IOU Read online

  IOU

  A Carnal Reunions Tale

  By Paris Brandon

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  http://www.resplendencepublishing.com

  Resplendence Publishing, LLC

  P.O. Box 992

  Edgewater, Florida, 32132

  IOU

  Copyright © 2009, Paris Brandon

  Edited by Jessica Berry

  Cover art by Rika Singh

  Electronic format ISBN: 978-1-60735-084-2

  Warning: All rights reserved. The unauthorized reproduction or distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

  Electronic release: November 2009

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and occurrences are a product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, places or occurrences, is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  To: [email protected]

  From: [email protected]

  Hello to all of Gracie’s Girls, class of 1999. Once again, thanks to all of you for the flowers and phone calls after my aunt Gracie’s passing last winter. You all meant so much to her, and to me.

  As I’m sure you all know, our tenth college reunion is coming up this summer. Since I now have Gracie’s big rambling house all to myself, I’d like to extend an invitation. If any of you are coming back for the reunion, you’re more than welcome to stay here, in your old rooms. Gracie quit taking in college students several years back, so there’s no one here but me, and I’d love to have some company while I’m getting the house ready to put on the market. So what do you say? One last time as roommates? It would be great to see all of you again.

  Hugs,

  Karen

  * * * *

  Karen’s House

  Bliss Harper bit her lip and gazed down at the back of a ten year-old pizza receipt where Nick Santucci’s precise signature was scrawled at the bottom of an IOU for one night of sweaty, dirty, bad-boy sex. She carefully opened the musical card that he’d sent in reply to the photocopied IOU. The tinny strains of a lively nineties dance number, by a local band that had lasted on the charts for about four minutes her senior year, blared. Nick’s familiar scrawl informing her that he’d see her at the Ambassador, ready to pay up, was at the bottom of the card.

  Thanks to Classmates R Us, she’d finally reconnected with the one man who’d been starring in her personal fantasies for the past ten years.

  She usually had better sense, but she’d realized the day her college reunion invitation had arrived that she’d slipped back into her all-work-and-no-play mode. Of course, there wasn’t any guarantee that this weekend was going to change that.

  Nick could be fat, bald, married or all of the above. Well, if he was, at least she could finally start fantasizing about someone else when she had her next close encounter with her battery-operated, Saturday night date. And if her luck held, she’d find out what she’d done to make Nick Santucci owe her a night of bad-boy sex. Maybe then she’d start living the life she’d put on hold ten years ago to pursue the success and security she had finally achieved.

  The door shuddered and Franny’s familiar knock made her smile, something she’d been doing a lot of since showing up at Karen’s door a few hours ago.

  “Come on in, Fran.”

  Fran, wearing one of her signature no-nonsense pant-suits strode into the room like an Amazon queen. “When are you going to design me something that makes my butt look good?” she asked, waving her hand at the emerald, toga-styled silk sheath wrapped around Bliss, and caught at one shoulder with a matching tie.

  “I’ll make a deal with you. You take enough time off from the think tank to come to New York and get measured, and I’ll make you a dress that will win your butt an award.”

  Fran rolled her eyes and then glanced at the open card Bliss held. “What the hell is the name of that song you keep playing?”

  “I don’t remember,” she lied, and knew she was caught when Fran pinned her with her famous frown.

  “Have you remembered a damn thing about that night?”

  “Not much after Elliot broke up with me. I think there was dancing and green jell-o involved,” she shrugged, “after that, nothing.”

  “So are you here looking for Nick Santucci as a possible Mr. Right? ‘Cause, honey, Mr. Right could be fat, bald or married—and very possibly, all three.”

  Bliss blinked. “It’s scary how much we think alike. And the answer is not just no, but hell no. I think. So, are you not looking for Mr. Right, either?”

  “There’s no such animal,” Fran scoffed. “But I wouldn’t mind a few rounds with Mr. Wrong,” she said, and surprisingly enough, she almost sounded wistful.

  Chapter Two

  The Reunion

  Her hair was still the color of the sun on fire. She wasn’t squinting, so he was betting on contact lenses covering the biggest, greenest eyes he’d ever had the pleasure of locking stares with. But if he had to go with an identifying feature for Bliss Harper, all he would have to do is let his gaze wander down her curvy legs to her high-heeled, sexy-as-hell, come-fuck-me sandals that matched her dress. Nick Santucci would have known those pink-painted toes anywhere.

  Ten years ago, she hadn’t been wearing shoes or much else when he connected with the come-hither glance she’d thrown over her shoulder while in the middle of a striptease. She’d had the frat boys at “Dawg” house, future politicians, every one, panting for more.

  He remembered every roll of her hip for the thirty second glimpse he’d had before the cops arrived, and he’d thrown her over his shoulder like a cave-man, running like hell for the pizza delivery car he’d been driving.

  Bliss had been trouble he couldn’t afford in those days. She’d deserved more than getting stuck with a guy who’s every waking moment had been consumed with keeping his family’s pizza restaurant from going bankrupt.

  He slipped around the outside perimeter of the room, keeping to the darker corners. She was nervous and eager, but she wasn’t drunk, and tonight there wasn’t any reason to ignore any glance she threw his way. Tonight, he was going to end up between her legs. He smiled at the image he’d carried for ten years.

  Bliss gripped her wine glass and scanned the room, concentrating on the dancing couples so she wouldn’t fidget, but the song was ending and she was alone in a corner, looking for a handsome Italian bad-boy with a perpetual five o’clock shadow and a devilish gleam in his dark eyes. Please let them all decide to dance again so I don’t have to explain why I’m standing in a corner, ready to throw up.

  The driving beat of Make Me Come To You, the nineties hit that the band now played, was a less tinny version of the tune that had blared from Nick’s card. What was it with everyone and this damn song? The sounds of tinkling laughter and couples reconnecting after ten years, drifted out onto the dance floor. Her friends would have been beautiful, even if they hadn’t been wearing Bliss Harper originals. Their support didn’t surprise her, but it did bring a lump to her throat. She swallowed hard and scanned the room for the tenth time since arriving.

  Why was Dickie Shotz toasting her, almost reverently from across the room? She didn’t even know him. Someone had mentioned he was a councilman or something to do with city government. She raised her glass, covering her polite confusion with a brief confident smile she hoped said “I’m sure you’re a nice man but I do
n’t want to fuck you”.

  She took a sip of her wine and almost choked when one finger slid up the crack of her silk-covered ass and traced over the tattoo of delicate butterfly wings that very few people knew about.

  Her hand started shaking so badly, if she’d had any more wine in her glass it would have spilled. “Ready to pay up Mr. Santucci?” she asked, without turning around.

  “Tonight, I’m just Nick,” he whispered in her ear, continuing to trace one lacy wing through the slippery fabric, “the man who owes you one night of sweaty, dirty, bad-boy sex.”

  She closed her eyes, letting the deep voice full of dark promises surround her. “Ready when you are,” she said, unable to keep the tremor of excitement out of her voice.

  “I’ve been ready since you sent me a copy of my IOU. Did you get my card?”

  “I’m trying to remember if we danced that night,” she said, mesmerized by his questing finger.

  “You were doing all the dancing. I remember pink toes, pink nipples, a sparkly pink belly ring and this,” he whispered darkly, tracing the butterfly tattoo down. “You were quite a surprise under all those thrift-store clothes. But I think you like surprises. I think you like having secrets.”

  He brushed his lips against the still-tingling skin where his whiskery jaw had rubbed her neck. Something flickered along the edge of her memory, but it was hard to concentrate while his breath warmed her ear and his finger warmed…other places. She let out a long, shuddering sigh. “Have you been analyzing me?”

  “I’m a businessman. I analyze every situation and come up with the most viable solution.” He chuckled and the vibration fluttered through her.

  “And what’s your solution for my particular situation?” she asked, barely breathing while she watched the couples in the middle of the dance floor, and Nick Santucci seduced her in a dark corner where anyone could happen along. She was starting to tingle in places she hadn’t tingled for a long time.

  “That a bad boy is exactly what you need tonight.”

  Just the suggestion of having a bad boy made her panties wet. It always had. “And are you meticulous…with your solutions?”

  “I leave nothing to chance, every option is explored,” he said, tracing winding circles over her ass cheeks. “Sometimes…I have to experiment to be able to take just the right position.” The circles became wider and his warm palm settled on the rounded, silk-covered flesh he’d been teasing. “Especially if a situation is tricky. Say, I don’t have all the information going…in.”

  She rode a wave of pleasure, her eyes drifting closed, his hot breath caressing her ear, when he whispered, “Do you have all the information you need?”

  She turned, slowly, closing the space between them and opened her eyes. “Oh, my,” she breathed, smiling up at him. Same slim, ruggedly handsome devil, with a five-o’clock shadow and the darkest eyes she’d ever wanted to fall into. His suit was some deep shade of gray. There was a name for it but she couldn’t remember. His white shirt was stark against his olive skin—Stop designing for one minute, you idiot! This is the fantasy you’ve been waiting for.

  “Tell me you’re not married,” she said in a rush.

  “Not married, never even close,” he said, discreetly lifting his hand away from her butt to circle her waist and draw her even nearer. “Of course, you do realize that if I were really bad, I wouldn’t tell you the truth.”

  She stiffened, drawing back. He smiled, lifting his ring finger. No telltale tan lines where a ring would be. She relaxed. Leaning into him, she went up on her toes, whispering into his ear, “I have your IOU tucked into my panties. Ready to pay up?”

  He swung her around in a tight circle so that her back was to the crowd on the dance floor. To anyone else they’d look like two old friends sharing a hug, but Bliss squirmed when Nick slid one big, warm hand carefully through the front wrap of her dress, and dipped into the waistband of her panties. She bit her lip and smiled up at his surprise when he found the note and the soft, naked flesh beneath.

  He ran one long finger up her bare slit and she dug her fingers into his arms, holding perfectly still to keep from having a screaming orgasm and ending up a boneless heap on the marble floor of the Ambassador Hotel. His gaze turned molten as he withdrew the IOU from her panties and flicked it open.

  “The terms are vague,” he murmured, scanning it quickly. “But I don’t see a problem with negotiating as the evening progresses,” he said, his breath hitching just enough to make her smile.

  Chapter Three

  Bliss leaned against the headrest of the classic, red Cadillac convertible, and gave herself up to the enjoyment of letting Nick take control. The interior was pristine, all smooth, ivory leather, cool against her bare legs and shoulder, directly contrasting with the heat generated by one very confident male who handled the car with a lover’s deft caress. She could almost feel his big masculine hands skimming her breasts.

  She squeezed her thighs together, trying to contain her excitement. If he didn’t get to where they were going soon, she was going to leave a wet spot on the leather interior.

  “So,” he said; his voice as warm and liquid as the night. “Do you know where you are yet?”

  The landscape had changed from town to slightly more suburban, but she could still see the interstate. Ahead was a jagged row of flashing, neon signs that would have been tacky if the whole retro movement hadn’t been so popular. She squinted because her contacts were drying out and shook her head.

  His glance was incredulous. “Don’t tell me you never visited the Hideaway Motel.”

  “Elliot was too cheap to spring for a motel. Or maybe he really didn’t want anyone to find out he was fucking someone who wasn’t debutante of the year,” she shrugged, and caught his grimace out of the corner of her eye. “Seriously, we’re going to the Hideaway? I’ve always wanted to see the inside of that place,” she murmured, her excitement gathering like a small internal storm.

  She hadn’t intended to bring up Elliot’s name; it just went with the territory Nick seemed to want to explore. He lost his grimace, pulling into the asphalt parking lot of a one-story, U-shaped structure. It didn’t scream tacky as much on closer inspection, it sort of whispered… illicit. The word made her toes curl.

  “This place is jumping,” she said, sliding her glance around the full parking lot as he eased the Caddy into a slot in the belly of the U.

  “Friday night, date night.”

  “Date night?”

  His mouth twitched. “Theme nights have improved business. Old Harlan got himself a designer to… redecorate the rooms.

  “Do they rent by the hour or the night?” she asked, offering him a sly smile.

  He leaned across the seat until he was inches from her lips. “Elliot Gardner was an idiot,” he said, before he gripped the back of her head and kissed her deeply, thoroughly. He tasted faintly of scotch and sin, if sin came bottled with delicious, velvety chocolate undertones.

  “We’re pre-registered, and we have all night,” he whispered, sliding away from her to open his door.

  She almost checked the seat for a wet spot when he helped her out of the car, but she was too busy imagining what was underneath the white dress shirt and charcoal pin-stripe suit that someone had tailored with surgical precision to Nick’s long lean muscles. It kept her quiet until he opened the door to their room.

  The shiny, chrome stripper pole, centered on a miniscule stage and tucked into a corner of the room under a canopy of soft lights took her breath away—for all of the thirty seconds it took her to notice the king-sized bed, covered in purple satin that sat angled toward it. Two matching lengths of satin cord hung suspended from the iron grillwork inside the arched wooden headboard, and through a small doorway she could see a sunken tub the size of a small pool. Her nipples actually puckered, and that hadn’t happened in quite a while.

  “I’d say Harlan knows his customers,” she said, her gaze fixed on satin ties the color of a ripe eggplant. S
he licked her lips, and didn’t bother to suppress a delicious shiver as she inspected the room more thoroughly and Nick closed the door behind them.

  She stepped onto the stage, and ten years fell away with one come-hither smile as she wrapped a hand around the cool metal pole. “Are you going to dance for me, Nick?”

  His mouth went dry. Under the spotlights her pale skin glowed against her silky dress, sparkling like a jewel, as she glanced over one round, perfect shoulder. He raised his hand to the knot in his tie, threading his fingers through it and drawing it open. As he slid it off, he kept his gaze fixed on her hand, imagining that she gripped his cock instead.

  “We’re going to dance together,” he said, kicking off his shoes and starting to unbutton his shirt. This time.

  She lifted her free hand to her shoulder, pulling the ribbon up until it came loose. He held his breath until her fingertips released their grip and the ribbon came undone as her dress fell, draping over her breast, revealing her pouty, pale nipples before it caught on the slope of her curvy ass. His fingers froze on his last shirt button.

  Her breasts were fuller, rounder, more mouth watering than he remembered. A chain was threaded around her waist and through her belly ring, disappearing under her dress until she rotated her hip and all that cool, green silk slid over her curves, landing in a puddle around her painted pink toes.

  As adorable as they were, tonight the delicate gold chain dipping into her lavender lace panties claimed his attention. She slipped her hand beneath them, pushing them off her hips until they slid down her legs and caught around her ankles. He shrugged out of his shirt and jacket in one motion, ripping at the cuffs he’d forgotten to unbutton.