The Virgin Sex Queen (13 page)

The silence
between them lengthened.

She glared up
at him.

Alan gazed down
at her, the intensity in his eyes darkening, deepening, until the
irises were like dark chocolate, decadent and hot and something
else, something so very predatory. “Trust me, Soph, if I was
interrogating you, I’d get your answers.” He took a step closer,
one step that brought him almost flush against her. Leaning down
until their faces were close, until they were practically breathing
in each other’s breaths, he looked her directly in the eyes,
spearing her with that alluring mix of cop eyes and hot,
threatening,
promising
decadence. “I’d have you screaming
them out.”

All she could
do was stare up at him, her knees weak and her pulses pounding.

Several long
seconds passed as the silence thickened, darkened, something
beating the air between them, but he broke it abruptly,
straightening and swinging away, striding to his bedroom while
tossing over his shoulder in a gravely voice, “Go to bed,
Soph.”

The door shut
decisively behind him and all she could do was gape at it. What the
hell had just happened? God, she didn’t know if she was coming or
going, and that wasn’t anything to do with the kind of coming that
happened in her erotic romances. This was complete and utter
bewilderment…along with a healthy dose of lust.

Who knew
predatory men could turn her on?

Who knew good
ol’ Alan could be predatory? Aggressive? And what aggression!
Threatening, dark, promising, inducing all sorts of scenarios in
her head that had her heart almost stuttering behind her heaving
bosoms.

Glancing
around, Sophie caught a glimpse of herself in the bathroom mirror
through the open door. Cheeks flushed, thick braid hanging over one
shoulder, a flowered print cotton dressing gown buttoned to her
throat.

Reality check.
Her bright eyes dimmed, embarrassment creeping in. Yeah, she’d
better get with reality, better stop fantasising. Alan had just
come back from the gym where all those sexy little gym women ran
around in skin-tight leotards and leggings, with their trim little
backsides and thighs, their pert breasts. Unlike her, standing in a
cotton nightie and dressing gown, her ample bottom pushing out the
back of it like a bustle. If she’d been born in the times where
bustles were all the fashion, she wouldn’t have needed one - she
already had one given to her by nature, along with big bosoms she
could rest a cup of iced tea on, and apple cheeks.

Pity party
coming on, she could feel it. Taking a deep breath, she turned away
from the bathroom and the damning mirror and walked into the
kitchen chanting mentally to herself,
I’m okay. I’m good. I’m
worthwhile. Get a grip! Don’t wallow in pity. Be me. Be the goddess
that I am.
Standing in front of the ‘fridge, she let the cold
air swirl around her heated face and dry her suspiciously wet eyes.
Reaching in, she withdrew a bottle of iced coffee and poured a
small amount into a glass. Swirling it around, she stared at the
depths before swallowing it in several gulps.

SJ wandered in
just as she finished, meowing and looking demandingly at the
cupboard where Sam kept his tins of cat food.

“Yeah,” Sophie
muttered, opening the cupboard and selecting a small tin of Fancy
Feast. “Just like a male, demanding and expecting everything.”

Pity party had
just turned into sour grapes.

SJ didn’t even
bother to answer, just kept his eyes glued to the tin as she opened
it and searched for his dishes. Not finding where Sam had put it
after washing it, she saw the bowl that Alan had used for
breakfast, and with childish satisfaction she plopped the cat food
into it and set it down before SJ. “Enjoy.”

~*~

Early the next
morning the low tones of Alan and Sam’s voices drifted through her
partially open door.

“Did you feed
that flaming cat from my breakfast bowl?” Alan asked.

“No,” Sam
replied. “I just walked in the door.”

“Huh. So who
did?”

“Maybe
Sophie?”

This was met
with silence.

Smiling, Sophie
lifted her head from the pillow.

“Which is odd,”
Sam continued. “All SJ’s bowls are in the bottom of the pantry with
his cat biscuits.”

That explained
that one mystery.

“Soph is Soph,”
Alan finally said. “Who knows how a chick’s mind works?”

Sam laughed,
Alan’s quickly accompanying him.

Bloody
men
. Sophie lowered her head back to the pillow.

“Okay.” Alan’s
voice receded. “Gotta go to work. I’ll pick the food and drinks up
on the way home this arvo.”

“Cheers,” Sam
responded. “Means I don’t have to get up early.”

“Lazy
bastard.”

“Right back at
you, mate.”

As soon as Sam
came down the hallway, SJ jumped off her bed and disappeared out
the door.

“SJ, have you
been sleeping with Soph? Did you desert Alan last night? Who’s a
clever boy, then?” Sam’s low words had Sophie smiling.

Call it mean
spirited, but she was still annoyed enough at Alan to enjoy the
fact that SJ had deserted him for her. Best choice the cat had made
all week.

Mind you,
snuggling up against Alan - no! No, she wasn’t thinking about that,
not now and not ever. Ignore the lurid dreams, the - everything.
All she needed was a good, long walk to clear her head.

Swinging out of
bed, she stood and stretched, crossing to the door to call out to
Sam, “You having first shower?”

“Go ahead,” he
called back. “I’m having a cuppa and reading the paper first.”

Pointedly
ignoring the smell of masculine soap, shaving cream and the
lingering scent of Alan’s aftershave, Sophie showered and dressed
in knickerbockers and t-shirt, pulling her hair up into a ponytail
and brushing her teeth before retrieving her thongs from the
bedroom and going into the kitchen.

“Hey.” Sam
looked up from where he sat reading the newspaper at the kitchen
table, a cup of hot tea in one big hand. He pushed his glasses back
up the bridge of his nose and grinned. “Got the shits up with
Alan?”

“What do you
mean?” Filling a glass with cold water, Sophie raised her
brows.

“Feeding SJ out
of Alan’s breakfast bowl was kind of a hint.”

“Oh, that.”

“Yeah, that.”
Amused, he waited.

“Slip of the
hand.”

“I bet. What
did he do?”

“Not a
thing.”

“Uh huh. Do you
feel better?”

She smiled
widely.

Laughing, Sam
took a sip of hot tea. “So, got anything planned for the day?”

“Hmmm, let’s
see. Anything you want done, master?”

“Nah, she’s
cool.”

“Okay. Well,
I’m going for a walk and then I’ll see what I feel like doing.
Might even break out the laptop and play with some ideas.”

“I thought this
was a holiday?”

“It is. I said
playing, not putting in eight hours of writing, big
difference.”

“If you say
so.” Sam shook his head. “I certainly don’t break out the
thermometer for fun when I’m on holidays.”

“You don’t know
what you’re missing.”

“No, I think I
do.” Sam’s gaze slid back to the paper. “Don’t forget the BBQ
tonight.”

“Not likely to.
Anything you want me to cook or pick up?”

“Nah. Alan’s
picking up the food and drinks, and when I get up we can slice some
salad veggies and bung ‘em on a plate. The meat’ll get chucked on
the barbie when everyone’s arrived and everything will be
done.”

“I need to do
something.”

“You can wash
the dishes.” Sam’s mouth quirked at the corners as he glanced
sideways at her.

“Then I’m
buying paper plates and plastic forks and knives.”

“Got them
already.”

“Alan’s right,
you are a lazy bastard.”

“Hey, it was
your suggestion too, don’t forget.”

“Only just
now!”

“Yeah, right
after I told you who’d be cleaning the dishes.”

“You didn’t
tell me, I asked.”

“Did you
accept?”

“Sure. I’ll
hold the plastic bag and do the rounds of the table.”

“Sheila after
my own heart.” Laughing, Sam returned to the newspaper.

Getting an
apple from the ‘fridge, Sophie left the house, making sure to
pocket the spare keys on the way. Knowing Sam was going to probably
be asleep by the time she got back, she didn’t want to awaken him
to let her back inside.

Going one way
down the street was fine, she enjoyed the cool morning air before
the warmth of the day set in. It had to said, she also enjoyed the
satisfied feeling she got knowing she was no longer part of the
rat-race, getting ready for work, dressed in suits and climbing
into cars for the journey into the city to work. Office workers,
labourers, shop assistants, people from all walks of life were
leaving for their jobs.

Not that
writing was a walk in the park, she had to be disciplined, but at
least she could write in her nightie if she chose. No one saw her,
as her Aunt Tish pointed out, the ash from her cigarette nearly
falling into the cake batter she’d been mixing.

No, not many
people saw her, and it was for this reason that she maintained
normal hours, writing for eight hours with breaks only for lunch
and a cuppa. Every third day she set an afternoon aside for
emailing and promotion. Every Saturday was chore day, every Sunday
rest day. Write five days a week, two days off, and normal hours. A
walk early every morning or late afternoon, depending on what was
happening. Routine. She liked routine and it kept her focussed,
disciplined. It would be too easy to slide into being a slob and
get lazy about her work and time. Nope, Sophie had worked out early
on the best way for her to write.

True, it was
different to Ghost’s routine, he wrote all hours of the day and
night, depending on his mood, but in his own way he was as
disciplined as she. Like all dedicated writers, they both had their
systems worked out to suit their individualities.

Walking back,
she started to meet the odd person in their garden and she greeted
them with a wave of the hand. Several of the ladies and one man
stopped her with the usual, “New to the neighbourhood?” and “You’re
Sam’s cousin, right? The writer?” She spoke to them briefly,
enjoying the chit chat before moving onwards.

As she neared
Sam’s house she was met by four women standing at the adjacent
driveway. About to just smile politely and walk past, she was
stopped by a tall blonde. “Excuse me, but I couldn’t help noticing
that you’re staying with Sam Willow.”

It wasn’t
actually a question, so Sophie just nodded.

“You
write.”

Another
statement, and going by the look on the blonde’s face, she wasn’t
impressed. Sophie nodded again, adding , “That’s right.”

“You write
pornography,” the plump brunette beside the blonde stated.

“Not
pornography,” Sophie replied, wondering for the thousandth time why
no one got the erotic romance genre. “It’s romance.”

“Explicit
romance,” the blonde said.

“Explicit as
they get.” Sophie smiled. “But romantic.”

“I saw your
book covers in Elsie’s shop.” The blonde frowned. “It’s not decent
writing.”

“No, it’s saucy
covers.”
Game face
. Sophie thrust her hands into her
pockets, donning the cool, calm façade like a second skin. “And hot
writing. Have you read any of the genre, Miss…?”

“Debbie
Martin,” the blonde replied. “And no, I wouldn’t touch it with a
ten foot pole.”

“Wonderful,
because it really only requires two hands. One for holding the
book, the other to…” Sophie paused and licked her lips slowly.

Debbie’s eyes
narrowed.

“Turn the
pages.” Sophie smiled widely. “Maybe you’d like to loan one of my
books, Debbie?”

“It’s
filth.”

“Depends on
your definition of it.”

The plump
brunette glanced at Sam’s house. “He’s such a lovely man, Sam. Hard
to believe his cousin is into writing trash.”

“I’m trying to
educate him,” Sophie said. “So far, he’s using one hand.”

Debbie drew
herself up coldly. “I beg your pardon?”

“He hasn’t used
the other hand to turn the pages. Yet.”

There was a
muffled giggle from a short, fair-haired woman. Well into her
fifties, she held out one hand. “I’m Sharon Stone. No relation to
the famous actress.”

Sophie shook
her hand. “I’m Sophie Willow, filth writer, apparently, though I
prefer erotic romance writer, but what the heck? Everyone’s
entitled to their own opinion.”

Sharon laughed.
“Oh, don’t worry about Debbie and Kim, their husbands have to book
an appointment to have sex and even then it’s in the dark.”

“Well!” Debbie
stormed off, Kim right behind her. The door to her house - and
wouldn’t you know it was right next door to Sam’s - slammed behind
them.

Not in the last
perturbed, Sharon gestured to the woman beside her. “This is
Margaret.”

Margaret smiled
shyly. “Pleased to finally meet you in person, Sophie. I don’t
actually read much, but I’ve heard about you.”

“Not good
stuff, obviously,” Sophie returned wryly.

“Ah, don’t
worry about those two.” Sharon waved a hand dismissively. “They’re
a pair of straight-laced witches. So tell me, how long are you
staying?”

“Just a couple
of weeks.” Sophie glanced around. “Do you both live in this
street?”

“I live across
the road and Margaret lives a few doors up from me. It’s one big
happy family.” Sharon grinned. “Bitchy members included.”

“Just like a
real family.” Sophie laughed.

They chatted
for a few more minutes before Margaret and Sharon had to go, and
Sophie continued back to the house. She wasn’t too disturbed by
Debbie’s comments, it wasn’t the first time she’d heard similar and
no doubt it wouldn’t be the last time.