Stuck: A Secrets and Lies prequel, Booth, Ainsley [phonics story books .txt] 📗

Stuck

A Secrets and Lies prequel

Ainsley Booth

Contents

About This Book

A poem: The sounds I imagine you make

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

About the Author

Other Books by Ainsley Booth

She's not interested in small talk. Or any kind of conversation, and I'm fine with that. So what if I can't stop looking at her? Wondering what if?

Hazel's not into me. End of story. Until a snowstorm traps us in the middle of nowhere, and the night stretches ahead of us. Maybe we can find a game to pass the time. Something secret and special, and limited to one night only.

THE SOUNDS I IMAGINE YOU MAKE

by Aibhlin Moon

A growly burr

A slow fade into exhalation

A groan

A gasp

When I’m on my knees

Or above you, head curved low

Beneath you, shifting

As you pin my arms against the bed

I would love to wring your pleasure

In a thousand ways

As the sounds I imagine you make

Get me every time

Chapter 1

Hazel

I’m the last to board the business class car at the front of the train. After carefully stowing my carry-on, I make my way down the car, looking for my seat.

I should have a seat to myself. I always do.

Every trip, apparently, except this one.

I silently groan as I realize I’m in a backwards-facing seat—fine—across from someone else.

Less fine. I don’t want to share my table.

I see a dark head of hair. Masculine hair, as much as one can anticipate that sort of thing. The long leg and big arm overflowing the generous seat is a good warning sign, too. Some slick businessman, it looks like, taking up far too much space in what was going to be my writing cocoon for the next four hours.

Well, I hope he likes silence, because I’m going to ignore the fuck out of him.

He doesn’t look up as I move past and dump my messenger bag on my seat. Coat off, computer out.

And it’s because I have that emotional armour up—I’m focused on ignoring my seatmate and getting my work done—that when I sit down, and his dark gaze locks on my face with a blazing intensity, I don’t react.

We’re strangers. I owe him nothing. In the spirit of the season, I flash a polite but dismissing smile and take my seat.

Headphones up and on. Plug in the cord. Open the computer.

I ignore the weird hiccup in my pulse. Ignore the man, and his searing gaze, which he’s now thankfully dropped.

(Okay, I only know this because I looked up again. For a split-second. Curiosity will kill me as surely as it killed the cat.)

I’m not sure what I’m feeling right now. Deja vu, but not really. A weird disconnect because I’d filled in a generic proto-man as my seatmate when I saw the suit, the arm and leg taking up too much space, the roughly slicked-back, sharply side-parted haircut.

You noticed a lot about his hair. More than I’d realized, and something in my belly quivers.

His haircut doesn’t matter.

His face, his gaze, that unsettling sizzle—none of it matters.

I open my files and give myself a goal. Three more revisions before the porter comes around with the first round of drinks. Then I can close this project and free-scrawl anything I want for my blog. Write drunk, edit sober—advice not meant to be taken literally, but it’s never steered me wrong.

But the words on the screen swim in front of my eyes.

It takes a painfully long stretch of time to get into my task. Two glasses of red wine help with my concentration. Help to slow down my racing pulse and finally, thankfully, crystallize my attention.

An hour later my revisions are done. It’s not the best work I’ve ever done, but it’s entertaining and hot. Good enough. I fire the document off to my editor with a note that I’ll be out of the office for the next four days and would be happy not to get it back for the final pass until after the new year.

Then I sneak a quick glance across the table. At him. He’s still buried in his phone. His hair is ridiculous. He probably spends more on his cuts than I do mine.

When was the last time you got your hair trimmed?

I can’t remember, actually. So he definitely does spend more than I do.

His suit looks expensive. So do his shoes, his tie… I’d rather imagine him in jeans. Fitted ones that hug his thighs. A Henley with the sleeves rolled up, revealing his forearms. Corded, tan from time in the sun. A light dusting of dark hair that looks soft and feels softer.

I can’t help it.

This is what I do. I see people and they turn into sex in my head. It was only in the last few years that I figured out I could actually do something with the super dirty vignettes that form unbidden in my mind.

Jeans, a rolled up shirt. That burning gaze—there’s a lot to work with there.

No words, no explanations. Just a hot sex scene set to a dirty, thuddy beat.

I change the music I’m listening to through my headphones. “No Roots” by Alice Merton works.

We’re in a dance club, yelling over the music, and then, when that proves frustrating, Mr. Searing Gaze takes me—no, not me—takes my character by the hand—no, the wrist, his fingers hot and firm as they manacle around her flesh—and leads her to a nook off a dark hallway.

It’s still too loud to be heard, but that’s not his goal.

He asks with his body—can he touch her? Should he kiss her?

Yes. No. Do it anyway. She leans in anyway and gives him her mouth, her legs, a grind of her sex. He finds her waist, then higher. Her breasts. Her nipples, and then—

The train slows to a halt. I lift my hands off the keyboard, the fantasy word blitz temporarily pausing.

I glance out the window, but there’s nothing to be seen. No lights, no town. No stop was announced, and we’re only an hour and a half outside of