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Shirley K Wolford
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Is Robyn Scott a traitor, a dupe, or just naive? The two-man sub she had designed, and which purportedly sank on its maiden voyage, was suddenly for sale in China. Or was it?
Reserve Coast Guard Lieutenant Britt Lindsey had been given a dual assignment -- prove her guilty, or prove her innocent-- even if he has to make love to her to do so.
Robyn woke up to a wonderful feeling of almost unendurable pleasure. Brett’s hand had insinuated itself between her legs and was slowly feeling every inch of her, bringing her the tail end of a mystical dream.
His voice was an erotic whisper in her ear. “We have some time before the alarm goes off, love. I thought this might be a good way to start the day.” His fingers continued their slow assault on her most private place, while his lips suckled her breast. She was going to die.
She clutched his head in both hands in an effort to bring closer what could not come closer.
He came over her, the length of his nakedness next to hers, his staff rubbing where his fingers had been. It wasn’t close enough; she wanted to devour it.
He tantalized her and moved back and forth, and just touching and withdrawing and touching again. His lips and his tongue did interesting things in her mouth. There was no way she could get closer, though she tried.
Brett tried to keep control. He was no teenager with his first girl. He wanted Robyn to go to heights he was sure she’d never felt before and he was going hold off till he couldn’t stand it any more, either.
He slowed everything down except that incessant rubbing, touching and withdrawing. He feathered her lips, pressing lightly, playing hide and seek with her tongue.
She moaned her pleasure. Something primitive in him responded with his own desperate groan; he could hold it off no longer. He plunged into her with a cry that was half pain, half unbearable pleasure. He was so close, so close.
He rocked back and forth, ecstasy cutting into him knife-like. He felt her muscles contracting, contracting, contracting and he came with a spurt of joy that was almost torture. Then came a release that was so glorious, he wanted to sing.
He held her quietly, gently, not wanting to withdraw; his lips soft and gentle. There was something so different about this girl; she made him feel at home. Which was passing strange as he was at home, in his own bed. But he had never had a feeling like this before.
Before he could analyze that, an alarm went off like the braying of a mule. Never had he been sorrier to hear it.
Robyn jumped, pushing him away. Her eyes were wide with fright, and he could see the pulse in her throat pound.
He drew her back into his arms; could feel her heart thumping hard against her rib cage. “It’s okay, love.” He rubbed his hand along her spine. “Please don’t be so frightened. It’s just the alarm. We have to get up.”
She pushed him away again and sat, drawing up her knees and wrapping her arms around them. “Good heavens! Does this happen every morning?”
A light had come on with the alarm, and soft music came from a CD. But the sky beyond the windows was still dark; stars were still shining and the harvest moon was still round and yellow.
Brett pushed off the covers and kissed her softly. “I’ll race you to the shower.”
I used to be a big city girl--after all, I lived in Los Angeles and graduated from New York University. In case you don’t know, NYU is slap-dab in the middle of New York City. So, of course, I met a tall, blond, good-looking Texan on a blind date and got engaged to him four days later. We had a Christmas wedding and lived happily ever after.
And for a wedding present be gave me a revolver. Never was even close to one in my whole life before. But he taught me to shoot and do all the other things that befitted the wife of a Texan. It was fun.
Cross off big cities. One of the things we found we had in common was writing. Of course, we expected to write the GREAT American novel. Didn’t work out that way, but we had some successes.
The Southern Blade sold to Columbia Pictures and became a “B” movie called A Time for Killing. We sold westerns steadily--one every two years, while working.
He made industrial motion pictures, and I taught English and American history.
Book Publisher: Wings ePress
No. of Pages: 216
Paper Weight (lb): 9.4
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