Story Excerpt Sunday: From The Hinky Brass Bed by Jennifer Stevenson

The Hinky Brass Bed

Hinky Chicago #1

by Jennifer Stevenson

from Chapter Three

She thought she would never come, and then she did. Then they fell from the ceiling to the bed with a thump that knocked the wind out of her.

She opened her eyes. She wheezed, trying to suck air.

The black-eyed hunk lay on top of her. His elbow stuck in her gizzard. He was sweaty and stinky. She got claustrophobic at his nearness.

“Get off me!” she wheezed.

Randy sat up on top of her, one hand on his chest. His eyes bugged out. He held up the hand, turning it and staring at it, and then he looked at her.

Get away from me! She couldn’t say it. She couldn’t breathe.

Finally she sucked in air.

She screamed.

He screamed.

He vanished.

The weight lifted off her pelvis. She sat up, panting. “Where—” No Randy.

She flopped back down on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Six feet up hung an oddly ugly chandelier. She squinted. “That looks like my pants. My God.” She sat up again. Her hair was plastered to her with sweat, and she stank of sex. “I’m naked. How did I get naked?”

Her wristwatch alarm went off. She squeaked.

Soon the con artist Clay Dawes would knock on the door, and she had to be ready to cite him.

She retrieved her polyester pants from the chandelier, her matching jacket and shell from the top of the drapes, and her bra and panties from cornices on the crown molding twelve feet in the air. She found only one shoe.

Totally demoralized, she went to the bathroom for a shower.

The second shoe was in the sink.

In the medicine-cabinet mirror, she saw bright red writing all over her face.

She screamed again.

“Wha—” The writing was backwards. She squinted at the mirror.

Beside her right eye was written in neat letters, and here.

“And here? And here? Wha—” It was written beside her mouth. And at the hollow of her throat. And—she tipped her face, staring out of the corner of her eye—under her left ear. And here. And here what?

It wasn’t her handwriting, either.

She whirled to the full-length mirror on the bathroom door.Another scream escaped her throat.

Her body was written on, all over. Not quite her whole body. Her breasts, in a circle around her nipples, and the soles of her feet, and a line of writing that ran up the inside of her right leg and disappeared from view. She stood up quickly and banged her head on the sink.

She swallowed. Had Clay snuck into the room and scrawled all over her while she lay dead to the world, dreaming of—

“Oh no!”

Dreaming of a Viking-size hunk with hot black eyes like a doberman sailing over the back fence.

Speaking of dobermans at the back fence. She recalled more of her dream. He’d bent her over the conference table and done something else that reminded her of dogs, did it until she howled and wriggled and yelped and whined and begged. She throbbed with leftover bliss.

And when they were both too tired to move, she’d suggested that he sign his work.

They’d lolled naked on the conference table. They’d taken turns with the overhead-projector markers.

Swallowing hard, Jewel turned and looked into the mirror over her shoulder.

There on her behind, in huge, smudgy red letters, she read—backwards—randy on her left butt cheek, was on her tailbone, and here on her right butt cheek.

That answered that question.

She fell against the door with her hand on her throat. Her brain was full of musk and smoke and erotic dizziness.

One fact seemed to penetrate the haze. “I can’t walk out of here like this.”

Stupid with afterglow, she licked her hand and rubbed the writingon her cheek. It smeared.

“Oh, thank goodness. At least we used the overhead markers, not the Sharpies,” she said, forgetting that the conference table was a dream. Get that through the woodenhead, Jewel!

Right. Whew. Just a dream.

Feverishly she jumped in the shower and worked bath gelée into every corner. She was dragging on her clothes when Clay knocked at the door.

“Time’s up.”

“I’m fine,” she called. She gave up trying to find her pantyhose. She shoved her bare feet into her pumps, grabbed her bag, and hurtled through the door into Clay’s sitting room, trying not to look fucked to a fare-thee-well.

Surfer boy wasn’t smiling. “Everything go okay?” he said soberly.

Her self-control was shattered. She felt totally unprepared to deal with him the way she should.

“Fine,” she chirped. “Except I failed to stop your accomplice from sneaking out of the room.”

“I don’t work with anyone. It’s just me and the treatment,” he said, looking puzzled and uncomfortable.

“He got away.” It was humiliating that she had fallen for the con. But after all, that was why she’d come. And come and come. She shook her head, trying to get her mad back.

Clay said, “Some of my clients hallucinate partners while they’re undergoing treatment.”

“I’m fine,” she said again.

“Would you like your money back?” he said gently. He held up the credit card slip.

When she didn’t speak, he held up a pen. And smiled a tiny little smile.

She grabbed the pen away from him, signed with a slash, and marched to the suite door on wobbly legs.

To her back he said, “Some clients find one treatment is plenty. I’d call that a success for both of us.”

He sounded so genuinely satisfied that she risked turning and meeting his eyes. “What do you get out of this, anyway? Besides too much money?”

His eyes crinkled and his lips pursed and his dimples showed. “I guess I like making women happy.”

“I’m not happy,” she lied.

He said awkwardly, “I like you. Even if you look mean.”

“I’m meaner than I look.”

She shut the door in his face.

Author Bio:

Jennifer Stevenson lives in the Chicago area with her husband and two cats. She gardens, speed-skates, bikes, and finds new uses for old sex demons. “I like to write something you can read over breakfast. Something light and digestible.”

About this book:

In 1811, Lord Randy was bad in bed, so his magician-mistress turned him into a sex demon with a curse: “You don’t get out of this bed until you satisfy 100 women!”  Lucky for Randy, two hundred years later, con-artist Clay finds the bed.

Clay’s scam works until that foxy fraud investigator arrives.  Lucky for Clay, fraud-cop Jewel has a weakness for hunky con men.

Jewel is the hundredth woman, and she accidentally frees Randy from the bed—now he’s her sex slave, and her case against the con artist dissolves in a hail of hormones.  Lucky for Jewel, she’s got a lusty libido.




Story Excerpt Sunday: From The Hinky Brass Bed by Jennifer Stevenson — 2 Comments