Older...

You know by now that most writers have more than one tale on the go. Since I finished Wynne's Surprise last week, a mature lady just drive by interrupted my self satisfaction with a, "Get me a bloke! It's like the Sahara down there!"
What do you do with that, except start writing? Carole, my darling, dearest, horniest heroine I know. Carole's in her early sixties, has three children, two grandchildren, an ex-husband, her own home and has taken early retirement. She's the embodiment of a woman I know and absolutely adore, and that means this story is me trying to give her everything she deserves, which includes watering the desert. Sorry. Had to. There's one serious, no nonsense, man's man for the job - Aneurin Agnarsson. Sixty-five and more than alive. Big, bearded, buff. I would. I mean, I think about Santa Claus these days, not for presents, but what I can give him. I need help, I know this.
We all have our age comfort zones, and either side of my own is always cause for a little apprehension. This time around I don't even care. Because Carole doesn't give a monkeys. Surgical scars, troublesome family members, not enough coconut oil to tame her hair... She ain't bothered. Hot Muse Hank's eyebrows are right at his hairline. Yesterday, I was bashing away at the laptop, and Hank tried to interrupt me. "Isn't a bit soon for all of that? That's... Yeah, that's a lot."
I told him, nah. Carole's getting laaaaaaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyd!
And she will continue to do so, on the damn regular - if everyone stays out of her business. Except Aneurin. That's all his.
Age ain't nothin' but a number! Coz these old folks, they are dirty. Dirty.

Sorry

I am firmly on the Beppe and Mimi train! It’s taken a while, and I’ve been told why. I read an article about romance tropes in TV series – and how badly they’re done. One of them was “last folks standing”. Giuseppe and Amelia said nothing while I read it, just sipped on some Marks and Spencer tea, waiting for the penny to drop. Drop it did. With a clang.

I had to convince them that I’m not just putting them together because they’re the last free people of the Italian Knights world. Mostly, I’m handing them to one another just because there’s no one else that can put up with either of them. Hold on Mimi, don’t wave that at me, I’m going to explain.

First, Beppe is strange. No two ways about it. He’s a sandwich short of a picnic. Who else would turn up at his friend’s blessing with a bandana over their face? Or sing to his friend’s ex in the parking zone of a strip club? Or drug said friend to make sure he stayed put to speak to the same ex? Normal people don’t do that. If I told you the things he comes out with in this story, now he’s talking to me... I’m scared. Hot Muse Hank is a little concerned. I need a hug.

Secondly, there’s Amelia. No one gets their name shortened to Mimi unless there’s plenty of cray running around the place.  She’s a surgeon. If you work in medicine, there’s a switch in you that’s off. It has to be, or how else do you cut up people on a daily and enjoy it? It’s her second most favourite thing in the world. Second. To what, you’ll find out.

And they have this weird as hell shared history – of family, of areas they associate with their childhood, of how science saved them both from the spiral of depression... I don’t know how it happened to be that way, but it is what it is.

All of that is definitely not because they’re the last two standing. It’s because they’re perfect for each other. In the oddest way possible, and in ways I couldn’t have imagined before now.

Weird. As. Hell.

Beppe: Should we tell her?

Mimi: No-ho-ho! Let her find out for herself. It’s more fun that way.

Find out what? WHAAAAAAAAT?

Good Girl

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.

“Better?”

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.

“Hello, Mother.”

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.”

Happy birthday to me!

Today's my birthday! Woo hoo! I'm old!! Actually, I'm going to share this day with Beppe ^^^^ (ta very much Stuart Bellamy <3). Why not? JK Rowling shares her birthday with Harry Potter. I'm selfish that way. It means I get to keep him all to myself. Mostly. So, to celebrate us both, I'm giving you all a sneak peek of Beppe in one of his little moments that makes Mimi fall for him. It is without doubt one of the kindest things a man could do for his woman.

Mimi dragged her pillow over her head, cutting off Beppe mid-conversation and rather unfairly, mid-seduction. “They’re such selfish bastards!”

“Who?” What just happened? Why wasn’t any loving happening right now?

She lifted the pillow, face puffed with anger. “The fuckers across the road who are having yet another party! It’s Wednesday night! I’m working tomorrow for your bloody best friend!”

“Ah.” That made him feel somewhat better. His prowess remained intact. “Okay, let me deal with this.”

“And what are you going to do?” she asked, curling her top lip in sarcasm. “Execute them all?”

“Wendy Darling,” he caught her hand and pressed it to his chest. “I’m offended that you’d think I’d stoop to the lowest common denominator. I’ll be back.”

He threw back the sheets and pulled on his jeans and chucked a t-shirt over his head. No need for too many clothes. Mimi watched him, and he could feel the concern burning holes into the back of his skull.

“Seriously, don’t kill anyone.”

“I heard you the first time.” He flashed her a grin and loped down the stairs to where his bag remained, abandoned in the corridor of Mimi’s home. Just when he thought they were getting somewhere, yet again someone else interfered.

Beppe scrambled around in the canvas, on the hunt for ah, just where he left it. He lifted a gas mask from the bag and fitted it over his face, then snapped on latex gloves. Whistling, he stalked out of the house, and removed exactly what he needed to get Amelia to focus for longer than five minutes on one thing. As a woman, she could multi-task to glory, but as a girlfriend, she was failing on basic concentration.

With two cans of tear gas in each hand, and one in each pocket, Beppe walked across the road to the neighbour’s rowdy party. A loping, intoxicated man slurred at him, “Oi, where the fuck are you going?”

Beppe just nudged him gently and he toppled like a toy car. He broke off one of the cans of tear gas and threw it into the living room, repeating the same in the kitchen and watched streams of people trying to leave the house. He lobbed a can up the stairs and then stopped to locate the electricity box.

Singing Whitney Houston’s How Will I Know to himself as people screamed and yelled, he reached into the back pocket of his jeans, withdrawing a miniature toolbox. With a pair of pliers, he nipped through the electricity mains. The music and lights died instantaneously. Easy. Why people refused to be considerate of their neighbours, he had no idea. They would be the same people who would look out for their property if they disappeared on holiday; alert them if something strange happened in their living room, and more than likely allow them to share the Wi-Fi password. Neighbourly-ness went far. And Beppe knew all his neighbours, so well that each and every single one of them would vouch for him, if worst came to the worst. Maybe he should introduce them to Mimi... 

He gave it another five minutes for the gas to take effect and then left the house, closing the door behind him. Beppe retreated to Mimi’s back garden, loping himself over the fence. Behind her azalea bush, her actual plant and not the body part she was trying to keep him from; he removed his gas mask and clothing. He doused his naked self with water from the garden hose, and re-entered the house. A good, chivalrous night’s work.

Mimi stood on the stairs, staring at him. He blinked at her, dripping water on her bare floorboards. The minute she got the place carpeted, would be the minute she would stop looking for problems between them, he had a really good feeling about that. An uncarpeted house just caused problems for any relationship. Budding or otherwise.

“Did you just tear gas my neighbours?” she asked, a hand on her throat.

Beppe shook water from his ear. “Yeah, I did. But to be fair, they’re quiet now. And perhaps, you and I can have a bit of a chat. Because, and I’ll be honest with you Amelia, it’d be nice if we could talk without you finding everything else in the world more interesting than us…”

She cut him off, wrapping her arms around his neck and pressing her lips to his. The warmth of Amelia drizzled through him, seizing the cold shivers from his hose pipe shower. She lifted her mouth and whispered, “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Wary, Beppe eased back to look at her face. Nothing but sincerity and gratitude blazed from her. “Really?”

“I’d take this over a bunch of flowers any day.” She traced a hand over his collarbone. “Do you want a hot shower? You feel cold.”

He lifted a brow. “Are you coming with?”

Her lips curved into a devious smile. “I’ve got surprises for you that are waterproof.”

At that moment, Beppe realised that he would owe Rocky and Anna for life. They’d found the perfect woman for him. Those bollocking bastards…

Stupid Girl

Okay, I've made Bren really angry. And I mean really angry. Like he's not talking to me at all, he's so cross. If anyone ever tells me again "You should have had so and so do this..." I'm going to show them this blog post. I always go where a character leads, because otherwise, I get people giving me the silent treatment.

See, the whole premise of Wynne's Surprise is that there is a big of a love triangle between the heroine Wynne, she of floral adoration, Bren, the Scot with Swagger, and Wynne's boyfriend, Robert, who happens to forget that it's Valentine's Day. Dick move, bro. Anyway, Bren persuades Wynne to abandon Robert for a sexy jaunt in Morocco. Off they pop for the romantic Marrakesh, for pool side orange juices, sunshine, souks, tagines and the breathtaking Atlas Mountains. Bren breaks out the big guns to seduce the silk hair scarf off Wynne, and Wynne and I being of one mind, finds Bren irresistible.

Also, Wynne hasn't ever been the girl who's had the choice of more than one man, or a choice at all (particularly), so I thought, hell yeah, throw in a threesome! This can work! The minute, and I do mean the minute, I tried to write it in, Bren went super Glaswegian on me and said no, in so many ways, I didn't even understand what he was saying, but I got the jist. No, he's not sharing Wynne. No, he's not letting Robert's wart spotted dick anywhere near him or her. No, it wouldn't help their relationship. No, it's not a necessary test. No. No. Lots of f words. But mostly no. And no.

So here I am, out in the cold, in the darkness of Bren's following silence. All because I suggested something. Suggested. Not demanded. Suggested. Wynne's like, "I told you so." Thirty thousand words and now silence. Apparently, I have to make this up to Bren somehow, because Wynne had nothing to do with the idea, and it really is all my fault, since I knew he'd go mad. I DIDN'T KNOW!

God, the naughty corner really is bull.

The Scotsman

I've fallen head over heels. And that should worry me. Because I've tattooed Nick's surname on my body, it would be shameful to tattoo anyone else's name next to or in the vicinity of the Da Canaveze. But Bren MacClellan is vying for a patch of skin. It's my own fault.

I mean I looked at the picture of Jai Courtney and thought, yeah that's Bren, definitely! Now, this man plagues me. He believes in the power of good tailoring and how it emphasizes the very best of a woman's figure. A man who knows clothing better than I do? Check. Confident to the right degree. Did I mention he's Scottish? I don't know what to do, he's constantly in my head. Whispering naughty nothings in my ear.

It is horribly easy to be Wynne to Bren MacClellan's persuasions, trace that mouth of his, admire his boy booty (baby got back), listen to him curse modern fashion practices that undermine the skill of a tailor in that divine accent of his. He's fucking ambidextrous! Arrrrghhhhhh!!!

Bren wants to ruin me for everyone else, and all of them, from Nick to Tais, Luca to Beppe, Cain to Auden - they are all nervous about the pecking order, because of the Swagger of the Scot. (Ooh, good title...) That's by the by. He needs to give me some breathing space. I've got other dudes to deal with. And yet, I can see him framing my face, fixing me with those whisky eyes, and saying, "Keep your knickers on Billy. We've got ways to go before I'm finished with you."

Bren, I am really, really trying to....

Rock The Casbah

Hot Muse Hank and I are grafting. Well I'm doing all the graft, Hank is doing all the backchatting. To give me a little nudge in the right direction, I'm giving a little sneak peek of this story. It's Wynne, who you've all been introduced to. Last story of Season of Love Vol. One. Valentine's Day, an absent boyfriend and a friend who wants more and he knows just the place to go and get it...

Wyyne's Surprise © Billy London

She woke up with a jolt, tucked between the velvet softness of her sofa and the dense muscles of Bren’s chest. He stirred above her head.

“Are you okay?”

“I had the weirdest dream.”

“About?” he asked on a yawn.

“I had three tits and you were fondling all of them.”

Bren burst out laughing. “Why on earth would you dream about that?”

“I don’t even know.” She lifted her head and squinted at the clock. Midnight. It honestly felt like days had passed. 

“Some nap,” Bren yawned again, untangling his arms from her body to stand up. He looked adorably rumpled. “Do you want some tea?”

“Yeah, and maybe a snack or something.”

“Yes madam,” he sarked, strolling into the kitchen and leaving Wynne to sit up. The sensation of oddness hadn’t abated with the nap, and the strange dream only compounded matters. Who needs three breasts? The overwhelming emotion that came from the dream was how much she’d enjoyed Bren’s manipulations.

She noticed her phone on the table by the lamp. Masochism forced her to her feet and to pick up the mobile. While Bren made tea in the background, Wynne stared at the screen. Okay, maybe she’d crossed a few lines, perhaps a page or a notebook of lines, or rather they both had, but at least they hadn’t crossed it all the way. Six missed calls from Robert, seared her with guilt. Discomfort forced her to read the text messages he’d sent:

I’m sorry about today. Can you call me?

Wynnie it’s Valentine’s Day. Why won’t you answer?

Have you gone out?

You’re being really disrespectful.

“Tea,” Bren said and Wynne jumped in fright. She whipped around and saw him holding two mugs, an eyebrow curled. “I did tell you I was making it.”

“Yes, yes you did. Sorry.” She repeated the apology before taking the mug into her hands. Bren glanced down at her phone.

“Robbie?”

She hesitated. Bren took the tea and nodded her in the direction of her bedroom. “Go and call him.”

Wynne blinked, leaning away from him. “What?”

“Call him and tell him you’re going on a break. You’ll be back in a week, and you can talk then. If you want to.”

Word for word exactly what she wanted to say to Robert. Clearly, Bren was a better friend to her than to Robert. “Okay. I’ll be a few minutes.”

She scampered to her bedroom and gently closed the door behind her, resting against the wood for some semblance of reality to lock her to the ground. That line she’d crossed with Bren a few hours ago seemed more and more blurred. Technically, not calling your girlfriend on Valentine’s Day until after she agreed to a holiday with her male friend she had intense sexual feelings for, could be considered as a break up. Right?

With a deep breath, she dialled Robert’s number. When he answered she had to hold the phone away from her ear to understand what the devil he was shouting about.

“...inconsiderate bullshit I’ve ever come across! Where the fuck are you?”

Wynne’s mouth tightened, her chest heaving with indignation. “Don’t you dare speak to me like that. How dare you?”

He was silent for a moment, but launched back in. “You haven’t answered my calls for five hours. Where are you?”

“At home. To be honest, I didn’t want to speak to you and you’ve proved me right.”

“Look, I was going to say that everything’s clear now for us to take the holiday now...”

“I don’t want to go with you,” she said bluntly.

“What?”

“You heard me. I don’t want to go with you. The inconsideration has come from you, it always comes from you and you have the temerity to call me and say I’ve been inconsiderate? I am always apologising to you. I am always saying sorry. For what? I haven’t done anything, except try to do something good for us, as a couple. And you Dragon’s Den-d me. So, I’m going on that holiday. But not with you.”

“Who are you going with?”

“Think of it as none of your business any more. You’ve got what you want Robert. You’re single again.”

She ended the call and threw the phone onto her bed, where it collided with the side of her suitcase. Well, that made it official. Single and ready to mingle. Under Bren...

Stop and be quiet, she told herself firmly. The case had been packed for the better part of a week, and now, she wanted to change everything inside it. She chucked out her old faithful, thinking that Robert wouldn’t  mind, and decided to buy some new bikinis at the airport. Instead of the tried and tested linens that were smart and cool, she packed in floaty silk shirts and maxi dresses that she’d worn to weddings. The fancy cardigans that were studded, edged with pearls or with sequins, ones that were too nice for anything else, went inside the case, along with four different pairs of sandals and three varying heels of different heights, finally she shoved in two flip flops. That would be sufficient, unless something else at the airport took her fancy.

A knock sounded on her door and she reached back to open it, only to body slam her suitcase, to try and close it.

“Wynnie, what are you doing?” Bren asked.

“Packing, chum.” She turned her head to grin at him. “I may have overdone it.”

He scooped an arm around her waist and lifted her from the strained case. “Stand up. I’ll close it and you zip. All right?”

“Teamwork,” she said giving him two thumbs up of approval. “Got it.”

With his two large hands, Bren pushed down on the case, his arms framing Wynne. He traced a kiss in her hair and said, “Go. Quick now.”

Reaching forward, Wynne found Bren’s groin pressed into her bottom and her face flamed with embarrassment and lust.

“You’re not zipping.”

“You’re sort of grinding me.”

He sighed. “I’ve already done that tonight. It wasn’t like this.” Accurate. “Zip, woman. Zip!”

She did as bid, the metal teeth catching her lone, acceptable bikini. Reversing, she shoved the material into safety and continued until the case was closed. Bren turned her around, one arm around her waist and kissed her all too briefly.

“Everything all right? You’ve made quite a mess.”

Mess of my life or my room? She instead murmured in agreement. “What time’s the flight?”

“Seven am.”

“Can we leave early? I need to do some shopping.”

He looked over her head to her case. “And where will you fit it?”

Wynne grinned at him. “Isn’t that what your case is for?”

“No, but I’ll let you this once.” He lifted the case from her bed. “Do you want another nap, or do you want to stay up?”

“I could really do with some more sleep. I’m all sorts of tired.”

Bren placed the suitcase at the end of her bed, and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “You go to sleep. No flatmates tonight?”

“They’re all out with their significant others.” He smelled so lovely. Familiar and comforting. 

“Then you’ll have all the rest you need. I’ll get you up in a few hours, especially if you want to shop.”

“I do,” she admitted, looking over his arm at the discarded pile of old bikinis. “I really do.”

Power

I'm feeling a bit out of sorts. This is normally what happens when you finish a book that has taken over your life for the better part of a year (looking at you Durante and Ella).

Normally if I finish a contemporary, I switch to paranormal, to effect a bigger change and to disconnect from the characters of the completed book. And it went a little left field. I did a little excerpt of this story, when I was furiously writing to meet the NaNoWriMo target of 50,000 words. Yeah, I didn't finish the story even though I met the target. It's turning into a never ending gumball. The hero and heroine, to explain, are disconnected because of a whole bunch of complicated stuff I can't really expand on because... it is complicated, and my brilliant idea to make them reconnect is a sex rite. You read that correctly. So paganism, symbolic vessels, nudity and the power of sex. And I wrote all of it.

I'm disturbed. Probably because I'm a good Christian girl (don't laugh, tis true) and it was drummed in early that paganism is wrong and sex is a bad word that you don't do unless you're married and you only do once for babies and that's the last you have of it, and you're not supposed to enjoy it or think of anyone else while you do it, apart from God, because it's for God and God's glory. Christian guilt is real.

While I conjured rain and fire and earth and air, my Sunday School teacher was in my ear, telling me it's all wrong. And yet, I say no, whatever guilt lingers. The power of sex with someone you love, trust, honour and cherish is that spiritual connection. And it's a connection that blooms and grows and deepens each time it's shared. It is powerful and truthful and soulful. I wonder if that's why sex is so feared because of what it can do to the mind, body and soul. My hero and heroine are using it for good. To realign themselves to each other. To defeat the bad guy(s) (thing. Whatever it is. I still don't quite know.) It's good magic. The best kind.

I absolutely refute the implied wrongness of a sex rite for my paranormal hero and heroine. They need it. Or they're gonna die. You know, it's probably a good thing I'm not a pagan. I'd totally fall for that line.

Treat Me Like Fire

I'll admit, I'm finding it hard to concentrate. I'm cold, I'm eating far too much and you know, unapologetic racist behaviours interfering with my flow. In any case, I'm off to Morocco for a little sojourn and you know travel is good for my soul and Hank's blood pressure.

It's not Italian and it's not even Season of Love, but this is what I've been writing about and I'm more likely to finish this than anything else in the meantime.

Like Fire  © Billy London 

Blue and white lights blinkered from behind her lids. She wondered for a moment if she’d fallen asleep at a rave. The noises filtered into focus slowly. It hurt to open her eyes. It really hurt. Everywhere. Everything. As if each nerve ending, bruised, bled into one another until she existed only as a single cell of agony. Who is talking so much? Why are they shouting at me?

“Don’t worry lovey. Fire brigade is on the way.”

“But I didn’t cook anything,” she murmured. Ooh. It hurt to take a breath. She closed her eyes again and drifted off somewhere much more inviting than the pain festival going on in her body. Darkness. Bliss. Oh no. Noise again.

“Miss?” Someone touched a soft, padded finger to her face. “Miss?” No, because if she woke up, the pain would start again. “Hello, that’s good. Stay awake.” She blinked several times. The yellow of the speaker’s helmet stung her vision. “What’s your name?” He asked.

“Taemar.”

“I know a Taemar.”

“Hmm,” she muttered, clearing her throat and trying to focus her sight. “Biblical. My dad… He... Only ever picked up a bible… At his wedding. Added a letter when he found out what happened to Bible Tamar. Not good...”

The effort was too great. She made to close her eyes again but the soft material returned to her face. “Hey, hey, Taemar. Stay awake. Keep your eyes on me.”

And her energy drink substitute had very pretty eyes. Lashes like a girl with falsies on. “What?”

“You’ve had an accident. We can’t get you out right now. The doors are crushed in on both sides.”

“Does that mean I can sleep?”

“No, we’ve got to get you out and get you to hospital. We’re going to cut through them in a minute. My friends are doing the other side so they can get you out. This side is too close to your body and we’re worried we’ll cut you. Can you get your seatbelt?”

She frowned, lifting an arm that seemed boneless to jab weakly at the release. “Did I put a belt on?”

“You did, you clever girl. Can you undo it for me?”

Taemar had the most unfortunate flashback to an ex and his struggle with some bondage ropes. The release refused to spring the belt free. Obviously it was man made and as stubborn as buggery. A metal cutter roared into life and the man shouted above the noise, repeating his question. Sparks flew over the passenger seat of her car and she turned away from it. He lifted his helmet back a bit to edge his head inside the car. She could hear him better. “Who are you?” she asked.

“Superman. Marauding as your local friendly fireman. Jack. I’m Jack.” Oh god, she was going to die in her stupid car. Tears prickled at her eyes. “Look at me,” Jack’s voice demanded nothing less than total obedience. His eyes, a strange mix of amber and olive green, blazed confidence. “Do I look worried?” His face set, serious, but completely assured. Not a single doubt evidenced from the arch of his brows, or the turn of his lips. She shook her head slowly and carefully. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about, all right?”

“Okay. Oh my god, I’m naked.”

Jack didn’t say anything and she looked to his face. His lips were tucked in and his eyes were wide with guile. “Hadn’t noticed.”

“There’s a green nipple tassel on my wheel. The other one is hanging off my tit. They looked nice.”

His eyes darted around the car. “Erm… Yes?”

“You asking or agreeing?”

“Stop that.” He blushed. Amongst the shadow on his angular face, a sunset rose blush bloomed on his hard looking cheeks. 

“You told me to stay awake. And talking is keeping me… up.”

“Not about breasts!”

“Why? I can’t look. Are they scarred?” She felt panic rising in her. “Am I breast-disfigured? Please don’t say I am. I love my boobs. They’re the best thing about me.”

Jack gave a heavy sigh. “They’re a little scratched from the glass but that’s all.”

“What? No lift, size, shape comment? Are you a eunuch?”

“For all that is sacred, I wish I was right now.”

She chuckled. Huge mistake. Laughter was not her friend or healer right now.

“Did that hurt?” Jack asked. Instead of the pressure on her ribs and back, she stared at Jack’s jaw line. It was edible. Something nice and firm to nibble on in the throes of passion. Good distraction, but not much she could do about it. Actually, sex got her into this mess. Or rather, the potential for it. De-tassled in a crushed car, all because she wanted to surprise Peter. How sad.

“Talk to me,” she begged. “Tell me something funny.”

“I have a terrible sense of humour.”

She sent him a look. “Everyone has a sense of humour. Everyone. Now, tell me something amusing. Chop chop.”

“When I went out on my first call, I… I knocked myself - in a faint.”

Taemar frowned. “That’s… that’s just sad.”

“Er… This neighbourhood cat…”

“Nope. Next.”

“Okay when I was younger, I had too much of a sweet tooth. My mum told me if I didn’t stop, my penis wouldn’t work properly. Haven’t touched sweets since.”

The laughter that burst from her lips swiftly followed such intense pain, bile rose in her throat. “Taemar, I’m so sorry, but we’re almost done. We’ll have you out in a jiffy.”

“Jiffy?” she repeated. “You’re an old soul, aren’t you?” She couldn’t stop herself. Tears ran unhindered down her face, dripping onto her skin.

“Don’t cry. Please don’t cry, you’re almost out.”

“I’m not crying. My eyes just leak a bit. With pity. For your sweet-affected peepee.”

The passenger seat door, the remains of her passenger seat door was lifted away. Jack disappeared from her side, but instantaneously loomed in on her left, snipping huge pliers through her seatbelt. Huge arms slid behind her back and underneath her thighs before he lifted her from the wreckage with ease. “There we are. You’re all right, Taemar.”

“Thank you.” She whimpered. “Best entertainment I’ve had all week.”