Lee-Ann Graff Vinson
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Thirty-nine years and two children later, my life finally came
back to my passion—writing. Every author knows it is passion,
perseverance and a thick skin that breeds success. Hell, that
is what breeds success in every walk of life. Success to me is
the completion of a rather good piece of writing, if I do say
so myself. Luck is the ability to have it published for
everyone else to read.
So, to hurry along my passion of becoming successfully lucky, I
entered into the Winghill School of Writing, joined various
writing groups, and follow diligently the advice Writer’s
Digest sends to my email box almost daily. It is safe to say
that the pipe dream of becoming a professional writer is no
longer just that. I have worked in various fields in my life,
some fulfilling, some not. But, as you know, a career is not
what makes you. It is the full aspect of family, friends, loved
ones and work that give you your joy or edge. All gave me
insight into the way in which the world, and the people in it,
revolve. Now that I am, dare I say, older, I am able to look at
these “experiences” and channel them into a therapy like no
other—writing.
Life is full of mysterious, romantic, hurtful, joyous, painful
encounters. What would the world be without its pain and
suffering or its ecstatic happiness? Real life occurrences are
what make us who we are. They also make up the majority of my
writing style. I can create fantasy and spiritual as well.
Let’s face it, life without a little fantasy now and then can
seem quite daunting, and we are all spiritual creatures,
whether we like it or not. What intrigues me most is the
ability of the human mind and heart to overcome.
So, here I sit in my suburban home office, watching all the
trials and tribulations of life, and living some of them,
forever in hope of creating the next best-seller. Until then, I
am enjoying all the bumps and rejections I receive along this
journey and am a firm believer in “what doesn’t kill us, makes
us stronger.”
Learn more about Lee-Ann here:
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Georgia parked in front of the flower shop
where she worked. Her eye throbbed behind her dark sunglasses.
She knew she had to leave her husband, Philip, but after last
night’s threat of what would happen if she did, she was even
more scared to go. Little did Georgia know that when she opened
her car door to go to work that morning, she would run into the
man who was willing to change all of that.
Marc Ramos was a man, a very handsome, but married, man. A man
who made Georgia’s heart beat again after years of neglect. His
mere touch sent chills through her body and took her breath
away. Never before had Georgia felt such passion for a man, and
definitely not a man she had almost brought to his knees with
her car door.
Excerpt
Word Count: 4700
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Daphne Lambert left the comforts of home to
spend three months living a soldier’s life in Iraq. A reporter
for the Boston Globe, Daphne patrolled along side some of the
Army’s finest. When their troop triggered a planted IED, Daphne
never expected to find true love in the arms of her savior. A
man who, she would later find out, was the intended target of
the bomb.
Sergeant John Ramos was a well-respected leader of his platoon.
A routine search for IED’s ended up in the death of two good
soldiers, and the loss of a leg for John. One year later, John
finds himself the target of a court martial and the only person
he can turn to for help is the woman he saved, the woman he
loves.
Excerpt
Word Count: 10,500
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Read the
In-House Reviews of
Love's Trust
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When Callie takes the
red-eye home to surprise her husband for their anniversary, she
finds the surprise is on her. She watches as a blonde tart in
six-inch heels teeters out from her home and toward a cherry-red
Mustang, which is parked in her spot.
Enraged, Callie does the only thing she can do. She drives to
her favorite coffee house, scrolls through divorce lawyers who
claim to eat cheating husbands for breakfast, and cries. Her
only consolation is Christian, a Marine, whom she befriended on
a chat site almost a year earlier.
While waiting for her marriage to end, Callie agrees to finally
meet Christian in person. She has always been a woman in
control, but the mere touch of this man has her begging for
more. Christian is only too happy to oblige, leaving Callie
agreeing with the motto ‘The Few and The Proud’. She has never
experienced a man who could make her see stars, but Christian
does his duty, and does it well.
Unhappy circumstances bring them together. A week of sexual
bliss makes it impossible for them to part, leaving them to
wonder how they can, once again, test the hands of fate.
Excerpt
Word Count: 15500
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Read the
In-House Reviews of Callie's Fate! |
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Captain Dana Jenkins of
the United States Army is about to embark on a mission that will
change her life. This isn’t Dana’s first deployment, but it is
proving possibly to be her last. As part of the platoon
traveling from Camp Liberty, Iraq to Camp Taji, Dana’s convoy
gets ambushed. She and the surviving soldiers are taken prisoner
by the merciless Iraqi rebel group, Al-Moofoona. Their only hope
lies in the hands of their fearless leader, Captain Jack
Parsons—the man with whom Dana has fallen hopelessly in love.
Captain Jack Parsons can only sit and watch as what is left of
his platoon is ordered into the back of a truck. Along with his
men, they’ve taken the only woman he’s ever allowed to penetrate
his heart. Jack is going to do everything in his power to save
them all before it’s too late.
Excerpt
Word Count: 22,600
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(ISBN: 978-1-61950-051-8) |
| Excerpts |
Georgia's Smile |
On Tuesday morning, Georgia Robinson drove her usual route to
her job at the floral shop. One eye was almost swollen shut
behind her dark sunglasses, making it difficult for her to see
the road. She came to an abrupt stop at a red light and watched
as a young couple crossed the street in front of her. They were
holding hands and laughing as they walked, as if to a single
melodic beat. Georgia startled at the sound of a car horn
honking behind her. She looked at the now green light and
stepped on the gas.
Her life was not going the way she had intended. At thirty-six,
Georgia sold bouquets to men and women wanting to surprise their
loved ones. Her dream of university after high school and
becoming a lawyer ended when her father died and she’d gone to
work to help her mother pay the bills.
She met Philip the day after she turned nineteen. He had entered
the flower shop and asked Georgia to give him the biggest and
best bouquet of flowers she could create and send them to his
mother for her birthday. When he came back to the shop the
following day to ask her out on a date, she thought her struggle
had finally ended. The day she brought him home to meet her
mother, Philip told her she would marry him someday. He was
handsome in a Phi Beta Kappa sort of way and worked at his
father’s investment banking firm handling the investment loans
department. He was successful and four years her senior; he
looked out for her.
When Georgia’s mother passed away from alcohol abuse three years
later, Philip proposed to her while standing at her mother’s
bedside. Two weeks later, at city hall, Georgia stood beside
Philip and exchanged vows. He moved into Georgia’s childhood
home and assumed the mortgage, making changes to the décor here
and there as he saw fit. Georgia didn’t mind because she thought
she would finally be able to go back to school to fulfill her
dream. Philip would take care of her now.
Stopped at another light, Georgia almost choked on the memory.
The only person Philip took care of was himself. When Georgia
had asked Philip if she could go back to school to become a
lawyer, Philip made a guffaw sound first and then, when he saw
she was serious, he let out a giggle that turned into a riotous
laugh. In between fits, he told her no one as stupid as her
would ever make it in the world of law. You needed intelligence,
you needed animal instincts, and you needed a backbone. All of
which, Philip informed her, she didn’t have.
Georgia tried to end her marriage to Philip shortly after his
degrading verbal attack. That was when the first beating
occurred. The backhand was unexpected and hit her square on the
jaw. Now the violence was a regular occurrence. Typically, the
marks were in areas that could be covered up but last night’s
warring had left Georgia with a large shiner to her left eye,
one she knew her boss, Natalie, would hit the roof over.
Georgia pulled into her parking spot and sat with the engine
idling, staring ahead into the window of the flower shop. Her
eyes scanned the jargon below the business name ‘Petunia’s
Flower Shop. If she was good enough for Porky, she’s good enough
for you’. Georgia reread the words and stopped on the phrase
‘good enough’.
“That is something I will never be if I stay with you, Philip,”
Georgia said aloud. She let out a heavy sigh, shut off her
vehicle and swung her door open.
“Whoa!” said a masculine voice in alarm. Georgia looked up and
saw she had almost knocked over a man. On closer inspection, she
noticed he was a very attractive man and he was smiling down at
her.
“Oh, I am so sorry!” Georgia said. “Are you alright?” From
behind the protection of her sunglasses, Georgia looked into the
stranger’s eyes and felt a slight buzz shoot through her body.
Her chest felt funny and then she realized it was the pounding
of her heart.
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Back to Georgia's Smile |
Love's Trust |
Daphne threw the car into reverse and backed out of the
driveway. She could see her now ex-boyfriend, Mike, yelling at
her, but the driving rain drowned out the possibility of hearing
his scathing comments as it thundered down on the canvas roof of
her Mercedes.
Daphne would have laughed at the comical nature of Mike’s
actions if it hadn’t been for the last six months of crap she
had taken from this man. Another relationship bites the dust,
and along with it another chance at happily-ever-after ground
out like a spent cigarette. The possibility of finding a man who
would treat her with the respect, hell even the common courtesy
she deserved, seemed non-existent. As the car reached the edge
of the driveway, Daphne turned the wheel and took one last look
at Mike, standing there in his boxer shorts, giving her the
finger. She felt dead inside. She focused on the road ahead and
drove away from the promise of love.
Daphne wondered how she had ended up here again, how she always
ended up here. She’d worked hard and won scholarships to put
herself through university, graduating from Harvard with a
degree in journalism. Daphne was smart and successful, so why
could she not seem to find a man who appreciated her instead of
always belittling her efforts? She shook her head as she drove
along Pine Street, very thankful now that she hadn’t given up
her apartment downtown when Mike had told her to. That had
caused yet another argument but Daphne was not about to let go
of her rent controlled, fully furnished apartment a mere two
blocks away from her job as a reporter for The Boston Globe. No
man was going to dictate where she lived or what she did again.
Ever.
Daphne pulled into her designated parking spot at the newspaper.
She turned off the engine and dropped her head back against the
leather seat. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught the
glitter of the parking lot lamplight reflecting off her stall
nameplate in the downpour. Her boss had tacked a metal replica
of a purple heart to it to remind her how close she had come to
losing it all on her last assignment.
Daphne had been a slave to reporting the military political
injustices of the world for the past eight years. She loved her
job, which included travel to many war-torn areas. She’d seen
the devastation caused by years of bullets and brutality. Her
most recent trip to Iraq was one she’d steeled herself for. This
time, instead of simply observing, Daphne got the chance to
become part of the troops, and live the life of the American
soldier. The assignment was one of the most difficult she’d ever
taken, and she’d found that studying up on a topic and actually
living it were two different things. She’d seen the terror on
the faces of small children when the MRAP vehicle she was in
rumbled along the dirt roadway through their village. Daphne had
witnessed the missing limbs and scarred flesh of the civilian
Iraqi men, women and children as she walked the dirt roads
looking for (Improvised Explosive Devices or IED’s) with her
assigned platoon. She was shown pictures of the enlisted friends
of her troop members who no longer walked alongside them, but
would never be forgotten. She saw first-hand the pain and
suffering caused by militant war-mongers and it sickened her.
In her three months in Iraq, Daphne had gotten to know the
soldiers very well. She’d watched as four young, vibrant,
enthusiastic recruits became despondent shells of their former
selves dealing with their injuries and the pain of being knocked
down so early in their military career. In their eyes, the
stigma of failing their country was worse than the injuries. The
minds of soldiers were directed to giving their all for their
country, and being sent home alive but crippled left them with a
feeling of inadequacy almost unbearable to behold.
Daphne also remembered Sergeant John Romero, a well-respected
leader amongst the men and women in his platoon, and the man who
saved her when their patrol had triggered an IED. John lost his
leg getting Daphne to the safety of the following MRAP vehicle.
Two soldiers lost their lives on a day that was supposed to be a
routine sweep. It continued to haunt Daphne that the IED wasn’t
found when Sergeant Romero walked over it with his bomb
detector. She wanted to do a follow-up story delving into the
equipment failure rates of the military, but decided against it.
She didn’t want to cause John any further angst over an incident
he blamed himself for. John was thorough in his job. He never
made errors. The day the explosion took the lives of his platoon
members, his friends, he shut down. Daphne had tried to get him
help, tried to make him keep the appointment with the
psychologist the Army set up for him, but he refused.
John and Daphne were close, as close as the Army allowed without
a reprimand. They drank many bottles of water together and
shared a lifetime of memories in those months. Daphne was
impressed by this quiet leader of men, who gave his all for his
country and his platoon. He was the type of man you never
forgot. Honorable. Courageous. Worthy.
Shortly after her return, Daphne wrote an award-winning article
about her time in Iraq. It was an in-depth piece compiled from
hours of interviews Daphne had conducted with the soldiers while
they were in the field. It was her way of trying to help them
heal. Once the piece was done, Daphne lost touch with the four
wounded soldiers she flew back with after the accident, as well
as with John. He’d told her that he needed to get away, needed
to make sense of things. Daphne let him go, but her heart broke
the day they said goodbye.
Still sitting in the car, Daphne closed her eyes and thought
about one of the first nights she and John were on duty
together. It was shortly after she had been trained to use the
M9 9mm pistol. There was no way Daphne was going to be the weak
link in this platoon. If she was going to live the life of a
soldier, she needed to be trained as a soldier. Given the time
constraints, she worked harder than she ever had at anything in
her life. She was not going to let her platoon down. It paid
off, she was a damn good shot with her weapon, even Lieutenant
Jekholf was impressed.
John led Daphne around the perimeter of the camp, on the lookout
for anything out of the ordinary. John had stopped to speak with
one of his platoon members who had a few questions about the
next days mission. Daphne thought she spotted movement behind
one of the buildings. She did not want to interrupt them if it
was nothing so, armed with her M9 and ready to shoot, Daphne
walked in the direction of the possible intruder. She knew she
was a decent shot and she momentarily got a little excited about
the possibility of showing off her newfound talent. Daphne was
close to rounding the corner of the building when common sense
kicked in. The hair on the back of her neck stood up. The
thought of coming face to face with the enemy scared the hell
out of her. Sweat trickled down her back. She needed to pull it
together and fast.
There was no way she was going to allow herself to lose it here.
If mere kids could handle the stress of this type of situation,
so could she. Daphne rounded the corner and could hear some
rustling coming from a small shack that held sandbags. Before
she could take aim, she was pressed roughly against the wall of
the building and told to be quiet. Daphne’s heart was racing
before, now it damn near exploded in fear. Her mouth was scared
shut. She recognized the voice to be John’s and prayed that her
stupid decision to go off alone wasn’t going to get them killed.
John’s movements were quick and efficient. His gun was drawn and
pointed as he silently made his way across open ground, and
stood to the side of the doorway.
John nudged the door open further, using the tip of one boot to
keep his hands free and on his weapon. Lighting was minimal in
this area. Daphne felt her pupils dilating to compensate, almost
willing herself to see something before it was too late. The
shape was fast as it shot out past John’s boot. Daphne held a
scream in her throat as she pulled her weapon to cover him. John
took aim and shot. In less than a second, the form lay limp on
the ground. Men and women came running from all directions with
their weapons drawn.
Daphne was shaking and unable to move. Her hands trembled from
the tight grasp on her weapon still aimed in the direction of
the lifeless body. She stared at her platoon members now
gathered around it, hearing a few of them laugh. She watched as
someone patted John on the back before turning away and walking
back to the camp. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing.
They were laughing. Someone was dead, and they were laughing.
Daphne felt the heat as it rose within her. Her anger forced her
shaking limbs to close the distance between her and the rest of
her team.
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to Love's Trust |
Callie's Fate
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Callie parked her car across the street from her house. Tears
trickled down her cheeks, but she didn’t feel them. She was
numb. Angry. Done. She had to hand it to him. Donald’s taste in
women had improved since the first time she’d caught him
cheating. The blonde, in her six-inch, cherry-red heels, clicked
merrily across the driveway to her car. The Mustang was
noticeably the same shade of slut as her shoes and was parked
contemptuously in Callie’s spot. She scowled as the tart
shimmied herself into the car. Her mini skirt was wrinkled and
tight. She probably didn’t even take it off.
Callie had just arrived home from a five-day pharmaceutical
conference where she’d been working twelve-hour days promoting
one of her company’s new drugs. Exhausted, she’d caught the
red-eye to make it back on time. Today was their fourteenth
wedding anniversary, and she wanted to surprise her husband with
a day of wine tours and food samplings she’d booked online while
she was away. This was the second time the surprise had been on
her.
When he’d done it the first time, she couldn’t believe the man
she’d entrusted her heart to would hurt her in such a deceitful
manner. She’d married him because he was safe. He definitely was
not the partying type. He never stayed out late with the boys,
and he’d always come home right after work. He was, well...
boring. He was the one man she’d thought she didn’t have to
worry about. Although they didn’t share the same interests—she
loved the outdoors, running and biking and he was happy in front
of the television drinking a few beers—she loved him and he
loved her. Or at least he told her he did.
Back then she’d had an overwhelming sense of failure and guilt,
thinking his affair was somehow her fault. Her job took her away
quite a bit and when she was home, she worked such long hours
they rarely had time for a quickie, let alone what he would call
“substantial” sex.
She stared at the car backing out of her driveway. She didn’t
have those same feelings of guilt, heartache and complete
devastation as before. Only anger and emptiness remained. After
eighteen months of counseling and thousands down the drain, this
was what they’d accomplished? Well, not again. No more lies. No
more wasted money. This time she was done for good.
Her first instinct was to throw open the front door and wipe
that smirk off his face with a baseball bat, screaming every
obscenity she could think of. She wanted to cause him extreme
pain. It’s our stupid anniversary!
As much as physically beating him appealed to her, she needed to
hit him harder, in a way that made complete recovery impossible.
No, violence wasn’t the answer. Her next move needed to be one
that would hurt him as much as he’d killed their marriage. She
needed professional help. It was time to consult with the people
who knew him best––The Law Offices of Divorce-A-Cheating-Ass.
Callie started her car and gunned it down the street. She
expertly cut off Donald’s newest ride, eliciting quite a
resentful honk from her, which she quite happily returned with
the full length of her middle finger. She sped down the street
and away from her beloved home.
The Starbucks parking lot was almost empty as she maneuvered her
shiny, silver Chrysler 200 into a lonely spot. She popped her
trunk and got out. She always bloated on long flights and her
black suede platform heels were beginning to pinch. She tugged
at the ruffled skirt she typically wore on business trips, which
was now cutting into her waist. She was about to grab her jeans
and sneakers from her suitcase to change into, when she heard
the vocal admiration of a passing, very well-built, fetching,
young male cyclist. She decided against comfort and tossed the
items back in. Damn right, I’m sexy.
At thirty-seven, Callie still had a great figure. She wasn’t
statuesque, but her legs were muscular, giving the illusion of
length. Her waist was narrow. So was her chest, but nothing a
Victoria’s Secret push-up couldn’t cure—and she wore it well.
Her blonde hair was long and straight, fanning out across her
shoulders to mid-back. However, her eyes were what gave Callie
her power. The large cobalt orbs could stop men at twenty paces.
A flutter of the eyelashes followed by an intent gaze could get
her anything she wanted. She used her power well; it had gained
many large contracts for her company.
She pulled out her laptop bag and closed her trunk. It was going
to take a lot of research to find the perfect attorney who would
represent her in the courtroom. Donald wasn’t going to get away
with it this time. The son-of-a-bitch!
She found a table and took out her laptop, then stood in line to
order while she waited for it to boot up. Now, what type of
coffee does a day like today require? When it was her turn to
order, Callie spoke with no emotion. “May I please have an
I-just-caught-my-loser-of-a-husband-cheating-with-a-whore-and-I’m-going-to-take-him-to-the-cleaners
grande, skinny, extra-hot, caramel macchiato?”
The barista stared at her for a brief moment before replying “Of
course, and how about we just go ahead and make that a venti at
no extra charge?”
The wink she gave Callie was one of a woman familiar with her
kind of day, and Callie knew she’d chosen her sanctuary well.
Coffee in hand, she sat down in front of her laptop and sighed.
She shook her head as she searched through the myriad of divorce
attorneys. How did she get here again? How did she not see this
coming?
Tramp-happy Donald was currently between jobs, as he liked to
tell anyone who cared to ask. A plumber by trade, they’d met
when the pipe in her en suite bathroom burst one Sunday
afternoon. She’d called the first company listed in the yellow
pages and paid an arm and a leg for the repair, but thoroughly
enjoyed the view as she waited for it to be fixed. Donald’s
well-rounded, firm, plumber-butt definitely drew her away from
her laptop, and she was thrilled when he’d asked for her number.
However, his idea of a stellar evening included darts and drinks
at his favorite pub, which was where he took her on their first
date. And the next five. She’d always dreamed she would find a
man who was kind, loving and, of course, fabulously sexy.
Instead, she’d found Donald. He drew her in with winks and
compliments. He held mystical powers when it came to bullshit,
which he opened up like a clogged drain when he was with her.
They used to talk a lot back then. She was attracted to his
easy-going confidence. She was comfortable in his company and
satisfied in his bed. Now, Callie realized he’d played her. She
was merely his meal ticket with the option of sex.
Callie had never had a long-term, serious relationship before
she met Donald. Her drive to climb the proverbial ladder had
kept her from having time to socialize outside of work. Somehow,
this man had wrenched his way into her heart. She’d allowed him
into her life, her home... and now she was paying for him to
plumb someone else’s pipes.
“Idiot,” she said.
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Back to Callie's Fate |
Love and Liberty |
Chapter 1
“Did you want to show up at the briefing, perhaps add anything
at all, Captain Parsons?” Dana’s tone dripped with sarcasm as
the platoon captain picked at a hole in his binder. Her mouth
hung open in utter disbelief at Parson’s disrespect throughout
her short, but critical session.
She knew well enough, when the platoon Captain dissed the
intelligence officer, the enlisted usually followed. Thankfully,
she’d already proven to these guys she knew what the hell she
was talking about. She’d also shown she didn’t take crap from
anyone, including Captain Parsons.
The eyes of the platoon were on Parsons as they waited for his
explosion. When the eruption didn’t occur, a few voices began
whispering around the tables. Dana heard them question whether
or not Parsons was mentally ready to take on another mission so
soon. Less than a week prior, his convoy underwent intense
sniper attack. Luckily he’d gotten all his chicks back to the
henhouse safely that night.
“Captain?” Dana raised her voice a few octaves to get his
attention, yet not show any disrespect in front of his troops.
His impatient finger-tapping ceased. // “I do, Captain Jenkins,”
he replied. “Thank you for your briefing.”
Dana sank down into her chair. Incredulous, she stared at Jack
as he rose abruptly and addressed his platoon, “Listen up,
everyone. Captain Jenkins has informed us of known current enemy
activity in the area we will be traveling through at 18:30
hours. We know the hot spots. I want all of you to make sure
your gear is ready. And I want everyone paying attention on this
one. That is all.”
Ignoring Dana, he dismissed his troops and shoved the booklet of
papers for the mission into the standard blue folder he always
carried. He turned his back on Dana as he made a hasty retreat
from the room.
“Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath.
Jack’s actions during her briefing irritated her, but his benign
addition to her already extremely thorough rundown of the
evening’s convoy pissed her off. He’d fidgeted the entire time,
as though it had been a chore to sit through her presentation.
She saw a couple of his men throw questioning looks at each
other as they watched their Captain, but none of them said a
word to him when they left.
Dana packed up her overhead sheets, her books of recorded enemy
activity, and her stats on recent enemy actions and threw them
back into the plastic bin. The smacking of the binders echoed
across the room as they hit their target. It took a lot for Dana
to lose her cool. She’d worked hard getting current and accurate
stats for this mission on very short notice. A little
appreciation wouldn’t have gone amiss.
She maintained control of her emotions in every situation except
one—disrespect. She put in long hours to ensure the people in
need received every angle of enemy activity known by the United
States Army Intelligence (S2) division before they went out on a
mission. Information was her job, and she was the best in her
field.
Dana scoffed and shook her head. “Ass,” she mumbled.
Her pen rolled off the table, displacing a fine powder of dust
into the air. It seemed all you had to do in this country was
wave your arm and the dust flew. It stuck to your skin and
covered every inch of bare flesh. She bit back a sneeze and bent
to retrieve it. Two lonely, hand-written sheets of paper lay
under Jack’s chair. Peeved as she was, she knew he needed them.
She snatched them up and tossed them on top of her bin.
One of the pieces had doodles on it, and her curiosity got the
best of her. She placed the papers on the table for closer
inspection. The mission and its members were listed, along with
the number and type of vehicles to be used. Arrows were drawn
from each soldier to his associated vehicle, all scribbled in
red ink, which was an oddity for Jack. His notes were always
meticulously scribed, ensuring no mistakes. This was almost
unintelligible. The second sheet bore nothing but doodles of
birds. Okay, Jack. What the hell is going on? She placed the
papers back in the bin and carried her box of information and
anger out the door, passing a few members of the platoon.
“Anyone see where Captain Parsons went?” she asked between
clenched teeth.
“I think he went back to his room, Captain Jenkins,” replied one
of them.
“Thanks,” she said.
Dana turned and marched to the barracks. Her determined stride
increased in ferocity with each step. She held the bin on her
hip with one hand as she pounded on the door with the other. No
one banged on the Captain’s door. It was a sure-fire way to land
yourself in PT (physical training); hell, but Dana didn’t care.
The harsh squeak of the door as it swung open matched the anger
in Parson’s voice.
“Get in here,” he snapped.
Dana glared at him, but entered the room. She slammed the bin
down on a small desk that faced the door. “What the hell is...” Dana didn’t get a chance to finish her grilling of Parsons.
Jack backed her up against the now-closed door and roughly
pressed his mouth to her lips. He kissed her with a hunger so
intense she could feel him shake. Need displaced her anger. She
wrapped her arms around his wide back and ran her hands across
the taut muscles. Her knees buckled as her mind melted in their
passion. This was the only time Dana allowed herself to let go,
to let her guard down, to be free. Jack held her fast with one
arm. The other popped the buttons of her shirt, cupped her
small, firm breasts and squeezed. His tongue darted into her
mouth. Dana found his belt, released the clasp, unbuttoned his
pants and reached inside. She wrapped her fingers around his
rock-hard length. He bit her lip in response. His eyes clouded
with lust as a deep moan filled her mouth.
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