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    Anticipation: A Heart & Handcuffs Anthology, #1
    Anticipation: A Heart & Handcuffs Anthology, #1
    Anticipation: A Heart & Handcuffs Anthology, #1
    Ebook89 pages1 hour

    Anticipation: A Heart & Handcuffs Anthology, #1

    By Megan Mitcham and Lindsay Cross

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    About this ebook

    Love is all you need... Really? Tell that to her unattended lady-boner. Sure, she and her husband had a love so strong it shouldered the weight of children, careers, in-laws, and out-laws, but the zing of excitement had grown into comfortable expectation.

    He knew things had gone to hell in handcuffs. Work choked him on files and felons. Home’s honey-do lists weren't much better, because nowhere on the to-do list did it say, “wife.”

    They had love, but how did they get back to lust? With a little bit of Anticipation…

    Anticipation contains two sizzling ten-thousand word short stories. In Megan Mitcham’s story “Climax,” a busty—and brainy—redhead arrests her police-chief husband and shows him exactly what she’s had to do to get by without him for the last two months. In Lindsay Cross’s story “Need,” a work-from-home mom pushed to the brink pushes back, revealing her un-sated desire and forcing her Dominant to reestablish his role.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherMegan Mitcham
    Release dateMay 5, 2015
    ISBN9781941899120
    Anticipation: A Heart & Handcuffs Anthology, #1

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      Book preview

      Anticipation - Megan Mitcham

      Introduction

      CLIMAX

      BY

      MEGAN MITCHAM

      Chapter 1

      Lindley glowered at the dick . How many times had it gotten her off? Once a day faithfully for the last three months. The three-speed pliable pink silicone worked every single time. It wasn’t the vibrator’s fault she’d stopped utilizing it to sate her desire. Nope, that was all her. In a misguided flash of genius she’d decided to cease self-pleasuring in hopes her husband would see her desperation and take up his slack.

      Their slack, really.

      Her clit pulsed in rebellion. She scissored her legs, frantic to stem the aching need. The silky sheets caressed her more intimately than Fox had in far too long. Her lips swelled from the misinterpreted contact. Hell, these days, blotting after a pee was like negotiating a live explosive. One false move and her lady boner reared its tiny head. And always at the most inappropriate times.

      She dragged her gaze from the guaranteed orgasm and glanced at the clock’s mocking red numbers. Ten-thirty-eight p.m. Lindley shoved the nightstand drawer closed so hard the lamp on top shook. A long huff heated her open mouth. She folded her arms and flounced back against the pillows.

      The emerald-green teddy plumped her already-ample rack. Her crossed arms nearly shoved the things to her chin.

      And he wasn’t here to see.

      Lindley shut her eyes against the sting of emotion. Curse it all, but Brendan Fox’s face stained her lids. What a handsome bastard. Boyish dimples balanced a jaw sturdy enough to crack bone. Intense green eyes countered a supple mouth. She sighed.

      She’d forgone orgasms for two weeks because she wanted Fox to give them to her. But the man with the thick, hot cock she needed shoved so deep inside her she’d choke … was late. As usual.

      A shrill scream sliced through the electronic beat of Usher’s intro to Climax. The woman’s Hollywood horror-film screech built to a crescendo and then died as quickly as it had started.

      Gah. I want to climax, she said to the air.

      Lindley rolled onto her side and grabbed her phone before the text message alerted again. If she heard it again, she might just belt a shriek of her own. The screen lit and the bubble revealed her father-in-law, not Fox, had sent a message. She swiped the screen and read.

      Me and the boys are finally settled around the campfire. Don’t you worry little lady. I’ve rationed them to one whiskey apiece. You and Bren have fun. Your kids are in good hands. And if you two want to give me a granddaughter as payment for the weekend, I won’t protest.

      She pressed the button to dictate a response. I can’t make a baby by myself. And besides, I’m too old to think about having another one. Her index finger stabbed the delete button. She tried again. I suppose whiskey is a safer habit than women. You kids be safe. And you’ll have better luck getting another grandchild out of your other son than you will me and Fox. Send.

      Her phone howled almost immediately.

      I’ll have better luck living forever than getting Wes to settle down and you know it.

      Lindley thought to respond, but the soulful lyrics caught her attention.

      Going nowhere fast

      We’ve reached a climax

      We’re together, now we’re undone.

      Won’t commit so we choose to

      Run away, do we separate

      Don’t wanna give in

      So we both gave up

      Can’t take it back

      It’s too late we’ve reached the climax, climax

      Well, when she’d put the song on her sex-my-man-up playlist those weren’t the lyrics she’d expected. She’d been thinking it was more a sure-fire get-off song like Nice and Slow. But boy, didn’t this one match their situation far more accurately.

      Up until a few months ago, they’d been one of those couples that couldn’t keep their hands off each other. Not in the gross get-a-room way. After all, they had ten and thirteen year-old boys who freaked if they shared a mouth-to-mouth kiss in public. But they’d always held hands, touched feet, made eye contact that sometimes got them shooed out of the room.

      Every year of marriage had only amped their passion. Give them a locked bedroom door and they could make fireworks. Silent but incendiary blasts.

      Up until a few months ago.

      Suddenly too irritated to carry out the seduction scene she’d so elaborately planned, Lindley stood to extinguish the one-hundred candles she’d lit along the path to their bed. Damn good thing she’d bought the snuffer to go with the obscene amount of wax and glass holders.

      As she walked along, starving the flames of oxygen, she also collected the series of four-by-four prints that started at the top of the gently spiraling stairs. Lindley had commissioned her best friend and famed photographer Lacey Richelieu to shoot them on her last visit home. On the bottom step she stopped and shuffled through the artful black and whites in the order Fox should have seen them.

      One. She sat at the breakfast table. Steam rose off a mug of coffee. A quarter-folded New York Times rested loosely in her left hand. Her hair sat atop her head in a sculpted bun. Black-rimmed glasses set low on the bridge of her nose. One of Fox’s white shirts covered her chest, his tie cinched tightly around the collar. Her eyes bore into the camera. The vibrant red of her parted lips translated to black in the classic art medium, matching the power tie.

      Two. The paper lay strewn across the table, forgotten. Her head arched. The point of her chin angled toward the sky. Her knuckles were white from her grip on the tie spooled around her hand. Tension held it taut from her neck to her solid hold. Sunlight streamed through the shot. It hit just so, illuminating the erect bud of her nipple prodding the smooth press of the shirt.

      Three. A milky swath of skin created a V at the center of the picture. The tie looped over her shoulder. The shirt created a perfect frame in the tight

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