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“Ouch!”
“Oops, no fingers there,” Alex said, when she hit a sensitive spot at her sphincter.
“That was Will,” Jocelyn informed her.
“Heavenly, isn’t he?” Alex mused.
“Now don’t you go getting horny on me again,” Jocelyn warned. “You know, I’ve planted my mouth at your puss twice now, just because you were so damned needy. I’m ready for something myself and you’re going to give it to me.” Her spirited dominance was returning to her once languid and submitting soul. She rolled over, her green eyes flashing with all the stormy brew of an orgasm building in her depths.
Alex smiled. “Ooo, you want me to suck you off?” she said, ready for more herself.
“No,” she replied. “I want your hands everywhere. And don’t miss a spot. Your mouth, your teeth, your breasts against mine…They’re mine, all mine, little bitch.”
The two woman smiled happily then fell against each other and rolled about the bed, making love across the shabby sheets until nearly midnight when they were too worn out for anything but sleep. In a tryst sanctioned by the men they loved, it was a moment to repair two well wounded bodies with the tenderness of each other’s hands. In sleep, it was a time to repair their souls as they slept side by side, with the affection that had become so dear to them reaching out to the other in their dreams.
It was an exhausted but welcome slumber for them both; and their husbands, the manipulators of their most recent hours, would wait to have them back again. Reggie and Will would let them sleep, waiting until morning to bring them home.
Jocelyn’s Rebellion
Chapter One
Ms. Killian,” Emma Reed’s voice came over the speaker, “Mr. Trueblood calling. You know the Englishman.”
“I’m not here,” Jocelyn answered.
“He’s called three times since yesterday afternoon. I don’t think he believes me,” Emma replied.
“I don’t care what he believes, perhaps you should be more convincing.” Jocelyn slammed down the phone only to have it ring again.
Sighing deeply there was a worried, weary look in her green eyes. A hand combed through her unruly red hair—she’d left her clip on her dressing table at home letting her hair dry in the spring breeze. Now it sexily framed her pert Irish features indicating the savagery of a spirit frayed at the edges.
“Yes, Emma,” she answered the ringing line.
“Your attorneys are here,” the secretary informed her.
“I don’t want them here,” was her exasperated reply.
“But . . .”
“I’ll see them,” Jocelyn relented, though she wasn’t successful in changing her irritated tone of voice.
***
“It’s a bad season, Jocelyn,” Harry Wise acknowledged the obvious.
“Sued twice in one month. I’ve never been so popular,” she replied.
“We should settle out of court.”
“I don’t have the money. The suits are spurious. And I’ll come off looking like a weak-kneed buffoon who’s way out of my league.”
“Maybe you are,” Ed Davis suggested.
“Thank you for such faith,” she replied. Sarcasm had become dear to her in the past six weeks. Rumors, false accusations, her faith in humanity a dozen times destroyed by finger pointing, pompous bastards that had taken her business and stomped it beneath their feet as if it was so much dust. All this because of Ibercon Corporation’s latest disaster. After spending six months consulting time, to have them turn tail on her proposals and tube their company with several moves she’d advised them vigorously not to pursue, she was paying as dearly as the rest. She’d been swept into a black hole where anyone associated with their defunct Boston Project was being castigated by the press, the board of directors and everyone in the business world that watched Ibercon’s demise. Her reputation had taken such a fall she was certain recovery was impossible—though she was still trying.
The discussion with
her attorneys didn’t end well. Their exit only brought her face to face with the nuisance, Arnold Trueblood, the private investigator she’d been dodging for days.
