Summer Fling (25 page)

He grinned. “So what are the new articles about?”

“Well, I did one a few weeks ago about women’s sex lives. It
was really popular, and it raised some very interesting statistics.”

“Like…” prompted Dan.

“Like the fact that four out of ten of the women who
commented rarely have oral sex performed on them.”

“You’re kidding.” Dan spoke, but they all looked horrified.

“Nope. And for women over thirty, sixty-five percent of them
had sex less than once a week.”

Eve sighed. “Well that’s something to look forward to.”

Faith nodded. “It’s quite a shocking statistic. Anyway,
they’ve asked me to write a series of further articles about ways to spice up
your love life.” She sipped her wine. “I’ve had a think, and I’m going to call
it ‘Seven Sexy Sins’. I’m going to base it on the seven original sins, with
each one relating to a ‘sexy sin’. The idea is that your average housewife,
who’s struggling in the bedroom, could show her partner the list and work
through them with him.”

They all nodded. “Sounds like a good idea,” said Dan. “So
what are the seven sins then? Run them by us, see if we agree.”

“Okay.” She took another sip. “Number one: envy. I’m thinking
of relating this to watching porn, you know, looking at other people’s bodies
and what they get up to, so housewife and hubby can come up with some ideas for
things to do themselves.”

They all seemed to agree with that. “Two?” asked Toby.

“Sloth. Oral sex. Letting your partner do all the work.”

“Absolutely.” Dan frowned. “I still can’t believe four out
of ten women aren’t getting it.”

Faith cleared her throat. She had her own views on that
statistic but didn’t want to share just yet. “Three, gluttony. I’m thinking…sex
and food. Whipped cream, chocolate sauce. Spreading it on and licking it off.
Like in
Nine and a Half Weeks
with Kim Basinger. Remember the ice, and
the strawberries?”

“Oh yeah,” said Rusty.

“Sounds calorific,” said Eve.

“Well, there are low-fat options if you’re watching your
weight. And ice hasn’t got any calories in it.”

“True. Number four?”

“Pride. Having pride in your own body—doing a striptease for
your partner. Dance of the seven veils and all that.”

“Another good point,” said Toby. “Five?”

She grinned. “They’re getting a bit naughty now. Number five’s
wrath.” She saw Rusty’s lips begin to curve. “You can see where I’m going with
this one. Some light bondage. Nothing scary, fur-lined cuffs or scarves, tying
each other up.”

“Six?” Rusty asked, looking more interested with each sin.

“Avarice. Greed. For orgasms. Multiple. As many as you can
both manage in one night, using as many methods as you can think of, oral, sex
toys, you name it.”

They all started laughing. “I hate to ask what seven is,”
said Dan.

“Well it’s lust. But ending on a nice, romantic note. Tantric
sex.”

“What’s that?”

“Thinking about sex all night and then not doing it at the
end,” said Eve.

“Sounds like your average night to me,” said Toby ruefully.
He hadn’t had a date for several weeks.

They all giggled. “Actually,” said Faith, “in this case I
plan for it to mean taking time to just be with one another. Not touching,
looking into one another’s eyes, then when you do get down to it, taking it
really, really slow.” Unintentionally, her eyes met Rusty’s. He’d been watching
her as she spoke, an elbow on the arm of the sun lounger, resting his head on
his hand. His reddish-brown hair, which had given him his nickname from a very
young age, was curly and ruffled from repeated dips in the pool. His real name
was Richard, but she’d never heard him called it. He wore only his swimming
shorts, and the hot sun had turned his arms and chest a deep brown. Unlike the
rest of them, Rusty hadn’t been drinking, and his eyes were half-lidded from
tiredness rather than alcohol. But there was still a spark of something deep
within them, twinkling like a faraway star, something she couldn’t quite place.

Available from August 7
^th

Click
here
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If you enjoy books by Serenity Woods, you may also enjoy
stories by Kris Pearson.

OUT OF BOUNDS – Kris Pearson

Prologue

Jetta Rivers despised
herself for snooping on him over the old fence, but with her face hidden safely
in the foliage of Gran’s jasmine vine, her eyes still followed his every move.

He was sex on legs. Sex on very long legs. Maybe thirty—with strong
arms, and a smooth tanned back flexing in the bright Kiwi sun as he polished
the silver flanks of an impeccable old Porsche.

She imagined running her hands over his taut muscular body as
sensuously as his were caressing the car.

Then, quick as a wink, her naughty brain stripped the jeans off his
very cute butt.

‘Stop it Jetta!’
she snapped at herself,
adding a couple of frustrated curses as hot little ripples of pleasure pulsed
between her thighs. Why did she feel like this when she couldn’t do anything
about it? Her body might be bursting with lust but her brain always put the
brakes on. In twenty-six years, she’d had exactly one night of sex.

And it had been terrible.

Chapter One

A week later
Jetta swiped at a trickle of tears and drew a deep determined breath. The house
she’d just inherited was far from beautiful—Grandma’s loving welcomes had
somehow disguised the awful details and softened the scruffiness.

But it was hers now, and chipping up the old kitchen floor with
Grandpa’s spade was only the first of dozens of jobs she had planned.

Wincing at her new blisters, she gathered up some of the larger
pieces of linoleum, carried them along the hallway, and threw her armful of
rubbish onto the growing heap beside the path. Then she took a few gulps of
fresh summer air before retreating to the dusty kitchen.

 “Hello...?” a man yelled through the open door a few seconds later.

As Jetta turned to investigate, she caught sight of herself in the
small mirror on the back of the kitchen door. Under Grandpa’s ancient painting
hat, her face was dirty, tear-streaked and bare of make-up. She looked about
sixteen, and really didn’t need a visitor.

“Hello?” His voice was softer now and very close.

She whirled further around, heart racing, grabbed for the spade
handle, and clutched it tightly. There was only him and her. No one else to
save her.

“What the
hell
are you doing to the house?” he asked.

She stood there trembling as the man she’d nicknamed ‘Mr Porsche’
gazed about with very obvious amusement on his far-too-gorgeous face. She’d never
seen him up close before. Never expected his eyes would be so disturbingly blue
or that he’d have that little sprinkling of dark hair showing at the open neck
of his polo shirt. “It’s my house—I’ll do what I like with it,” she managed.

“It’s
our
house, and I’ll be demolishing it,” he replied.
“Anton,” he said, thrusting out a big hand. “Anton Haviland. And you must be
Jetta Rivers.”

Already way on edge, Jetta sagged onto one of the 1950’s chrome and
leatherette chairs in case his outrageous suggestion was for real. Demolish her
house? Never!

She wouldn’t shake his hand.

She wouldn’t touch him with a bargepole.

“Didn’t you
know?” He telescoped down to a squat—no point in making her even more nervous.
She was younger than he’d expected. Looked a lot younger than Horrie Winters
had said, and in total denial.

“Know what?” Her words came out in an anguished croak. Her knuckles
shone white with the death-grip she had around the old spade-handle.

Anton shrugged. “That I even existed, by the look of things. That
the house was left to the two of us, fifty-fifty?”

“The house was left to
me
,” she snapped. “Gran told me again
and again it would be mine after she’d gone.”

“Your Gran,” he said, choosing the words with care, “was a long way
from her original self. I gather she had dementia and didn’t know what was
going on half the time.”

A variety of expressions flitted over the girl’s small dusty face.
Disbelief. Outrage. Acceptance for her grandmother’s condition, but not yet for
the shared ownership of the old timber bungalow.

“Gran worried about a lot of funny stuff,” she agreed with apparent
reluctance. “I didn’t think she was too bad until a couple of months ago.”

“Your Grand-dad arranged for their solicitor, Horrie Winters, to
have Power of Attorney,” Anton said. “Way back before he died, because he
wanted her looked after. He didn’t want to burden you.”

“Five years ago?” Her eyes accused Anton of crimes he’d never
committed. “So why didn’t this lawyer give Gran more money? Her clothes were in
rags. I was shocked when I went through her wardrobe.”

Anton shrugged again, wanting to stand. “She should have been fine.
She had her pension for food and clothing. Horrie had all the household bills
direct-debited from their bank account. I know that much.”

Her eyes narrowed in accusation. “How do you know? She was
my
grandmother!”

He sighed. He was in no mood to be cross-examined by a girl he’d
never met about an old lady he knew only the barest details of.

“Didn’t you keep in touch with Horrie?” He hoped his exasperation
wasn’t too obvious.

“I’ve never heard of him. I thought now Gran was dead I’d get a
letter from someone confirming the details of my inheritance.
My
inheritance,” she insisted. “
My
house I’m going to renovate and live
in.”

“
Our
inheritance,” Anton corrected, trying not to sound too
sharp. “Old Lucy had the house for her lifetime. Now it comes to us jointly.”

“Hah! According to you. Who are you, anyway?”

 He adjusted his balance; squatting on his heels wasn’t easy. “Anton
Piers Scott Haviland if you want the whole mouthful. Some sort of relation? A
distant cousin I suppose? Sounds like you’ve never heard of me.”

Her pretty mouth fell open and her eyes expanded to huge black pools
of disbelief. Her spare hand grasped at the air as though she was clutching for
sanity.

She lurched up from the old chair and stared down at him in horror.
“I don’t have any cousins,” she insisted. “There was my mother Margaret, and
that was all. She had no brothers or sisters, so I’ve no cousins. Dad had one
brother, but he left New Zealand and he’s been in Canada a long time now.
Since...um ...”

She started to tremble again, and Anton rose to his feet, too,
seeing her tiny silver tassel earrings shaking and catching the light. Was she
going into shock? What the hell should he do?

“And you don’t sound Canadian,” she added, aiming a savage kick at
the half-stripped floor.

He assumed she’d rather be kicking his head in. Annoyance more than
shock, he thought with relief. “Definitely not Canadian,” he assured her.
“Total Kiwi. Born in Auckland, grew up here in Wellington. Spare me the family
tree though—second cousins twice removed and all that sort of thing.”

“So how do you think you fit in?”

“Not the foggiest. My mother is Isobel Scott if that means anything
to you? My father was never...interested.” Her expression softened very
slightly. “Your grandfather was David Haviland?” he asked.

She nodded, dark eyes still fiercely dilated.

“And I carry his unusual surname. Isn’t that enough proof I’m
somehow part of the family?”

“You could have changed it by deed-poll.”

Anton breathed out slowly, trying to avoid the sharp reply that
sprang to his lips. “I didn’t. I didn’t
need
to. It’s the name on my
birth certificate.” He tried for a more conciliatory tone. “This seems to have
come as a total surprise to you; we’ll have to go and see Horrie together.”

She continued to stare at him, eyes ablaze, and then dropped onto
the chair again as if wanting to keep some physical distance between them. He
couldn’t blame her. In one savage blow, she’d lost half her home and gained a
part-uncle or a half-cousin or whatever the hell he was.