Aced
Authors: K. Bromberg
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, chharacters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used ficttitiously. Any ressemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2016 – Aced by K. Bromberg
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Editing: Making Manuscripts
Proofing: The Proof is in the Reading, LLC
Cover art created by:
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Formatting by: Champagne Formats
Except for the original material written by the author, all songs, song titles, and lyrics mentioned in the novel Aced are the property of the respective songwriters and copyright holders.
ISBN: 978-1-942832-00-3
Table of Contents
Other Works by K. Bromberg
UnRaveled
(a novella)
“R
Y?” I CALL HER NAME the minute I clear the top of the stairs. The little note she left me on the counter is in my hand. “Your nothing-but-sheets date night starts now,” it reads. Curiosity rules my thoughts and fuels my actions.
Well, that and the image of her naked and waiting for me. My day’s been for shit though, so I’m not going to push my luck and expect a miracle like that to turn it around. But a man can sure as fuck hope.
SoMo is playing as I walk onto the upper patio of the house where our original nothing-but-sheets date took place a long-ass time ago.
Sweet Christ
. My feet falter when I find Rylee. She’s leaning back on the chaise lounge, dressed in some kind of black lacey thing that I don’t pay much attention to because it’s see-through enough for me to tell she’s naked as sin beneath it. Her hair is piled on top of her head, her lips are bare, and her knees are spread so her feet are on either side of the chair. And I’m distracted momentarily—my eyes searching for a glimpse of the something more between those thighs of hers—before realizing sky-high heels complete the outfit.
Fuck me.
I can already feel the spikes of those heels digging into my ass as her legs wrap around me. That’s a pain any man can find pleasure in.
“Hey,” she says in that raspy voice of hers that calls to my heart, my dick, and every nerve in between. A coy smile plays at the corners of her mouth as her eyes narrow, one foot taps, and eyebrows rise. “I see you got my note. Glad you knew where to find me.”
“Baby, I could be deaf and blind and I’d still find you. No way in hell I could forget that night.”
“Or that morning,” she says, and damn, she’s right. It was one helluva morning too. Sleepy sex. Just-woke-up sex. Sunrise sex. I think we tried all of those and then some. And I love the flush that crawls up her cheeks from the memory. My sex-kitten wife greeting me after work in lace and heels is embarrassed. The irony isn’t lost on me. I love how she can be this way for me, when I know, despite her confidence, it still unnerves her.
“Definitely a good morning,” I agree, as I stare at her. She’s always drop-dead gorgeous but there’s something new, something different about her tonight, and it has nothing to do with the lace. I can’t tell what it is but it’s knocked the breath right out of me.
Shit, what am I missing? Panic flickers inside me that I’ve missed something major. Could it be one of those dates guys have to put in their calendar with five alerts, so they don’t forget it? I run through the usual suspects: It’s not our anniversary. Not her birthday.
I move to the other shit a guy usually doesn’t notice. Her hair’s the same color. It must be new lingerie. Is it? Fuck if I know. If it is, can a scrap of lace really change her demeanor?
Damn. I know lingerie changes mine, but that’s for a whole different reason.
What else can it be, Donavan
? Bite the bullet and just ask. Save yourself the guessing game and the trouble you’ll be in if you guess wrong and hurt her feelings. No need to get the hormones she just got back under control—after all those years of fertility shit—to get all out of whack again.
“Something’s different about you . . .” I leave the comment open-ended so she can respond.
But of course she doesn’t take the bait. I should have known my wife is smarter than that. She’ll make me work for the answer, so we just stare at each other in a battle of wills before her smile slowly widens into a full grin.
Give me a clue, Ry.
Nope. She’s not going to. I should’ve guessed as much. Might as well admire the view anyway: cleavage, lace, a whole lotta skin, and thighs I can’t wait to be between. The smirk on her face tells me she knows exactly what I’m doing when I finally meet her gaze. When her eyes flicker to the table beside her, she
finally
gives me something to go off.
The table is covered in takeout boxes from our favorite Chinese restaurant. There’s a galvanized bucket of ice with some bottlenecks sticking out of it and paper plates and chopsticks piled on the side. Truth be told, I was so busy looking at her, I hadn’t even noticed the food.
But now, my stomach growls.
“I got your favorite,” she says, fidgeting with the hem of the lace so my eyes are drawn back to the V of her thighs, where it’s dark enough I can’t see anything. But fuck if it’s not from a lack of trying. “I hope you’re in the mood for Chinese. I thought we could eat out.”
