Fall Into Love (Simone: Part One Naughty Nookie Series)

Fall
Into
Love

by

Serena Akeroyd

Simone: Part One

Naughty Nookie
Series

The right of Gemma Mazurke to be identified
as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance
with the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are either products of the author's
imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual
persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely
coincidental.

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, without written permission from the author.

Fall Into Love

Serena Akeroyd

Copyright © Gemma Mazurke 2013

First Smashwords Edition November 2013

Cover design by
Samuel Hunt
http://www.theusualmadman.net/
 

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Acknowledgments 

For
Nanna. 

Erotica; not something I think you ever
thought would be my line of work, but regardless, I know you’re
always there, watching over me.  I can feel your pride in me
and that’s all I’ve ever wanted.  Love you.  Thank
you. 

I wouldn’t be who I am without your
influence. 

Contents

Acknowledgments

One

Two

Three

Naughty Nookie
Series
 

One

As much as I love my friends, I always feel like I’m
completely out of my depth with them.  As though I’m the ugly
stepsister and they’re twin Cinderellas. 

Hell, I know I make myself
sound like an ogre.  Either that or some monster from a swamp,
but in comparison to Mses. Denison and Harrows, I feel
it. 

Sure, my figure is pretty
decent, if I don’t say so myself.  It belongs to another age;
when childbearing hips were a positive and not a negative, but
they’re that way from a wide pelvis and not eating too much ice
cream.  Something that is my vice and a substance I try to
avoid!

My boobs are nice and
round, not porn star huge but a generous handful, and my waist dips
in.  My legs are short—not absurdly so—but unlike Marina and
Edwina, they don’t go all the way up to my
armpits. 

All in all, I’m not a bad prospect, but when
I’m sitting with them in a busy club, is it any wonder guys look at
me and then immediately drool at my two supermodel-lookalike
friends?

Hell, I’d do the same if I were gay. 
Which I’m not.  Straight, from the tip of my waist-length hair
to my shining red-lacquered toes. 

Not that it does me any good. 

The last time I got laid was about four
years ago. 

You might snigger at that, but hey, I’ve
been busy since then!

Having screaming arguments
with my husband, and then divorcing the bastard… it all takes time!
Still, four years? I know, it’s too long.  Especially as the
last man to work his cock into me was my husband. God help me, what
a letdown
that
was! 

That son of a bitch—and his mother deserves
that title too!—who was quite content for me to work my ass off in
three jobs and for him to stay at home.  House husband, my
aunt Fanny!

Hell, I might as well have stuck a brush up
my butt and swept up as I did everything else in my marriage. 
The lazy shit even had the audacity to complain that I didn’t come
on to him enough!

Ha!

Why would I want to?

Gray-skinned, pasty-faced
couch potatoes are not my idea of hot.  I’m not being
superficial there.  Just honest.  I don’t expect my
partner to look like a Hollywood A-Lister.  I’d settle for
Z-list!  Eyes too close together, too big a nose and the
makings of a beer gut—anything, so long as I was in a loving,
respectful relationship. 

Why does that feel like I’m asking for the
moon and the stars?  Either that, or desperate? 

“
Oh Christ, she’s in a
mood.”

Marina’s voice penetrates my glumness.
Rather than answer, I merely raise a brow and pick up my
drink.  An inappropriate cocktail with too many umbrellas and
a slice of pineapple floating in the glop.  I hate cocktails,
but they always make me drink them.  I guess it’s in the vain
hope that I’ll loosen up and actually take some interest in the
club scene. 

It never works. 

I hate clubs and I hate dancing.  No
amount of pineapple vodka mojitos is going to change that!

“
Simone, come on, it’s
Friday night.  It’s time to let your hair down, relax, and
have fun!” Edwina encourages me, reaching forward to squeeze my
hand.  Her earnest desire for me to enjoy myself is
endearing. 

It’s no wonder I love both of my
friends.  I return the hand-squeeze and try to cheer up for
their sakes. 

“
I’m alright.  I’m
not in a mood; I’m just thinking.  You know I hate this
bar.  The waiters are all creeps.”

Marina snorts.  “You just don’t like it
when men pinch your butt.”

“
Well, it’s not my idea of
service!”

“
I don’t know,” Edwina
teases.  “I’d whack an extra dollar or two on to the tip.
Especially for the hunks around here.”

When I only roll my eyes, Marina grunts at
me as she simultaneously wags a finger.  “Stop being
difficult, Simone.  Anyone would think that you don’t want to
get laid.  I know Dan was a jerk…”

“
Make
that
major
jerk,”
Edwina butts in. 

“
You
won’t hear me arguing, Eddie!  That’s the exact reason why you
don’t have to seek atonement, Mona
̶
you did nothing wrong.  You
divorced him, because he was a pig.  You don’t have to wear a
chastity belt for the rest of your life as punishment!  You
read the papers. Hell, divorce is always on the rise!  Stop
feeling guilty for taking the bull by the balls and deciding to
emancipate yourself from that jerk-off.”

Her mention of atonement does make me
uncomfortable.  My background is orthodox; my grandfather was
a pastor and my father holds stringent views on religion.  I
escaped without being indoctrinated.  I also escaped having to
marry one of the boys from our church, but royally fucked up, when
only a few years after my fugue, I married the bastard
extraordinaire, as Edwina likes to call him. 

Divorce was a big no no in my house and
maybe I didn’t flee fast enough from my parents’ religious
beliefs.  Maybe some small part of me feels worthless for
getting divorced. 

Okay, a
large
part. 

Even knowing that I did everything I could
to make my marriage successful, it wasn’t good enough. 

I
wasn’t good enough. 

In the pitch black with strobe lights
flashing around the room, people with black light paints coating
various parts of flesh dancing as though tonight’s their last, and
music blaring from the speakers at a volume that has to cause the
DJ some kind of ear damage, I ask myself if that’s why I’ve not
been laid in four years.

Even though I feel like I’ve been actively
seeking a relationship, have I had some invisible sign on me? Hands
off unless you want to draw back a nub?

The thought holds merit. 

While it sickens me to
think that I’ve wasted more time on my ex, it’s quite a relief to
think that my lack of suitors doesn’t stem from unfortunate
comparisons to the Cinderellas sitting opposite me.  I’m not
an ugly stepsister.  I’m more like Sleeping Beauty.  But
I didn’t need Prince Charming to wake me up.  I can manage
that by myself!

I come back to the surface with a bang, when
Marina clicks her fingers directly in front of my face. “What?” I
snap, and draw back. 

The action was an unfortunate move on my
part.  Before I can do more than glare at her, my spine fails
to touch the non-existent backrest of the bar stool and I fall
backwards. 

Those two seconds as my spine hangs
suspended in mid-air before crashing downwards seem to last an
eternity.  The discordant beat of the music matches that of my
pulse.  The odd angle of my body has my stomach twisting and
churning, and the pineapple and vodka concoction Marina forced me
to order is sloshing unpleasantly around my gut. 

The stasis abruptly
disappears and real time footage restarts.  As the floor
crashes toward me, my entire body tensing with the expectancy of
pain, I’m too shocked even to shout out. 

And then, rather than have brittle bone
crash into unyielding tile, my shoulders are grabbed; the balls of
the joints cupped with strong hands, and I’m slowly brought back
into my original position. 

Cheeks flushed, blood rushing to my head, I
don’t know whether to be mortified or intensely grateful to my
savior. 

With dazed eyes, I see the aghast looks on
my friends’ faces.  Even in the darkness, their faces are
white and taut with horror at my almost-accident.  Hell, I’m
feeling taut myself. My finances would in no way stretch to my
taking off a few days with a back injury!

Swallowing so that my stomach returns to its
usual place I slowly turn and, as loud as I’m able, say, “Thank you
so much.”

If it was more choked than
usual, then surely that can be forgiven. Not only had I been an
inch away from a nasty injury, the guy standing before me is hotter
than hell. 

Sure, he’s not pretty boy
handsome.  He wouldn’t grace the poster of the latest movies
or famous magazines.  In the flashing strobe lights,
and
to me
, he
looks like sex on a stick. 

All dark hair and brooding
looks; eyes rimmed with dark lashes and thick slashes for brows
that make him look all the more grim.  I want to ask Marina
when grim became an attractive quality, because if anyone knows,
it’s Marina.  Or maybe grim isn’t the right adjective. 
Maybe brooding is, and I’ve been a sucker for that ever since
English Lit. Class when
I fell in love
with Heathcliff. 

Once upon a time, I even made the mistake of
describing my ex as that.  When really, he’d been a lazy SOB
with the personality of a mosquito. 

“
Are you okay, ma’am?” the
man, my nightclub Heathcliff, shouts as he bends toward me so I can
hear him better. 

As he moves, his aftershave permeates the
air around me and as the cleansing tang of sandalwood and lime
tinges my personal space, the heat of his body seems to augment the
scent and simultaneously make my own temperature surge. 

Swallowing, I straighten my back so I can
move closer to his ear; either that or I use that excuse to get a
teeny weeny bit closer to him… only God knows which, because I’m
not up to self-analysis at the moment!  For the first time in
a long while, I’m interested in someone of the opposite sex. 
Interest combined with an adrenaline rush from the almost accident
has me doing something unheard of; proffering an invitation. 
“I’m fine.  Thanks to you.  Can I buy you a drink as a
thank you?”

Even knowing I’m gushing doesn’t hold me
back.  This so isn’t me.  I never do anything like this
and I’m fully aware of Eddie and Marina flicking each other
surprised looks. 

One time, I managed to lodge my heel in
between a piece of decking at a garden party.  A man had
kindly helped me and I’d turned redder than a beet, mumbled my
thanks and disappeared as quickly as I could.  At no point of
that embarrassing interlude had I asked the man if he’d like a
drink!  

Now, I could be termed as superficial at
this juncture.  But my previous savior hadn’t been too hard on
the eyes.  Not the same as this man here, but nothing to sniff
at. 

Heathcliff frowns at me–not quite the
response I’d hoped for–and says, “That isn’t necessary, ma’am.”

I’ve never been known for my courage; but I
urge all of my gumption together and reach forward to grab his
hand.  “Please.  I’d like to thank you properly.”