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Ask Me Nicely
A Naughty or Nice Novel
By Amy Andrews, Liz Pelletier Entangled Publishing, LLC
Copyright © 2015 Amy Andrews
All rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-1-63375-243-6
CHAPTER 1
Sally Kennedy needed more tequila. And an orgasm. Not necessarily in that order, of course. In fact, tonight of all nights, she definitely needed an orgasm more than alcohol. More than oxygen, even. But the tequila was right there. And the orgasms, sadly, were not.
She couldn't even remember the last time she'd had one, but it was months ago. Hell, she couldn't even remember who had given it to her. If she'd known it was going to be her last one, she would have paid more attention.
If only she could manage it herself, she'd just get on with business, but even that wasn't working for her lately. Considering she'd been pretty damn deft at seeking her own pleasure since about the age of fourteen, she had no idea how that was even possible.
Sure, she'd faked it plenty since the tap had started to run dry. She'd become an expert at faking. But those really good orgasms, the ones that took her to another plane where all the crap in her life fell away and she didn't have to think anymore, the ones that made her forget, that helped her sleep deep, dreamless sleeps —they were gone, baby, gone.
Great. She was sexually dysfunctional at the grand old age of twenty-six. Wasn't that just the big, fat cherry on top of her sucky cake.
Her phone sitting next to her glass on the coffee table vibrated quietly, a tiny glow from the screen lighting up the surrounding dark like a firefly in the night. She didn't check it, since she knew it would be another concerned text from Josie. Or Mack.
They were all loved up and in London. And she was fine. She just needed more tequila.
She reached for the bottle and poured the clear elixir into the shot glass, some of it splashing onto the coffee table. She glanced at the clock on her still-lit-up phone. Eight p.m.
Jesus. Only eight?
The day had sped by, crammed with practically every sick dog, cat, guinea pig, and goldfish in greater suburban Brisbane. But the long, lonely night stretched in front of her, and that didn't bear thinking about.
Closing her eyes, going to where the memories lay in wait for her, didn't either.
It was almost that time of year again, and the dreams that never really ever went away would return with a vengeance.
She was going to need to get much, much drunker.
She slammed the shot down and collapsed back on the couch. The room shifted temporarily and Sal shut her eyes while it righted itself. A loud meowing a few seconds later forced them open again to find that a large, marmalade feline was making itself at home on the coffee table, lapping up the spilled tequila. Jesus. Sal sat up abruptly. The animal welfare people would have a cow if they could see it. Sal could just imagine the headline—"Local Vet Jailed for Feeding Cat Cuervo."
"Matilda ... no." She reached over for the giant fluffy cat, removing her from the scene of the crime and trying to think back to what she'd learned at vet school about the effects of alcohol on the feline constitution. "Are you trying to get my license taken away?"
Matilda meowed indifferently. Sal held the one-eyed cat beneath her forearms, her long body hanging down as their noses almost touched. "Remember me? I'm the one who operated on your crushed belly and squished leg and mangled eye for hours after that car hit you, and then when no one claimed your mangy stray arse, I took you in."
Another indifferent meow had Sal smiling. "You're welcome," she said, rubbing her cheek against the soft white fur of Matilda's face. She liked cats. A person always knew where she stood with a cat. And Matilda had been good company for those months between Mack and Josie's leaving and Doyle's arriving.
Doyle.
Suddenly Sal wasn't thinking about cats anymore. She was back to orgasms again. And it wasn't something she should be thinking about in relation to Doyle. Not even if she'd had the entire bottle of tequila on board.
"Must not think about Doyle like that," she said to Matilda.
The meow she got this time was much more perky, and Sal rolled her eyes. "Yes. I know. You have a crush on Doyle." Traitorous cat. She'd patched her up and took her in, yet Doyle got all the purrs and attention.
She pulled Matilda close and hugged her tight for some distraction but, as ever, Matilda didn't deign to be the subject of affection for too long and squirmed in protest. "All right, all right," Sal said, pulling her up until they were nose to nose again. "You want to play a drinking game with me?" Matilda stared dispassionately with her one freaky yellow eye. "The first one to blink, or wink in your case, drinks. You milk, me Cuervo. Whaddya say?"
The marmalade cat stared some more. Unblinking.
"Ooh, you're good at this," Sal murmured. "But first we need music." She put Matilda down and stood. "You want a shot glass or a saucer?"
* * *
At half past eight, Doyle Jackson powered two at a time up the internal stairs of the Kennedy Veterinary Practice to the apartment, sweaty from his run and looking forward to a long, cold beer. He wiped the perspiration off his forehead with the back of his hand as he kicked off his trainers on the doormat. He could hear music through the door and moved his ear closer.
"Wicked Game." Oh, Jesus. Chris Isaak. Or Chris watch-me-make-all-your-clothes-fall-off Isaak, as one of his sisters called him.
He gave an internal groan as he rested his forehead against the door. Sal was probably in there dirty dancing with whichever hapless guy she'd crooked her finger at recently.
He contemplated turning around and hitting the pavement for another hour or so, then instantly rejected it. He was dog-tired after a long day. All he wanted was a shower, a beer, and his bed. In that order. And this was his home, too.
The apartment was dark when he stepped inside, the low light emanating from the range hood in the kitchen to his left saving the apartment from complete blackout. Doyle looked around. No Sal. Maybe she'd moved the dirty dancing into the bedroom?
"Sal?" he called.
"Doyle?"
A blond head poked up over the top of the couch to his left, and she smiled at him. Doyle blinked. Considering scowling was her default expression where he was concerned, the smile almost knocked him on his butt.
Sure, he'd seen her smile. A lot.
Just not at him.
"Why are you sitting in the dark?" he asked as Matilda appeared at his feet, meowing and winding herself seductively around his ankles. With a bumleg and a missing eye, she wasn't the prettiest cat he'd ever seen, but she was an affectionate thing, and the tenderness with which Sal treated her belied the cranky exterior she tried so hard to cultivate around him. He rubbed absently at her belly with his foot.
"You've been for a run," she said, completely ignoring his question, her gaze traveling all over his damp shirt and down lower to his Lycra running shorts.
Her gaze lingered there for way longer than was appropriate. Not that anything in that general area was complaining.
"Yes."
"You run a lot."
"Yes."
"You must like being ..."
Her gaze roamed again, licking heat wherever it touched, and Doyle knew what it must feel like to be sitting in a red-neon window in Amsterdam.
He supposed some men might feel cheapened by such blatant perving.
He didn't.
"... fit," she said finally, completing her total eye-fuck of his body.
Doyle gave a half smile. Sure, he could run with that. He doubted she wanted to hear the real reason why he'd suddenly become obsessed with jogging after work. "It clears my mind."
"Come," she said, crooking her finger at him.
Doyle regarded her seriously. If there was anything he'd learned in the last four months of cohabitation with Sal, it was that men obeyed that imperious little finger.
It was probably about time one of them didn't.
"Are you okay?" he asked instead.
"I'm fine." She waved airily before turning away, then swinging back to face him, a shot glass full of clear liquid raised to him. "I'm drinking, thought you might want to join me."
Doyle was fairly sure she wasn't fine. Just looking at her, he wouldn't have thought she was any different from the Sal she'd been this morning or any morning since he'd moved in. She was the same petite blonde who had pricked his libido from day one.
But he'd never seen her drink other than the odd glass of wine. And he'd never been subjected to a very thorough eye-fuck from her, either. In fact, she'd made it known in very specific terms that theirs would only ever be a professional relationship.
"Tequila?" she asked, smiling again.
He glanced at the bottle on the coffee table. "Actually ... I was going to have a beer."
"Good idea," she said, slamming back the shot, then leapt up from the couch. Before he could tell her not to bother, she was sashaying past him in her itty-bitty pajamas.
The tank top and tartan boxer ones.
That she wore with no bra.
He could see every bounce of her perky breasts and a whole lot of exposed pale, petite leg.
Doyle cleared his throat as she yanked open the fridge door and the light illuminated her profile and the wispy tips of her pixie-cut blond hair. "I was actually going to have a shower first."
"Sit," she insisted, grabbing two frosty bottles, kicking the fridge door shut with her foot. "Have a beer with me first," she said, suddenly right in front of him, in those ridiculous excuse for pajamas—a very tempting hand reach away. Twisting a lid off, she thrust the cold bottle hard at his chest.
"Okay ..." Doyle grabbed the bottle, their hands brushing as she let go, and eased the edge of his butt down onto the barstool behind him. The cat made herself at home underneath. He frowned. "Are you sure you're okay?"
There was a definite desperation in those freakishly blue eyes of hers tonight. And it was, after all, the first time she'd shown any interest in conversing or spending time with him or tequila. Their usual conversations involved the mundane crap that took up everyday life when you lived and worked together. Can you get kitchen towels? We're out of them. The electricity bill arrived. Your turn to vacuum. Or, I need a second opinion on this wound. Can you do the anesthetic for me? We're out of 4-0 vicryl.
The usual.
But tonight there was a vibe. A definite vibe.
And he was all for vibes. God knew he'd spent hours in the past months fantasizing about various scenarios that involved a very strong vibe.
But Sal had been adamant from the beginning that they weren't going down that track. I don't screw the crew. Those were the exact words she'd used his first day, all fierce and cranky, like the instant attraction that had flared between them was all his fault.
He'd felt it and he knew she had as well.
But she'd never acted on it. Had always kept him firmly at a distance, and he was fine with that. He wasn't that hard up for action that he needed to encroach on her big Keep Out signs.
Despite those damn pajamas.
She wanted to pretend that the air didn't crackle between them whenever they were in the same room? Whatever. His temp position was up in another two months, and he preferred his relationships uncomplicated.
"I'm sure," she dismissed. "Having a little trouble sleeping is all."
"Cuervo"—he glanced over at the bottle again—"is your usual drug of choice for insomnia?"
She smiled at him as she plonked herself down with a very interesting little bounce on the stool beside his, her knees bare inches from his. "I generally prefer something a little more ... physical."
Doyle took a swallow of his beer. Yes. Of that he was aware. Privy to the comings and goings from her bedroom, he didn't need her to elaborate. He was intimately acquainted with her physical preferences.
Why the fuck did she think he jogged so damned much?
She didn't want him? Fine. But that didn't mean he wanted to lie around and hear how much she wanted every other guy in the freaking city.
The woman came loud.
"You can't just ... go to sleep?"
Her pale blue eyes were suddenly as bleak as a winter morning, and for a second he thought she was going to say something that mattered, something that came from somewhere deep and dark inside her.
But then the clouds cleared from her eyes and she smiled at him again. He gripped the bottle hard. He really hoped she didn't make a habit of that. He found it way easier to keep the distance she insisted on when she was being cool and polite.
"You must be hungry, right?" she said suddenly, ignoring yet another question. "I'll cook you something. What do you want? Chocolate chip cookies?"
Doyle ran his hand over his buzz cut, trying and failing to keep up with her. "O ... kay?"
It wasn't something a person usually made at this hour of night, but if she wanted to bake chocolate chip cookies—his favorite—who was he to stop her?
She was a conundrum, that was for sure. She tried so hard to keep her guard up, to keep him at a distance, but he'd observed her long enough to see beneath all that to the woman who was universally adored by staff, patients, and animals alike. To the woman who'd fixed up an aging, banged-up stray, then kept her. To the woman who often didn't charge patients she knew could ill afford their bill. To the woman who treated dating like an extreme sport but would blow off a date in a blink if an animal required her attention.
And now impromptu cookies?
"Seems like a lot of hassle ..."
She shook her head. "Prepackaged cookie dough is a wonderful thing. Just don't tell my mother."
And then she was up again, twirling away from him, and he was watching her in the half light, drinking his beer as she grabbed a tray and some baking paper and the frozen tube of dough from the freezer. Five minutes later, she was slipping a tray of twelve cookies into the oven.
"Ta-da," she said, smiling over her shoulder at him as she shut the oven door. "In ten minutes, piping-hot biscuits."
"Wow," he said, not wanting to admit even to himself what a turn-on it had been to watch her moving around the kitchen like some scantily clad fifties housewife. Even though he didn't want a fifties housewife and he was pretty damn sure she'd kick him in the nuts if he even suggested it.
"You don't mess around."
She shrugged, and a small smile touched a perfect bow mouth that he'd dreamed about a little too often. "I want what I want."
Doyle nodded. Somehow he just knew that speculative gleam in her eyes spelled trouble.
He tracked her movement as she picked up her beer off the counter near the oven and moved back around to where she'd been sitting before she got all domesticated. She smiled at him before taking a long pull of her beer, her head tipped back, her gaze firmly fixed on his face.
The warm glow from the range hood illuminated the pale stretch of her throat, and Doyle watched it move as she swallowed, aware of her eyes on him. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand as she pulled the bottle from her lips, her eyes roaming his neck, his chest, his thighs on another sexy search-and-destroy mission.
"You have a great body," she finally said as her gaze returned to his face. "I don't think I've ever told you that."
Doyle blinked at both the directness of her statement and the sudden hot jolt that streaked through his loins. What the hell did she expect him to say to that? He took a deliberately measured swallow of cold, bitter beer. "Considering you barely tell me hello most days, I'm not surprised."
She feigned a hurt expression as she toyed with the beer she'd nestled at the juncture of her thighs, picking at the label. Doyle did not want to think about the latent phallic signals. Not when he was fairly certain she'd done it deliberately.
Desire coiled tight in his belly as his smoldering loins inched closer to combustion.
"I say hello."
Doyle quirked an eyebrow at her. They both knew her hellos were perfunctory at best. "Plus officially you're my boss and that could be classed as sexual harassment."
She smiled at him then, those blue eyes of hers dancing a flirty little dance with his. Bewitching. Beguiling. Breathtaking.
Gypsy eyes.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from Ask Me Nicely by Amy Andrews, Liz Pelletier. Copyright © 2015 Amy Andrews. Excerpted by permission of Entangled Publishing, LLC.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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