An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Sins & Redemption ISBN 9781419916830 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. Sins & Redemption Copyright © 2008 Lyn Cash Edited by Nicholas Conrad. Cover art by Syneca. Electronic book Publication June 2008 With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502. Warning: The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000. (http://www.fbi.gov/ipr/) This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
SINS & REDEMPTION
Lyn Cash
Trademarks Acknowledgement The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction: Ben & Jerry’s: Ben & Jerry’s Homemade, Inc. Corporation Cosmo: Hearst Communications, Inc. Half Baked: Ben & Jerry’s Homemade Holdings, Inc. Nutty Buddy: Maryland Baking Company Corporation Red Lobster: Red Lobster Inns of America, Inc. Corportation Starbucks: Starbucks US Brands, LLC Visa: Visa International Service Association Corporation
Sins & Redemption
Chapter One Sexual Sins by Layla Randall 1. He rarely (or never) makes the first move. 2. He always leaves right after sex, or… 3. He never leaves after sex—and I want him to leave! 4. He wants to dominate me, or… 5. He wants me to take care of him and his needs. 6. He’s immature. 7. He wants to marry me and I’ve Been There, Done That.
“I like it, Layla. Provocative without being too kitschy.” Stephen Bennett’s deep voice resonated over the telephone line. Layla wasn’t so sure. “It’s cheesy, Stephen.” “It’s what sells. I’ll tell Jim to run your extrapolation on number one in next Sunday’s edition.” The man had hired her almost straight out of university more than two decades ago and had trusted her instincts ever since, but suddenly he sounded hesitant. “What is it?” she asked. “What do you mean?” He sounded innocent enough. “I’ve seen you through two marriages, the birth of your only son, two and a half decades competing against the likes of Cosmo and all of the men’s magazines through the Nineties—I think all of that plus our friendship qualifies me to ask you to cut through the bullshit, Stephen.” 5
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He chuckled. “Subtle as ever. All right, but you’ll not like this.” “Let’s have it.” She mentally prepared herself. Cutbacks at work? After over twenty years with Bennett Publications, was she finally out of a job? Or had Jim Garrison, an editor she’d helped train twelve years ago, quit? “There’s a new…uh, writer, a young man, and he’ll be working out of the office in Kansas City with you.” “Okay.” Does he want my job? Is the magaziner retiring Mama Lay and sticking me with the sales force, or worse—writing copy for makeup ads? “He’s written for some of the major New York papers, covered stories all over the world, but he wants to try his hand working for a magazine now. He submitted a column to Jim, and Jim accepted it.” Great. Fuck me. Stephen rushed to say, “It’s not to replace Mama Lay’s advice column—it’s to complement it.” “Uh-huh.” She could almost hear the big man’s smile. “Layla, your column is one of our hallmarks—the fact that so many other magazines have tried to hire you away from us is proof. No, you’ll like this kid.” He coughed gently. “Young man. Sorry—he’s no kid.” “What’s his name?” “Patrick Brent.” “Never heard of him.” She frowned. Have I? “I don’t imagine you would have. Like I said, he’s new to magazines. I’d like you to take him under your wing if he needs help, though. See to it that this venture succeeds.” “I can do that.” “Good. You’re meeting him for lunch.”
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Sexual Redemption by Patrick Brent 1. Catch her off guard. 2. Stay after sex if she wants you to—even if it means having to fall asleep. 3. If she wants you to leave, then leave—but not before making her horny. 4. Become her docile, obedient boy, and tell her your problems. 5. Refuse her help, her money and her advice. 6. Show her you’re mature, even parental.
“What happened to the last number?” Mark Miller studied the sheet of paper before him intently. “Layla has seven on her list. If you’re to form a rebuttal, shouldn’t you have a counterpoint for each of her items?” “I don’t have all of the kinks worked out.” Patrick fired up his laptop on the small table adjacent to his best friend’s spacious desk. Their jobs didn’t directly have much to do with each other, but it was great working with a buddy with editorial experience who could critique his assignments from time to time. “Not much to say to refute marriage other than don’t do it, is there?” “Ambitious undertaking, Patrick.” A slow grin split Mark’s face. “You’re really doing this?” “Got the word from my editor. They accepted my proposal. One rebuttal per day for a solid week in the Love With Layla column. Then we wait for readers’ responses and see if I have a job once the ‘he said’ column stands up against the ‘she said’.” Patrick turned his hands palms-up and spread them expressively. “This is a conditional hire, so I shouldn’t have to worry about being found out just yet.” “Your father accepted this, you mean. He just doesn’t realize you’re the author.” Mark leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “Wait, does he?”
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“The old man hasn’t paid close attention to me since I graduated. I’m surprised he even showed up for the ceremony.” Mark unhooked his hands and leaned forward. “Look, it’s time to get over your desire to please the boss. He’s a hard taskmaster, but be fair. Your dad knows the business—he just has a harsh game face.” “You didn’t have to grow up with him scowling at you 24/7.” He pushed off from the door’s frame and placed his hands on his hips. “Besides, my editor is Jim Garvey, not Dad.” “And you don’t think Stephen will notice that the newest byline in his magazine consists of the first and middle name of his only child?” “I’ve always gone by Bennett, including as a byline. And since I’m freelancing, payroll has no reason to spill the beans, right? Brent isn’t the most uncommon surname—I mean, it was my mom’s.” Patrick shrugged. “Besides, the only other person besides you in this office who has ever met me is my dad’s executive assistant.” “Iris?” “Yep. Saw her coming out as I walked in last time I was at the house. And she didn’t look as if she’d been going over business details with the old man, if you know what I mean.” “Jesus, Patrick. You didn’t tell me this!” “There was no need. She’s Dad’s girlfriend and it has nothing to do with me.” Mark snorted. “And if you run into her here?” “Then she’ll most likely tell Dad, and he’ll know I’m working for the magazine. No biggie. Like I said, he wouldn’t give a damn anyway.” “Whatever, man. Just don’t be surprised if your dad is watching you from afar, that he already knows you’re here and that he’s checking on you to see if you fall on your ass.”
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“If I do, then I’ll pick myself up, make amends to Jim and seek other employment if necessary. I have to try, though. I’ve been knocking about the world long enough. Time to settle down, carve my niche—and I’m a damned good writer, for your information.” “Easy, buddy.” Mark laughed and held up his hands. “I’m the one who corrected your shitty grammar in high school and listened as you read aloud each of your first attempts at writing sci-fi, remember?” “Shitty grammar.” Patrick snorted. “Bite me.” Then he grinned. “Thanks, though, for letting me set up shop in your office until I get my own space.” Mark motioned for him to have a seat across the large mahogany editor’s desk from him and continued. “Look, damn it, I want this to work. You’ve put in your dues as a journalist, buddy—you’ve covered everything from wars to politics, and it’s time you had some fun, not just adventure. I just don’t want to see you place too much focus on snagging the old man’s attention. If it hasn’t happened prior to this, it ain’t happenin’ now, buddy.” “Aaarrrgh!” Patrick collapsed into the leather chair and leveled Mark with a steady gaze. “You think I don’t know this? You think I didn’t ask myself every time the bullets were flying in Iraq if Dad was reading my column in the Times or the Post or if he was wondering if I’d make it back to the States?” Mark nodded. “Yep. I’m just wondering if you’re not still trying something new to see if this or that or your next project will be the one to make him sit up and take notice of you. What is it you want from him, Pat? You’ve never really talked about him, and now… I mean, really, what the fuck, man?” Patrick looked away for a moment. “I want him to look at me without seeing her. My mother. She’s been dead twenty-two years now, and I don’t think he’s seen me without seeing her since…well, since right after my fifth birthday. I know it kills him that I look so much like her, that I have her interests. Her passion for writing isn’t the only one, but I think you’d agree it’s a biggie.” “Maybe he’s worried that you’ll die covering a story.” 9
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“I made it out of Iraq without a scratch,” Patrick said dryly. “I think I can make it out of Kansas.” “Don’t be so sure. Others have tried and failed. Besides, didn’t you volunteer to move here? Come on, man—aren’t you here partly because you got tired of the rat race back East? Then there was the Let’s see if our Midwestern readers relate well to the magazine and…” “Oh, shut up. Fucker. Yes, I wanted to move here. I missed your skanky ass and your wife’s horrible cooking, and I got tired of hailing cabs in New York and flying to the Middle East. Feel better?” “And just in case your father doesn’t know you’re here, how are you going to handle it when he finds out? He does come into the office on occasion, you know.” “Not that often. He built his empire and now he’s quite happy to run it from his ivory tower.” Patrick shrugged. “If he does visit? Well, I’m one of the lowly writers. Easy enough for me to keep out of his way until I prove myself. Satisfied?” He flicked a grin at his friend. “I won’t be completely satisfied until you meet someone like Marla, someone whose crappy casseroles and morning breath are preferable to the solitary bar scenes and lonely nights cuddling the remote over leftover takeout.” Mark snapped his fingers. “Which reminds me. We have a luncheon to attend at the Salty Iguana.” Patrick frowned at his watch. “Yeah, Jim left me an email about it. We don’t have much time. Who are we meeting anyway?” “Oh, just Layla Randall. Former sex therapist now turned columnist. And,” he cleared his throat, “the author of that garbage you’re trying to debunk.” Mark grabbed his jacket and headed out the door of his office, gesturing for Patrick to join him. “Let’s go, buddy. Being late for an appointment with the great Mama Lay might be construed as a sign of—what was number six? That’s right, a sign of immaturity.”
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Chapter Two Patrick paused at the entrance to the restaurant. His gaze skimmed the patrons, looking for his editor, whom he’d met once, and the lady he was about to go up against. It didn’t take him long to find them in a booth toward the back of the room. Jim’s bulk and loud, gruff voice were unmistakable. It was the woman with him, however, who captured his attention. Striking was the first word that came to mind as he and Mark made their way across the restaurant. “Mark. Patrick,” Jim boomed as soon as he spotted them. “Come and take a load off.” He patted the bench beside him. “Mark, I want to discuss the columns these two are doing.” Mark sat next to Jim and the two of them launched into a conversation, leaving Patrick free to access their other companion. Patrick slid into the booth beside Layla, holding out his hand. “I’m guessing you’re Layla Randall? I’m Patrick Brent. Nice to meet you, Ms. Randall.” Up close, he revised his opinion. This woman wasn’t just striking. Not what he’d call “classically” beautiful, but there was something about her. She was breathtaking— in a very sensual way. Her dark hair, cut in a short spiky style, framed high cheekbones and accentuated deep brown eyes. Eyes that, at the moment, seemed to regard him with a slumberous, come-to-bed shimmer. An interesting lady. Oh yeah, definitely interesting. At least his body thought so. His trousers tightened in front as blood surged south, raising his cock to half-mast. It wouldn’t take a lot to send it into fully functional mode. Well, how about that. He’d been instantly attracted to women in the past, but never this urgently. Layla Randall definitely had something. She could roll into his bed any time she liked. As he continued to stare, her copper-tinted lips curved up in a cheeky smile. “You like what you see?” she remarked wryly.
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He hoped he wasn’t blushing. “Sorry if I was rude, staring at you like that. It’s just…you’re not what I expected. I couldn’t help myself.” Good save, buddy. “I hope I wasn’t offensive.” He offered a disarming grin. Layla seemed to know exactly what he’d expected—some frumpy older woman, not her, for sure. Patrick appreciated that she was aware of her own appeal. “Now why would I be offended when a man tells me something like that?” She chuckled. “I’ll simply take it as a compliment, particularly at my age.” A shiver slid down Patrick’s spine. Crap, even her voice was a turn-on. Husky. Filled with promise. And he’d sure as hell like to take her up on it. He shook away the erotic pictures filling his head and tried to concentrate on business. “Has Jim filled you in on the column I’ve been commissioned to write?” Turning toward him, she propped her elbow on the edge of the table and rested her cheek in her palm. “You really think you can disprove all my philosophies, Patrick? Mama Lay has been around a long time. I’m not sure the readers will respond positively to the idea that a man—especially a younger man—knows more than they do about sex. After all, most of my readers are women.” “Oh, I’m not trying to educate them or prove them wrong. Just show the flip side of the coin—sex from the male point of view. Well, from the point of view of a younger man, anyway.” Layla leaned closer. Patrick dragged in a sharp breath. Okay, the woman was clearly flirting with him, probably in an effort to unnerve him. Nah, wasn’t going to work. In fact… As the idea took root in his brain, Patrick grinned. This could actually work to his advantage. Up the stakes as far as his article went. “You believe everything you spin out in your column?” “Of course I do, or I wouldn’t write it.” She straightened in her seat and dropped her hands to her lap.
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Patrick’s gaze dropped to where she twisted her fingers, mere inches from her groin. His erection again asserted itself as he allowed himself to envision the view beneath her skirt. “Then you’ve been dating the wrong guys. Younger men can be exciting. Full of life. Real tigers in bed, too.” He rarely (or never) makes the first move. Time to turn the tables on Ms. Layla Randall. Deftly reaching under the table, Patrick ran the tip of his finger from her elbow up to her hand then brushed the pad of his thumb across her wrist. “How about it, Layla? You think your theories will stand up against mine?” “Are you challenging me, Patrick?” She grinned, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief. “You bet I am. A contest. Your column up against mine. We’ll let the readers decide who’s the winner.” “You’re on. But one thing to remember. I eat little boys like you for lunch.” Patrick glanced at Jim and Mark, who were still deep in conversation, and used the edge of the table to lever himself up. Then he leaned over as if he was about to whisper something to her and flicked at her ear with the tip of his tongue. “One thing for you to remember, Ms. Randall,” he murmured. “I do like a little kink with my sex.”
***** Layla stood and stretched, rolling her head to try to alleviate the neck ache from bending over her desk all afternoon. She didn’t mind the writing part. It was the polishing and proofing where she differed from her colleagues. She was a bit oldschool, preferring to handle that stage on paper, instead of editing on the computer. Hell, maybe she was just getting too old to change her ways. A small smile tugged at her lips as she wandered across to the window overlooking the street. Hah, I’m not too old to give Patrick Brent a run for his money. He intrigued her. He certainly pushed her buttons. Yeah, she wouldn’t mind a bit of slap and tickle with the younger man. Not that she’d ever had a relationship with 13
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someone who wasn’t her age or older, but she sure could be tempted with this one. If only her readers knew… She leaned against the window frame and stared out at the commuters rushing home from work. She should get her butt into gear, too. It was already well past six o’clock. Most of the other magazine staff would have already left for the day. She’d take a few more minutes to unwind and then get on her way. Her mind drifted back to Patrick Brent and what she’d like to do with him. He was one sexy beast. Just thinking about that little smile he’d leveled at her at lunchtime was enough to have hormones roaring all through her body. She suddenly burst out laughing. “You are a lecherous old fart, Layla Randall, lusting after someone who has to be at least fifteen years younger than you. You’re too old for this.” “Never too old,” a voice whispered behind her, “but you are wrong. Sometimes a younger man does like to make the first move.” Layla squealed, but before she could turn around, hands slid around her waist and she found herself pulled flush against a hard, masculine chest. The woodsy scent of a familiar aftershave teased at her senses and she didn’t need to make any guesses as to who it was. “Jesus, Patrick! You scared ten years’ growth out of me. For a moment there, I thought my heart had actually stopped in fright.” “My apologies. You want me to perform a little heart massage to get it started again?” He slid his hand up and cupped her left breast. A jolt of sensation slammed into her. Hot. Exciting. Streaking from her breasts to her belly. Layla gasped and dropped her head back against his shoulder. “Um, Patrick,” she managed to say. The beats resounded in her head so that she could hardly hear herself speak. “I did tell you that your first point was wrong, didn’t I?” He pushed his pelvis against her. “Lady, I’ve been this hard ever since we talked at lunch. All I can think about is you, and I’m not just talking about that silly bet here either. You turn me on and for that I’m willing to make the first move to see where this goes.” 14
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“You don’t have a problem with having a relationship with an older woman?” She lightly pressed back as he ground what felt like an impressive erection against her ass. Liquid heat poured through her veins, igniting pinpricks of exquisite fire on every nerve ending it passed. Logically, she knew she should toss him out of there—after all, they had to work together—but she wasn’t going to. She’d enjoy the ride while she had the chance, because she’d never felt more alive, more alluring, than she did right at this point. Patrick was probably just trying to score points off of her, but she wasn’t really worried. Mama Lay had been around a long time and had a faithful following among the readers. And maybe, just maybe, she’d be able to convince Patrick to forget the bet and concentrate on the physical chemistry between them. Not that she expected a fling with him to last long. Relationships that started off this way usually didn’t—her prior experience as a sex therapist had shown her that. But what the heck? She could at least milk it while it lasted. At forty-five she was no spring chicken, and she considered that an edge rather than a hindrance in the bedroom department. If nothing else, she’d convince Patrick how to please an older woman. Then Patrick moved his other hand to fondle her right breast. All mature, rational thoughts ceased in that instant. “Mmm,” she breathed, “Heart’s not on that side.” Patrick chuckled before nuzzling her neck. “You know, I was a shit when I was a kid. I remember when I was in grade school, there was this really bossy girl who annoyed the hell out of all the guys. She happened to be an early developer, so the boys gave her a hard time about getting boobs and having to wear a bra so young.” “What’s that got to do with where my heart is?” Her breath felt trapped in her chest as Patrick toyed with the top button of her suit jacket before twisting it open. “I’m getting to that.” He undid the next button. “To get back at this girl for some mean thing she’d done, the guys pooled all their pocket money and sent away to one of those men’s magazines for a kit to increase breast size. When it came, it contained an
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enormous cotton bra with a cutout of a man’s hand and a slogan saying that massage increases breast size.” He chuckled, concentrating on the final button of her top. “Oh, well, you don’t want me to be lopsided, right? Equal treatment for both breasts?” She tried to turn around, but he stopped her, slipping her jacket off her shoulders before cupping her lace-clad breasts again. Thank Heavens I wore one of my better bras today. Patrick palmed her breasts, gently squeezing, rubbing the flat of his hand over her nipples. Nipples that were hard and throbbing. Then he unclipped the front of the bra and took the pebbled crests between thumb and forefinger. Layla felt the tug of sensation clear down to her pussy. “Are you turned on yet, Layla?” Still tweaking one nipple, he angled the other hand down her body and cupped her between the legs. “I need more proof.” Tremors tracked their way down Layla’s spine. God, she was so close to coming just from pure excitement. How much more could she handle? “Undo your skirt,” he demanded suddenly, “then hang onto the window frame.” Her hands shook as she rushed to oblige him. The sound of the zipper was almost an assault on the senses. Once the skirt was undone, Patrick slid his hand from between her thighs and pulled, allowing the skirt to slide down her legs. For a brief instant, Layla panicked over their age difference. Would Patrick be disgusted? Then she ceased to worry as he ran his hand down over her buttocks, tugging at her underwear. “Who would have guessed it?” he whispered. “The amazing Mama Lay likes sexy underwear.” Her legs started to shake as Patrick kneeled behind her. There was an instant of absolute quiet. Then she felt his hands skimming her hips. Caressing her bottom. Following the line of her thong as it disappeared between the cheeks of her ass. “Spread your legs, baby.”
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The moment she did, his hand snaked between her thighs and trailed the length of her pussy, plucking at the edges of her thong underwear. “Hmm, so wet. So hot.” Then he grasped the tiny lace strap that held the front triangle of the thong in place and tugged, pulling the garment downward. The lace broke, and Layla’s underwear followed the skirt to the floor at her feet. She panted, the tension in her body spiking. “Oh God, Patrick, you’re driving me crazy.” He leaned forward and nipped at her bare ass. “Glad I’m not the only one being driven up the wall with sexual frustration.” Trailing the tip of his fingers over her wet pussy, he parted the swollen lips and dipped into her wetness. “Let me turn around,” she begged, needing to see his face. “No, I’m directing these proceedings for the moment. This is about your needs, your wants, Layla. Not all younger men are selfish enough to need to be taken care of.” “Will you stop with that damned article and fuck me already!” Without warning, Patrick, still on his knees behind her, thrust two fingers inside her. Breath gusted from her in a harsh moan, followed by an even louder moan of disappointment when he withdrew. “Patrick!” Layla kicked the skirt away from her feet and spread her legs even farther. She leaned forward, pushing her hips toward him, silently begging him to continue his erotic ministrations. This was one smart man. He needed no other prompting. He pumped his fingers in and out of her aching pussy, slowing the pace every so often to brush at her throbbing clit. Her legs trembled. Her vaginal muscles clenched, trying to hold him tight. The muscles in her gut tightened as the tension wound tighter and tighter. “Come for me, baby,” he whispered then bit down on the fleshy curve of her ass. “Let me feel your cunt tighten around my fingers.”
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Spasms broke free and convulsions spread throughout her body. Her heart thundered. The breath caught in her chest and her fingers gripped the edge of the windowsill as her legs threatened to give out. “Holy fuckin’ hell,” she managed between pants. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” He straightened up and turned her toward him. She should have felt embarrassed, standing before him in nothing but a pair of red high heels and a lace bra hooked over her arms, but she didn’t. The unlikelihood of the situation, the inappropriateness of sex in her workplace of over twenty years—Christ, almost as long as he’d been alive—be damned. Excitement zapped through her veins. Her body hummed with sexual completion, but she still wanted more. She wanted to feel Patrick inside her, filling her until she could focus on nothing but the hardness of his cock. Before she could tell him, he took her hand and tugged her over to the high-backed office chair behind her desk. He slid the bra off her arms and then placed her hands on the chair. Layla’s breathing accelerated at the possibilities that came to mind. Suddenly, he slapped her ass. “Bend over, wench. I’m about to show you what else a younger man can do.” The sting of the slap quickly morphed into heat that slid downward and centered in her pussy. Layla whimpered. God, one orgasm already and she was primed for another. She heard the rasp of Patrick’s zipper as he divested himself of his trousers. She made a move to turn around so she could see him, but he quickly slapped her ass again. “Patience, my lady. There’s plenty of time for that later.” The sound of a condom wrapper being torn open filtered through the erotic haze that filled Layla’s mind. Okay, so he was a Boy Scout seducer, always prepared. At least he was mature enough to take care of the issue. Then the time for thinking passed as Patrick grasped her hips and positioned the head of his throbbing cock at the entrance to her pussy. 18
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“Know what I’m going to do? I’m going to fuck you until you scream out in ecstasy. There are still a few staffers here. The door’s unlocked. Doesn’t the thought of someone walking in on us up the stakes, sweet Layla? I know it does for me. I’m so hard I feel like I’m about to explode, but before that…” With one hard thrust, he buried himself deep in her pussy. Layla didn’t need further preparation. She was already wet enough from her previous orgasm. Even so, he was bigger than she’d expected. She loved every bit of it. His girth stretching her, his length filling her. She felt a physical satisfaction the likes of which she hadn’t experienced in a long while. She arched her hips and strained toward him as he withdrew then pumped into her again. Her breathing accelerated until she gasped for every fresh draft of air. Her nails dug into the soft cover of the chair. Her head drooped as she braced herself for each thrust. All the time Patrick rammed her, hard and fast, dragging against the hold of her pussy muscles then spearing her with renewed sensation. Oh Christ, she loved it. Gloried in the pounding of his body, the slap of his balls against her ass and the sound of sweat-slicked bodies grinding against each other. Then Patrick slid one hand around her body and flicked at her clit before running his finger over that bundle of nerves. The voltage of the sexual tension in her body spiked off the scale. A new orgasm rolled through Layla. More intense, stronger than the first one. Her muscles clenched. Her gut tightened. Her legs trembled so badly it was a wonder she didn’t slide to the floor in a heated puddle of mindless hormones. The feeling of fire and energy became so intense, Layla did the only thing she could. She let go and let it take her. “Patrick!” His fingers dug into her hips. He thrust into her one last time. Then he leaned forward and with a muffled shout into her shoulder, he came, joining her in the most cataclysmic climax she’d ever experienced. When her body’s convulsions let up, except
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for the lingering aftershocks, Layla’s knees buckled. She ended up on her bare ass on the carpet, her back resting against the desk. Patrick curled up beside her, his arm wrapped possessively around her shoulders and his head on her chest. Layla couldn’t believe what had just happened or the admission that escaped her lips. “My God, that’s the best sex I’ve ever had, and you haven’t even kissed me yet.” She glanced across at her clothing spread on the floor under the window and chuckled. “Plenty of time for that, sweet Layla.” He flicked his tongue at the nipple closest to him. The tips of her breasts hardened and fire shot through her belly. She shivered. Jesus. Again? I’m getting greedy in my old age. She shuffled closer to Patrick, ignoring the carpet burn on her ass. “I have to say one thing, Patrick. You’ve got some moves on you, kid.”
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Chapter Three Layla reviewed the columns that had been published the previous Monday—hers and Patrick’s. She had to admit that whether he’d deliberately set out to disprove her theories or whether he’d merely done what came naturally, he’d surprised her. Pleasantly so. She wasn’t naïve enough to believe that what had occurred between the two of them days earlier was anything other than pure enactment of fantasy. There was no relationship other than a playfully sexual one—it could hardly be deemed a serious, romantic one. Then what the hell is it? She set aside the issue that contained both their columns and for a brief moment wished she’d never given up smoking. Just thinking of her friendly adversary made her feel decadent and indulgent. She’d seen him every day the rest of the week, and neither of them had acknowledged that anything had taken place—that they’d seen one another naked, much less had sex in the office. He’d gone to his desk and she to hers and they’d been civil, even friendly, but both had been careful not to tip their hands. Still, she’d caught him looking at her and the fire in his eyes, the sheer orneriness in his smile, made her twitch in places that hadn’t tingled in ages. He’d even brushed against her, the back of his hand caressing hers. Once he’d discreetly copped a feel when she’d stood in Jim’s office. One of his hands had brushed her ass, squeezing gently on the way, just firmly enough to let her know that it was no accident. She rubbed her face, massaging her temples and chuckling. No makeup. She’d be damned if she’d go dressed up to the Saturday meeting Jim had called, even if Patrick was to be there. Let him see her without props—no heels, no cosmetics, nothing but Layla in the raw with unadorned flesh, just as Jim had seen her the past several years. 21
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That was all she needed—to have Jim notice if she suddenly took more effort with her appearance on a weekend. He’d instantly catch on that something was happening between his oldest and newest employees. It was important, she decided, to keep everything as casual and normal as possible, so she dressed the same and followed the usual routine for impromptu meetings. She stopped at Starbucks for lattes and snacks, picking up extra food and an additional latte for Patrick. “I wasn’t sure what you preferred,” she said, setting the drink carrier on the conference table between them, “so you got what we generally order. There’s extra cream and sugar in the sack if you want ‘em.” To her dismay, instead of keeping up the appearance that the two of them knew very little about one another—which was the truth—Patrick started flirting—right in front of Jim. “We’ll need to remedy our lack of knowledge of one another, in that case.” He chose one of the steaming cups of liquid and opened the box of pastries. “Just let me know when you’d like to become better acquainted.” Before Layla could stifle the gasp that escaped her lips, Jim laughed broadly. “Patrick, you just opened the door to why I brought you here this morning.” Jim selected a pastry, grabbed a caffeinated beverage then motioned for the other two to have a seat. “You two have no idea how well this little banter between the two of you has gone over with the readers.” Jim pointed to the stack of mail at one end of the table. “All of those are from people—mostly women, but a few men—who want more. So here’s your next assignment. You two are to put your heads together and write about your personal experiences as they apply to dating someone in a different age bracket.” “What?” Layla almost dropped her latte. “You heard me. I don’t care who you’ve been with, just don’t tell me if you have to make this shit up. I want a column by this time next week about what it’s really like to 22
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be with a younger man.” He swept his hands from Layla to Patrick. “Or,” he reversed the sweeping gesture, “what you learned from a woman Layla’s age.” Jim coughed. “No offense, Mama Lay.” “None taken.” Asshole. Layla glared at Patrick, who covered his lips with a napkin. Little shit is probably about to snigger himself into a convulsion. This time she encompassed both of them with her eyes. “You have a problem with this, Layla?” Jim’s voice was sincere and nonconfrontational. “Absolutely not. I think it’s a great idea.” You’re still both jerks. Layla had never been one to shy away from a good story, but now it was personal. If she wrote how she truly felt, Patrick would do one of two things. He’d get a swollen head and she’d feel exposed, not only to her readers but worse—to him. Or he’d run like a scared rabbit. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. “Good.” Jim rubbed his hands together then looked at them. “That’s it. I wanted us to finish this over a meal, but I have to cancel lunch today. You two are welcome to go on without me. I have another meeting, and then the wife is joining me—my fiftieth birthday is next week, and she wants to go shopping.” Jim set his jaw. “My birthday, but somehow I knew this would wind up costing me money.” Layla and Patrick smiled indulgently. Jim looked perturbed. “What? You’re still here?” He stood and waved his hands in dismissal. “Get cracking. I’ll see you on Monday for a report. You can tell me then how you’ll proceed.” He shooed them away. “Scat. I’m having a chat with Mark in about ten minutes, and I need to visit the john first.” Before they could leave, however, Jim snapped his fingers. “Oh, I forgot to tell you, Patrick. Your father called earlier—he’s visiting Monday.” Layla wasn’t sure of what had just transpired because Jim casually strolled down the hall after the announcement, but Patrick looked as if he’d just swallowed a turd. “What was that about?” she asked. “Jim knows your dad?” 23
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Patrick nodded. He seemed to struggle for words. “I—I’d forgotten that they know each other.” Layla frowned. “How could you forget something like that?” “It wasn’t at the front of my mind, okay?” He closed his eyes for a moment and sighed. “Look, sorry I snapped.” “No worries.” Still, it made her wonder. Layla and Patrick walked out of the room and into the hall. He turned and studied her for a moment before grinning broadly. “Want to do some brainstorming?” “Something tells me that it’s not our brains you have in mind.” Layla folded her arms across her chest. “You do realize that we could conduct this research with other people.” For a split second, Patrick’s face clouded, and if she wasn’t mistaken, a look of absolute jealousy creased his handsome face. Then he grinned again. “I don’t think that’ll be necessary, do you?” Layla couldn’t suppress a laugh. “Patrick, where is this going?” At his quizzical frown, she continued with an expressive sweep of her arms. “This. Our union of bodies and souls. It can’t go anywhere, so what’s the point?” “The point, Layla,” he intoned, moving toward her, “is that we might work well together—in bed and out. Why toss cold water on a good idea before it roots?” “I’m nearly fifty.” He lifted an eyebrow. “I’m an Aquarius.” She played along, acting as if he’d just confirmed what she’d hinted at. “There ya go. We’re doomed from the start. I’m a Libra, and two wishy-washy people like us would only produce anarchy or anger.” “Layla, grab your purse and just get in the damned car.” “Yours or mine?” “Yours. You’re a better driver and this is your city.” 24
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Layla traveled a few feet then stopped. “Are you bossing me, Patrick?” He opened his mouth to speak then growled and laughed. “Will you get over yourself and that fucking list? This has nothing to do with your competitive streak.” “Then what?” Patrick grabbed her hand. “I’m hungry.” She held back, but he took off, pulling her along. “Patrick—wait. Where—” “You’re the Kansan, you tell me. What do you have that’s fishy?” Layla read into the possible double entendre and nearly choked. “Don’t look at me.” Patrick nearly doubled over with laughter. “Girl, I meant Red Lobster or some other place that serves shrimp, lobster, oysters and clams.” Sure you did. Layla mentally weighed the possibilities then ticked off the fourth item from her list of sexual frustrations caused by the male animal. Maybe he was telling the truth. One could hope.
***** Dear Lord. Jim knew that he was Stephen Bennett’s son. Patrick buried his face in his hands for a moment. How long had he known? Why hadn’t he said anything until now? Was it a slip of the tongue that Jim even mentioned Stephen? Patrick wished he’d never conceived of the challenge. First he’d put himself into the position of having to match wits with someone who would give him a run for his money at every turn. Besting Layla wouldn’t be the walk in the park he’d arrogantly imagined. Second, now he had to contend with his father, and he was sure that with Layla had worked for his dad as long as she had, the two of them had surely met. Had they talked about him? He doubted his father would have ever had any reason to mentioned him, but still. And third, if he happened to be with Layla and they ran into his father? He groaned at the thought. For one thing, he didn’t want to share his time with her. 25
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Few women he knew were confident enough to be seen outside their bedrooms— much less in public—sans makeup and in jeans. And she was damned hot doing it. However sincere and self-assured she was, though, Layla made him nervous. She was both sexy as sin and as warm, nurturing, and comforting as homemade apple pie. She was lover and mother, and the ick factor wasn’t lost on him. It made him question his own ethics. Was that what he was doing, bedding the mom he’d lost out on during childhood? What the fuck are you thinking, Patrick? He stared at himself in the restaurant’s restroom mirror above the sink. He’d gone there to relieve himself plus to gain some perspective. Yes, he could write the column based on both his imagination and his limited experience with a woman in New York with whom he’d spend a comfortable month his senior year in college. She’d given him an exhilarating experience learning how to please an older woman. Nora had known exactly what she wanted and had demanded it both in bed and out, the latter of which had soured him on the relationship. Layla, however, made no demands. She seemed compromising as far as the little stuff, like where to eat, but he wondered about her hot buttons, the triggers that would smother him should he decide to do something of which she’d disapprove. The last thing he wanted was to hurt her, and he lacked the experience with her to know what exactly caused her pain. Nora had been an absolute bitch who threw down guilt trips with frequent flyer miles every time he disappointed her. She’d made him feel useless if he let her take the lead, bossy if he asserted himself and churlish if he wanted to discuss their differences. He stared at his reflection, psyching himself up to tackle Layla head-on for the rest of the weekend. He’d test the waters before they went further. He’d see how compatible they were outside the bedroom, and if all they had was a sexual relationship and if she could handle it, he’d be satisfied or he’d stop cold before either of them got hurt.
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With one last glance, he reassured himself that he wasn’t some baby-faced punk looking for a sugar mama fix, and he reached for his wallet before going back to the table to meet her. He spotted their table. She’d already placed her Visa on top of the slim leatherbound case holding their check. Patrick placed his own on top of hers. “I’d like to go Dutch…” He stopped himself short of adding the three words he wanted to—If that’s okay. Impossible to sound authoritative if he was too nice. Layla smiled brightly and nodded. “Sure. Works for me.” Patrick breathed a sigh of relief—he hadn’t disappointed her. He looked deeply into her eyes and found himself falling. Layla patted his hand. “You win this one, Patrick.” Her voice was soft and sweet, not mocking. He frowned. “Come again?” “Oh, I intend to.” She laughed, her normal playfulness taking center stage as she winked. “Smartass.” She giggled. “I couldn’t resist. You win on number five. You aren’t needy.” She shrugged. “You’ve proven me wrong.” Patrick shook his head. “I swear, I wasn’t even thinking about the list.” “I know. That’s why I’m going to fuck your brains out as soon as we’re out of here.” This time he was the one who laughed. “Your place or mine?”
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Chapter Four “How do you know I’m not needy?” Patrick looked about Layla’s kitchen when they entered the house from the garage. Like his, her living quarters reflected the writer within, only her desk was parked in what looked to have been a formal dining room at one time. His writing area was in his spare bedroom. “I think a few decades of working with the public and mothering three children qualifies me as a good judge of character.” “Three, huh?” He nosily perused the cookbooks on the kitchen’s center island while she pulled out two crystal glasses and a fresh bottle of wine. “Three children, four grandchildren. Doesn’t that scare the shit out of you?” She handed him the wine then fished in a drawer. Pulling out a corkscrew, she offered it to him as well. “Do you mind? I’m a klutz.” “You scare the shit out of me, with or without accoutrements.” Patrick stepped into bartender mode while Layla scrounged her cabinets and refrigerator for snacks. By the time he’d poured the wine, she’d filled a bowl with a sampling of crackers, slices of cheese and mixed nuts. “I’ve never been married,” he admitted. “Any kids?” Patrick grimaced. The one topic he was hoping they’d avoid. “None that I know of.” She gave him a quick glance. Please don’t. He begged silently that she’d change the subject. “Patrick…” Here it comes. “How do you feel about this column we’re supposed to do by next week?”
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He breathed a sigh of relief. “I’m game if you are.” “Hey, you know me well enough by now to know that I won’t back down.” Patrick circled the center island and set down their drinks. He took the bowl from her hands and placed it on the island as well. “Were you serious about doing research?” “Absolutely. Don’t you think we need to know more about our subject matter?” “You mean each other?” He cocked an eyebrow. “Or writing.” Layla’s fingers tugged at his shirttail, pulling it out of his pants. “I think we’re both adept enough at our craft that we don’t need lessons in grammar.” She unbuttoned his shirt and bent to kiss his stomach. “Of course, if you feel the need to wax poetic on syntax, be my guest. I’m a verbiage whore.” “Are you seducing me, Miss Layla?” “Hell, no. I’m showing you how to seduce me—what works.” He nodded. “Food.” God, she’s adorable in those jeans. In that body. With that face. “That plus sex and a hearty red wine…mmm.” Layla licked her lips then hooked a finger through one of his belt loops. “You’ll be lucky if you get out of here alive. Oh, don’t look so surprised. Aren’t you the one who said you liked a little kink?” She unbuckled his belt and wrapped it around one of her hands, tilting her head and staring at him down the length of her gorgeous nose. Her lips lifted in a broad smile and her tongue flicked out to wet her lips. “Layla.” Even her name tasted of sex. Patrick lowered his head and captured her lips. “Sweet Layla.” “Not so sweet.” She pursed her lips then stepped back, unraveling the belt and motioning for him to grab the island. “Say what?” Oh fuck, she wasn’t about to spank him, was she? That would be too demeaning. He grimaced. But then, he had slapped her on the ass in the office that first time. Resigned, he did as requested and sighed. “Go ahead.”
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When nothing happened, he listened intently, thought he heard the sound of a zipper. Then he turned to catch a glimpse of her naked body. “Hey!” She pushed him back against the counter and his head snapped forward. He almost felt ashamed. “Sorry. What are you doing?” “I’m stripping. What does it look like I’m doing?” She laughed. Then he heard her jeans hit the floor and the sounds of her stepping out of them. Next thing he knew, she was stroking his cock. It hardened instantly, springing up against his jeans, and he groaned as her fingers expertly released him from the confinement of his clothing. She slowly maneuvered them over his hips. He could feel her breath against his butt as she lowered her body, dragging his pants to his ankles and ordering him to step free. She tossed them forward, and they brushed past his ears on their way from her hands to the end of the drop-leaf table positioned before a couple of French doors. He noted thankfully that the blinds were closed. Patrick’s ass tensed as she stroked his cheeks, dragging her nails against his bare skin, cooing softly then moaning as she ground her pussy against the backs of his thighs. Her silky curls brushed against his body. With each brushstroke, his cock ached for her touch upon his skin. He rolled his head against his shoulders and whispered over his shoulder. “You are driving me mad, Layla.” “Mad or just a tad pissed off?” “Mad as in crazy, loopy, and if you don’t kiss me soon, I swear I’m going to lose my shit completely.” He heard the agonized plea in his own voice and didn’t care if he sounded pathetic. He wanted—no, he needed her, and his emotional barometer was sophisticated enough that he knew the difference. That spooked him.
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How would he ever know for sure if it was sexual chemistry that they struck off of one another or if it was more than that—a kinship of souls? Would he ever be able to converse with her without wanting to fuck her? He looked at the only object he could concentrate on, the top of the center island, and he wondered just what role the furniture would play within the next few seconds. The thought made him chuckle. Layla stopped her ministrations. “What’s so funny?” Patrick answered honestly. “I wondered if we’ll ever manage to make love on a bed.” She snorted indelicately. “I see.” Then she stood away from him. Patrick felt a juvenile feeling of abandonment. “Oh, don’t do that. Don’t stop.” He turned and faced her. She was smothering a laugh. Patrick didn’t feel significantly dignified standing before her naked from the waist down, but then he remembered when he’d basically put her in the same situation at the office and conceded that turnabout was fair play. He put his hands on his hips and leaned against the island. “So.” She nodded, and the look that crossed her face squelched his qualms about whether or not they stood a chance. “Layla.” “Patrick?” “We’ve crossed some boundaries, haven’t we?” “Yep.” Her eyes, which had glistened with mirth, were now softer, but not in a maternal sense. They held vulnerability. “Patrick, I have a bed.” He kicked aside her clothes and bridged the small gap that separated them. He lifted his hands and touched her gingerly, marveling at the sense of power mingled with weakness that surged through him. “You are quite possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known.” 31
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Layla shook her head. “You don’t have to say that.” Patrick nodded. “Yes, I do, because it’s the truth.” For a second, she looked defensive and he refrained from rushing to her, realizing that what he said next would make or break them. “Layla, do you know why I can’t take my eyes off of you?” He measured his words carefully. “I know that when you look in the mirror, you see yourself at all ages and stages—you already know what’s there and how it came to be.” “And what do you see when you look at me?” She faced him bravely. “The Milky Way.” If she was joking, she’d managed to drop all sentimentality. With a deadpan face, her voice was the only indication that she felt emotion. “You think of me as a chocolate bar?” “You’re a universe I want to explore.” Her eyes, those marvelous windows to her soul, shimmered with a glow that warmed him all over, and the last vestige of selfcontrol he’d held…slipped…shattered. He grabbed her, crushing his lips against hers. She whimpered and lifted her arms to encircle his neck. Patrick clutched her, his hands moving from her hair to her ass. She moaned, and alarmed, he stood back, unclenching his fingers. “Did I hurt you?” “Yes!” Her voice was an anguished admission, and he longed to protect her, to assure her that she was safe, that he had no intentions of causing her pain, that the fucking competition was over. All he wanted now was to have her, to give to her, to join with her. Then her bottom lip quivered and for a moment she looked hysterical. “I don’t care, Patrick!” “Layla, come here, baby.” His touch was softer this time, and they both laughed nervously as he lifted her, scooping her from the floor with one arm beneath her legs and one arm cradling her back. “Tell me where to go.”
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She directed him through a short maze of walls and furniture that he barely noticed. He tried desperately to concentrate on not bumping into anything in order not to bruise either of them. He kissed her forehead and kicked open the bedroom door. He’d omitted platitudes, he’d not appeared whimsical and she couldn’t think of a solid reason not to sleep with him again, even if it cost her a heartache or two. Patrick’s motives weren’t in question, though—it was her own desire that scared her silly. The man was like an opiate. She was beyond craving and well into need, and she couldn’t rationalize her feelings for him and was beginning not to give a damn. So her friends would make fun of her and her children would give her grief. Well, two of the three. Her daughter would take one look at the twenty-something-year-old hunk and understand immediately. Not because of his charming good looks. She’d see the passion in his eyes, the ease with which he spoke and interacted. Risk management. That was what troubled her. She was afraid that if she kept a stronghold on her emotions, she’d lose feeling what presently fed her soul. Patrick. As with everything, though, there was a flip side. She was worried that not using caution might cause her to be careless, reckless, and if she’d learned anything in her near-half-century of life, it was that total abandonment was foolish unless she was damned certain there was a net nearby to catch her should she fall too hard, too fast. He set her gently on the bed and moved to lie behind her. “Layla, is it okay if we stay like this for a moment?” He snuggled around her, spooning her. “You actually like cuddling?” she asked, kissing the hand that stroked her face. “Want to know a secret? Most men do. We’re just afraid you’ll think we’re weak. We have the axiom be strong shoved down our throats from the moment we take our first breath until we choke out our last.” She thought a moment. Didn’t sound like a dominating man’s philosophy to her. Didn’t sound like her fear about number five on her list either. Patrick, as usual, fell somewhere within the cracks of her theories. 33
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“What’ll I do with you, Patrick?” He seemed lost in thought, and for a moment she didn’t know if he’d heard her. Then he cleared his throat. “I’m not sure. This is pretty new for me.” “Are you regretting already?” “Never.” He hugged her and kissed her forehead. “I was just thinking that we may have started out all fun and games, one of us—okay me…I was trying to prove something. But now? I’m ready to admit that I’m learning more than I’m teaching.” “Ha. No, you don’t have the market cornered on that one, kid.” “Don’t call me that.” She leaned back to match gazes with him. “But you are a kid. Compared to me…” “Compared to you I’m tall, too, but I don’t hear you calling me Elevator Man or Mile High or anything pertaining to that particular definitive part of my person.” “Elevator…what?” “Oh, never mind,” he said with a smirk. “Boys think of things in terms of superheroes. I’m doing the best I can here—just give me time.” Layla cracked up. “Good idea. I say we give you, me, us, the whole thing…time.” She turned to face him, her head on one pillow, his on the opposite one. She’d lain across the bed from one husband in this house. She’d nursed her children, spent hundreds of nights alone once the husband was dead and the children grown. But she’d never awakened to a beloved face since then. She couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like to wake up and see Patrick. “What are you thinking?” he asked. “I’m wondering about breakfast.” Well, just a tiny lie. “Really? I’m wondering about dinner. Dessert, to be precise.” She rolled onto her back as he climbed on top of her, looking into her face. Get a grip, Layla. Stop thinking of the age difference. She knew what she was doing, trying to find a reason not to become involved any further with him, but the mental 34
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stepping stones from fucking him to loving him were slippery as hell. Still, it was difficult to imagine Patrick at any age but the one he currently owned. She didn’t want to think of him as a child—it would be too icky. She also didn’t want to think of him at her age, because by that point it’d mean that she was considerably older, and… So stop thinking at all, dummy! He saved her the trouble of concocting an excuse not to proceed. “Baby, I don’t care.” “Excuse me?” He leaned toward her. “Whatever it is that is keeping you from enjoying this, I don’t give a damn.” She met him halfway. “Me either. What do you think of that?” His response was to capture her lips in a solid melding. “Think we’ll have enough fodder for that column next week?” She snuggled against him and felt his erection. “I say we continue researching and see what comes up.” Her hand snaked beneath the covers to feel for his cock. “But if it takes you a week…” He tickled her unmercifully. “Haven’t you heard? That’s one of the endearments about younger men, baby. It doesn’t take us as long.” Layla couldn’t resist messing with him. “Yeah, but older men have staying power, right?” “I’ve got your old man right here!” Patrick straddled her, insinuating himself first in the juncture of her thighs, then with the head of his cock teasing her pussy lips apart. “Old men have staying power,” he mimicked. “Who wants to fuck an old man a long time, Layla? You?” He thrust into her just as she yelped with laughter. Layla reached behind her for the iron bedstead and squealed, bucking joyously as Patrick expertly slipped his sizeable cock in and out of her cunt, his hips gyrating rhythmically.
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She let go of the bed and grabbed his ass, hanging on for dear life. He felt strong, powerful, young, and vibrant, and that’s exactly how he made her feel. Alive and abundant, with absolute, regenerating, sexual freedom within her grasp. Patrick’s hands sought hers and he held them just above her head, looking into her eyes as his body swelled within hers, pumping until Layla thought she would scream for release. “My cock is so hard for you.” He nuzzled her cheek and nipped her ear, whispering the words that made her muscles contract. “I love the way your pussy feels, so sweet, so hot. Come for me, Layla. Let me know you’re mine, at least for today. Come…come, baby.” Layla shuddered then shattered. She couldn’t have helped but come then, not with the sexy beast in her arms talking dirty to her. She felt herself flush with embarrassment. The man was outrageous, audacious, completely cocksure and didn’t give a damn what came out of his mouth—or what he put into it, judging from their earlier sex. She touched his temples with her fingertips. When’s the last time a man could make you come that hard, girl? She shook her head. “What’s wrong?” He held himself on his elbows, staring into her eyes. “Not a damn thing, no matter how much I search for something.” Patrick rolled off of her and slapped her on the ass then drew her into the crook of one arm with his still rigid cock lying against her belly. “There you go again. Would you rather I was on some erectile medication or blood pressure medicine, anything to make me appear older than I am?” “God, no. If you were, we’d both be dead if we had sex like this all the time.” “Which we can, if you’ll just drop your guard and stop worrying about the what-if situations.” He reached for her arm as she stood to leave. “Where are you going?”
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“I’m hungry. Want some ice cream?” “Sure. I’d rather have you, though.” Layla slipped out of bed and padded across the room toward the kitchen. “There’s a hot tub just outside my bedroom, if you care for a dip. Might relax you and zap some of that energy. God knows, it’d give me a rest.” She heard him chuckle as she turned and left. What in hell am I to do with him? She opened the freezer door to her refrigerator and peered inside. She was so used to shopping for one that the only ice cream she had was in pint- and quart-sized containers, none of which were new. She’d taken a bit from each of the four flavors staring back at her. Rocky road. Definitely something that fit their relationship. Nutty Buddy, another one. Layla grabbed those plus her favorite Ben & Jerry’s flavors, Half Baked and Crème Brûlée. Armed with the sweet treats and a couple of silver spoons, she headed back toward Patrick. He was already in the hot tub and grinning like a maniac. “Want some help?” He held out both hands. Layla popped the lids off the containers and handed him two, sticking his spoon into one of them. Patrick studied the labels. “You chose this one deliberately.” He held up the first she’d handed him. “No, actually, the Half Baked is mine. You’re the Nutty Buddy.” She stepped into the pool and swapped containers with him, the chilly carton against her skin, with hot water lapping at her waist and breasts as she sat across from Patrick. “I’m sorry, but I’ve already dipped into all of them. You get leftovers.” “Do I detect sarcasm?” He stuck his spoon into first one then the other. “Stand up and turn around. You have something on your back.”
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“What?” Layla stood uneasily and did as he requested. She was about to ask him again what it was he’d seen when she felt the slap of a cold spoonful of ice cream hit her shoulder blades then Patrick’s body pressing against hers. “This.” He licked at the sweet concoction as it cascaded down her spine. His arms were outstretched, holding the tubs she’d given him away from the bubbling water and lowering his body to follow the trail of ice cream on its journey to her pussy. Layla lost no time in stabbing her spoon into one of her own containers then turning and smacking his chest with a dollop of the frosty mixture. “Oh-ho! Think you can keep up with me?” Patrick rose and stuck his chest in front of her. Layla did as he’d done and blazed a trail down and across his body, her tongue following the now melting dessert. She’d never been a foodie, compelled to sample and write about foods from various locales, and she’d never had a fetish, save her one compulsion to buy expensive sandals the first summer after she’d been divorced. But now— “Ah! That’s cold!” She shivered as another lump of ice cream landed on her shoulder and plummeted into the crevice between her breasts. Patrick hummed against her skin as he laved and licked, smearing the dessert with his tongue, looking up and laughing or commenting only periodically. “Mm. You wouldn’t believe the flavor when chocolaty peanut butter collides with a tasty tit—I mean, treat.” The nipple in question tingled with each raspy flick of Patrick’s tongue, and the sensation zipped quickly to her moist, neglected center. As if reading her mind, Patrick lifted his head and lowered his hands, dropping the ice cream and spoon onto the deck behind her. He grabbed her ass and brought her forward, insinuating his cock into the apex at her thighs.
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Layla gasped as his rod sprang to life against her. “Patrick!” She looked around, and even though they were alone, just the thought of someone peering through their curtains or shutters and watching them… He laughed and lifted her into his arms. “Leave the ice cream for now. Let’s shower. Then I want another taste once it’s pure Layla in my arms.” Layla was at first outraged, then tickled and finally delighted in the feelings of freedom that Patrick instilled in her. For the first time in her life, she felt nourished when playful, unafraid while expanding her comfort zones—and stretch her boundaries, Patrick did. She knew she could ask whatever she needed or wanted of him, that they could be adventurous or tame, lascivious or loving. He didn’t wait until they’d showered before tasting her again, loving with his tongue as if her clit was a tender morsel that would melt in his mouth, savoring each sniff, lick, or gentle bite he administered, whether playful or serious. “What are you thinking?” he asked, once he’d taken her back to the bed and supped his fill of her creamy juices. She ran her fingers through his hair and sighed deeply. “I was thinking that maybe I like being bad with you.” He kissed her inner thigh tenderly. “Well, since neither of us is parental in this relationship, I suppose I’ll step in to give you permission to be bad.” He rose to kiss her soundly on the lips. “You be as bad as you like, whenever you choose. I’ll even help if you can’t muster it on your own.”
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Chapter Five Patrick held her tightly, tenderly, not wanting to release her. “Any chance that we could stay in bed all day?” “More research?” she kidded him. “Well, as I said, younger men do have their uses.” She caressed his chest and nodded. “That they do. I’ve just never been with one like this.” “Never?” She sighed. “I had a fling with one a long while ago. He wanted a serious, committed relationship, but no matter what he said, I knew he wanted children, and I’ve already raised a family.” She swallowed hard. Patrick took the opportunity to discuss the unspoken concern he heard in her voice. “Layla, I can’t have children.” She seemed shocked. “Everything okay?” He nodded. “Nothing bad—just a low sperm count. And that’s what has kept me from getting too serious about anyone up until now. Most women my age or younger want children at some point, and there’s no guarantee that I could father a child.” “How do you feel about that?” She reached for his hands and brought them to her lips. “I’m fine with it. I figure I have enough children of the mind to keep me occupied. ” He tried brushing the subject aside then decided to level with her. “At first it bugged me. Now that I’ve come to terms with it, I’m okay with it.” “Good. It’s the primary relationship, not whether or not you can get a woman pregnant that should be the issue, anyway.” Layla kissed him then climbed out of the
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bed. “You stay put if you like. I need to find a robe.” She looked at the bedside table and examined the clock. Patrick propped himself on one elbow, facing her. “Do you have somewhere to go?” “Not at all. Just expecting someone.” She blew him a kiss as she slipped on a kimono that had been draped across the chair parked in front of a small writing desk near the bedroom door. “Iris Preston. Do you know her?” Knots formed in Patrick’s stomach and throat. Jesus. His father’s lover! He groaned and dove under the covers. “Hey!” Layla’s voice held concern. “You okay?” “Just peachy.” He gathered courage. “Layla, there’s something I need to tell you. Now would be just as good a time—” The doorbell rang, and his worst fears were confirmed. He wouldn’t have the chance to tell Layla that he was Stephen Bennett’s son. Not that it should matter, but he didn’t want Layla to think…what? That I’ve deceived her in some way? He thought a moment. His parentage shouldn’t matter. His father had had no idea Patrick worked for the magazine—or if he did, it wasn’t like he’d care. And so what if Iris knew who he was and what he’d been up to? He lifted the covers and opened his mouth to speak, but Layla had left the room and was already greeting her guest. Patrick crawled out of bed then remembered where his clothes were. His eyes widened, and he cursed so loudly that he figured Layla and Iris could hear. Panicked, he searched Layla’s closets for something to wear. He was in trouble either way. Whether he could manage to get his ass into a pair of her pants or he walked out with his dick in his hands, surely both women would be mortified and mad. He could stay in bed, but he had to take a leak, and in order to get to the bathroom, he’d have to make a little racket – not like he could hide the sounds he’d make in the bathroom or that of the toilet flushing. 41
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Shit! He tiptoed to the door and placed his ear against the wood, hoping to hear the conversation, feeling like crap for eavesdropping, but he had to know.
***** Layla hugged her friend and coworker. “Thanks for stopping by. I have the gift in the hall closet.” She ushered Iris into the house. “Jim will be surprised as hell.” “Probably angry to boot.” Iris chuckled. “Although I think he’s secretly hoping somebody makes a big deal out of this birthday.” “Well, the Iguana is his favorite restaurant, so he should be pleased. Having the gifts already there will help us keep from letting the cat out of the bag. You’re a gem for collecting the presents.” “Not like he wouldn’t see them if you all piled them in my office.” Iris chuckled. “He’s been so out of sorts lately. Hope turning fifty is all that’s bugging him.” “It is. You know Jim—he’s like an old woman sharing health complaints. If it was his prostate or a hangnail, Jim would let us know.” Layla pulled the wrapped box from the top of the hall closet and handed it to Iris. “Golf balls with his name engraved on them. I got a sweet deal.” Iris hugged the package. “You know that Stephen is flying in tonight, right?” Layla nodded. “Why now, middle of the month?” Iris dimpled and held out her left hand. Layla squealed, delighted. Both women burst into giggles. “Oh, honey, I am so happy for you!” Layla hugged the shorter woman. “You’re announcing this at Jim’s party?” “Not really. Stephen wants to see his son.” “Really?” Layla asked, surprised. “Well, it’s about time.”
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“Time for both of them. Stephen needs to slow down, stop and smell the flowers and have a few heart to heart talks with—“ Both women turned as they heard a noise at the end of the hall. Sounded to Layla as if Patrick had fallen into the writing desk. Iris glanced at the clothes piled on the floor just inside the door leading to the kitchen. She gasped. “Oh!” Then she lowered her voice. “Layla, why didn’t you say you had company?” “Because I wanted to talk to you, to see how you are.” Layla reached for Iris’s hand and looked at the ring again. “It’s nice to see you this happy.” Iris hugged her. “Gotta run, but…I am happy, Layla! Happier than I’ve ever been.” She sighed. “If only Patrick accepts me. We’re close to the same age, you know?” “I know.” Layla smiled. “Don’t worry about it.” When the door shut behind Iris, Layla heard Patrick’s footsteps behind her and turned to face him. The time was right for putting all of their cards on the table. “You knew?” He was surprised more than accusatory. “I knew.” “When?” She smiled. “Well, it took me a few hours.” Patrick’s legs seemed to give. He gripped the center island. “Hours? Well, I feel sufficiently stupid.” “Don’t. It’s not like that.” Layla moved from the door and went to him. She glanced down. “Nice flagpole ya got there, sailor.” “Looks like it’s broken.” Patrick glanced solemnly at his now-flaccid cock. “We’ll repair it soon enough.” She snuggled against him, mindful of his bare ass against the countertop. Patrick chewed his upper lip. “Mind telling me when you intended to tell me?” Layla shook her head. “Wasn’t my place to bring it up.” 43
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“Right.” “Hey—no sarcasm.” Patrick growled and kissed her lips quickly, hard. “Damn, woman. You could have let me know.” “Your father asked me to look after the new kid who’d be working at the office. Before you get pissy, you have to remember that Stephen and I have been friends before you were an itch in his pants.” “So?” “So don’t get upset. You’re his child, no matter how old you get, and he’ll always love you and watch over you or have someone he trusts handling it.” “Pardon me if that doesn’t comfort me much, Layla, to know that the woman I love has been asked to babysit me.” Both of them blinked. Layla’s throat felt dry. “Wow.” “That slipped out. Sorry.” Patrick grimaced. “Okay, enough of this shit. Stop right there.” Layla stood back, hands on hips. “If you apologize for loving me, Patrick, I’ll show you what real juvenile behavior is.” She burst out laughing. “I’ll turn item number six on its goddamned ear.” It worked. Patrick’s discomfort seemed to melt. “Does that mean that you might reconsider your stance on number seven?” “Don’t push your luck. Remember your own number seven? Don’t make marriage more than it is.” She grinned as she said it, though. “One day at a time.” “One kiss at a time.” He reached for her. “If I promise to be a good boy in front of my father, is it okay if I’m a bad boy with you?” “I haven’t spanked anyone in a long, long time, Patrick, but I’ll make an exception in your case, if that’s what you want.” “Bitch.” 44
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“Brat.” Layla snuggled against him and fondled his growing erection. “Think we’ll ever manage to be as comfortable in public as we are in private with one another?” Patrick cupped her ass with both hands and drew her closer. “Comfortable, Layla? You make us sound like a well-worn pair of shoes, but in answer to your question, I’ll fuck you in front of the post office if it’ll prove I adore you.” “I’m not ready to go quite that public, honey, and you don’t have anything to prove.” She jumped into his arms and wrapped her legs around his waist. Patrick set her on the kitchen island and nudged her pussy with his cock. “Patrick?” “Yes, baby?” “I love you, too.”
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About the Author Lyn Cash has published over 50 short stories and confessions and has presently contracted or published 8 novels and novellas. A Midwesterner, she loves to travel, sketch, delve into mysteries and true crimes, and putter about with herbs and flowers when she isn’t chained to her computer. She’s happiest when petting her rescued canines or chatting with her son, her biggest supporter, and when she’s eyebrow deep in
writing
or
meeting
fans.
Her
homes
on
the
web
can
be
found
at
http://authorlyncash.blogspot.com/ and http://www.thebelfrycollective.com/.
Lyn welcomes comments from readers. You can find her website and email address on her author bio page at www.ellorascave.com.
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Also by Lyn Cash Just Desserts Shrink Wrap: Crystal Clear Persuasion Spies, Lies & Duct Tape
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