Owner Operator of Intellectual Property and Copyrighted Materials
IGNITED BONES
J. Z. LUCIANO
A MILITARY ROMANTIC SUSPENSE
Copyrights & Intellectual Properties
Belong Solely to The Author: Ms. J. Z. Luciano. 2020. All rights reserved. Published in the United States of America.
SPECIAL THANKS TO
Mr. Brian Carpenter
Mr. Carpenter is the cover model of this novel. He is a former Chippendale Entertainer and Fitness Guru to The Stars.
Photography by Sean Khalil.
PROLOGUE
In the movie, A Dangerous Method, Dr. Carl Gustav Jung said it best to one of his most famous and infamous mistresses, Sabina Spielrien: “Sometimes, you have to do an unforgivable thing, just to go on living.”
Sable-Ann literally burned into her very being, Jung’s words, ideologies, and all that went along with it. She could not help it. This former soldier and veteran was the consummate commitment-phobe and emotional existentialist. Sable-Ann only trusted that which she felt she could control. Combine that with being an incurable romantic to her ideologies and convictions, and it made her an exceedingly difficult and complicated woman. Not only that, Sable-Ann possessed a credulous belief in the promises and vows of gentlemen of chivalry and due diligence, which makes the beauty a hard-ass libertine and lover!
Moreover, when it came to duty, honor, and all things promised, she placed very heavy tariffs upon the gentlemen who made promises to her and considered their word an iron bond between them. She held these bonds in the highest regard. They signaled the high bars and benchmarks of her rapport with such men.
The bonded words of two such gentlemen had marked her belief, intimacy, and love for them. Their promises, once spoken, became chiseled on her very spirit with chivalry, valor, and unsurpassed faith!
However, most of the time, destiny and fate can be extremely fickle and feckless. Major Glen and Lord Foxington’s unpredictable personalities challenged Sable-Ann’s credulity and core values in the likes of the duel between Burr and Hamilton. This cast their sacred covenant into an intrinsic and intimate vicious cycle the trio of primal emancipators had yet to experience. Thus, consuming all that they cherished socially, emotionally, and psychologically into the possibility of burning cinders. Who would end up slaying whom is the question lingering in the very air around this trio!
PART I
The Mercilessness of Duty, Lust, and PTSD.
Aviano, Italia. 2015.
1
OPERATION MOONLIGHT
Under a crisp, cold night sky filled with twinkling, endless stars, American and Russian military aircrafts were locked in a blazing firefight over the Italian Alps. In the midst of it was the prize: a medevac helicopter packed to the nines with wounded Dark Ops members and three dead soldiers. Of the dead were Master Sergeant Graves, Colonel Paché, and Lieutenant McDaniel.
The mission, dubbed as Operation Moonlight, was anything but routine. Still, the Russian attack came as a surprise. Two American Blackhawk gunships had been assigned to protect the medevac copter’s precious cargo as the convoy surged hard over the Alps from the war-torn country of Bosnia. The pilots had been aiming toward their designated landing zones, or LZs, just over the mountains in Italy. And as the convoy entered Allied airspace, hellfire erupted behind them. Seven or eight Russian bogies were now hard on their tail.
Sergeant First Class Haskell bit down hard on an unlit cigarette as he watched the action from his gunship. Enemy fire had forced his pilot to veer off toward the snow-laden foot of the Alps in an evasive maneuver. SFC Haskell scowled at the Russian fighter jets zipping around the snow-capped mountain peak, leaving his Blackhawk no opening to re-engage the enemy. A bitter realization roiled in his gut: Operation Moonlight was dissolving into one full-blown clusterfuck! This whole mission was spinning out of control. He was slightly relieved when noted that two more gunships from his team’s base at Aviano had joined the fight, but with so many enemy aircraft involved, his boys soon were on the run.
There was a spot of good fortune, though an early morning mist rose from the frozen alpine expanses, providing an extra blanket of cover to conceal his forces. Timing and cover, at that point, were needed.
Despite this small advantage, Haskell saw that the enemy ships were spreading out into a threatening attack formation. The threat matrix level was now elevated, even further. Time to kill or be killed, so to speak!
However, the skies became too crowded for him to maneuver. Other Allied gunships rose up to join the fray! The Russian attack had triggered an alert that spread across European comms like a viral video, sending Allied military assets on the ground into scramble mode. Their F-22 fighter jets swarmed up from the cramped valley below. They were in hot pursuit!
The deadly Russian planes that targeted the medevac tried to slide in for the kill, and the skies around them lit up like the goddamn Fourth of July! The predatory drones of the Allies had fully engaged and proceeded to pick off the enemy threats with simultaneous direct hits.
Boom, Boom, Boom!
Those damn drones were not fucking playing—not one bit!
Though their F-22 escorts were giving his convoy cover and quarter, Haskell still itched to join in the gunfight. He barked an order to his pilot to engage and moved toward the sliding door at the rear of the Blackhawk. Haskell casually flipped the safety off, arming his AR-15.
The enemy was so close, he could almost feel the pilot’s hot breath on his cheek. Not only did Haskell feel alive, he was hungry to feel the rush of exhilaration from the enemy engagement. The massive hard-on pressing against the zipper of his pants was living proof of this. It would not be over for him until his feet hit solid ground.
The sergeant’s mind was laser-focused on all kinds of things: the firefighters, their forces, and Major Glen—the mission’s commander and team leader. The last thing SFC Haskell and Major Glen needed right now was a failed mission. Haskell burned at the thought of everything that’s transpired up to that point in time. This mission has gone to hell in a handbasket! It should have been a fucking cakewalk. How the hell did they blow it? The engagement had begun to fall apart under a barrage of bullets and guerilla warfare!
Despite the onset hailing of bullets, the closely guarded medevac ship was afforded the opportunity to descend towards the awaiting medical teams and designated hangers set to the military left of Haskell’s gunship on the tarmac below. It was imperative that the ship, its wounded and the dead, made it safely to their appropriate handlers and medical responders, whether or not this mission was a clusterfuck!
Damnation!
2
MAJOR REPERCUSSIONS
On the ground, the retreating American ships were descending to their landing zones. Major Glen’s Blackhawk reached the LZ and hit the damn tarmac at top speed. Haskell’s gunship came in hot behind Major Glen’s.
As their team members climbed out of their ships, stark bewilderment and awe etched their faces. Major Glen and his men would have no time to unwind from the skirmish before the shit hit the proverbial fan because the so-called “alphabet boys” of the NSA, CIA, and DHS were waiting to take Major Glen’s report in a hangar to the left of their LZ. The hangar to their right held designated military brass awaiting the other members of the team. No commander wished to end a mission this way, facing bristling officials who were glaring at them with eyes like bayonets ready to puncture flesh. Shit just got real!
Once the other team members were out of their gunships, they were hustled toward the opposite hangar to be debriefed and handled according to protocol. Meanwhile, Major Glen and SFC Haskell hurried toward a motorcade of black bulletproof vehicles waiting on standby with motors running and ready to roll out. The mission’s handler, Mr. Eaves, came rushing across the tarmac. The tension showing in Mr. E’s face told them their instincts were on point. Mr. Eaves could not afford any more screw-ups on his watch. Timing and execution were of the utmost importance.
Shortly before this meeting, Eaves had received a hand-carried order from the office of the Defense Secretary. The DEFSEC office demanded answers from Mr. E and the sources on the ground. The combatants possessed intel that was priceless to national security concerns. However, the DEFSEC’s order drove home the point that it was of the highest priority and urgency to get the Major and his E-7 debriefed and stateside, immediately! Someone would have to answer for this clusterfuck.
Straight away, Mr. Eaves handed the Major and his right-hand man their respective packets. Then, as if it was already too late to have second thoughts, he rushed the two Rangers to the motorcade. Haskell led the way with the Major following behind. Deep within the Major’s bloodshot eyes were guarded uncertainties. The officer and gentleman searched his mind for a logical explanation of what the hell had gone so batshit crazy on this mission.
Mr. Eaves ushered the two men into their vehicles, and off they went. On the way, SFC Haskell fired off a text to his team leader:
“Mr. E sure was wound tight as a damn drum.”
Major Glen texted back: “Don’t forget, our failure is his failure.”
A flurry of texts from SFC Haskell ensued.
“After our ass-chewing… U need 2 get the fuck out of dodge with a quickness, Sir.”
“Don’t take your ass to that fed-up, soon-to-be ex-wife of yours. Go to HER!”
“You know exactly who I am talking about, commander.”
There was a short pause, but only for a few seconds before Haskell resumed sending his flummoxing text messages.
“Sir, what the fuck?”
“U know who… Ms. Sable!”
Haskell suddenly felt a bit uncomfortable. He fired off another text to his commander: “U need her to fix your damn brain, sir. Forgive me 4 saying these things so imprudently, but it’s pertinent that I do so!”
“Get right w/ this bitch or get her out of your head & life 4 good!” “Fix this M-Fing clusterfuck in your mind right the hell now! Son, I was where U R now, emotionally & mentally. Trust my advice. This shit’s in dire need of fixing…ASAP!”
“Contact me if U need an assist.”
Haskell’s chin dropped. He shook his head and softly pounded it against the windows of the SUV. The ranger and soldier within him could not believe he had just said those words of insubordination to his team commander. Yet, he did that because those were words that needed saying! Haskell both respected and dearly loved Major Glen. He would execute what needed to be done or said for his sake. Any regrets, if any at all, would have to come later.
Stealthily, SFC Haskell concealed his dismay for his battle buddy and trusted agent. He shut his private cell phone, then tapped it with very nervous fingers. A second or two later, the Sergeant reopened it. It was now or never—he needed to drive his point across.
“Iron Eagle Obama’s administration walks quietly but carries big fucking sticks!”
“Somebody’s ass gets to be hung out to dry & taught the lesson…let it not be ours!”
“They gave us some really bad intel on this one…and at too high of a cost!”
“No-Drama Obama’s admin has zero-tolerance 4 failures!”
“Get going the moment U get this fucking debrief packet from hell!”
Haskell closed his phone just in a nick of time. The forward movement never took a second to breathe. Its goal was simply to go on and keep in step with its forward movement until the Major and his trusted agent were debriefed and at stateside.
Major Glen read the text stream from Haskell twice before hitting the ground. As his eyes took in every word, his jawline hardened in complete dismay. He knew Haskell was speaking the truth he did not want to hear. He absorbed every single word of his trusted agent and confidant with due care and respect.
This revelation by SFC Haskell was a gut-wrenching truth he needed to face. Haskell’s words were not so much of a warning as it was a sounding of alarms! The commander within Major Glen knew instinctively that he had but one recourse: Comply with the Sergeant’s directives.
“Copy that! Copy that…I mean it!” His response to SFC Haskell’s texts was simple and to the point. “I have no illusions about the facts, Haskell.”
Finally, the motorcade reached the rock and roll jet waiting in the midst of all the chaos and firefights. There were men in black everywhere. When Mr. Eaves exited the vehicle first, he was immediately covered by a dozen Secret Service and military protection detail dressed in full protective gear. They formed a cocoon of flak jackets and state-of-the-art armor that enclosed Mr. E’s tall, lean body, which was folded over in a protective stance.
Mr. Eaves moved like a bat out of hell with his protection in tow. Four Seal types emerged from the black SUVs and swiftly flanked Major Glen from both sides. DEFSEC considered Glen and Haskell high-priority packages now, so protecting them was a given. However, their cover was tighter now than it had ever been on previous missions. Nothing would be left to chance before the major and Haskell made it safely to stateside safe and sound.
SFC Haskell swiftly placed another unlit cigarette into his mouth, whilst simultaneously cocking it to the right side. Next, he followed directly behind the major in a tight configuration up the stairs of the waiting jet. He always protected Bobby-Glen, no matter what and no matter where. Haskell was an older and far more seasoned asset due to his training in the British Secret Service; he could read the tea leaves of this mission like no other. He kept the major on his toes as much as possible. But getting into his brain…that was a whole different issue. Still, he had the major’s back, as always. He would not let him go down without a good fight.
Finally, the DEFSEC detail made it inside the military jet safe and sound. After securing themselves into the posh leather seats, the pilots turned on all the necessary bells and whistles. Before Haskell and Major Glen could take in a good deep breath, their rock and roll jet surged into the air like they were on liftoff to the moon!
The gravity of this mission’s failure began to sink even deeper into both men. The weight of this realization clawed at the gentlemen’s brains like a monstrous hangover. What a crazy and massive clusterfuck!
Major Glen’s head was filled with all kinds of doubt and apprehension. Total no-go, as far as he was concerned. He needed to level up his A-game to regain some sense of responsibility and control of the former mission’s state of play. Suddenly, everything cleared up like a shot in the arm. Mentally and psychologically, Major Glen recognized and owned up to his share of the task.
Slowly, yet firmly, Major Glen ripped open his packet. Before reading it, he wiped the moisture from his brow and forced himself into a calmer and more steadied demeanor. What in hell was this packet going to relay to him? Was the commander’s anxious and lamented thought.
Operation Moonlight is NOT closed! Proceed to your preferred and designated safe house until further notice.
Seeing these words caused Major Glen to grip the paper hard, crumpling the edge, in utter excitement and anxiousness. The words dead center on the first page of both their debriefs and summaries were simple and to the point. It would be the opportunity his team needed to even the scores of their lost comrades. Damnation!
3
THE LAYOVER
At that moment, thousands of miles away at Chicago O’Hare International Airport, Sable-Ann sat in the Admiral Sky Club, feeling trapped and frustrated by a long layover. Her flight was delayed due to inclement weather and mechanical difficulties. Sable-Ann tossed her baggage into the special holding area and scowled. Will I even survive this time? The question danced around in her head like a mischievous child baiting its parent to get attention.
Her entire business trip had been plagued by one issue after the other. Two lucrative business deals had gone completely awry, threatening to shatter Sable-Ann’s cool and calm demeanor into pieces. She needed to pull herself together and put the lost deals into perspective.
The Admiral Sky Club, however, would be a very welcome reprieve. Admiral O’Hare, one of American Airlines’ most high-tech, posh, and sumptuous sky clubs around, offered libations, food, and a calming atmosphere. Its private business spaces were enclosed with high-backed leather seats and huge desk areas. Every executive amenity its members could dream of was placed at their fingertips. Open seating areas featured views of the airfield through the club’s floor-to-ceiling windows. Huge flat-screen televisions kept club members abreast of all flight times with the latest stock market statistics, and news from around the world in real-time. However, the main attractions, as always, were the club’s two well-stocked and professionally managed bars and its dining areas. The bar seating was comfortable and stylish with tall seats featuring leather upholstery and comfy high backs. The club’s bartenders were truly the friendliest bunch Sable has ever met.
Sable-Ann could not wait to place her last call and close her laptop for the duration of her trip. After securing her phone, laptop, and business tablet, Sable-Ann was finally ready for a hearty drink. She waltzed over to a very crowded bar area. On her way in, Sable-Ann idly surveyed the crowd of business travelers. The bar was full of shark-suit types. She noticed that several of them watched her as she sidled up to the bar to place an order. Clearly, there was about to be some serious shark hunting in there, and Sable-Ann was the prey. She could not help hiding a smirk riddled with cynicism.
Ahead of her are three handsome execs who looked like the perfect corporate great-white shark types. Two of them appeared to be in their middle-aged glory with their salt-and-pepper threads combed back. The third gentleman seemed much younger, at least from the back. When one of his friends said something to him, Sable-Ann caught the mellow tones of a British accent in his reply. The bartender mixed their cocktails and set them up. The preoccupied execs who were sipping their drinks with satisfaction, turned and walked past her as they began making their way over to an empty table on the other side of the crowded bar.
Halfway across the room, the hot young gentleman suddenly stopped in his tracks and did a full about-face to take in the spectacle that was Sable-Ann. She had to laugh at his delayed double-take. From there, she could see that a rosy blush was covering his cheeks. Suddenly, for whatever reason, the impressed gentleman turned to gawk back at her, his smile filled with beguilement and naughty charm. The gentleman’s eyes complemented his Armani shark suit. His gaze had the same cold glint as a great white shark going in for the kill. His firm, sexy physique broadcasts the fact that he was a total workout buff. No one could tell him he was a horse’s patootie because his confidence radiated all over that sky club and bar. What a rake, sexy-ass son of a bitch!
Sable-Ann did not mind the visual this fine male specimen presented, but still, she couldn’t care less. She was at the bar, entirely in her element. Sable-Ann was with her tribe in this world of shark-suit executives. Handling shark types in their shark suits was a way of life for many female execs. Why the hell would this son of a so-and-so be any different, sexy as hell or not?
Besides, he did have an alluring charm about him that was both calming and uncanny. Most likely it was the British accent and his Carpenter B cologne. Sable-Ann would know that scent anywhere! Its musky notes teased her fancy, taunting the hairs of her nostrils. Rake or not, the young gentleman provided a great deal of sex appeal and attraction—a very welcome and needed distraction.
Just as Sable-Ann was toying with the notion of strolling over to ask the gentleman’s name, the bartender interrupted her thoughts. She gave him her drink order and turned back to see the sexy exec waving off his friends, before taking a step in her direction. She knew the pretentious young fellow was preparing to slip into her personal space, just as stealthy as ever.
“What a fucking snake,” Sable-Ann joyfully murmured under her breath. She would have to make him work for his prize. Sable-Ann turned and walked away, making him think she was retreating from his advances. After scanning the area, she found a couple of empty seats at the end of the bar. Sable-Ann slid her remarkably clever and savvy ass onto the leather seat of a barstool and crossed her lusciously long legs with studied sensual grace.
It was the signal the gentleman was looking for. In the few seconds it took him to work his way toward her, that shark of an exec undressed her with his eyes. Though Sable noticed, she chose to hide her discovery from the handsome executive. She found him quite funny and predictable. Plus, those pinstriped Armani trousers indicated that she had snared a very virile and blessed cheeky bloke.
The coy executive winked as he shot Sable-Ann another smile. His interest began to build rackingly. Sable-Ann felt his appreciation as her white silk Oscar de la Renta blouse was beginning to cling to her softly moist skin like a boa constrictor. She knew her tall, voluptuous silhouette only added to the erotic pomp and circumstance of the moment, and she relished it. The rapid rise and fall of Sable-Ann’s bosom was a dead giveaway. Even so, she really did not care. Her brain was focused on a reprieve from her disrupted journey. This sexy and cheeky bloke would offer her a most welcome sidebar. Plus, when it came to executive types such as him, her thoughts were remarkably simple and to the point: Whatever is good for the gander is great for the goose!
She was seriously aroused underneath that calm and flirty demeanor of hers. But Sable-Ann was an old-school game player who remained calm on the surface and maintained a poker face. Unbeknownst to the poor fella, she was a Barbarian at the Gate in her own right, totally feeling herself and the power of her allure. This poor, clueless boy really needed to watch out, because underneath her beautiful exterior was a fucking venomous viper, poised to strike at will… and strike at her will, she would!
Glowing with confidence, the charming young executive murmured a hello. He was nearly salivating at the mouth as he took in the sight before him. Sable-Ann looked deeply into his fiery hazel-green eyes with his pupils expanding when their gaze locked. He could not look away from the piercing gaze of her chocolate-diamond eyes.
Coquettishly, Sable-Ann lowered her lashes as she stirred her drink, liberating the gentleman’s intrusive, protuberant beam. By doing so, she afforded the tenacious exec to use his eyes to scrutinize her voluptuous silhouette and demeanor—a power move of her own right. When she looked up, he was exposed; obviously, he was trying to sneak inconspicuous peeks at her dusky, robust bosom. She smiled as he caught himself.
“May I join you?” he asked hopefully. Sable-Ann gave a slight nod toward the seat beside her. He removed his suit jacket and placed it gently on the back of his chair, but he did not sit down. Like any other shark type, he was merely marking his territory. This was a total old-school playboy move, at the very least. The gentleman was not about to graciously relinquish her attention, not in a million. Or so he thought!
The lady said not a word as she arched her left eyebrow and pursed her lips in approval. Of course, the gentleman’s male member would be as hard as a fucking poker! Is he even a man if a woman as beautiful as Sable-Ann didn’t turn him on? His fiery eyes were glazed over with intrigue and capriciousness. She knew he was thinking all types of scandalously scathing thoughts—most of which revolved around her.
“Mmm-hmmm…” Sable purred softly, just enough for the gentleman’s ear to catch the cynical gesture.
“Well now,” he remarked with his deep British accent and that old rake of a glint in his eyes.
Sable leaned back on her seat as she looked at the gentleman up and down with discretion. Her feet wanted to turn back flips. They ached so badly from those four-inch Jimmy Choo come-fuck-me pumps!
“Beautiful,” the exec murmured as he attempted to kiss the back of Sable-Ann’s hand. She pulled it back, then rested it gently on his chest. Most men would have seen this as a woman’s surrender. But Sable-Ann was totally old school. The move by the lady was a control move. By pressing her hand onto his chest, he could invade her space no farther than the boundary of her hand’s permissiveness. Talk about sneaky! It was very strategic and coy of her. But he was lost in the game so deeply that he never noticed her clever move.
The gentleman simply kept moving his lips, along with his hopeful agenda. At that point, Sable-Ann knew the privy of her personal space was secure, and at readiness status, a total warrior-woman tactic.
“Provided that you don’t mind, beautiful…” His sweet words dripped off his lips like honey. Sable-Ann knew he was up to no damn good.
“My name is Allen, with an E. And you are?” He shot Sable-Ann a gaze that nearly penetrated her smoldering, rich mocha skin. It’s as if he were attempting to see through the beauty’s mink-collared Jones New York power suit with the pinstriped skirt that embraced her hips like a possessive lover. She did not mind the perverse gesture. It was one of those welcomed flirts that many traveling female execs adored.
They often played off such overt advances, for their fellow feminists at large. However, they adored and welcomed such brazened flintiness like combative titans no matter how contradictory this may appear or sound. It was a female exec thing. What else could one expect from a woman like Sable-Ann? She only trusted that which she felt she could control.
No matter how tacky his approach was, he was totally harmless. Sable-Ann noticed via her peripheral vision that the two older execs he was with were heading over to her end of the bar. Sable-Ann could not help but note that the taller, much older member of the trio was the most poised of the three gentlemen and far more statuesque. Hell, he was in her direct LOS, or line of sight! However, out of courtesy, she chose to focus on the flirty moves from Mr. Allen, whilst sneaking glances at the tall exec, here and there. Not a surprise coming from a coy and clever bitch. She applied her totally old-school moves!
Sable-Ann could not quite put her finger on it, at the time, but there was something distinct and familiar about the tall, statuesque gentleman. But as to what it was, she had not a damn clue. Plus, her increasing level of arousal was affecting her ability to concentrate on the situation without distraction. Mr. Allen may have been a little too energetic for her liking, but she had to admit, he was attractive as hell. Plus, she was a sucker for the British accent.
Sable’s attention was occupied for the moment. However, she did not need to worry her pretty little flirty head, because soon, all her questions and curiosities were about to be met and satisfied. Some pretty importune fortunes were about to unfold in that damn sky club! Who the hell would have ever thought it? Not Sable-Ann, that’s for sure!
4
SKY CLUBS AND LADIES
Finally, the mystery executive turned himself around slowly, exposing his full-frontal plane and identity. Sable-Ann’s jaw nearly dropped to the floor. No fucking way… she thought to herself. It cannot be him again! Her complimentary glass of sparkling water spilled into her lap. She was startled, as though she had been hit by a bolt of lightning, straight through her chest! Stunned and perplexed, the damsel was visibly shaken to her very core. As her breath and voice appeared to have caught itself in the center of her throat, the tall executive stepped in closer for an assist. His stunningly tall and statuesque silhouette nearly engulfed her entire body, leather chair and all. Though stunned, Sable-Ann was not frightened.
Mr. Allen and the other executive gave way and quarter to their patron since they worked for him. The gentlemen took their leave, and their boss took the reins. Smiling from ear to ear, he crossed over into Sable’s private space. She looked up towards him like a lost child who had finally been found. Her eyes flickered with utter beguilement.
“Well…” he resounded as if he himself were gasping for air. “Do not tell me, Mistress Sable-Ann, that the cat got your tongue.”
Allen and the third gentleman looked on from a distance. “I take it you two are acquaintances of some sort,” Allen remarked rather enviously and defensively.
“Well, since it seems she is speechless at the moment, I will answer your question for her,” the bold executive remarked sternly. “First, be very careful and mindful, Allen.” His firm glare was a warning shot fired across the bows of both gentlemen. It was a signal to cease and desist with their flirting and antics.
“Mistress Sable is and shall never be a simple acquaintance to me or for anyone. Let us be totally clear about that, fellas!” A cold and callous look in his bloodshot, squinted eyes followed his remark. “I believe you need to settle yourself into the idea that you have lost this round completely!” That deep southern drawl of his was a challenge. When that Charlestonian drawl surfaced, it only meant one thing: Fuck off!
His stare permeated Sable-Ann’s being, prompting warm goosebumps to race down her backside like the Indy 500. Her nipples began to resurrect themselves under her blouse, exposing her arousal and intrigue. Not a surprise, considering she was still a lady of curiosity. She had been so caught up in the heady exhilaration of the moment by the concentrated attention of the trio of rakes that she had been utterly oblivious to the third gentleman’s identity. She was still gobsmacked by this shocking revelation, and her voice needed a little more time to play catch-up. But she need not have worried about that. Her de facto team player was on board and fully willing to step up to the plate for her.
“You will give her the full measure of your respect and admiration,” their distinguished patron expressed, just as stone-faced and serious as ever!
“Oh, and gentlemen, there will be no more reckless eyeballing down the lady’s bosom.” He glared towards his companions, his eyes filled with scrutiny and ire. Then he winked at them. What the fuck?
Of course, by this time, the exchange had aroused everyone’s curiosity. Sable-Ann assessed just as much, noticing how the bartenders and bystanders within earshot of the ongoing conversations were leaning closer to take it all in. And like the ballsy, broad-shouldered broad she knew she could be she took over the reins from the trio of gentlemen.
“Oh, my goodness. It simply can’t be you!” Sable-Ann exclaimed with a sensual southern trill, but her glibness concealed her inner turmoil. Her body trembled. After all, she was now glaring at the one secret she had buried deep within the depths of her very being. Her Jimmy, Pandora’s box of her carnal and tormented longing soul, was standing right before her eyes!
This gentleman had been the one for her and the one who had got away. Incredulous, she forced her mind to accept the astounding fact that her wayward aristocrat lover was now standing before her very eyes, and he was still as fucking striking as hell! The irony and reality of this revelation were fragmenting her inner core into psychological shards.
Before her, in the Chicago Admiral Sky Club of American Airlines, stood Lord Foxington the Fourth. Aristocrat. South Carolina Gentry. Yale, Oxford, and Rhodes Scholar. Rake. And of course, one of the ones who got away! Hell fire and damnation.
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