The wonderful ladies of our reader group, WORD WENCHES, are some of the most supportive peeps on the planet. They’re the first to hear about our new endeavors, and participate in fun contests we have.
A recent one was to name Nick & Lila Crandall’s twins.
C’mon. That’s way too fun to keep all to ourselves. Of course we had final say about the names in the end. Oh, and we got a ton more names for our files of future babies or characters. ;)
Congrats to Jennifer Beck Miller & Jeannie Huffman for coming up with Charlotte, aka Charlie. As well as Shyla R. Wright for her offering, Avery.
Pretty names for two of the prettiest girls to come out of fiction. Nick’s already ordered their chastity belts.
For all foolish moments that turn into wonderful pockets of forever.
Dedicating this one yet again to Michael Hutchence of INXS, as we did Seduced in our Lost in Oblivion series. To Cari, he was pretty much the epitome of a rockstar, and INXS’s Wembley 1991 concert was in heavy rotation while we were writing Bedded Bliss. He’ll never be forgotten (nor will the word “f$%king” said in that delicious accent of his.)
Chapter 1
“Your tabby has missed you. Don’t you want to pet my pussy?”
Michael Shawcross rolled over in bed and flung out an arm. Instead of colliding with the mattress as it usually did, he hit soft, warm flesh.
A second later, wetness glided down his belly, stopping just above the sheet tangled around his torso. He shifted his hips against the bed, his body straining toward the slick line of liquid without thought.
“That’s it, baby. Whatcha hiding under this towel? Is he excited to see me too?”
Even still half-asleep, he frowned. What the hell? It felt like someone was licking him. Pouring more liquid on his stomach, low, lower, lowest, then dragging down the sheet to where he was popping up like a damn sailor saluting his country.
Then his eyes popped open to match, and he groaned. And it wasn’t because a gorgeous brunette was currently a deep breath away from sucking his cock.
“Dammit, Tabitha, how did you get in here?”
“That’s how you greet an old friend?” She sighed and sat up, gripping the bottle of champagne in one hand and the towel precariously wrapped around her body with the other. Catching his glance at her obviously wet and dripping legs, she let the towel fall down a bit more and smiled. “I had to wash the travel dirt off me, didn’t I? It’s been so long since we’ve seen each other, and I didn’t think you’d mind if I borrowed a little water from your shower.” She crawled up the bed toward him, her expression feral. “Don’t worry, I have some wetness to give back.”
He groaned again, and this time it wasn’t entirely because the sexy witch had broken into his apartment or tried to give him a sponge bath using bubbly and her tongue.
Some stupid, ridiculous part of him just wanted to tell the world to fuck off so he could enjoy himself. She was obviously more than willing, and from the feel of things, Michael junior didn’t have the same morals as his owner.
So what if she was engaged to a senator? Sure, it was absolutely wrong on a million levels to get involved in a situation like that, and he’d told her in every variation of English that he could think of that he wasn’t about to go there. Problem was, he already had, sort of, and she wouldn’t let him forget it.
She wasn’t the only one. Their names—along with Senator Dinkles—were on TV and in the rags constantly lately. Then there was the elevator footage from the Squire Hotel in LA that just happened to include him nudging her in such a way that made it appear like he was urging her to the floor. Oh yeah, and oops, her hand was on his zipper…
No one seemed to care he hadn’t even known who she was when she’d approached him that night after the concert. It hadn’t been the first time. She’d gone to full-on groupie status even before that fateful evening. He’d engaged in a friendly and furtive gropefest with her at a couple of meet and greets, because, surprise, she always seemed to have backstage passes no matter where they were. He hadn’t questioned it. Even at his level of fame—which granted him a label of rising star at best and nobody at worst, depending on the day of the