Five for Friday – Copping a Feel

Five for Friday time. Ready?

Chapter One

Newcastle, Australia

 

Darci Whitlam stared at the handset of her phone like it had grown a set of arms and was trying to feel her up. Well, not feel her up as such, but grab her nipples through her t-shirt and bra and twist them until she cried uncle. What the hell had she just heard?

Her frown pulling hard at her eyebrows, she returned the handset to her ears and said, “Excuse me?”

“I want to bend you over the sofa and pump your sweet, tight cunt full of my hot cum.”

Darci blinked. “Umm, yeah, that’s what I thought you said.”

Face igniting in red heat, she clunked the handset of her phone back in its cradle and chewed on her bottom lip. Bloody hell, that was the third dirty phone call she’d had this morning! Each from a different man, each describing in great detail what the caller wanted to do to her. What the hell was going on?

Turning back to the phone, she picked up the handset and stared at it.

It’s not going to give you the answer, Darci.

That was true, but she had to do something. For starters, find out why three men thought she, Darci-Rae Whitlam, an unassuming high school English teacher in a small city on the East Coast of Australia, was, in fact, a telephone sex worker. How the hell did they get her private number? Not even the smartest student at school had unearthed that number, and Terry Cahill had been trying since Year Nine.

Shouldn’t you be more worried about how everything that last caller said made you feel?

She pulled a face, dropping the handset back into the cradle once more and blowing at the fringe of her bangs. Probably yes, but two things kept the worry at bay.

A) She was a black belt in Tae Kwon Do and could, if needed, kick some serious ass.

And B) The explicit nature of the phone calls made her, well…kinda horny.

Okay, that’s it. You’re officially insane. This is why Vivian calls you oversexed. You get, let’s face it, a mildly disturbing call and instead of being scared, you’re bloody well excited.

Darci blew into her fringe again, a frustrated exhalation that did nothing except contribute to the unruly mess of curls falling over her forehead. She shouldn’t have thought of her older sister. Whenever she thought of Viv, she got antsy. Viv was the achiever in the family—the famous literary novelist who followed in their father’s famous shoes. Viv had the doting doctor husband, the two med-school-grad children, the well-trained, pedigree King Cavalier Spaniel and the three-story mansion overlooking Sydney Harbor.

Darci, as Viv often pointed out, was a forty-year-old, unmarried high-school teacher who still went out to bars on the weekend, wrestled on the beach with her totally untrained mutt, Jay Jay Jones, ate carbohydrates until they came out her ears, drank beer straight from the bottle and often forgot where she’d left her one tube of lipstick.

Darci also, much to Viv’s dismay and shame, had no qualms about her relationship with Mr. Tibbs, her rabbit (the vibrating variety, not the furry kind) and still enjoyed flirting when given the chance, especially with sexy young men.

Which is why she calls you oversexed. God, if she knew you were getting excited over an obvious case of mistaken identity, she’d throw a pink fit.

With one more huff into her fringe, Darci walked away from the phone. She probably should do something about the calls, but not now. Now she wanted to connect with someone who didn’t care if she flirted with strange—but always handsome—men in bars.

Dropping into the worn comfortable leather recliner tucked under a low reading lamp in the far corner of her living room, Darci woke her laptop and opened iChat. If she was lucky, Rachel would be online. The American knew how to make her laugh and didn’t care one iota if she owned a rabbit. In fact, Darci was pretty damn certain the physical therapist owned one herself.

Rachel, however, wasn’t online, her little Bugs Bunny avatar just a ghosty-gray image in the buddies list, which probably meant Rach was still in bed. Darci pulled a face. “Bum.” She dragged her hands through her hair, which disturbed the curls even more than her earlier melodramatic hyperventilating. She should close her laptop and get to marking assignments. She had a pile the size of Ayres Rock waiting for her, itching at her subconscious, but she just wasn’t in the mood. For starters, the three phone calls this morning were still affecting her and she just felt…unsettled.

Don’t you mean horny?

Rolling her eyes at her own ridiculousness—oh yeah, that’s a polished, elegant word an English teacher should use, Darc—she shut down iChat and opened her email instead. She’d check her inbox, answer what needed to be answered and then give Jay Jay a bath. The pair of them had spent yesterday afternoon surfing and the dog still smelled like a seaweed farm.

“Ah,” she murmured, spying Rachel’s name in the From column. “Talk about freaky.” Wriggling her butt deeper into the recliner, Darci toed off her flip-flops and opened Rachel’s email, the mysterious subject header making her grin—Go here now!

The email opened, and Darci’s eyebrows lifted. Unlike Rachel’s normal emails, which provided lovingly detailed descriptions of what Rach had been up to, what book she was currently reading as well as what hero she was currently in lust with, all info Darci loved to read, this email contained just two things.

A web address.

http://temptthecougar.blogspot.com/

And the words, You’re invited to become a Cougar, Darci. Join us.

Darci frowned. “What the hell?”

Moving her finger over the laptop’s trackpad, she clicked on the link.

And double blinked when a website unlike any she’d been to opened.

“Bloody hell, Rach,” she muttered, her gaze flicking over the various images of very hunky, very naked young men filling her screen. “Where have you sent me?”

She studied the men before her, her pulse quickening. There was text to go with the images, but for the moment it may as well have been ancient Mandarin for all it meant to Darci. What held her attention were the men.

The young men.

She shook her head, unable to drag her stare from her screen. “Oh, my…” Sculpted muscles Michelangelo would have been proud to create defined bodies free of any middle-age spread. Artfully messy hair tumbled over foreheads free of wrinkles, not a gray strand to be seen in the thick, glossy locks. Clear, direct eyes gazed out at her, blue, black, green, hazel. Eyes smoldering with open desire and seduction.

Darci sucked in a sharp breath. “Twenties. Can’t be any older than mid-twenties.”

And so yummy your knickers are growing damper by the second.

The unexpected thought took her by surprise and she sucked in another breath, this one a little less sharp and a little more…ragged. Pulling at her bottom lip with her teeth, Darci read the blog’s header—Tempt The Cougar—and then the first post. She half-frowned, half-grinned at a section of the first paragraph.

 

“…women who dare to take the challenge and experience the delights of sex with a younger man. Women who cast off their cloaks of conventionality and indulge their inner wild woman.

“Stay tuned for updates!”

 

“Oh, Rachel Bridges,” she chuckled, returning her attention to the gorgeous men clearly a decade younger than her. “You bloody naughty girl.”

The last time she and Rachel spoke, she’d mentioned—in passing, mind you—how cute the fresh-out-of-university Phys. Ed. teacher just appointed to her school was. Rachel had giggled, her broad New York accent still evident in the joyful sound, and changed the subject. Until this very moment, Darci thought she’d embarrassed her friend. Now…

She shifted in the recliner, pressing her thighs together in a vain attempt to squelch the growing throb between her legs. The young men on her laptop screen were delicious. She couldn’t think of another word.

Oversexed and now under-vocabbed? What would Viv say?

“For starters, she’d point out there’s no such word as under-vocabbed,” Darci muttered, gazing at one particularly fine young thing with bulging muscles, piercing blues eyes, skin the color of toasted honey and thick, black hair messed-up in such a way her fingers itched to mess it some more. She swallowed, the throb between her legs growing more insistent. Demanding attention.

Closing her eyes, Darci leaned back in her chair, her pussy constricting with impatient want. An image popped into her mind of the dark-haired young man from the site and she let out a soft moan.

Jay Jay was outside gnawing on an old bone. The house was hers alone for a good half hour. All she needed to do was imagine how wonderfully smooth and taut Mr. God I’m Gorgeous’ skin was under her palms, how hard and perfect his biceps were, how sublime the undulations of his abs were beneath her lips and she’d be more than halfway to an orgasm. With a little help from her fingers, she’d be at the moaning destination with some extra mileage thrown in for gasping, heart-hammering fun.

She slid her fingertips under the waistline of her shorts—

And her phone rang.

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!” The exclamation burst from her on a strangled breath. She jolted to her feet, her pulse pounding, her sex thick and heavy with expectation. Hurrying to the phone, she snatched it from its cradle and rammed it to her ear. “What?”

“Is that the thanks I get, Ms. Whitlam?” Rachel’s accented chuckle slipped through the connection and Darci bit back a curse. “Or have I interrupted something?”

“Ha,” she shot back, fighting to get her heart rate back under control. At her age, she couldn’t afford to get too excited.

God, now you sound like Viv. What the hell is wrong with you, Darci? You’re forty, not eighty.

“Ha?” Rachel echoed, her voice slightly tinny with the miles between them. “That’s it? Where’s the sarcastic Australian wit I know and love so much?”

“Busy.” Darci shot her still-open laptop a quick look, a pang of disappointment stabbing into her core at the sight of her screensaver activating. She caught a fraction-of-a-microsecond glimpse of her man, with his sculpted muscles and piercing eyes, and then an image of Jay Jay jumping into the surf after a seagull filled her screen and she let out a frustrated sigh. “Sorry, Rach,” she said, turning her back on her laptop to give her American friend her full concentration. “That wasn’t nice of me.”

Rachel laughed, the sound throaty and infectious. “I recognize that tone, Darci-Rae. You have received my email, haven’t you?”

Darci rolled her eyes. “Bloody hell, am I really that much of a deviant? What made you think I—”

“Because I did almost the very same thing when Cam first sent me the link.” Rachel laughed again. “It’s okay, hon. There’s nothing wrong with tending to your needs. Especially when the view is oh so fine.”

Darci suppressed a snort. Rachel was a true wordsmith. She’d love to see her uptight sister have a conversation with the New Yorker. “The view was very fine indeed,” she admitted, feeling her cheeks heat. Blushing? For the second time in one morning? There really was something wrong with her.

Rachel burst out laughing. Really laughing. If Darci didn’t know it was physically and geographically impossible, she’d have sworn she felt the planet shaking with Rachel’s mirth. “I knew it! Aren’t they gorgeous? Tell me, which one took your fancy?”

Darci dropped to the floor and stretched out on her back, crossing her ankles on the edge of the phone table. “Black hair, the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen, a body so divinely perfect it must be illegal and shoulders so broad I doubt he’d fit through my door.”

“Ah,” Rachel answered. “Rico. Yeah, he was Monica’s favorite too.”

Darci rolled her eyes. Rico. Of course. What were the odds she’d fall in depraved lust with someone called George or James or…or…Jim? None.

Oversexed, under-vocabbed and now exotically clichéd? Viv’s sniffed voice whispered through Darci’s head. Where will all this end, sister of mine?

“In the bedroom with Mr. Tibbs. Now shut up.”

“What?”

Rachel’s laughing question made Darci blink and she slapped a palm to her face. Damn it, she’d said that aloud?

“Sorry, Rach,” she hurried, dropping her ankles from the table and pulling herself into a sitting position. Who was she kidding? Lying on the floor? Like a teenager?

“Is that your absent sister you’re talking to, Darc?”

Rachel’s question tickled at her ear through the connection, the American’s obvious enjoyment at the situation turning each word to a husky chuckle. She let out a sigh, giving her laptop a lingering look. Images of Jay Jay running about on the beach slowly scrolled over the screen, hiding from view the delightful Rico and his young, firm, entirely too-desirable body.

And that’s the way it has to stay, Darci Whitlam. Fantasies are all well and good, but you have to live in reality.

She pulled a face. “How is it you know me better than my own flesh and blood, Rach,” she began, crossing her legs, “and yet we’ve never met? Are you stalking me?”

Rachel laughed again. “Stalking? No. Giving you a kick up the— How do you Aussies put it? Aah-ss, yes.”

“A kick up the arse?” Darci’s eyebrows rose. “About what?”

“There’s a reason I sent you the invite to join the blog, Ms. Whitlam,” Rachel answered, and for a second Darci swore she could hear something close to pride in her friend’s voice. “It’s time I laid down a challenge.”

Darci’s eyebrows shot up higher. “A challenge?”

“You are one of the most flippant, unconventional women I know, Darci-Rae. You have multiple degrees in literature and yet you devour erotic romances and pulp horror books like they’re becoming extinct. You look like a model and wear jeans tighter than a teenager, you can probably kick anyone’s ass and still have enough breath left to sing an opera—but you’re afraid to live.”

Before Darci could respond to the ludicrous statement, Rachel continued, her American accent broader with each word. “The shadow of your famous family keeps you trapped in the dark; the voice of your older sister prevents you truly going after what you long to experience and it’s about freakin’ time someone did something about it. I’ve decided that someone is me. So here’s the challenge, Darci. As of this very moment—three a.m. New York time—you are on the hunt. I dare youto find yourself a younger man and live the fuck out of every fantasy you’ve ever had and be damned what Vivian thinks.

***
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