Last Call

  “Why are you such a manwhoring asshole?” I asked, my face inches from his.

  “Why are you such a cockblocking priss?” he asked.

  And when I opened my mouth to tell him exactly what I thought, the fucker kissed me.

  Caroline and Simon are all set to play house, but her crazy work schedule and his world travels keep coming between them and the sheets. Sure, the reunion sex is hot hot hot—but is that really enough? Alice Clayton serves sexy straight up—with a twist.

  Rusty Nailed

  As I turned my key in my apartment door I heard a distinct thump, followed by a click click click padding toward me.

  Clive.

  Pushing through the door, I was greeted by my wonder cat, my own little piece of feline heaven. In a burst of gray fur, my ankles were surrounded by purrs and insistent nudges.

  “Hi there, sweet boy, were you a good boy today?” I asked, leaning down to scratch his silky fur.

  Arching up into my hand, he assured me that yes, he was in fact a sweet boy, and also a good boy. Berating me for leaving him alone for a thousand years, he cooed and chirped, herding me toward the kitchen.

  We talked as I readied his dinner for him, which of course I’d been put on earth expressly to do, and our conversation covered the normal subjects. What birds he’d seen from the window today, whether any dust bunnies had emerged from under the bed, and whether I’d find any toys buried in the toe of my slippers. He was noncommittal on this last question.

  Once his kibble was in his bowl he ignored me completely, and I headed back to the bedroom to put on some comfy clothes. Untucking my turtleneck, I went to the mirrored dresser to grab some yoga pants. While pulling my arms out of my shirt, my heart leapt into my throat when I saw the reflection of someone sitting on my bed. Instinct kicked in and I whirled, fists clenched, a scream ready to let loose.

  My brain only processed that it was Simon after my fist was flung.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What the hell, Caroline!” he yelled as he grabbed his jaw.

  “What the hell Caroline? What the hell Simon! What the hell are you doing here?” I yelled back. Good to know if I was ever actually attacked, I wouldn’t freeze.

  “I came home early to surprise you,” he managed, rubbing his jaw and grimacing.

  My heart was still racing in my chest, and as I tried to calm down, I noticed the suitcase in the corner. The one I’d missed when I’d come into the room. I looked down and saw the turtleneck still hanging around my neck like a scarf.

  “I could just kill you!” I yelled again, charging him and pushing him back onto the bed. “You scared me to death, you idiot!”

  “I was planning on calling out to let you know I was here, but then I would’ve missed that entire conversation with Clive. I didn’t want to interrupt.” He grinned underneath me, threading his hands around my waist.

  I blushed. “Traitor!” I yelled down the hallway. “You could have let me know someone was here—you’re a terrible watch-cat!”

  A disinterested meow floated back.

  “I’m hardly just someone. I think I rate a little higher than that,” he told the side of my neck, which he was now feathering with the tiniest of kisses. “So, are you going to say hi to your boyfriend who flew all the way across the globe just to show you his hammer, or are you going to punch me again?”

  “Not sure yet; I’m still a little freaked out. My heart is literally racing, can you feel that?” I asked, pressing his hand over the left side of my chest.

  Only so he could feel my heart. Yep. That’s the only reason. Heart was in fact delighted to have Simon home early; she loved a good romantic reunion. Other areas were delighted, as well.

  “See now, I thought it was racing because of me,” he said with a low chuckle, dipping his nose along my collarbone as he “felt my heart.”

  “Dream on, Wallbanger,” I said, feigning indifference. The truth? My heart was now in Simon mode, and it was pounding for him. And speaking of pounding.

  “So you came home early just to see little ol’ me?” I breathed into his ear, sneaking a wet kiss just underneath it. His hands dug a little deeper into my hips as he shifted on the bed.

  “I did.”

  “Think you can help me with this turtleneck?”

  “I do.”

  “And then after that, you wanna show me your hammer?” I asked the front of his T-shirt, nuzzling at him, positioning my legs on either side of him. In answer, he thrust up and let me feel that very hammer. I chuckled. “Mmm, am I gonna get nailed?”

  He lifted my turtleneck off, then unsnapped my bra and my breasts tumbled out, causing his eyes to flare, then focus with precision. “No more questions,” he directed, sitting up underneath me as he pulled me closer.

  I mimed zipping my lips just before he flipped me over onto my back. God, I loved this man.

  His lips danced along my collarbone, nipping occasionally with his teeth in a way he always knew got me warm, fast. I got it; I’d missed him too. Arching my back, I pressed my breasts against him, twisting and turning to bring me into contact with him as much as I could be, my skin needing to feel his. After a year, he could still bring me to my knees in seconds with one touch, one kiss, one look.

  I pushed back against him, flipping us once more and pulling at his jeans. “Off, now,” I instructed.

  When his belt was gone, his buttons unbuttoned, I pulled apart his jeans to find that once more my man had gone commando.

  It’s like he was put on earth just to make me come out of my skin.

  I snuck one hand inside, grasping him firmly, feeling how warm he was; ready to take me on my own trip around the world.

  “Fuck, I missed you,” he breathed, his body lean and taut. I slid down the bed, kissing and licking at his skin hungrily. His hands came up to my face, fingers fluttering along my cheekbones, sweeping my hair back. So he could watch.

  I took him into my mouth, entirely. His hands clutched at my hair, freezing me in place, holding me exactly how he wanted me. “Mmm, Caroline,” he moaned, thrusting ever so slightly. Slightly, my ass—that wasn’t how this show was going down.

  I pulled back, then took him in again, hard. Using my hands I caressed him, alternating my touch so he never knew quite where I was coming from, using my tongue and mouth to tease and tempt him, coaxing the sweetest dirty words out of that sent-from-heaven mouth of his. That mouth that I knew would exact the sweetest dirty revenge all over my body.

  I loved him this way, loved that I could make him this insane. But just before he got too far gone, he pulled me up his body and took my panties off before I could say, hey, those are my panties.

  Then he pushed up my skirt, nudging my knees apart with his own. Gazing down at me with those piercing sapphire eyes, he ran his fingers over me, through me, making me groan and moan and shake and shimmy. “So gorgeous like this,” he breathed as I cried out.

  “Need you, Simon—need you, please!” I was ready to tear my hair off my head and throw it at him, if I thought that would get him inside any faster.

  Any further thoughts vanished as he slid home. Thick, hard, and ten kinds of fantastic were all I knew the second Simon pressed inside me. “God, that’s amazing,” I moaned, the feeling of him filling me overwhelming me.

  And when he rolled us so I was on top, and he thrust up hard inside me, it was perfection.

  Until afterward, when we lay in a heap of sweaty limbs, and he asked me how I liked his hammer.

  Then it was beyond perfection.

  Viv Franklin wants to be swept off her feet by her dream guy, but should she pick the hot cowboy or the smoldering librarian? This romantic comedy pits Superman against Clark Kent in a hot and hilarious battle that promises to rip a bodice or two.

  Screwdrivered

  “Well, well, well.”

  “Lookee what we have here,” I finished, peering up at Clark from where I sat, stuck.

  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” he answered, walking
slowly up the porch steps.

  When I’d called him, he said he’d be right over. And he hadn’t laughed, just asked if I was all right and did I need anything. I told him a margarita would be nice. He’d ignored that request, but he had brought his toolbox. Rubbermaid. Red. Stamped with Clark Barrow on the side—in case someone tried to take it?

  Sunday Evening Clark was much more dressed down: faded jeans, running shoes, untucked plaid shirt over a white undershirt. I suddenly said a prayer that it wasn’t a tank-top undershirt, that he was the kind of guy who wore T-shirts, and then mentally slapped myself for giving a shit what he wore under his faded plaid shirt. That looked soft and comfortable and warm. I shivered. It was getting cold out here, playing buoy on the sea of porch.

  He knelt down in front of me and assessed the situation.

  “One would think it unwise, Vivian, knowing the condition of this rotten wood, to traipse about so carelessly,” he said as he poked at the wood around my left leg, which was buried to midthigh. I’d been sitting half on and half off the broken floorboard for the better part of twenty minutes, and was starting to get more than a little agitated.

  “One would think that after getting punched in the nose one would be unwise to provoke me,” I said sweetly.

  He turned his gaze from my leg to my face, his eyes calculating. “You’re the one stuck in the porch. You sure you want to pick a fight with me right now?”

  He had me there, dammit. “Okay, fine. No fight picking. But do something, Clark.”

  “I’m waiting for the magic word.”

  “Um, now?”

  “Really?”

  “Asshole?”

  “Come on.”

  “Clark!”

  “Vivian.”

  “Oh, fine. Please help me, Clark. Please, please, please?” I managed, gritting my teeth.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” he smiled, his face lighting up.

  “Still not out of this porch here,” I said.

  He nodded. “As personally gratifying as it is to see you like this, there is a bit of storm coming and I’d rather not be out here when it hits. So let’s see what we can do here, shall we?”

  “Yes, shall we?” I repeated, leaning back so he could get a better look at how I was wedged.

  “Pardon me, I need to get a little closer here. I just—Ah, yes, I can see it there.” Clark had leaned across me, one arm on either side of me as he peered through the broken board to the ground below. His head was almost flush with the floor. And flush with what else was on the floor. Flush with my—Oh my. I unexpectedly felt his breath on my bare thighs. I was dressed in running shorts that left little to the imagination, and my imagination was bombarding my senses with the most inappropriate images.

  All I could think about was if he just moved about three inches to the left, he could probably get me off with his jaw alone. And how in world had I never noticed that it was so very strong, so very chiseled, so very lightly covered with Sunday-evening stubble? Stubble that could so very easily drag back and forth across the inside of my legs, up and down, and right and left, and then up, up, and away toward my—

  “I’m going to have to go down,” he said, and it took all the strength I had not to bury my hand in that flippy soft brown hair and take him at his word.

  “Sorry?” I asked, panting. I was panting, for Christ’s sake! Over a librarian?

  Mmmm, over a librarian . . .

  “I have to go down beneath the porch. Believe me, I’m not looking forward to it. Who knows what’s under there?” he said, turning toward me. All I could see was bandage, and the bruises that were fading from purple to yellow around the edges, and the spell was broken.

  Still breathing a little heavy, I warned him to watch out for dolls. And watched as he hurried down the steps, around the side of the house, and began removing the latticework cover on the side of the porch with the utmost care.

  What the hell! Lusting after a librarian, when there was a cowboy on the loose? It was clear that lusting after Hank had addled my brains. I was seeing things, imagining things, getting hot over the slightest touch, even from a guy like Clark.

  The wind blew more forcefully across the porch, and I shivered. What the hell was taking so long?

  “Hey! You want to put a little hustle on over there?” I finally called out, when the third piece of lattice was placed carefully onto the porch.

  His head popped up over the edge. “Do you have any idea how old this is?”

  “Do you have any idea how much it’s going to suck if you’re caught underneath there in the rain?”

  He looked at the sky, getting darker by the minute. “Point taken.” He pried off the last of the lattice, then disappeared.

  I could hear scrambling coming from beneath me, and then I could feel the ground shifting a little under my stuck foot.

  “Vivian? It’s just me. Don’t be alarmed.”

  “No kidding, Clark. Who else would it be?”

  “Well, pardon me all over the place. I was just concerned that if you were surprised, your first instinct would be to kick. So let’s see what we can do about getting this free.”

  Then he put his hands on my leg. Wrapped his hands around my ankle, turning it slightly. “Okay, it’s wedged into a cement block, but I think I can get it loose. Bear with me a moment, Vivian.”

  “It’s Viv. And be careful, huh?” I called down.

  “Impossible woman,” he muttered. His hands traveled a little farther up my leg, inside, and then around the back of my knee. And then I felt . . . well, it felt like . . .

  “Clark! Did you just lick—”

  “No!” he yelled, wrenching my foot free at that exact moment and pushing it up through the porch. I fell backward, my leg pulling clear of the wood and my heart pounding. I saw him crawl out from beneath the porch, dust himself off, and then walk toward me.

  I pointed at him. “You licked my leg.”

  “I did nothing of the kind,” he said. But the tips of his ears were red.

  Flap-flap-flap-flap.

  “Ah crap, I forgot about that.”

  “You’re kind of a two-crisis girl, aren’t you?” He laughed, reaching behind his toolbox and picking up a lacrosse stick.

  “That’s what you brought to kill a bat?”

  “It was either this or my squash racket.” He took a few practice swipes at the air. “Besides, we’re not going to kill it. We’re going to catch it, then let it go.”

  “There is no we. There’s a you, as in you are going to get the bat!”

  “It’s your house, you should be helping me,” he said. “And for someone who acts so tough, you sure are scared of a little thing like a bat.”

  “I’m not scared!”

  When he had the nerve to make a bowing gesture, as if to say well then, go ahead on in without me, I grumbled, “Okay fine—I’m a little scared. I’ll help you, but you’re going in first.” I stood up and brushed off my shorts. I now had another scrape to match the one on the other leg. Honestly.

  I rummaged in the garage until I found a rake and a bucket, then rejoined Clark on the porch. Stepping over the hole, I huddled behind him as he opened the front door. We went inside, alert and listening.

  “Is something burning?” he asked, sniffing the air.

  “Dammit, my dinner!” I wailed, rushing past him and into the kitchen. “Motherfucker!”

  “Vivian!” Clark exclaimed, hurrying past me to turn off the burners.

  Smoke billowed from the oven, my chicken breasts now charred beyond recognition. Rice? Now a cake in the bottom of the pan. And the vegetables? Crust. I started throwing the pots into the sink, probably slamming them a little harder than necessary. I was pissed at the porch, pissed at the house, pissed that my leg hurt, and pissed off that I still had a bat in the house. A bat in the house!

  “Were you expecting someone for dinner?” Clark asked from the doorway to the dining room. His face looked tight—hurt?

  I glanced past
him and saw the candles burning on the table. “No, that was just for me,” I replied, pushing past him and blowing out the candle.

  “You lit candles just to eat alone?”

  “Yeah. So?” I asked, turning back to him. I saw the bat. It was perched on the lacrosse stick, just behind his head.

  “Oh. Boy. Um, Clark?”

  “I think if you want to light candles, even if it’s just you, that’s perfectly okay,” Clark said.

  “Right. Agreed. But right now? You need to—”

  “I mean, after all, if you don’t think you’re good company, no one else will, right?”

  “Totally. Can I just—”

  “I eat most of my meals alone too, although I’ve never thought about lighting candles. Not sure a guy doing it would be seen as being quite as empowering as it is for a girl, rather sad actually. But good for you, Vivian. Light a candle even if it’s just chicken or—”

  “Duck.”

  “Yes, even if it’s—”

  “Fucking duck, Clark!” I yelled, lunging in with my rake and swatting at the bat.

  Clark hit the deck and I knocked the bat off the back of the lacrosse stick. “Bucket! Bucket!” I yelled, and he slid it across the floor. Slamming it down on the bat, I sat on top of it, giving a war cry. “Wahoooooo!” In victory, I lifted the rake high over my head—where it caught in the chandelier and damn near ripped the entire thing out.

  And as it hung from the ceiling, swinging back and forth, I sat on a bucket in the middle of my dining room, with a bat under my butt, and a librarian under the table.

  Cue lightning and thunder.

  Cue crashing rain.

  There was nothing I could do but laugh.

  Take one former Miss Golden State, one hot veterinarian, twenty rescue pit bulls, moonlight, a stack of old records with Frank Sinatra crooning about strangers in the night, and shake well! And did we mention the pit bulls?