He’s a kinky dream come true—and her only protection from danger.
Eight months after her (cheating, almost-ex) husband's death, Suzanne Mayhew has a plan to move on with her life. First step: sell off Frank's classic cars, starting with the red vintage Mustang convertible he never let her drive. Second step: get her unexplored kink on with a delicious younger man.
Preferably the one an old friend sends around, ostensibly to check out the Mustang. Neil Callahan—Boston cop, Dom, fifteen years her junior.
Neil feels the mutual sizzle, but if the blush staining her cheeks is any indication, her flirting skills are a little rusty. Though his instinct tells him to take things slow with the recent widow, he can’t resist inviting her along for a test drive—for the whole weekend.
Throwing caution to the wind, Suzanne takes him up on it. But they’re barely out of the driveway when Neil’s cop instincts kick in. They’ve got a tail…and it looks dangerously like her ex’s secrets looming large—and deadly—in their rear-view mirror.
Warning: Spies, lies and vile bad guys. A meddling BFF. Inappropriate use of kitchen tools. Completely appropriate use of rope and floggers. Your mileage may vary, depending on battery life.
The red Mustang with the FOR SALE sign on it was the second thing to catch Neil Callahan’s eyes, even though he’d been looking for it on this tree-lined suburban street of huge, handsome, but cloyingly similar houses. Cookie-cutter, but an expensive cookie cutter. The first thing he noticed was the ass and long, jean-clad legs of the woman cleaning the windshield of the classic convertible.
The car was hot, a vintage Mustang—1965 or so, he thought—in near-showroom condition. Yet the car’s current owner drew his attention away from the vehicle. It said something about how tempting that butt was. How firm, yet curvy.
Which was definitely not what he should be thinking, unless he wanted to talk cars while sporting a mammoth hard-on. If this were porn, he could do that and find himself banging the callipygian redhead within thirty-five seconds, and she’d turn out to be as kinky as a cheap garden hose. But this was real life, so she’d probably pepper-spray him, or at least think of some good reason to cut the conversation short, leaving him without either the information he wanted on the car or a chance to flirt with her.
Neil made himself ride a couple of blocks while thinking distinctly non-sexy thoughts about the details of the latest investigation at work (looked like a straightforward case of one drug dealer shooting another over money, but it was early yet) and the schematics of Ford engines from the ’70s. When he thought he could talk without sounding like a horny teenager, he whipped his vintage Indian motorcycle around and headed back. Probably the woman would have gone back indoors and he’d have to call but with luck, she’d come back out to answer his questions, so he could see if the rest of her was as impressive as the rear view. Then maybe he’d ask her if she’d like to get lunch sometime, or coffee, which could lead to all sorts of interesting places, including his bedroom, the inside of his favorite bondage club or…
Down, boy! All the meeting was likely to lead to was finding out if he wanted to pursue the car, not the woman. She was probably married with kids, seeing as how she lived in a big house in upscale, suburban Bellwood, with the whole manicured-lawn thing going on. A far cry from his home base in Boston’s working-class Dorchester neighborhood, but one of his kink-community friends knew how badly he longed for a new project car and had mentioned seeing a Mustang for sale in this area.
Not that this car looked like a project. More like it had been someone’s precious baby, lovingly maintained all these years, and would be out his price range, even if his dad wanted to go in on it. Their usual project cars were more the “three tubs of parts and a frame” kind. But he could always drool.
Whether he’d be drooling more over the car or the woman was an excellent question.
When he pulled up, the woman was still out front, idly adjusting the FOR SALE sign, which had been resting on the bumper but was now in a more prominent position on the windshield.
The rest of her looked just as good as the rear view suggested.
Older than he was, early to mid-forties, he’d guess, to his thirty—the perfect age, in his opinion. Older women were more confident, as a rule, more in touch with their own sexual needs and less likely to use the submissive role as an excuse to avoid responsibility.
A guy could dream. Just like he could dream he could afford the car.
Teresa Noelle Roberts started writing stories in kindergarten and she hasn’t stopped yet. A prolific author of short erotica, she’s also a published poet and fantasy writer—but hot paranormals, sexy science fiction romances and BDSM-spiced contemporaries have become her favorites.Teresa is a crunchy granola girl who enjoys belly dance, yoga, cooking, hiking, playing in the ocean and growing more vegetables than she and her husband can possibly eat. She’d enjoy sleeping too. She thinks. But it takes so much time!She shares her home in southern Massachusetts with her husband—a Leo in law enforcement—and three cats. She and her husband often plan vacations around food,history and/or proximity to water.Find out more about Teresa at www.teresanoelleroberts.com. If you’d rather be conversational, find her on Twitter at www.twitter.com/TeresNoeRoberts or become a Facebook fan at www.facebook.com/AuthorTeresaNoelleRoberts. She also hangs out on Pinterest, sharing pictures of hot cars, hotter men and other inspirational imagery, at www.pinterest.com/teresanoellerob.