Fall Into Love (Simone: Part One Naughty Nookie Series) Read online

  Fall Into Love

  by

  Serena Akeroyd

  Simone: Part One

  Naughty Nookie Series

  The right of Gemma Mazurke to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without written permission from the author.

  Fall Into Love

  Serena Akeroyd

  Copyright © Gemma Mazurke 2013

  First Smashwords Edition November 2013

  Cover design by Samuel Hunt http://www.theusualmadman.net/

  Serena Akeroyd: Website

  Facebook Page

  @SerenaAkeroyd Twitter

  #FallIntoLove

  #NaughtyNookie

  Acknowledgments

  For Nanna.

  Erotica; not something I think you ever thought would be my line of work, but regardless, I know you’re always there, watching over me. I can feel your pride in me and that’s all I’ve ever wanted. Love you. Thank you.

  I wouldn’t be who I am without your influence.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  One

  Two

  Three

  Naughty Nookie Series

  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.

  Hell, I know I make myself sound like an ogre. Either that or some monster from a swamp, but in comparison to Mses. Denison and Harrows, I feel it.

  Sure, my figure is pretty 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. Something that is my vice and a substance I try to avoid!

  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.

  Not that it does me any good.

  The last time I got laid was about four years ago.

  You might snigger at that, but hey, I’ve been busy since then!

  Having screaming arguments with 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. God help me, what a letdown that was!

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

  Hell, I might as well have stuck a brush up my butt and swept up as I did everything else in my marriage. The lazy shit even had the audacity to complain that I didn’t come on to him enough!

  Ha!

  Why would I want to?

  Gray-skinned, pasty-faced couch potatoes are not my idea of hot. I’m not being superficial there. Just honest. I don’t expect my partner to look like a Hollywood A-Lister. I’d settle for Z-list! Eyes too close together, too big a nose and the makings of a beer gut—anything, so long as I was in a loving, respectful relationship.

  Why does that feel like I’m asking for the moon and the stars? Either that, or desperate?

  “Oh Christ, she’s in a mood.”

  Marina’s voice penetrates my glumness. Rather than answer, I merely 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. 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. 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.

  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 was an unfortunate move on my part. Bef
ore 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 downwards 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 expectancy 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 and 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 have looked 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 there 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 fresh, 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.

  “Even if you already acted the gentleman by saving me from making a fool of myself in there?”

  He smiles at me and God, that smile is lethal. “Just doing what anyone would have done.”

  “I doubt it. It’s more likely that anyone would have filmed it and uploaded it on to the net.”

  His lips twitch. “Yeah, well, maybe I’m a tad different, then.”

  “If your mama taught you to treat a lady kindly, then didn’t she tell you it’s impolite to fail to introduce yourself?”

  “Zane Matthews, ma’am. Pleasure to meet you.” He almost salutes. “And shouldn’t a good southern lady like yourself also do me the honor of an introduction?”

  “You can take the girl out of Georgia but not the drawl.” Chuckling, I smile up at him. “It’s still there, even though I left a long time ago. I’m Simone. Simone Barranquet.”

  “Creole?”

  “No. My father has some Spanish blood in him. It goes a long way back, though.”

  “What finds you in the Big Apple?”

  “What teen doesn’t dream of the city that never sleeps? Especially one tucked away in a backwater?” I shrug, but throw the question back at him. “And you? My twang is still there, just, but yours is thicker than grits. You here on vacation?”

  “You could say that. It’s a working vacation.”

  “A working vacation?” I ask, curious. “What kind?”

  “I’m a writer. I’m on the PR trail.”

  “A writer? That’s awesome. What do you write?”

  He shrugs and for the first time, I can see he’s been knocked out of his self-assurance. “This and that.”

  “Tell me. I’d like to know. The minute the bookstores open, I’ll go and buy one of your books. Then I can show my friends and say, this is the guy who saved my butt.”