Infamous: (A Bad Boy Romantic Suspense) (17 page)

Taylor sat on the edge of her bathtub, humming a little and looking at the plain silver band on her left ring finger. It had been six months since she and Anton had “gotten hitched,” as he liked to put it, and the honeymoon was definitely still in full swing. They’d just gone down to the courthouse one day with one witness, Susan, and spent the next week in bed. Actually, they’d spent a lot of time in bed the past six months. They were making up for lost time.

They were living in Queens in a nice two-bedroom, the other one being her home office. But it might not be for much longer, depending on what the little pee strip said in a minute.

The last few months had been a whirlwind, and not just because she was married to Anton Quinn. Taylor had sold a manuscript about a small town with big secrets, including a haunted inn, to a major publisher. Her new agent had been thrilled. The advance wasn’t huge but the prospects were looking good, especially if they could get a media deal. She didn’t mention how much of the story was based on what had happened in Sweethollow. She doubted anyone up there was going to mention the similarities.

Taylor had quit her magazine job and started back with fiction not long after they’d left Sweethollow together. She’d never been happier. It felt good to be writing again, submitting to magazines, telling weird, strange tales for other weird, strange people. It was fun and exhilarating, like being with Anton. He made sure every day was interesting and every night was…full of passion.

Meanwhile, Anton was freelance tattooing and doing commissions and had a very happy group of shops in the city. Their apartment was covered in his new drawings, sketches, even some paintings. A lot of them were of her and probably not for public consumption. Sometimes she woke up to find him sketching her. The work had just started flowing out of him once they’d left Sweethollow. It didn’t surprise her. He’d finally let a lot of things go after everything. Now he was getting requests from all over the world for his work, including some galleries. They’d booked their first trip to Paris so he could meet with a client for next month. They were both excited.

Of course, Taylor might just have news to trump that.

Anton wasn’t the only one who’d left a lot behind in Sweethollow. She’d gotten a nice insurance payout on the house after Powell had helpfully called the fire an “accident.” Although she was sad it was gone, she knew it was just a place. And it was time to move on. She didn’t dwell much on the Rider these days, happy to leave the legend behind as well. Some things just couldn’t be explained, and it was better to keep your sanity than try to reason your way out of the inherently unreasonable.

Through the ajar bathroom door, she could see Anton’s sleeping back. He was naked in their bed and she could just make out the upper slope of his backside before the sheets covered him up. She wanted to kiss the spot at the base of his spine, trace the lines of his tattoo, and then whisper the good news in his ear. The damn strip just had to hurry up.

Finally, her phone timer went off. She closed her eyes, picked up the stick, then opened them. She stared for a moment, then laughed, trying to cover her mouth so Anton wouldn’t hear. She put it down and then crawled into bed behind him, doing exactly what she’d thought about.

Taylor started at his neck, kissing lightly. He made a few sounds but didn’t wake up. She made a trail down his back, loving his shoulder blades, touching his spine with her fingertips before her tongue followed. When she reached the top of his high, round behind, he groaned.

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” she said. He turned over, grabbing her by the arms, kissing her. He was hard and ready against her belly. His hands were already pulling at her underwear, slipping inside, touching her.

“Nice way to wake up, too,” he said and came up to nip her neck. He came over, pinning her to the bed, getting her underwear off, and thrusting into her in one smooth, knowing stroke. He pulled her bra down so that her breasts were propped up and licked at her nipples, starting a gentle rhythm with his hips.

Taylor wrapped her legs around him and met him thrust for thrust, bucking her hips spirally. When he finally touched between them, she shouted, biting at his shoulder, coming hard, a rush of pleasure between her legs like a dart.

She pushed him back, careful to keep him inside, and rode him, her body slick and ready for more. She arched as he gently pinched her nipples, body rippling with pleasure again and again.

“God, you’re on fire, Taylor. You feel so good,” Anton said, coming up to join her, kissing her deep. They moved together, slow, then fast, skin to skin. As her final orgasm rushed at her and she felt Anton shudder, then cry out against her hair, pumping into her, she cried a little.

He pulled back, saw the tear on her cheek, and held her closer, looking concerned. They were still joined; she could feel his muscles still contracting slightly.

“What is it? Did I hurt you?” he asked, face worried, pushing her hair back.

“No, love, you didn’t. I’m just happy. And I have some good news,” she said, touching his cheek. Then she slid his hand down to her belly. It had never been flat, but she felt like it was a little rounder now, just a little. And it would get rounder still. He looked confused, then saw her smile. His eyes went wide.

“You’re pregnant?” he asked.

“Definitely,” she said. And he hugged her, pulling her close, kissing her face all over.

“Oh my god, Taylor. Oh my god,” he said.

“So you’re happy too?” she asked. He held her face in his hands, looking into her eyes. She saw a little tear slide down his face.

“I am beyond happy. I love you so much,” he said, then kissed her like he would never get enough.

Taylor smiled and kissed him back. Life might be weird and strange and even scary sometimes, but it was also good.

It was so good.

A Bite in the Dark

(A BBW Billionaire Vampire Romance)

By Mila Noir

Copyright 2015 Enamored Ink

Nothing ever goes quite the way I plan it. Sometimes that’s okay, like when I couldn’t get into the Old Stuffy English Writers course I picked last semester and ended up in The Modern Horror Novel instead. I got to read all the Stephen King, Margaret Atwood, and Anne Rice I wanted and I still got the same lit credits.

Or there was the time in high school when I’d planned to go to prom with some other single girlfriends, who all mysteriously got dates the week before, so I stayed home and watched 80s movies instead. There was a three-alarm fire at the prom locale and everyone else’s night was pretty much ruined, depending on how much “fun” you think spending hours in an ER because of smoke inhalation might be. Meanwhile my night consisted of pretty good pizza and cat snuggling. Also, I heard the DJ was lousy.

Unfortunately that’s not how things generally go for me. I wouldn’t say I’m a bad luck magnet, but I do seem to have a knack for things going pear-shaped around me.

Like right now. I’ve been doing the post-college backpacking-through-Europe thing, which sounds really romantic on paper. Sweeping moors, pub crawls, new and exciting cities. With equally new and exciting guys. It was supposed to be the endless party college didn’t quite manage to be because I was too busy, you know, going to class and studying and graduating.

Reality, I find, rarely lives up to expectations. Unless your expectations are that everything will go promptly to hell.

Take London. In the spring and summer it’s probably great, but with my budget I had to wait until late fall to go. The plan was to see museums, drink a lot of Guinness, and moon over some lovely British men who called me “bonny” and used words like “lovely” to describe everything.

Instead I got pickpocketed almost immediately upon entering “the Tube,” the “quaint” B & B I picked out ended up being more squalid than picturesque, and I never got to see the countryside because my even-more-limited funds evaporated like smoke.

Of course, the city itself is spectacular. Everything an American girl obsessed with
Masterpiece Theater
could want. I just couldn’t afford any of it except some of the free museums. The fish ’n’ chips are, however, delicious. I’m still not convinced about mushy peas, though.

I tried to rally and headed to Germany, to what I was assured was the fun Euro city of Hamburg. Most of my luggage, of course, ended up in Barcelona, where I was not scheduled to go at all and where I couldn’t exactly get to without cash. Which was getting to be a running, obnoxious theme.

It also turns out that Hamburg is really only fun if you like gray skies, cranky Germans, and this disgusting drink called Gluhwein. It smells a lot like rapidly decaying fruit and tastes like watery cough syrup. Not a fan.

I was beginning to think I’d need to call my folks and beg them to wire me some money so I could just come home. I could lie about the trip, make up some fun things I did, and try again in ten years. Maybe by then I’d have this whole “functioning adult” thing down and be able to enjoy it.

The place I’d been staying in was another youth hostel, this one not so bad, with a decent crowd of other young travelers. Some were clearly diehard wanderers, you know the type: white kids with bleached dreads and slouchy pants who smoke a lot of cloves. Others were recent ex-students like me, or students doing the Euro thing the right way. Most were at least fun and friendly. There was one guy, Jake, who just about screamed Trust Fund Misanthrope. He clearly didn’t need to stay in hostels but liked to feel more “street.” He wore a lot of ironic t-shirts and was always texting someone and looking properly bored by everything. He did, however, treat everyone to food once a week, so we generally liked him. Free pizza is free pizza, you know?

Jake also tended to know where all the really cool parties were. I’ve never had a knack for that kind of thing. My idea of a fun time usually includes crackers and brie. So basically I’m like a fussy old lady. And I was sick of it.

I let myself get corralled into a group of fellow wanderers and headed to what we were promised would be an “epic rave.” I managed to find some clean clothes and asked Tasha (the kind of girl who can rock teal-green hair and not look stupid) if she could do anything with mine. She looked at it, ringed lips pursed, then smiled.

“We’ve got, what, three hours? Yeah, let me get some stuff.”

Tasha and I had hit it off at a B & B in London and found ourselves on the same traveling circuit. She was having a considerably better time than I was, but then she was more open and worldly-wise than I was. She’d been in art school but dropped out because everyone was a giant fake, she said. She liked to sketch people in each city she went to and her drawings were pretty amazing. With just a few pencil strokes, she could catch someone in a moment that somehow managed to capture their personality.

Before London she’d been in Barcelona, where she said the food was unbelievable. Before that had been Tokyo. I wasn’t sure how she afforded that kind of city jumping, but I got the impression she had some kind of trust fund. She never really talked about her family; they either weren’t involved or something had happened to them. I didn’t pry. I loved listening to her traveling stories. They were kind that quirky romcoms are made of. I really envied her experiences and her ability to be so nonchalant about any problems that came up. Being able to go with the flow seemed to have passed me by completely. It was probably genetic.

She came back with scissors, bleach, and a bottle of something that looked a lot like blood. She had a gleam in her eyes.

“Ready, Emma?” she said. I looked at her, considered backing out, and then remembered: this was supposed to be an adventure.

“Let’s do this.”

While she worked on my head, applying eye-watering bleach with quick, practiced swipes of a brush, she told me about Paris. I longed to see it but couldn’t figure out a way to get there with such limited funds. She told me about eating baguettes and cheese in the grass while looking at Notre Dame in the sunlight. She’d met a pretty French girl called Nanette and they’d gone to the top of the Eiffel Tower and made out. Then she’d met a boy named Andre, originally from Sweden, and spent three days with him wandering around to different artists homes in the city. She said he had eyelashes so blond they were nearly white and glowed in the sun.

“I didn’t sleep with him, of course. We just hung out and saw the sights. I wish I’d gotten Nanette’s number, though. She was a great kisser.” She sighed, applying another dollop of bleach.

“Have you seen Melisande around?” she asked suddenly. I shook my head, the foils making a faint metallic tinkle. “Weird. I haven’t seen her or Karen, that girl from Ohio, either.”

“Well, we are in a hostel. They probably just moved on.” I shrugged. A lot of people came and went; it didn’t seem that strange to me.

“Yeah, but some of their stuff is still here. And I heard from Paul that a few other people have gone away and left some things behind lately, too. I can see, like, forgetting a bottle of shampoo. But your backpack? Perfectly good boots? Those things are kind of important to us wanderers.”

“Well, has anyone else seen them? Maybe they just went to Berlin or something. Or a cheaper place to stay.” But that didn’t sound likely, even to me.

“I asked Jake about it, since I saw Melisande with him the other week. But he just shrugged and said she probably met someone and was hooking up. It just doesn’t feel right.”

We got talking about other things, but it bugged me how easy it would be to just lose people in this kind of lifestyle. To lose yourself, maybe.

About two hours later, I was the proud new owner of swingy bangs and several new streaks of purple-y red throughout my dark brown waves. After that I decided to wear some daringly dark red lipstick and a lower-cut top than usual with my prized leather jacket over it, the only article of clothing I own that cost more than twenty dollars or so. It’s supple, dark gray, and has silver buttons that march up the front a little like a military jacket.

I felt awesome. Like someone new and cool and not afraid of anything. I felt like someone interesting things happened to.

I wasn’t wrong.