Be Mine (12 page)
A moan escaped her mouth and just as she began to melt into his arms, Mike Montgomery dipped Sarah Brooks deep and to the floor, never leaving her beautiful lips. He wanted their kiss to be the best thing that had ever happened to her. He already knew it was the best thing that had ever happened to him.
As he righted her and ensured she was stable, she pulled away from him and smiled.
“Wow,” she breathed into his neck, trembling from the ecstasy of the kiss.
“Yeah?” Mike questioned, hoping that the moment he’d waited for was as spectacular for her as it was for him.
“Let’s get out of here,” Sarah sighed, still undone.
He quickly held her coat open to assist her. “I still have something to show you.”
She nodded as she turned to follow him out the stage door.
As Mike laced his fingers into Sarah’s, Ben gave them a nod and a smile. She nestled her head tightly into Mike’s shoulder and they walked out of the building lost in each other. He held her close in the cold wind, and stopped just as they made it to the sidewalk.
“Look up,” he said as he turned Sarah around to face his showpiece now brightly lit with the evening spotlights.
Sarah gazed up to see the huge purple billboard empty except for two words emblazoned on a pink candy conversation heart: Be Mine.
“Sarah,” Mike murmured into her neck, a little embarrassed at his own grand gesture. “Will you be my valentine?”
“How did you do this?” she gasped.
“Wait,” Mike said in disbelief. “I thought you knew.”
“No,” she said shaking her head and laughing. “No, I didn’t know.”
“But you knew I sent the purple roses.”
“I didn’t,” she said as she brushed her red lips over his mouth, pulling away with a sigh. “I
wanted
it to be you. I loved you into my life.”
Kris Calvert
is a former copywriter and PR mercenary who after some coaxing began writing romance novels. She loves alliteration, pearls and post-it notes. She’s married to the man of her dreams and lives in Lexington, Kentucky. She’s Momma to two kids, now in college – one at the University of Kentucky, and one at New York University–Tisch. She is also responsible for one very needy dog. When she’s not writing, she’s baking cupcakes.
If you’d like to become a part of the Moonlight and Magnolias Team where you’ll get advanced copies of books, cool swag and even have input on upcoming novels, drop me a line at
kriscalvert.com
.
WEBSITE
EMAIL
TWITTER
FACEBOOK
www.facebook.com/kriscalvert30
BLOG
www.calvertwrites.blogspot.com
NEWSLETTER
Enjoy this peek at Sex, Lies & Sweet Tea, by Kris Calvert
Book One of the Moonlight and Magnolia Novel Series
Get the book here:
Big wheels keep on turning. Carry me home to see my kin. Singing songs about the Southland. I miss Alabamy once again. And I think it’s a sin, yes.
I
rubbed my eyes and stretched, knocking my phone from the nightstand to the bedroom floor. Lynyrd Skynyrd, my wake up tune of choice, continued to play as I drug my sorry ass out of bed, finally snagging the phone to turn it off. It was early in Washington, D.C.– five a.m. early. I’d set the alarm so I could run. My morning ritual, it was usually preceded by a night of drinking and or beguiling ladies. Tossing the phone back to the nightstand, I spied an empty condom wrapper, the small gold package gleaming on the expansive and largely empty floor. Clearly tossed to the ground, devil-may-care, prior to last night’s mattress dance, it was evidence of my latest bad decision. Once again, using the wrong head to do my critical thinking, I was now feeling as guilty as sin on a Sunday.
The massive bed filled the empty room. Minimalist was how most described my décor–empty was more accurate. It was a historic three-story brownstone filled with a long history and very little furniture. When I moved in, I filled it with the bachelor basics: a king-sized bed, a huge couch, and a big-ass flat screen. For the past five years, for better or worse, it was my home.
I stood over the bed, eyeing a leggy piece of ass with long blonde hair lying on her stomach. She was wrapped in my expensive dark gray sheets – a gift from my mother in Alabama when I moved here. Her leg and perfectly muscular bottom were exposed, reminding me of our night together. Tara or Tamara, I couldn’t remember her name exactly, was an assistant in the office of a prominent senator. Senators and congressmen always hired the hottest babes in the city – it seemed to be an unspoken contest.
I always found it interesting how the old farts in Washington got away with so much. Most of the girls I dated had had a run in, or at the very least, an unwelcome brush with a dirty old politician. I was living in a city of sex and lies. It was, as my late father lovingly called it, the largest gravy train with biscuit wheels in the world.
Honest men were hard to find in Washington. It was one of the reasons beautiful women in D.C. were drawn to guys like me. I was much closer to their age, stayed in shape, didn’t need Viagra, or have a saggy ass. And I was clean – in every aspect of the word.
As a seasoned agent for the FBI in the white-collar crime division, I had the unique distinction of being a Harvard-educated Southern gentleman who incidentally packed heat. I had a big brain, a big gun, and big dose of charm I commanded as the occasion dictated. It had always served me well.
I found my boxer briefs in the clothes littered across the bedroom floor – affirmation of our whirlwind shag. Pulling them on, I decided I needed to wake this girl and get her on her way before the sun got too high in the sky. “Good morning, darlin’,” I said, stroking her back and rousing her from her comfortable slumber.
“Good morning,” her voice cracked as she rolled over and brushed her long blonde mane from her face, exposing her fake and perky breasts. “What time is it?”
“It’s
way
too early,” I joked, pulling away and placing my hands on my hips. I paused for a moment feeling horrible for not remembering her name. I smiled at her and rubbed the stubble on my face, still trying to wake up. “I’m gonna run this morning before I shower, but the coffeemaker is on a timer and there should be a fresh pot in the kitchen.”
She sat and pulled the sheets up, tucking them under her arms to hold them in place and leaned toward the nightstand to look for her phone. Instead she picked up my ID, examining it before bringing her knees to her chest. “I had a good time last night, Special Agent in Charge McKay W. Callahan III. Jeez,
that’s
a mouthful,” she laughed, reading from the small foldout that contained my badge. “McKay?”
“Family name,” I sighed as I took it from her and tossed it on the dresser, wondering if she was suffering from a case of
whatshisname
this morning as well. “I prefer Mac if you don’t mind.”
“Okay.
McKay
,” she teased.
“Don’t make me arrest you this morning,” I baited, flashing her a wicked smile. “You’re way too pretty to share a detention cell with whatever random transvestite unceremoniously surprised a White House staffer last night.”
“That doesn’t happen,” she laughed, tossing her head back.
“The hell it doesn’t, honey.”
“Well, I don’t remember you reading me my rights last night, but I’m pretty sure neither one of us remained silent.”
I smirked and went to find an old t-shirt and shorts in my dresser. She clearly still expected the man who pinned her to the bed last night – but he was gone, and she was the last thing I wanted to deal with at the moment.
“Sweetheart, you’re sexy as all get out, but the pavement is callin’ my name.”
“Maybe I should arrest
you
.” She ignored me and continued twisting her hair around her finger.
“And what would be the charge?” I asked as I pulled my running shoes from the closet.
“With
that
beast?” she giggled, nodding toward my crotch. “Assault with a deadly weapon.”
She was cute as hell and I suddenly remembered her big dick compliments from the night before. Her dirty talk had been impressive. “What would you charge
me
with?” she cooed.
I played along, not wanting her post-coital flirting to fall on completely deaf and insensitive ears. “Indecent exposure,” I joked as I sat on the side of the bed to dress.
“Lewd and lascivious behavior?” she whispered, scooting closer to me and stroking my bare chest.
I chuckled and moved away from her to pull my shirt over my head, leaving an awkward silence in the room.
“Maybe I just wanna be handcuffed,” she said, sitting back.
“C’mon now, darlin’, didn’t anyone ever tell you not to tease a man with a big gun and a set of cuffs? Besides,” I began to lie. “The handcuffs only come out for official business and really bad girls, and you, my dear, are a lady.” I grabbed my phone and headphones from the nightstand. “Help yourself to anything in the kitchen – if there
is
anything in the kitchen – and like I said, the coffee should be on.”
“I had fun last night, Mac,” she cooed softly, looking down and pulling the sheets tightly under her chin.
“Me too,” I said, leaning in for a quick peck on her tiny mouth still stained with red lipstick. “Just let yourself out and lock the door behind you,” I waved, not giving her a chance to reply.
I leaned against the front of the house to stretch before hitting the pavement. It was March, and still cold as hell in the morning in D.C. I watched the warm mist of air leave my lungs and fog the space between my body and the old brick house. I needed to run. I needed to clear my head. I always questioned myself in the morning, feeling guilty for bedding women I had no intention of ever seeing again.
I plugged my ears and chose my playlist. As Axel Rose poetically sang
Welcome to the Jungle
, I began my day jogging the streets of another one – Washington, D.C.
SAMANTHA
“S
amantha, you’re wrong. You’re not even going to hit your sexual peak until your thirties.”
It was a comment I had learned to expect from my ninety-eight year old grandmother, who by any stretch of the imagination had lived a full and interesting life.
“Mimi. Really?” I hissed, looking around to see if anyone was within earshot.
I was her favorite granddaughter, and the Peterson family knew it. Actually, I was her favorite – period. I came to visit Mimi every week after a stroke two years ago demanded she have full-time care. Mimi, not wanting to make a fuss, decided to move into the luxurious Autumn Valley Healthcare Center in lieu of staying in the family home with a nurse. She gave the hundred-year-old house she was born in to me and her only great-grandchild, Dax.
“Lower your voice, please,” I droned as I surveyed the lush garden that surrounded the facility.
“Aw hell, Sam. These old farts couldn’t hear a dump truck driving through a nitroglycerin plant.”
I looked around at the residents carefully placed on the perfectly manicured lawn of Autumn Valley. Some of the poor souls seemed as if they were already gone from the real world, but no one had bothered to tell them.
I raised one eyebrow and lowered my voice. “All I meant was I’m okay with being twenty-nine and celibate. And by the way, do I need to remind you that you are one of the oldest residents here?”
“That’s what they tell me,” she barked as she sat up in the chaise lounge to catch a deeper breath. “But I think a few of these gorkers need to cough up a birth certificate. God knows they’re coughin’ up everything else.”
“Okay, that’s enough. Look around you. These are some of the South’s finest people.”
Well, maybe not finest, but wealthiest for sure. Autumn Valley was a sure sign that money couldn’t buy happiness, but it made senior-citizenship seem glamorous.
“Humph!” uttered Mimi. “All I see is a bunch of sick bastards.”
I bit my lip at her comment. Southern girls were raised to think whatever they wanted, but to carefully choose the words that came out of their mouths. Mimi, on the other hand, had long given up caring what anyone thought.
“Speaking of sick bastards, have you heard from your parents lately?” Mimi continued.
I loved this woman. She was slight but wielded tremendous and wicked power. Even though she was a proper lady, sometimes she acted like an old broad. She was the only person who’d truly been there for me when I needed sound advice, a good laugh, or a shoulder to cry on – my parents were mostly absent.
“I got a card from their trip to Africa last month,” I said, looking away and pretending to admire the rose garden. “Dax and I really haven’t seen them since Daniel’s funeral.”
