Hello! It`s time for Tuesday Tales again. This week I`ll be starting a new paranormal romance written exclusively for Tuesday Tales. It`s been awhile since we touched bases with Maggie Owens and Gerard Williams, our sexy team of otherworldly investigators for the KBNY show Paranormal Private Investigators.
Maggie, who is 34 and divorced, and Gerard, who is 26 and single, are participating in a sinfully seductive flirtation that is about to turn into a scorching hot affair. When last we left our duo they had wrapped up the case of The Foggy Creek Hellhound, discovering it was a hoax. Hoping to grab some time alone in the B&B the station paid for, Maggie and Gerard are doing what lovers do: “Watching movies” while TCM plays somewhere in the room.
This week we were challenged to use three words - hard, rough, and dirty in our post. Since this hasn`t been edited by anyone but me, there may be some grammatical errors. I do apologize for any boo-boo you may find. Please do check out the other wonderful writers after you`re done reading by clicking on the Tuesday Tales link at the bottom. Thanks for stopping in!
“Tell me, who was it you left me for? Was it Lazlo, or were there others in between? Or . . . aren`t you the kind that tells?”
I could hear Bogart. Barely.
My ears were filled with the sweet sounds of a man feasting on my neck and shoulder. My face was covered with dreads, my hands filled with bulging and contracting biceps. Is there anything hotter than gripping a mans thick upper arms as he samples your flesh? Shifting my leg, my knee nudged a delicate area between my cameraman`s legs. He grunted as he nipped along the swell of breast about to tumble free from my bra. Wrapping my fingers in the ebony ropes of hair, I pulled Gerard`s mouth back to mine.
His lips were full and delicately tinted with the chocolate we had dipped plump strawberries in earlier. His desire was pressed against my stomach. All manner of hard, dirty, rough, and oh-so adult thoughts spiraled around in my head as I gyrated underneath him. The room was lit only by the TV. We broke for a mutual intake of badly needed air, my fingers dancing lightly from his arms to his corded neck, anxious for him to plunder my mouth again.
“You need to give me a minute here to situate,” Gerard huffed, sliding his bulk to the side. I stayed glued to him, my breasts to his bare chest, my legs wound through his. The man did a fine scoot-and-lift, placing me atop his fantastically made body. Three cheers for ex-Pitt football players! Rah-Rah-Rah!
Sitting back, I eyed him openly. He waggled a brow, his teeth flashing pearly white in the flickering light. Lordy but he was splendid. Tall, ripped, handsome, sexy, funny, young, smart . . . did I mention sexy? It had to be the dreads. Or perhaps his smile. Or the way his stomach quivered when I ran my fingers around the rim of his navel. Or the way he looked at me as if I were the sexiest woman on earth.
“You are a beautiful man.” I bent down to tease his mouth with mine. His hand came up to light on the back of my neck. His body hummed like a perfectly tuned engine.
“Men aren`t beautiful, Maggie,” he said, running his hand down my arm then back up to my neck. “Now you on the other hand . . .”
“Please tell me you have protection,” I said, placing a pale hand on his dark chest. He nodded, tugged my mouth over his, and then showed me with a kiss just how beautiful he thought I was. There was nothing in the world that was going to get in the way of this happening. We had both turned off our phones so Eddie Delong, our producer, couldn`t ring us steadily to chew us out for the crap segment we had sent him. Gerard and I had but this one stolen evening, and by all the gods that look down on horny divorced women I was getting laid! He cupped a breast. I wiggled on my wondrously arousing seat, pulling a deep thunderous moan from Gerard.
Then some moron began pounding on the door. I flew off the sofa like some incensed and slightly insane Vulcan caught in the grip of Pon Farr. Gerard mumbled something. I ripped the door open, ready to lay into room service for disrupting us when the damned ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign was clearly visible. I came up short when faced not with a maid wanting to clean, but a short woman in her early sixties with round eyes. I glanced down, turned the color of a pickled beet, and quickly began buttoning my unbuttoned blouse.
“Are you the ghost chasers?” she asked with a thick Maine accent. I felt Gerard stepping up behind me, his body churning out heat like a forest fire as he slid an arm around my waist.
“Yes, we are, but we`re trying to grab a few hours of sleep and . . .”
“I have a ghost problem. It`s my daughter, Anastasia,” she whispered, pulling the handmade sweater she wore tighter to her lean frame. Her face was tight with fear. “She won`t leave,” she added, shooting glances down the nicely decorated corridor.
I looked over my shoulder at Gerard. He met my questioning glance with a slow nod.
“Show her in, Mags,” he said before dropping a consolatory kiss to my shoulder then backing away to turn on the lights for our guest.
“Why don`t you come in and tell us about this problem with Anastasia?” I smiled then closed the door on our stolen night.
Copyright 2013 ©by V.L. Locey
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