Sinfully Theirs: Naughty Nookie Part I Read online

  Sinfully Theirs

  Naughty Nookie Part I

  Serena Akeroyd

  Copyright © 2019 by Serena Akeroyd

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Introduction

  I. Fall Into Love

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  II. Crazy Little Thing Called Lust

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  III. All That Glitters…

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  IV. …Can Be Gold

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  V. Deck the Halls with Handsome Hunks

  Epilogue

  Also by Serena Akeroyd

  Introduction

  Dear Readers,

  This was my very first book. Or, should I say, collection. Originally, this story was a set of four novellas but after being revised, re-edited, and re-covered, here they are.

  Mona is one of the heroines I’ll always connect with. She’s regular. She isn’t super beautiful, she doesn’t have the tightest ass, and she has an ordinary job, and an even more ordinary love life. Zane comes along, bringing Jake with him, drawing her into a different world, one where love, no matter how unusual, reigns supreme.

  I hope you enjoy the story. This book contains Mona’s full journey, making this a standalone within an ongoing series arc. There is no cliffhanger so you can indulge in this whopper of a read with ease.

  Happy reading <3

  Serena xoxo

  I

  Fall Into Love

  Chapter One

  As much as I love my friends, I always feel like I’m completely out of my depth with them. As though I’m the ugly stepsister, and they’re twin Cinderellas.

  I'm probably making myself sound like some sort of ogre. Either that or some monster from a swamp, but in comparison to Eddie and Marina, sometimes, I feel it.

  Sure, my figure is decent, if I don’t say so myself. It belongs to another age, when childbearing hips were a positive and not a negative, but they’re that way from a wide pelvis and not eating too much ice cream.

  My boobs are nice and round, not porn star huge but a generous handful, and my waist dips in. My legs are short—not absurdly so—but unlike Marina and Edwina, they don’t go all the way up to my armpits.

  All in all, I’m not a bad prospect, but when I’m sitting with them in a busy club, is it any wonder guys look at me and then immediately drool at my two supermodel-lookalike friends?

  Hell, I’d do the same if I were gay. Which I’m not. Straight, from the tip of my waist-length hair to my shining red-lacquered toes.

  At least if I were bi, I'd have double the pool of potential lovers, but I'm not interesting enough to be bisexual. I'm bland. That's me.

  Boring.

  Why the hell would any guy want to fuck someone who describes herself with two of the most blah words in the English language? It's no wonder the last time I got laid was about four years ago. And you might snigger at that, but hey, I’ve been busy since then.

  Trying to keep a roof over my head, screaming at my husband and then divorcing the bastard…it all takes time. Still, four years? I know, it’s too long. Especially as the last man to work his cock into me was my husband, and God help me, what a letdown that was.

  That son of a bitch—and his mother deserves that title too—was quite content for me to work my ass off in three jobs and for him to stay at home. House husband, my ass. Lazy bastard more like.

  By the end, I might as well have stuck a brush up my butt and swept up as I tried to hold down all my jobs and keep the household going. Not even that was enough for Dan. Oh no, he had the audacity to complain that I didn’t come on to him enough.

  Ha.

  Why would I want to?

  Shattered from seventeen hour days, I wasn't exactly primed for a marathon in bed. And even if I had been, gray-skinned, pasty-faced couch potatoes are not my idea of hot.

  He made me diet, glared at me if I dared to eat ice cream around him, but that rule didn't apply to the Lord and Master. He ate junk food until it came out of his ears, gained weight like a goose being prepared for Christmas lunch, and generally did everything he could to stop making himself attractive for me. From being mean to making disparaging comments about how I looked, my interest in Dan died a natural death.

  Are all men like that? Interested in themselves and their own needs? It seems like they are. My daddy was. At least Dan's weapon of choice had been his words and not his fists like my father.

  Talk about being thankful for small blessings!

  “Oh Christ, she’s in a mood.”

  Marina’s voice penetrates my glumness. Rather than answer, I raise a brow and pick up my drink. An inappropriate cocktail with too many umbrellas and a slice of pineapple floating in the glop. I hate cocktails, but they always make me drink them. I guess it’s in the vain hope that I’ll loosen up and actually take some interest in the club scene.

  It never works.

  I hate clubs and I hate dancing. No amount of pineapple vodka mojitos is going to change that.

  “Simone, come on, it’s Friday night. It’s time to let your hair down, relax, and have fun.” Edwina encourages me, reaching forward to squeeze my hand. Her earnest desire for me to enjoy myself is endearing.

  It’s no wonder I love both of my friends. Even if they’re the reason I get no male attention on a night out. I return the hand-squeeze and try to cheer up for their sakes.

  “I’m alright. I’m not in a mood, I’m just thinking. You know I hate this bar. The waiters are all creeps.”

  Marina snorts. “You just don’t like it when men pinch your butt.”

  “Well, it’s not my idea of service.”

  “I don’t know,” Edwina teases. “I’d whack an extra dollar or two on to the tip. Especially for the hunks around here.”

  When I only roll my eyes, Marina grunts at me as she simultaneously wags a finger. “Stop being difficult, Simone. Anyone would think that you don’t want to get laid. I know Dan was a jerk…”

  “Make that major jerk,” Edwina butts in.

  “You won’t hear me arguing, Eddie. That’s the exact reason why you don’t have to seek atonement, Mona—you did nothing wrong. You divorced him, because he was a pig. You don’t have to wear a chastity belt for the rest of your life as punishment. You read the papers. Hell, divorce is always on the rise. Stop feeling guilty for taking the bull by the balls and deciding to emancipate yourself from that jerk-off.”

  Her mention of atonement does make me uncomfortable. She might sound like she has overdosed on Oprah but Marina inevitably makes sense. My background is orthodox, my grandfather was a pastor and my father holds stringent views on religion. I escaped without being indoctrinated. I also escaped having to marry one of the boys from our church, but royally fucked up, when only a few years after my fugue, I married the bastard extraordinaire, as Edwina likes to call him.

&nb
sp; Divorce was a big no no in my house, and maybe, I didn’t flee fast enough from my parents’ religious beliefs. Maybe some small part of me feels worthless for getting divorced.

  Okay, a large part.

  Even knowing that I did everything I could to make my marriage successful, it wasn’t good enough.

  I wasn’t good enough.

  In the pitch black, with strobe lights flashing around the room, people with black-light paints, coating various parts of flesh, dancing as though tonight’s their last, and music blaring from the speakers at a volume that has to cause the DJ some kind of ear damage, I ask myself if that’s why I’ve not been laid in four years.

  Even though I feel like I’ve been actively seeking a relationship, have I had some invisible sign on me? Hands off unless you want to draw back a nub?

  The thought holds merit.

  While it sickens me to think that I’ve wasted more time on my ex, it’s quite a relief to think that my lack of suitors doesn’t stem from unfortunate comparisons to the Cinderellas sitting opposite me. I’m not an ugly stepsister. I’m more like Sleeping Beauty. But I didn’t need Prince Charming to wake me up. I can manage that by myself.

  I come back to the surface with a bang, when Marina clicks her fingers directly in front of my face. “What?” I snap, and draw back.

  The action is an unfortunate move on my part. Before I can do more than glare at her, my spine fails to touch the non-existent backrest of the bar stool, and I fall backwards.

  Those two seconds, as my spine hangs suspended in mid-air before crashing downward, seem to last an eternity. The discordant beat of the music matches that of my pulse. The odd angle of my body has my stomach twisting and churning, and the pineapple and vodka concoction Marina forced me to order is sloshing unpleasantly around my gut.

  The stasis abruptly disappears and real time footage restarts. As the floor crashes toward me, my entire body tensing with the expectation of pain, I’m too shocked even to shout out.

  And then, rather than have brittle bone crash into unyielding tile, my shoulders are grabbed, the balls of the joints cupped with strong hands, and I’m slowly brought back into my original position.

  Cheeks flushed, blood rushing to my head, I don’t know whether to be mortified or intensely grateful to my savior.

  With dazed eyes, I see the aghast looks on my friends’ faces. Even in the darkness, their faces are white and taut with horror at my almost-accident. Hell, I’m feeling taut myself. My finances would in no way stretch to my taking off a few days with a back injury.

  Swallowing so that my stomach returns to its usual place, I slowly turn and, as loud as I’m able, say, “Thank you so much.”

  If it was more choked than usual, then surely that can be forgiven. Not only had I been an inch away from a nasty injury, the guy standing before me is hotter than hell.

  Sure, he’s not pretty boy handsome. He wouldn’t grace the poster of the latest movies or famous magazines. In the flashing strobe lights, and to me, he looks like sex on a stick.

  All dark hair and brooding looks, eyes rimmed with dark lashes and thick slashes for brows that make him look all the more grim. I want to ask Marina when grim became an attractive quality, because if anyone knows, it’s Marina. Or maybe grim isn’t the right adjective. Maybe brooding is, and I’ve been a sucker for that ever since English Lit. Class when I fell in love with Heathcliff.

  Once upon a time, I even made the mistake of describing my ex as that. When really, he’d been a lazy SOB with the personality of a mosquito.

  “Are you okay, ma’am?” the man, my nightclub Heathcliff, shouts as he bends toward me so I can hear him better.

  As he moves, his aftershave permeates the air around me, and as the cleansing tang of sandalwood and lime tinges my personal space, the heat of his body seems to augment the scent and simultaneously make my own temperature surge.

  Swallowing, I straighten my back so I can move closer to his ear, either that or I use that excuse to get a teeny weeny bit closer to him… only God knows which, because I’m not up to self-analysis at the moment. For the first time in a long while, I’m interested in someone of the opposite sex. Interest combined with an adrenaline rush from the almost accident has me doing something unheard of, proffering an invitation. “I’m fine. Thanks to you. Can I buy you a drink as a thank you?”

  Even knowing I’m gushing doesn’t hold me back. This so isn’t me. I never do anything like this and I’m fully aware of Eddie and Marina flicking each other surprised looks.

  One time, I managed to lodge my heel in between a piece of decking at a garden party. A man had kindly helped me, I’d turned redder than a beet, mumbled my thanks and disappeared as quickly as I could. At no point of that embarrassing interlude had I asked the man if he’d like a drink.

  Now, I could be termed as superficial at this juncture. But my previous savior hadn’t been too hard on the eyes. Not the same as this man here, but nothing to sniff at.

  Heathcliff frowns at me–not quite the response I’d hoped for–and says, “That isn’t necessary, ma’am.”

  I’ve never been known for my courage, but I urge all of my gumption together and reach forward to grab his hand. “Please. I’d like to thank you properly.”

  Rather than reply he nods and, beaming at him, I turn and grab my purse, widening my eyes, fluttering the lashes to indicate my excitement at my two friends. I might look insane, but I don’t give a damn. Marina and Eddie seem to understand the message. Their grins are so wide they might as well be Cheshire cats.

  Scuttling off the barstool, I beam another smile at him as he automatically reaches for my arm to help me down. Maybe this is Heathcliff come to life? I’d thought chivalry was dead. Apparently not, if this guy is anything to go by.

  He lets me walk in front of him, and I’m conscious of every movement, every sway of my hips. It’s as if I’m in the center of a spotlight and all eyes are on me. But in this case, only one set matters.

  Instant attraction has never been my thing. I’ve never felt that click of chemistry that my friends gush about. Never felt on fire for somebody before, not even my ex. But this, this is different. I don’t understand it, certainly can’t explain it, but boy, this feels electric.

  My blood is pumping through my veins at a mile a minute. I feel alive. Vibrant with energy and it’s all for this stranger.

  Crazy.

  Working my way over to the bar, I can feel the brush of him at my back. The club’s packed. People litter every inch. Not quiet people, either. Not like the sort at a cheese and wine party. But the kind who are quite happy to jump up and down to a beat I can’t understand, one that doesn’t get me going. Prior to meeting this man, I was bored, restless and wanting, no, waiting, to go home.

  Now, home is the last thing on my mind. He’s taken center stage.

  We reach the bar and I turn to him, shouting, “What do you want to drink?”

  “A Bud will be fine.” His eyes are on me, but he’s speaking to the bartender who just appeared.

  Something that in itself is a miracle.

  Getting service is notoriously difficult here, as the staff are always overworked and there are never enough of them to attend to the crowds that pack this place out every weekend.

  “Cranberry juice,” I croak out, feeling very overwhelmed at being in the center of this man’s attention.

  My fingers fumble as I work at the clasp of my purse, knowing that the drinks will be there any second. Before I can, two twenty dollar bills are passed before my eyes to be snapped up by the bartender. My knight in black chinos grabs our drinks and as I’m trying to get my mouth to work a protest, he swoops low and whispers in my ear, “Meet you in the garden.”

  Nodding dumbly, it’s my turn to follow him.

  The garden, as this place terms it, is nothing more than a forty feet by forty feet yard. They’ve put modern furniture in, trying to make it look like a chill out lounge, but it’s really only for the smokers and as th
ere is no music piped outside, it’s always dead.

  I’d prefer to sit out here on my infrequent visits to this place with Marina and Eddie, but they won’t let me.

  The bullies.

  Amused at the thought, I tread through the crowd, carefully ignoring waved-about arms and grinding bodies. This is so not my scene, but it is that of my friends and if they like to get felt up on the dance floor then that’s their prerogative.

  Walking through the doorway into the fresher, cooler air outside—at least, as cool as New York does it in high summer during a heat wave—I suck in a breath. Even the musty humidity is better than the recycled air con of inside, something which is never strong enough to deal with the mass of body heat.

  As soon as the door swoops closed behind me and I can finally speak like a normal person, I immediately say, “I wanted to buy you a drink. As a thank you.”

  The garden is more illuminated than the club. That means I can see this guy who has my heart beating like a drum in perfect clarity. And he’s even better than I first thought.

  Christ.

  My inbuilt teachings don’t let me wince at the blasphemy, because if anything, I’m entirely floored by how attracted I am to this man. My palms are sweaty and I feel more flushed than I would be after leaving an air-conditioned club and entering nearly one hundred degrees of sweltering heat.

  “My mama would clip me around the ear, if I let a lady pay for my drinks.”

  The southern drawl in his voice does things to my insides that I didn’t think possible. I hadn’t heard that twang back in the club, and I’m ecstatic that I had the balls to ask him for a drink and that I eventually got to hear it. His attraction level just shoots up another notch.