Tommy

hen I was a boy, there was a spindly old woman who lived down by the docks. Some said she was a witch. Others claimed she’d had “the sight”

since she was a girl. Still others believed she’d seen enough, been around long enough to predict things. Despite the whispers, and fire—and—brimstone warnings from the local priest, all the new young mums would make their way over to her rickety shack with their newborns in tow.

To have their futures told.

The story goes she took one look at me and said to my mum,

“Drown this one in the river, Maggie.” She wasn’t a particularly nice woman.

“He’ll be handsome as the devil and twice as charming,” she’d said. “But he’ll be wild, stubborn and foolhardy—and he’ll break your poor dear heart because he won’t be livin’ long.”

My mother never went back to see the old woman after that. A load of rubbish, she’d say. Because if anyone is stubborn, it’s my mum—and as far as she was concerned, her darling boy was going to live forever.

The kick of it is . . . I’m beginning to think that old woman may’ve been on to something. Because . . . well . . . there’s a good chance I might be dead.

I don’t feel dead, though I’m not entirely sure what dead is supposed to feel like.

I remember the fire at the Horny Goat Pub. The charring walls, the smoke thick as black wool scratching at my eyes and filling my lungs. There’s no smoke now, only the sharp scent of disinfectant, a crisp, cool softness beneath my head and a bottomless darkness—like outer space if the stars blinked out.

I was looking for Ellie in the pub—I remember that too. Because little Ellie Hammond is the sister of our Duchess Olivia, wife of Prince Nicholas. Because it was my shift, and it was my job to guard her, to keep her safe. Because my duty to the crown is one of the few things in this world I take seriously and even if I didn’t, I sure as hell take my best mate, Logan, seriously. And he’s sick in love with Ellie though he won’t let himself admit it.

And Ellie’s a good lass. She brightens a room the way a jewel takes in sunlight and throws out sparkles over anyone close by. Lo deserves a light like that in his life.

Are you there, God? It’s me, Tommy.

I know we haven’t spoken since my last confession . . . when the blonde with the perfect arse was kneeling in the pew ahead of me. I had to say three Hail Marys and she had to say three Hail Marys, and before we knew it, we were breaking all sorts of Commandments and a few deadly sins at her flat for the rest of the afternoon.

But I’m hoping you’ll look past all that, Lord, because I have a favor to ask.

Please . . . let Ellie have made it out alive, even if I didn’t.

Logan needs her. They need each other.

That’s all for now—perhaps I’ll be seeing you soon.

Cheers. Nanu—nanu. Amen.

As I sign off with the Almighty, a rush of air dusts over my skin, shifting and moving—like an incoming answer to my prayer. That stinging sanitized smell dissipates and is replaced by something infinitely sweeter.

Apples.

A whole orchard of round, red, ripened apples suddenly surrounds me. I breathe in deeper, hungry for more of the delicious scent.

“God, look at him,” a voice murmurs from my left. “Tell me you wouldn’t boff his brains out if you had the chance.”

The tone that responds is smooth, refined and distinctly feminine.

“Inappropriate, Henrietta.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know . . . but still. I would ride him like a shiny new bicycle from here to Scotland and back again.”

The silky voice groans, “Etta . . .”

“I bet he knows how to ring a girl’s bell too. He’s got that look about him. Ding—ding.”

I like this Henrietta. She seems like my type of girl. Or angel or demon, depending on what the hell is actually going on. It’s probably time I find out.

The polished tone takes a turn towards authoritative. “Hush now, I have to record his vitals for Dr. Milkerson.”

It’s the kind of voice I wouldn’t mind taking orders from—the best kind. Lower, Tommy. More, Tommy. Harder, Tommy. The imaginings cause a pleasant, stirring sensation in my groin and apparently, even if I’m dead, my cock is very much alive.

That’s comforting.

“Speaking of Milkerson, have you noticed the way he looks at you? I bet he’d give his cutting hand to take a peek at your vitals. Maybe you’d have a clue about that if you ever bothered coming out for drinks with us after shift.”

“I don’t have time for drinks. There’s too much to do—too much to learn.”

“Oh, for Saint Arnulf ’s sake, Abby,” Henrietta gripes. “Why do you have to be so stuffy all the time?” “Saint Arnulf?” she asks.

“He’s the patron saint of beer, everyone knows that. Heathen.”

“All right, that’s it—out. You’re distracting me,” Abby returns crisply. “If you’re not going to focus, you need to go.”

Henrietta’s voice retreats. “You know what does wonders for focus? Letting your hair down once in a while—and your knickers!”

The air around me rustles again, before settling back into a quiet stillness. Then, slowly, the scent of apples returns. But it’s even better now. More intense. Closer.

A gentle little sigh floats just beside my ear and the satiny, lilting voice goes low—as soft as the stroke of petal blossoms along my skin.

“I’d never tell Etta this, but she wasn’t even a little bit wrong.

You are a beautiful man, aren’t you?” And I have to know. I have to see.

I hadn’t realized my eyes were closed, until I’m able to drag them open. The light is bright, blinding at first—I squint against the glowing white halo that frames her.

“Mr. Sullivan? You’re awake.”

She has the face of an angel—high cheekbones, luminous skin, and wide, round, dark green eyes. But her mouth is full and lush, and her hair shines like a golden fire, a mass of deep red, honey and chestnut hues.

There’s just something about a redhead. A passion, a spirit, a strength that sets them apart. That makes them unforgettable.

Irresistible.

She’s too tempting to be angelic.

But still I ask, “Is this heaven?”

“No, you’re not in heaven.”

I shrug. “I always figured the other spot would be more my scene anyway.”

Her rosy lips curve into a smile, and that’s blinding too.

“You’re not there either.”

I shake my head to clear the fog and hoist myself up, coming fully awake. And I look around. It’s a hospital room—white walls, sterile chairs, wires connected to a bleeping machine behind me. I touch my chest and arms to make sure they’re still there. I wiggle my toes beneath the sheet because while my cock is definitely at the top of the list, it’s good to know the rest of me still works too.

“I’m alive?”

She’s still close, still smiling.

“Very much so.”

Relief floods through me, making my chest feel near to bursting. And without another thought or a second’s hesitation, I lean forward and crush my lips against this sinfully stunning girl’s mouth.

It’s an impulse—a reflex—like that photograph of the American sailor and nurse at the end of WWII. Because when you almost died but didn’t, all you want to do is feel alive. And I’ve never felt more alive than I do in this moment, kissing this lovely lass.

I sweep my mouth across hers, sucking gently, luring her to follow. She’s stiff at first, surprised, but she doesn’t struggle or pull away. And then after a moment—her muscles yield and her lips go soft and pliant beneath my own. She melts against me, molds our upper bodies together with a breathy, needy moan. My hands delve into the satin of her hair, holding on, tugging her closer, feeling the swell of her breasts tight against my chest. Her hands grasp for my shoulders, digging in, as our heads move and angle together. And our kiss turns hotter. Wetter.

I stroke the tip of my tongue across the seam of her lips, teasing them to part. When they do, I sink right inside the tight, warm cavern. And the taste of her. Christ, she tastes like fruit in the Garden of Eden, succulent and forbidden. The desire to suck and lick at more of her pumps through me—to see if the rest is every bit as sweet as her mouth.

I lean back, dragging her with me, over me—fucking those pretty, delicate lips roughly with my tongue—and I groan deep and long when her tongue brushes against mine, mouth—fucking me right back.

It’s good—so bloody good—I may not have been dead before, but this kiss just might kill me. My pulse pounds in my ears and the machine is fairly screeching behind me with my wild, racing heart.

I think it’s the machine that does it, that breaks the spell. Because as soon as the sound penetrates my own awareness, the woman in my arms tears her mouth away and freezes above me, a look akin to horror sweeping across her face.

Breathing harshly, she scrambles off the bed as if it’s swarming with red ants and I’m their king.

“That . . . you . . . that . . . ” Her tits rise and fall beneath her light blue top with each quick, panting breath. It’s lovely. “That was completely inappropriate!”

“It really was.” I nod, pushing a hand through my dark hair.

“Want to do it again?” Her eyes flare, gaping.

“Absolutely not. Never again.”

I click my tongue. “Careful. Never’s a very long time.”

A dainty line appears between her auburn brows as she frowns, lifting her perky nose, crossing her lithe arms—the very picture of prim and proper and posh. My cock twitches at the sight and something else awakens inside me.

The primal part of a man that craves the challenge, the chase, and even more—the conquering.

“You’ve suffered a serious concussion, Mr. Sullivan.”

I shrug. “I feel fantastic.”

“And some smoke inhalation. You may be delirious.”

“No—this is all me. Delirious would’ve been not jumping at the chance to kiss you the second I could.”

That comment ruffles all her pretty feathers.

“There’s no reason to get flustered just because you enjoyed it, pet,” I coax her.

“I am not your pet, Mr. Sullivan. And I don’t get flustered. And I certainly did not enjoy” —she wags her hand in my general direction in a flustered sort of way—“that.”

A grin tugs my lips. “I beg to differ. And your tongue’s been in my mouth—I think it’s all right to call me Tommy now.”

Her eyes darken to a shade near to black with passion or fury—with feeling. And I know that Henrietta was wrong. Apple Blossom isn’t stuffy—she just hasn’t met a man who knows how to bring out her reckless side.

Not until now—not until me.

She tugs on the lapel of her white coat, straightening her spine.

“I’m leaving.”

“Funny. Typically the girls I kiss like to tell me when they’re coming.” I wink.

Her cheeks flush a deep, dusky pink, and I just bet those pretty petals between her legs flush the same shade when she’s really hot for it.

Saying that out loud isn’t one of my better choices.

Because right after I do, she slaps me. Hard and fast. With enough force to jerk my head to the side and leave my left cheek pulsing with the sting. It’s impressive. “Ow.”

And it’s not like I didn’t deserve it.

But looking back now, that’s really when I should’ve known.

In that perfect, indelible moment as we stare at each other— my eyes lapping her up and her jade gaze swallowing me whole, as we take each other in. Just a few dozen inches apart, taking and taking each other . . . and already craving more.