comfortable as possible as they took care of house and the child that Tony Margiani had left behind.

Brenda shivered as she remembered the last days.  Her mother had wept and called out for Anthony.  The pain from what she was experiencing had rendered her nearly mad.  Aunt Carrie had started feeding her shots of liquor to try and ease it.  But even that was eventually not enough.  Those last days she couldn’t be consoled and the whole time she had yelled the one phrase over and over again. “Tony, I ‘ought ye loved me, ‘ow could ye ‘eave me to do this alone. Our Brennie, take care of Brennie.”

Her aunt Margie would hold her in her lap rocking her and whispering in her ear the whole time. “Don’t mind ‘er love. She’s ‘ust upset. It’ll be o’er soon.” Her aunts Margie, Carrie, Sara and Josie took turns staying with her mother or staying with her. She could always feel the wetness from their tears falling into the mop of her hair. 

Brenda quickly poured herself another shot and hit it.  She let the liquid burn making her ice blue eyes water.  At least she told herself that was why her eyes watered.  Brenda hadn’t cried over anything in over 10 years.  Not something she was proud of, just a fact. 

She had spent so many years crying, over her mother, over her jilted at the alter status, over years and years of trying to please a man that only saw his failure in the eyes of his daughter. It had taken her father 2 years after the death of her mother to actually come back to Wales for her.  By then she was the community child of her four aunts, and the 6 children that were her cousins that they were also trying to raise. Her aunts were good women, but also brutal women.  Only Josie and Carrie where even still married. They spoke their mind and didn’t care who heard it or how graphic it got. They hadn’t spared Brenda’s ears over the evils of her father those years after they had bitterly buried their sister as she had jumped from house to house.

She remembered the day like it had just happened.  She had been on the streets hustling tourists.  Wasn’t something she had been proud of, but it was what all the kids were doing.  Little wharf rats they had called them. They would do bait and switch on unsuspecting travelers.  Take them through seedy neighborhoods and get them lost there. It was amazing how many people came to England looking for a waifish orphan child to swindle them. Even in the 80’s when Brenda was coming of age they expected 17^th century.  She and her little crew saw opportunity and were there to deliver.

Punk rock had started to take over the airwaves and British teens and pre teens alike became rebellious and cliquish. Walking around with a chip on their shoulder and willing to thumb their noses at authority. She had been 12 years old and all bony limbs in one of her punk girl outfits.  Her favorite in fact was a red plaid school girl skirt, some torn fishnets, Doc Martens, a ripped Sid and Nancy T-Shirt and a moppish haircut like the one Chrissie Hynde wore.  All bought and paid for by her swindling money. Her aunts had gotten to the point where they didn’t ask the child how she came about these funds knowing they wouldn’t like the answer.

“Little girl, what’s your name?” the man called from the other side of the street.

She had barely glanced at him as she yelled. “Piss off,” in her roughest voice.

“Brennie..” he had called. “Brennie Ann.”

Brennie had been fine, it was the Brennie Ann that had set her off. She had turned enraged by being called that. “Sod it off old man, no one in the bleedin ‘ell calls me that any- .” she had thought to finally push her moppish bangs out of her eyes and stopped speaking as she recognized the man. “Pa,” she whispered.

He nodded down at her as he stared at her as if he couldn’t look away. “Christ you look just like her,” he whispered.

And then the rage came flooding back. “You piss’r! You left us! You left ‘er to die!” She threw herself at him trying to hit him. In her rage she only noticed after she began to get tired that he wasn’t fighting back. He was taking it; letting her rage against him.  As she wore herself out she could finally hear what he was saying.

“Mi bella, mi dispiace.” My beauty, I’m sorry.

Her rage gave way to tears as her hits became weaker and less impassioned.  He finally was able to lift her up and just hold her as she wept.

Sacramento California hadn’t been a terrible place for a teenage girl to grow up.  If you didn’t spend the whole time being a self-righteous brat.  Of course Brenda had spent most of her years with her father reminding him of what he had done wrong. Melanie, her dad’s new wife had put an end to that a few years after he had moved her there. Luckily Brenda had found the street punks in Sacramento so she always had someone to go whine too when home life became unbearable.  

But something odd happened to her when her first baby brother was born.  It had happened right there in the hospital when she had seen him for the first time.

“There he is Brennie. Your little brother, Lawrence.” She had moved her moppy bangs out of her face to stare at the bundle from the window.  He had looked so perfect, unspoiled.  She had felt this welling of hope.  It would be different for him.  She would see to it. He would be a good man, and he wouldn’t leave his family just because times got tough.  There was hope still.

It had been the same with the twins, Warren and Walter.  Each little boy represented an opportunity to build a new man.  One that would be the way they were in storybooks, and not the way they were in real life.

Brenda's Bounty Coming November 2016

Catch the 1st two books of the Series, Sandra's Social and Charlotte's Chance on Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Smashwords

w/ love

Sue

Rewrite and Write Some More

As I'm trying to complete book 3 of the W.A.R.M. Front series I must reread the previous two because of how time intertwined the first three are.  I'll be able to loosen the load some when I tell Rachel's story and we'll get to catch up with all of our happy couples by the time Debbie settles down a few years from the original 2005 date of the first book Sandra's Social.

Our girl Sandy, the one who started this whole mess in the first place.

The only thing harder than trying to tie together the timeline instances that make these three books rebound off of each other is fighting the nearly nihilistic desire to edit the previous two.  Which just means at some point in time I will convince myself to rewrite and re-release this series.

As writers we learn so much about ourselves through our characters.  They built a base for us that has nothing to do with who we see ourselves as in real life.  Then they take on new life and tell you who they are. Its hard to describe that process to someone who doesn't write but I remembered this all too well as I reread this scene that sprang from me practically fully formed as my characters demanded a little fun time give in take in the middle of their intense personality clashes.

Here is one of my favorite excerpts from Sandra's Social:

“You’re drunk lady.” 

His blue eyes looked into hers openly.  She couldn’t place when it had started, but he wasn’t trying to shield his emotions from her anymore.  Instead he lay exposed to her, breathing harder from laughter, eyes glowing with mischief, and an almost catlike curious intensity.  This is what he was like as child she thought suddenly.  This is the person his grandparents had nurtured and created.

Sandra dropped the now useless controller, and her face shifted into a crooked grin that she knew brought out the shallow dimple she had above her left cheek.  The change in him was immediate.  Instantly he reached up, and lightly touched the spot with his finger.  Sitting up onto his elbows he let his lips brush hers for a moment, and then he took her mouth with that super experienced way he had of kissing her.  Sandra felt her head spin, and knew that she was drunk, but not that drunk.  She had never had a man kiss her like this.  The other times with him had been excellent, no doubt about that.  But this one was . . . . different. It was softer and sweeter.  It held more tenderness, and even more affection.  This extraordinary man kissed her like he liked her.  The times before had been curious and expert making them rather tentative in comparison of this intimate exploration. 

The kiss ruled her mouth as he kissed her mouth like she was his.  Languidly his tongue dipped into her, and laved hers.  His mouth tasted her, drunk her in, and then it got hungrier.  The warmth of his palm was against her face. Soft sable brown locks of hair were speared through her fingertips as she cradled his head.  She could feel his ears between her thumb and index fingers.  Without thinking she brushed her fingers over his lobes.  He stopped kissing her instantly, and just stared into her eyes intently.  It lasted for an eternity it seemed because she saw everything in those eyes.  They had darkened to that shade of blue that resembled the sky at midnight.

Sandra mumbled, “Don’t tell me I tickled them.”

That was met with the most genuine smile she had ever been blessed with.

“No, not exactly.” His head fell back onto her lap. “Tell me your name.”

She instantly sobered. “Why?”

Beautiful eyes slid shut.  Somehow she had broken his comfort with the question as he hid himself again she realized.  He only looked away from people when he didn’t want them to be able to read what he couldn’t keep from being in them.  The man was too honest by half.

Swallowing hard he let them slide open slowly revealing that marvelous shade of blue that seemed to contain the secrets of the universe. “I need to know you’re real.”

“Then touch me and see.”

“I told you that ---”

“And I’ll tell you next week.”

In disbelief he stared up at her, and she saw his better judgment warring with what he wanted.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

With slow deliberation he leaned up, and kissed her again, and it seemed like the oven inside her had been turned on.  The son of a bitch had been holding out on her she believed.  There was nothing in any of the kisses that he had given her before that indicated that this would be the response her body would have to him.  Sandra knew that things were happening inside her very quickly, and she was actually starting to become afraid from the influx of feeling he had placed in this kiss.  And even more afraid of the feelings his kiss sent coursing through her. The warmest curl of desire began to hum in her belly as her breasts tightened, the nipples puckering.  Her legs were rapidly becoming useless.  Even her hair felt hot.  Now he was pushing her to the floor beneath him.  He fit himself between her legs, and braced himself on his elbows as he kissed her at his leisure.

Between biting kisses he started, “You have the best lips, soft, full.” He nipped her. “Kissable. That first night they are what I remember.”

He continued to kiss her, long, soft, sweet, and steadily the aggression built.  Sandra dug her fingers into his hair, and gently tugged when the kiss became too much, and he would ever so slightly reign it in until she had settled enough for him to start again.  But too soon she was lost again in a swirling mass of excitement, desire, fear, and helplessness.

“Tell me what you’re feeling.” The whispered request caused an answering shiver inside her as he began to nibble on her neck.

Sandra thought about the hot demand, and realized that she didn’t like the answer. She felt out of control, and lost in a sea of unknown waters. She had never felt this way with any man. The absolute truth of that settled on her like being dumped in the snow with nothing but her underwear on. And that was a terrible feeling.  She knew because of a rotten practical joke played on her by her cousins one Christmas in New York as they had visited some of her American based Greek family. The true problem was that she knew she couldn’t honor his request as she stiffened beneath him.  Feeling her sudden stiffness he responded by lifting his head, and looking at her questioningly.

“Did I say something wrong?”

“Yes, no,” she stammered. “I’m not used to . . . I don’t . . .”

“Don’t be shy woman, spit it out,” he grated.

 “I’m not a talker,” Sandra blurted trying to reel her hammering heart and libido back in before they got her into serious trouble.

With a raised brow he shrugged. “Okay, then don’t talk.”

“It’s just that if you prefer a talker,” she hesitated. “I just wouldn’t want to disappoint.  I don’t talk. I don’t scream. I usually make very little noise during.”

The insufferable man smirked at her. “My condolences.”

Sandra pushed onto his chest, and he reluctantly sat up.

“Maybe we ought to discuss what we are expecting here?” She was willing to say anything to get his hands off of her so she could think straight again. She was trying to ignore points from Erikson’s theory on Intimacy versus Isolation ringing through her head. I’m not choosing isolation, she raged internally.

All interest with having sex with her left as he stared at her as if she had gone daft.

“Honestly I just expected sex,” frustrated he muttered beneath his breath.

Sandra nodded as she started to scoot away from him. That scent of his was driving her crazy. So were his wet lips, his pounding heart, and the look in his eyes. “Yeah, but what if we aren’t really compatible.  Our likes could totally not suit.”

“There’s only one way to find that out.”

“I just wouldn’t want to waste any time if it appeared—”

Apparently done with her, the man quickly hopped up from the floor. “I’m making myself a drink.”

Sandra made a face to herself, and took a deep breath.  Thank God he had started talking when he did.  She had been well on her way to chucking her project, her principals, whatever else was left, to sleep with him.  Worse yet was the lingering thought that it wouldn’t have been a bad idea.  She took deep breaths to try and slow her heart rate, and to gain some form of composure before he came back. Unfortunately, now he was pissed; she could see it.  She knew from previous experience that he was a real prick when he got mad. God she had been oblivious to all else except for his lips, and that wonderful body pressed to hers.  Right now the body in question was reclined on the chaise staring at the ceiling. 

Sandra looked over at him, and saw his long legs stretched out before him. The black slacks he was wearing were unbuttoned, and she could see his hairline taper from his navel to disappear there.  Appalled she realized that she was salivating when her eyes fixed on his hip, and she could see the line made by the ending of his abdominal muscles, and the beginning of his hipbone.  Letting her eyes drift upward to his muscled and sparsely haired chest, she tried to get control of her raging hormones.  Sandra felt her eyes shift over the long perfectly shaped slabs that were his pectorals.  Enviously she watched the sheen of sweat that gilded his broad and thick shoulders. Thickly muscled arms rested as his left loosely dangled his drink above the floor.  What she wouldn’t give to be the type of woman that would go over, climb on top of him, and lick him from head to toe.  Sensing her silent perusal he turned to look at her, and she saw the perplexed expression on his face.

The gorgeous creature lifted the sifter to his lips, and casually took a drink.

“I’ll have you know, Madame, that engaging in sexual discourse with someone you are very attracted too is never a waste of time.”  He sipped again. “Unless of course you aren’t very attracted to the person you are engaging with.” He frowned. “Am I not engaging?”

Sandra actually laughed out loud.  It was cute really.  His offbeat way of asking if he was attractive caught her completely off guard.  The alcohol had to be talking; he would never voice such a thing were he more aware.  She was in his house; the man had mirrors.

Smiling still she replied, “You ever think that maybe you’re too engaging, and it throws a woman for a loop.”

Not believing a word of it he practically hissed, “Whatever, you can’t be that close to doing . . . it, and just back off unless you don’t want to do . . . . it with the person you’re doing . . . . it with.”

Maybe tonight she was that woman Sandra thought as she found herself straddling his hips and looking into those oh so blue eyes.  With a sly playful look, she took his drink from him, sipped on it herself, and quickly found herself coughing and gasping for air as he patted her back hard.

“Irish whiskey, goes down harsh,” he said deadpan.

Feeling sexy as hell with her eyes watering, her breathing scattered, and her voice sounding like jaded sandpaper, she got out, “I got a little freaked out cause I didn’t think I’d measure up to you.”

With the delicacy of a ram he huffed at her, and took his drink back sipping it with much more success than she had accomplished. He looked at her as his forehead creased thoughtfully, “You really don’t know how beautiful you are.”

Sandra tilted her head at him and smiled sheepishly. “I’m starting to understand how beautiful you think I am.”

“This couldn’t possibly be happening too fast for you?”

Sandra nodded knowing that it was the truth. She wasn’t ready for what happened to her when she was in his arms.  It was too intense and left her much too open and raw to him.  She had accomplished so much in her life, these feelings she had for him confused her because she didn’t know what they were besides very strong.  Strong enough to sweep her away it seemed.

Sipping his whiskey, cool, dark blue eyes regarded her silently.  The emotion behind them intense, but under control.

“What should we do?”

Her mind yelled ‘Run Away’, but she actually managed to shrug casually and suggest, “A break?”

Refusing immediately he shook his head. “You don’t convince yourself to have less of a good thing.”

Sandra conceded that point in her head, and then said, “Who says this is a good thing.”

He let his eyes roam over her, where she was, and he stated rather sharply, “It is apparent that we get on quite well.”

Sandra blushed from what he implied, and then inspiration started taking root inside of her making her hold up her finger. “But who’s to say that the novelty of this unusual arrangement of ours wears off leaving us avoiding each other on the streets.”

“It’s been going on for months now, and if so, so be it.” To emphasize he sat up bringing his face inches from hers. “I’m not a quitter Madame, in any regard.”

Seeing the challenge in his eyes Sandra gave him another sly look.  She leaned against him, and started to whisper in his ear just so she could feel him, making sure her response wasn’t imagined.

“A wager perhaps.”

Intrigued now he leaned back instantly bracing an arm behind himself. “What kind of a wager?  I happen to know that you are a sadist.”

Mocking his slightly British tone exactly, “I beg to differ sir; I believe you have me at a loss.  I am no more a sadist than you are a masochist.”

An arched brow was his response, which caused her to chuckle at the aristocratic nature of the gesture.  Her laughter caused him to respond with his own letting her know that the gesture had been intentional, and for her response.

“I spent a lot of time with my grandfather, and my grandmother does visit the Ancestral home quite a bit which causes me to be there a lot.  Forgive me if my accent slips from time to time.”

“Nothing to forgive, I like the sound of it.  Most people who live in Texas eventually sound like Texans.  Myself included.  It’s nice to hear something different.”

Nodding graciously he asked pointedly, “And that wager?”

She placed her hands onto his shoulders, and pushed him flat again. She leaned over him until she could fold her arms on his chest, and rest her chin on them.

“You’re not gonna believe it.”

Enjoying the way her mind worked, he smiled slowly, and offered her his drink.  She accepted it, and took a cautious sip learning from her previous mistake.

Smooth and deep his words set her senses to trembling as he breathed, “Try me,” over the skin of her fingertips.

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