Last Call Page 10

  “Well lookie here,” I murmured, sneaking a hand down to cop a feel around what was pressing into my thigh. “Um. Wow. You’re, like, really, really hard, Simon.”

  “Hmm? Oh jeez, that’s a bottle in my pocket. Literally.” He laughed, pulling out a glass bottle from his front pocket and showing it to me. Thank goodness. Not only was he frighteningly hard, the bottle was also . . . hmm . . . how do I say . . . considerably thinner than Simon was.

  “Why are you carrying around a bottle?” I asked.

  “I thought I’d grab some dirt, maybe from the edge of the dance floor over there, put it with our other bottles. I know it’s technically not sand, but there should be something there for tonight.”

  I grinned and told him it was a very sweet idea. Years ago, Simon had started collecting sand from the beaches he’d visited all over the world, storing them in little labeled bottles and displaying them on a narrow shelf. We’d started a second shelf for beaches we’d visited together. I’d brought some home from the beach where we were married in Vietnam, and I was touched that he’d thought to commemorate tonight as well. But back to his pocket. . . .

  “I’m liking where this night is going,” I said, deliberately bumping my hips into his, where there was something else taking shape. Definitely bigger than a bottle. “How fast do you think we can get everybody out of here?” I asked, only half joking.

  “As soon as the ribs run out they’ll leave, right?”

  “We are so classy. Serving ribs at our wedding.”

  “And potato salad. Don’t forget the potato salad.”

  “And pie.”

  “That pie was great. Never stop making that pie. Dammit, I should have written that into the vows,” he said, dipping me low and making me giggle upside down. And there, in our own backyard surrounded by everyone we loved, he kissed me. My husband.”

  “What a mess.”

  “I think one of the wedding presents should be cleaning up after,” Simon groaned, surveying the damage in the kitchen.

  “I don’t think that was on our registry, babe,” I said sadly, patting him on the shoulder as I walked by to the dining room. Which was still wedding gift central. “We do, however, have the latest in immersion blenders, electric carving knives, and . . . what the hell is this?” I asked, holding up a white box.

  “That’s the Mr. Bacon.” Simon said proudly.

  “Who is mister bacon?”

  “No no, Mr. Bacon. You cook bacon in it.”

  “I gathered that. Why is this necessary?” Every cat in the house had gathered either on the dining room table or underneath. They knew the word bacon. They understood the word bacon. They loved the bacon.

  “You use it to cook bacon in the microwave, easy as pie. Which is appropriate, because if you drape the bacon over this little cup here, you can microwave it into the shape of a little pie. Now you’ve got a bacon pie thingie that you can fill with other stuff!”

  “Who the hell bought us this?”

  “Trevor and Megan.”

  “No way. No way that Megan, a former Food Network gal, gave us this for our wedding.”

  “Actually, they gave us two presents. They also got us the new white serving dishes you had to have from Williams-Sonoma.”

  “Atta girl,” I praised, and looked once more at the box Simon was now cradling. “Trevor must have gone rogue with that one.”

  “Keep making fun of my Mr. Bacon. It still doesn’t solve the problem of this mess.”

  “How about a post-wedding-party party? Where we invite many of the same people and put them to work cleaning up? That way we don’t have to spend our honeymoon working,” I suggested, and Simon’s eyes lit up.

  “Yeah, why are we spending our wedding night talking about bacon?”

  “Well, you were the one that—”

  I was silenced by a kiss as Simon crossed the kitchen in two strides, gathered me against him, and pressed his mouth to mine. I ignited instantly.

  “You sure about this?” I asked, breathless as he kissed the stuffing out of me.

  “You’re kidding, right?” he asked, his voice thick and impossibly sexy as he trailed kissed down along my jawline, headed for my neck. Once those lips hit below the chin, I was pretty much done for. “I missed our first wedding night, I’m not missing the second.”

  “Let’s go slow though, okay?” I insisted as he backed me toward the stairs. His doctor had cleared him, sure, but that didn’t mean we needed to swing from the chandeliers.

  “I like slow,” he murmured, gathering a handful of backside.

  “We started out slow, you know . . .” I sighed as his lips found my sweet spot just below my ear. We were walking up the stairs now, shutting off lights as we went and kissing like teenagers.

  “That’s not how I recall it,” he said, turning me at the top of the stairs, positioning me in front of him as he walked me down the hallway. His arms were wrapped around my waist and his lips tickled at my ear, making me giggle a bit. I was a little tipsy from beer, but not so tipsy that I was going to be railroaded.

  “We did so start out slow—we were friends first. Friends for a while, actually,” I reminded him, stopping just outside our bedroom door. I leaned in the doorway, keeping him from going inside.

  “I don’t recall us being friends first. I recall us being something else entirely at first.” He nipped at my earlobe. More specifically, at what was hanging from my earlobe. His wedding present to me.

  That morning when I woke up, there was a jewelry box sitting on top of the pillow where Simon’s head usually was. I could hear him brushing his teeth in the bathroom as I looked around, wondering what he was up to. Since we already felt we’d been married on that beach, there was no “can’t see the bride before the wedding,” today and I wanted him next to me in our bed.

  “What’s this?” I asked, scrunching back down into the pillows, tugging the comforter up around me.

  “Sahfing for mah brud,” was the answer I got.

  “I’ll wait until you spit, babe,” was the answer I gave.

  He spit.

  He joined me on the bed.

  “Just a little something for my bride,” he repeated.

  “But I thought we weren’t doing presents,” I protested. We’d discussed it before and agreed that we weren’t doing anything special.

  “Oh hush up, will you, and open it,” he instructed, and I did as I was told.

  Blue.

  Flashing.

  Fire.

  Earrings. Drop earrings filled with diamonds and sapphires, exactly the color of his eyes. Teardrop sapphires hung from a delicate diamond-encrusted base.

  “Simon, what did you do?” I breathed, my hand shaking.

  “I figured this could be the something old, since they’re old; the something new, since they’re new to you; something blue, obviously; but technically not borrowed, since they’re now yours. You’re borrowing them permanently.”

  “From who?” I whispered, already knowing the answer.

  “My mom,” he replied, and my eyes filled with tears.

  “I could not possibly love you more,” I told him, bringing him down to me for a sweet kiss.

  “You like?”

  “I love them.”

  I promptly put them on, and wore them all day. Which brings me to now, where I had a Wallbanger nibbling on my ear as I stood in a doorway.

  “The way I recall it, you hated me on sight that first time we met,” he said, switching from my ear to the back of my neck as he held my hair up high.

  “I didn’t hate you, but I sure wasn’t your biggest fan,” I admitted, thinking back to him opening his door after I’d been banging at it relentlessly. “I was missing sleep.”

  “You were missing more than sleep, babe,” he said, nuzzling my shoulder. His hands pulled at my dress, gathering the fabric and bunching it high around my hips. “Pretty sure you were missing this too.” And he placed one hand over my sex. Entirely. My body responded as it alw
ays did, with full abandon.

  “I really was missing this,” I replied, sinking my hands into his thick, dark hair and twirling it under my fingertips. “But you brought it all back.”

  “We brought it all back,” he reminded me, and pushed me into the bedroom.

  “We. I like we,” I moaned, feeling the bed hit the back of my knees.

  Simon and I had never gone this long without sex since we’d been together. And under his hands once more, my body came alive for him. I yanked at his pants as he tugged at my dress. I worried off his shoes as he wriggled me out of my bra. My breasts were full in his hands, heavy, and sensitive. And he took my garter down with his teeth, leaving a trail of openmouthed kisses in his wake.

  When we were finally naked, tangled, and panting, I scrambled backward on the bed, moving toward the headboard.

  “Where you going, sweet Caroline?” he asked, crawling across the bed to get to me.

  “I wanted to hold on for this,” I quipped, arching an eyebrow and my back as I grabbed on to the iron headboard.

  “That’s my girl.”

  He covered me with his body, all long limbs and strong muscles, as I wrapped my legs around his waist.

  “I love you, Simon. I love you so fucking much,” I said, sweeping back his hair and holding his face in my hands, his eyes staring down at me.

  “I love you too, Mrs. Parker.” And then he pressed into me. Our bodies adjusted to each other, remembered each other, uniquely designed to fit perfectly, sinking in and synching up. He held perfectly still for a moment, feeling me wrapped around him in every way.

  “Christ, I’ve missed you,” he groaned, his voice strained with the sweet tension of holding back, taking things slow, making sure he was okay.

  But that night, our wedding night, we learned the loveliness of taking things exceedingly slow, with precision and quiet effort. Bodies barely moving, sweet sweat collecting between us, adjusting and readjusting, and then coming together quietly in the night.

  Quiet.

  Slow.

  Sweet.

  Perfect.

  It was romantic and wonderful, our first time as an official married couple.

  The second time, however?

  Simon couldn’t help himself. He brought it on home. Hips thrusting, arms flailing, biting, licking, sucking, fucking. Hands intertwined, then holding fast to the headboard once more.

  “You’re really going to want to hold on for this one, Nightie Girl.”

  And he was so very right.

  Thump.

  “Oh, God.”

  Thump thump.

  “Oh, God.”

  Good god damn, I loved this man.

  And I would continue to for the rest of my life. For our lives. Because Wallbanger was the only one who could give me my happy ending.

  . . .

  . . .

  . . .

  Ahem.

  epilogue

  I had heard the Feeder and the Tall One complaining about cleaning up. I did not see the need. After saying the word bacon again and again, teasing without any relief, the very least they could do was leave out the remaining rib tips and nibbles from their celebration.

  I found a platter that held more than enough tasty treats, and signaled to the girls that I’d hunted up a feast for them. It was my nature to care for those around me, especially my ladies. In return for granting them accommodation in my home, and general protection from repeat offenders like Hoover and disposal and garbage truck, my trio kept me well groomed and well satisfied. If you know what I mean. And I think that you do.

  While the ladies were occupied with a particularly tasty hamburger patty, I went back to my earlier search-and-destroy mission. Normally I avoided trash bins, after a misspent youth chasing Q-tips and cotton balls. Nothing good ever came of those fruitless, albeit fun, pursuits. But something had piqued my interest in one of the upstairs rooms, the one the Feeder and the Tall One used as their litter box.

  I walked silently through their sleeping quarters, sensing that they were only lightly dozing. The Tall One had that look about him today, a look I had come to recognize meant the Feeder would be caterwauling throughout the evening. No matter, I had bigger fish to fry. Mmm, fish.

  Slipping into their litter box room unnoticed, I went immediately to the trash can. Pawing with delicate grace, I upended the container, spilling the contents onto the floor. Digging through Kleenex, an empty pill bottle, one damnable cotton ball (which I lost at least twenty minutes to, when it decided to run from me), I came upon the curious item.

  Wrapped entirely in toilet paper, as if to dissuade me, was an empty box with a long stick inside. The stick was a good weight, balancing nicely in the mouth. It would be good for a game of pounce hockey keep away. Grasping the flat end in my mouth, I padded into the other room and leapt quietly onto the bed. Climbing over legs and knees, elbows and arms, I nestled in between the Tall One and the Feeder, bringing my hockey stick with me for later.

  It had been a long day. I’d been up for at least an hour, and sleep was calling. I examined the stick once more, noticing that on one side there was an interesting symbol on one end. Two lines, crossed in the middle. Hmm. Putting the mystery aside for now, I stretched out my legs, making sure I was touching both of my people. It seemed to comfort them. And that was my other job, making sure these two were always comfortable.

  I could feel the Tall One beginning to stir; I’d better catch a nap before he was fully awake and bothering the Feeder.

  I closed my eyes and slept instantly. Blissful. Happy. Content. For in my dreams, there were rib tips for days . . .

  “What the hell is this in the bed? Clive? What did you bring . . . huh.”

  “What is it?” The Feeder yawned.

  A long pause . . .

  “Caroline? You want to tell me something?”

  A longer pause . . .

  “So, Simon. Funny story . . .”

  Turn all of your evenings into cocktail hours!

  Missed any of the first four intoxicating books in the Cocktail Series?

  Keep reading for sneak peeks!

  They’re saucy. They’re sexy. They’re laugh-out-loud funny.

  I’ll drink to that!

  Caroline doesn’t hear things “go bump in the night”—she hears them go thump in the night. And it’s always her new neighbor Simon’s headboard . . .

  Wallbanger

  “Caroline, I didn’t realize you knew Simon. What a small world!” Jillian exclaimed, clasping her hands together.

  “I wouldn’t say I know him, but I’m familiar with his work,” I replied through clenched teeth. Mimi danced in a circle around us like a little kid with a secret.

  “Jillian, you won’t believe this but—” she started, her voice bubbling over with barely concealed mirth.

  “Mimi. . . .” I warned.

  “Simon is Simon from next door! Simon Wallbanger!” Sophia cried, grasping Benjamin’s arm. I’m sure she only did it so she could touch Benjamin.

  “Dammit,” I breathed as Jillian took in this information.

  “No fucking way,” she breathed, hand clapping over her mouth after she dropped the f-bomb. Jillian always tried to be such a lady.

  Benjamin looked confused, and Simon had the decency to blush a little.

  “Asshole,” I mouthed to him.

  “Cockblocker,” he mouthed back, the smirk returning in full force.

  I gasped and clenched my fists, prepared to tell him exactly what he could do with his cockblocker, when Neil burst in.

  “Benjamin, check this out—this little hottie here is the Pink Nightie Girl! Can you stand it?” He laughed as Ryan struggled to keep a straight face. Benjamin’s eyes widened, and he raised an eyebrow at me. Simon swallowed a laugh.

  “Pink Nightie Girl?” Jillian asked, and I heard Benjamin lean in and tell her he’d explain later.

  “Okay, that’s it!” I shouted, and I pointed at Simon. “You. A word, please?” I barked
and grabbed him by the arm. I yanked him outside and pulled him down one of the paths that led away from the house. He scrambled along after me, my heels ringing out angrily on the flagstone.

  “Jesus, slow down, will you?”

  My response was to dig my nails into his arm, which made him yelp. Good.

  We reached a little enclave set away from the house and the party—far enough away that no one would hear him scream when I removed his balls from his body. I released his arm and rounded on him, pointing a finger in his surprised face.

  “You’ve got some nerve telling everyone about me, asshole! What the hell? Pink Nightie Girl? Are you kidding me?” I whisper-yelled.

  “Hey, I could ask you the same question! Why do all those girls in there call me Wallbanger, huh? Who’s telling tales now?” he whisper-yelled right back.

  “Are you kidding me? Cockblocker? Just because I refused to spend another night listening to you and your harem does not make me a cockblocker!” I hissed.

  “Well, due to the fact that your door banging blocked my cock, it actually does make you a cockblocker. Cockblocker!” he hissed back. This entire conversation was beginning to sound like something that might have happened in fourth grade—except for all the nightie and cock talk.

  “Now, you listen here, mister,” I said, trying for a more adult tone. “I’m not going to spend every night listening to you try to crash your girl’s head through my wall with the force of your dick alone! No way, buddy.” I pointed a finger at him. He grabbed it.

  “What I do on my side of that wall is my business. Let’s get that straight right now. And why are you so concerned about me and my dick anyway?” he asked, smirking at me again.

  It was the smirk, that damn smirk, that made me go ballistic. That and the fact that he was still holding my finger.

  “It is my business when you and your sex train come knocking on my wall every night!”

  “You’re really fixated on this, aren’t you? Wish you were on the other side of that wall? Are you lookin’ to ride that sex train, Nightie Girl?” He chuckled as he wagged his finger in my face.

  “Okay, that’s it,” I growled. I grabbed his finger in defense, which instantly locked us together. We must have looked like two loggers trying to cut down a tree. We struggled back and forth—beyond ridiculous. We both huffed and puffed, each trying to get the upper hand, each refusing to relent.