I spy the end of a 50,000 word journey! And as I'm wrapping up this tale, I'm going to give you a little peek at what I've been working on for the last 24 days (and counting if it's not finished today!) Thank you for the support during. Sometimes it's hard to motivate yourself every day, but wanting to do the best for my readers is always a good prompt. That and the reward of Jessica Jones on the best binge I've done in a while (whole series, eighteen hours. Six of them sleeping).
Surprisingly easy to write, I've been focused on one of my Season of Love tales, the studious Patricia and her cheeky - because he's not quite bad - boy Art. Just to explain: Gwen is Art's mother. Mike is Patricia's uncle. Gwen and Mike had an affair and produced baby Brian, who Patricia was babysitting before Art got his hands on her. So... Step-cousins are go? I promise you, this is nothing stranger than some family dynamics I have witnessed...
Here's the link to the bit before: http://sobillysaysshesays.blogspot.co.uk/2015/02/let-me-love-you.html
And here's your sneak peek:
Nothing about this could be good for her mental health. She had broken up with Bradley for a reason – obviously he proved her right by being an absolute knob – and she had more than enough on her plate with school and preparing for her interviews. And yet… Distraction had the intoxicating scent of Art, the softness of his lips and the persuasion of his feather-light tongue. The Chemical Brothers infiltrated the background. The song was somewhat inappropriate, but her focus was solely on the boy between her thighs. His arms felt rock hard beneath her palms, part holding him back and partly pulling him into her. For a breathless moment, he leaned up away from her and yanked his jumper over his head.
“Are you getting naked?” she asked, pressing her fingertips to her swollen mouth. Art laughed, taking her hand away and placing it over his t-shirt covered chest.
“I’m not that mad,” he said, with a grin. “You must be hot.”
The suggestive words came with a languid stroke over her leggings covered calves. She hadn’t really dressed to be anything but warm. Layering in a long t-shirt, a jumper dress, leggings and woollen socks protected her from the sharp February weather. For Art putting his hands in places he really shouldn’t? Heat exhaustion beckoned...
Without waiting for her to say anything else, Art reached beneath the jumper dress and hooked his thumbs into the waistband of her leggings. Her stomach fizzled at his grazing touch, her breath catching in fear and excitement. Topshop’s finest rolled down her legs, her bare legs, gathered with her socks and dumped on the rug. A sweet smile lifted his features, from devilish into almost loving, as he caught her by the ankle and pulled her down into the cushions.
Patricia didn’t recognise the sound that came from her throat, when Art’s weight pressed her deeper into the cushions, one hand reaching into the pit of her knee to pull her tight to his waist. It was better than any sex she’d had. Kissing like this, the way Art kissed her, as if she were delicious, and his favourite tasting thing in the world, would always be better than sex.
“Can we…” Art murmured into her cheek, and tugged impatiently at her jumper dress. “Do something about this?”
“Oh yeah, definitely,” she agreed, lifting her bottom, allowing him to scoop the jumper from underneath her, over her shoulders and sending her plaits all over her face. Free of the wool, Art gently brushed the hair from her eyes.
She nodded, tilting her head back, to catch his mouth again. “Better.”
Like a bucket of ice water, the sound of the front door opening made them both spring to their feet. Patricia leapt for her clothing and placed them hurriedly in a pile next to the armchair, and she threw herself into the seat. Art sat back on the sofa, hooking his ankle onto his knee, only to look down at his crotch and grab a cushion instead. Patricia clapped a hand over her mouth and he warned her, “Don’t you dare!”
“Coo-eee!” Gwen called, stumbling into the living room. “How’s my baby! BABY!” she crowed when she caught sight of Art.
She leaned down and cupped his cheeks, pressing kisses to his forehead. Art struggled to throw her off. “God, woman, how much have you had to drink?”
“A bit too much, Mikey Mike is parting,” she hiccuped, “parking, sorting out the car.”
Finally, Art got up and pushed his mother into the sofa. “Just sit down. I’ll make you some coffee. Actually, I’ll get you some water.”
Patricia leapt to her feet. “I’ll help you.” She grabbed the baby monitor and scarpered off after Art. He reached for a glass, and his t-shirt lifted, exposing some crazy definition over his hips.
“Mike’s clearly re-evaluating his life,” Art said ruefully, using the water dispenser to fill a glass for Gwen. “It doesn’t take that long to park a car.”
Patricia leaned against the fridge, catching the hem of his shirt and pleating it with her fingers. “Maybe we shouldn’t go out.”
He cradled her jaw with a warm palm, his lashes fanning over his cheeks, eyes focused on her mouth. “Why not?”
“Umm,” she began, distracted by the intensity of his focus on her.
“We were okay without an audience of the drunk.” When he’d moved so close, she couldn’t recall, but kissing him again was so easy, with the fridge keeping her partly up right.
Gwen bellowed from the living room. “Where’s my coffee?”
Art rested his head against Patricia’s, eyes closed, briefly. “Mind out.” He opened the fridge and squeezed a half lime into the water. He circled her, trailing a kiss over her cheek and she heard him say, “All right, Mike?”
Patricia jumped. Had he heard something? “I’ve been better,” her uncle replied, sounding severe. He stalked into the kitchen where Patricia hadn’t moved, gripping the monitor like a talisman.
He looked her up and down, somewhat more casually dressed than when he’d left. A t-shirt that just about reached her knees, and nothing else. No socks, no jumper, and had Mike and Gwen turned up a little later, probably no knickers either. “It’s warm in here. I couldn’t figure out how to turn the heating down.”
Mike stared at her as if she’d just said she didn’t realise she was a girl. “Really? That little white box I pointed to before we left?”
Patricia shrugged. “I was thinking about my interview.”
He didn’t look convinced, but changed the subject anyway. “Brian okay?”
Patricia waved the monitor at him, the screen glowing in black and white where Brian snored away in content. “He’s been perfect.”
“I’ll go look in on him, then I can drive you home.”
The protest came thick and fast. “Oh, no don’t worry about that. Um, Arthur said he’d give me a lift, and besides, Gwen is toasted. You can’t leave Brian with her in that state. Yes, he’s sleeping, but what if he wakes up?”
Mike made a huff of irritation and lowered his voice. “That boy has a world full of problems, Patricia. Don’t let him get back at his mother through you.”