The Bonk Squad
Authors: Kris Pearson
Tags: #romantic comedy, #adult humour, #romance writing, #friends to lovers, #new zealand author, #new zealand setting, #friends with hot plots, #hilarity with love, #writers group
Copyright (c) 2013 by Kris
Pearson
Cover design (c) by Philip
Pearson
Cover photograph
dreamstimes.com
Interior layout:
www.formatting
4
U.com
For more information about
this author, visit
http://www.krispearson.com/
Smashwords Edition, License
Notes:
This ebook is licensed for
your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or
given away to other people. If you would like to share this book
with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each
recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or
it was not purchased for your use only, then please return
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and purchase your own copy. Thank you for
respecting the hard work of this author.
Love and thanks to Philip for the
covers and the unfailing encouragement and computer un-snarling.
And thanks to my very own Bonk Squad—the Wellington/Kapiti Chapter
of Romance Writers of New Zealand.
Extra hugs to Ellie Huse and Giovanna
Lee, who were there from the very beginning.
This is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s
(wild) imagination, and are used fictitiously.
Any resemblance to actual events,
locales or persons, living or dead, is co-incidental.
All rights reserved. Except as
permitted under the US Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this
publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any
form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system,
without prior permission of the author.
THE BONK SQUAD
Chapter 1 – Meg and the pumping
thighs
Chapter 2 – Tigger taps her
toy
Chapter 3 – Vi considers
arousals
Chapter 5 – Ian goes sensuously
sailing
Chapter 6 – Eloise smokes and
steams
Chapter 7 – Bobbie lines up a
lover
Chapter 8 – Ben and the silver
Mac
Chapter 9 – Liz and assorted body
hair
Chapter 10 – Meg is deflected from
writing
Chapter 11 – Deepli does the
dirty
Chapter
12 – Romy
’s cruel corset
Chapter 13 – Tigger plans
ahead
Chapter
14 – Mandy
’s uplifting
experience
Chapter 15 – Meg undresses the
nanny
Chapter
16 – Ben
’s learning curves
Chapter 17 – Liz and Marcy on the
warpath
Chapter 18 – Vi is vexed in the veggie
plot
Chapter 19 – Meg receives a
proposition
Chapter 20 – Eloise jumps on
Johnno
Chapter 21 – Vi succeeds with
sherry
Chapter
22 – Ian
’s tight new
trousers
Chapter 23 – Three ladies
lunching
Chapter 25 – Slippery as a
Neill
Chapter
26 – Meg
’s birthday bonanza
Chapter
27 – Bobbie
’s fire down
below
Chapter
32 – Bait for
‘The Bastard’
Chapter 33 – The Highland
fling
Chapter 34 – Johnno submits; Eloise
sneers
Chapter 38 – Hanky panky
spanky
Chapter 39 – Another dinner at the
vineyard
Chapter 44 – Tropic of
Capricorn
Chapter 45 – Back to the
bathroom
I think about sex far too
often
, Meg thought—thinking about sex again
as she watched a lanky boy in hip-slipping jeans kissing the bare
shoulder of his skimpily dressed blonde girlfriend. It was all too
easy to imagine his hungry young mouth on her own skin.
Maybe that boy is a car
thief just out of jail? And the girl is a pampered princess from
the richest stud farm in the Havelock hills? Plenty of conflict and
angst there. No happy ending without a lot of clever
writing.
Meg was trying so hard to become a
romance novelist...
Sighing, she turned away, half closed
her eyes against the late afternoon sun, and waited for the traffic
lights to turn green. Something catchy burst and buzzed from the
old car radio. She wound the volume up and tapped her fingers on
the steering wheel in time with it.
Summer had almost arrived in New
Zealand. Christmas was a bare month off. The brilliant weather had
peaches and apples swelling on thousands of trees in the orchards
around Hastings, and people wearing fewer clothes. Inspiration for
a romance novelist sprang out everywhere she looked.
The old green Toyota rocked a little,
shaking her out of her reverie. A cyclist leaned on the car,
gripping the corner pillar. Meg’s eyes widened as they strayed over
his bulging bicep, down his strong, corded forearm, and on past
long tanned fingers protruding suggestively from his cutaway
cycling glove.
I’m doing it
again.
She could easily imagine that hand
caressing her face, moving down the sensitive column of her neck,
sliding insistently lower to her aching, tingling—
PAAAAAAARP!!!!
The huge farty toot from the truck
right behind jerked her back to reality and she stalled the car.
Cursing, she wrenched the key around and pumped the
accelerator.
“
Yer-yer-yer-yer-yer,” the
Toyota said, without firing. By the time it did, the lights had
changed again and the cyclist was way across the intersection,
Lycra clad butt high in the air, long legs pedaling like
pistons.
Meg sat there dazed and distracted,
and mentally assigned his tight muscular backside to the assortment
of characters in the stories her writing group was working on. It
might be just the right rear for Higgins the pot-boy in Vi’s tale
about Mistress Golightly and the handsome but impoverished vicar.
Or maybe the dashing vicar himself was the owner of the excellent
ass?
Eloise could use it, perhaps? For the
stable lad who was giving Duchess Davinia a spot of rumpty-tumpty
when the old Duke wasn’t about. Yes, that was more like it. The
stable lad in the tight velvet breeches and ripped ivory-colored
shirt. Eloise had read out a very cunning little scene at the last
meeting where the Duchess had flicked a horsewhip onto his rippling
golden back—just lightly, to spur him on. It had worked a treat.
(The scene, as well as the whip. Meg pressed her thighs together as
she recalled her reaction to it.)
She groaned; her friends were
right—she needed a new man if she had all this sex on her brain.
Ben would be off to university in a few months, and then she’d be
on her own.
Fat chance of finding another pleasant
looking, nice natured man who’d be happy with her incessant writing
though!
I’ll do some housework
tonight, she promised herself, dragging her thoughts away from
possible future pleasure. If she left
it
until the morning she might never get around to it—and her writing
group did tend to move the chairs about, exposing the fluffy pieces
of floor for anyone to see. She needed to throw herself into some
serious dusting, too.
And put some decent soap and a pretty
hand towel in the powder room. Surely elderly Vi would have turned
her nose up at the raggy old Star Wars towel Ben had hung there for
the last meeting?
But she was
itching
to get back to
the Italian billionaire plot she was playing with. Carlo. And the
very English nanny, Angela, who had gone to his palazzo, which was
furnished with priceless antiques, to look after his lively
dark-haired children. The handsome billionaire needed to somehow
discover Angela in her underwear. Real silk and French lace. Navy
and cream? Coffee and cream? Black and lavender? Meg considered the
myriad possibilities.
At last the lights changed again. She
made an efficient getaway this time, just as Bruce Springsteen’s
husky voice assured her he had ‘a bad desire’ and that he was on
fire. Imagine having Bruce-baby crooning to you in bed! She drove
on, nodding in time to the syncopated guitar breaks between the
verses, and enjoying the smoldering sensuality of the song. In no
time her imagination shot into overdrive again.
“
I have a bad desire,”
raven-haired Valerian murmured as he gazed down on Celia’s pale
neck. Her veins showed tender blue under her silky skin. He smelled
the faint richness of her delectable blood. His fangs throbbed as
they slowly extended...
“
No!” Celia gasped, trying
to writhe out of his arms. “You promised you wouldn’t.”
He fixed his hypnotic eyes
on hers, willing her to let him bite. Around them the trees
thrashed in the gale. Fitful moonlight flickered between the
branches, but apart from this faint silver glimmering, everything
was dark. As dark as her eyes. As dark as his desires.
He bent lower. Gave her
jugular a tender lick as she shuddered in his arms...
Meg stomped on the brake, finding
herself going far too fast at the next corner with no recollection
of how she’d got there. She let her fantasy fade, knowing she’d
left it too late to break into the vampire market anyway. But she’d
almost drawn level with the hunky cyclist again, so virtuously kept
her speed down to appreciate his long sinewy legs pumping the
pedals around and around.
Pumping—dangerous word,
Meg.
