Damsel in Distress

www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

Copyright © 2011 by Liz Stafford

All Rights Reserved.  No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright. 

This book is a work of fiction.  References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and/or used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

Published by

Beautiful Trouble Publishing, LLC

PO Box 61

Colfax, NC 27235

www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

Cover Art:  Les Byerley
http://www.les3photo8.com/

Editor: Stephanie Parent

Proofreader: Novellette Whyte

http://authorgurunovellette.blogspot.com/

Formatter: Jim & Zetta,
http://www.jimandzetta.com/

E-book Conversion:
Jim & Zetta,
http://www.jimandzetta.com/

ISBN: (e-book) 978-1-61788-252-4

Sometimes you just don’t want responsibility. Sometimes you want let it all go and not worry what the neighbors think. Okay, so 99% of us wouldn’t handle it the way Carmen does, but it’s fun to pretend…

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CAVEAT

This work of erotica contains adult language and sexually explicit scenes, which are smoking hot.  This book is intended only for adults, as it is defined by the laws of the country in which the purchase is made.  Keep this book out of the hands of under-aged readers.

Carmen paced the waiting room at the veterinary clinic, dabbing her eyes with a soggy tissue. How much longer were they going to take? So far, one of her babies had died—he succumbed on the carpet in her living room, a soggy bright blue lump surrounded by rose-colored fibers.

Who could do such a thing to an innocent creature? Sure, break in, steal the stereo or the television, but why did they have to smash the aquarium? That was…that was just mean.

Police had been no use. What did they care about her precious fish?

It was another hour before the technician returned. The look on her face spoke volumes. Carmen sagged onto the bench against the wall and waited for the bomb to drop. She’d brought in eleven damsels—beautiful saltwater fish—and she didn’t want to leave without each and every one of them.

A thought had her suddenly sitting up straight—if her babies lived, if the clinic sent them home tonight, she had nowhere to put them; the aquarium lay in millions of tiny shards on her living room rug. It had been a twenty-gallon tank. Probably the downstairs neighbors had called about water coming through the ceiling.

The tech’s nametag identified her as Kaneko. Carmen loved the Asian woman’s name; the syllables rolled off the tongue. “Ms. Adams?”

Carmen bolstered herself and stood up.

“We were able to save nine of your fish.”

A choking sound came from Carmen’s mouth before she could stop it. Nine. That was good. It meant only two more had died.

“They’ve been terribly stressed though. We don’t even know how long they were out of water.”

Which meant more might go. Carmen forced down the  lump that had jumped into her throat.

Shawn was in love. Pure and simple. The dark-haired woman pacing before the row of aquariums would be his future wife. Something was wrong though. Most people buying aquariums looked happy, expectant, like they couldn’t wait to begin picking out their new finned friends. This woman was clearly sad; there were red circles around her ebony eyes. He straightened his nametag, ran a hand through his too-long hair, and approached.

“Hi, could I help you pick out an aquarium?”

She whirled around. The red ribbon holding back her shoulder-length hair whacked him in the cheek. “Oh. Hi. I need an aquarium fast. Saltwater.”

A pair of big bubbly tears appeared in the corners of her eyes as she detailed a break-in that occurred while she was out of her apartment. Shopping, she said—not for clothes, she was quick to explain—for groceries. When she returned home, the place was a shambles, and her precious fish were flip-flopping on the floor.

Shawn helped her pick out a new twenty-five-gallon tank, then had what he considered a brilliant idea. It would not only get her new tank set up and running, but hopefully would get him in good with his future wife—the mother of his someday children. He would move the pet shop fish out of one of the tanks, bag up the already-conditioned water and haul it to her house. That way her damsel fish would be saved the stress of newly treated water.

An hour later, they stood in her living room before the new tank. Nine damsel fish: two goldens, three yellow tails, and four electric blues, swam cautiously in the new surroundings. Three neons had died, Carmen said. She opened a battered cigar box and showed him the tiny carcasses. Tomorrow they would get a burial in the backyard.

It wasn’t easy, but Shawn managed not to laugh. Nor did he tell her that every fish that died in the pet shop found its way into the sewer pipe.

Shawn stayed to help clean up the mess. He used a whole roll of paper towels soaking up the salt water from the carpet. Then he ran the vacuum to pick up as much glass as possible. Carmen stood to the side dabbing a tissue to her eyes as she alternated her gaze from the new tank to the cigar box on the end of the kitchen counter.

This time Shawn couldn’t hold in the chuckle. They were just fish, easily replaced if one died. She caught him laughing and had to run for a fresh tissue. He felt bad for laughing. At least she had emotions, cared about living things. He’d once been on a date and had to slam on the brakes because a fox had come into the road. It stood there, blinded by the headlights. His date had shouted, “Hit it, hit it!” He never took her out again.

As a thankful Carmen was leading him to the door, it happened: he cupped her chin, pulled her close and kissed her directly on the lips. Usually, his early dates got kissed only on the corner of the lips. Carmen’s were as soft as he expected. Part of him expected her to haul off and clobber him for being so forward. When her arms did shoot up, he braced himself for the blows, but they folded around his shoulders. She leaned into him, her momentum thumped his ass and shoulder blades into the wall, her tongue poked between his lips. His cock, which had been at half-mast all afternoon, went to grand slam-proportions.

Carmen’s right hand dropped from his shoulder, traced a hair-raising path down his left arm and onto his ribcage, then lower. For a second it rested on his hip. Then, with very little fumbling, it found its way under the elastic waistband of the dumb-ass scrubs the store made the clerks wear. Till this moment he’d hated the outfit, thought it made him look like a female nurse’s aide. Right now, he was more than pleased because the elastic waist was sliding down, down. It stopped just below his butt in the back, hung up on his cock in front. But Shawn barely noticed the pressure because Carmen’s hand pushed between him and the wall, clamped on his left butt cheek and squeezed. Any resistance that might have lingered in the back of his brain deserted him.

This was moving way too fast. Even though he knew in the deepest recesses of his mind that someday they would be a couple, he didn’t want to chance frightening her off. Besides, her other hand had dropped, and was moving the waistband from his cock, which would have sprung free, if it hadn’t been for the jockey shorts...

Okay, never mind the jockeys. They were history too, shoved down and holding his thighs hostage. He moved one of his hands around to her front and touched a breast. Just a feathering glance intended to show her he was prepared to be a gentleman. His index finger grazed a nipple—

Oh man, she wasn’t wearing a bra.

Double oh man—the damned scrubs didn’t have pockets. No place to store a condom. Oh hell, he wouldn’t have been carrying the things around at work anyway.

Shawn eased back from her grasp. A quickie in a customer’s living room was pushing the boundaries of good taste, and to do it without protection—even with the someday mother of his children—was out of the question.

“Carmen, we have to stop. I don’t have any condoms.”

She sent him a slant-faced expression that he couldn’t read. Then she moved away, and disappeared around a corner. A drawer opened, something got fumbled around, and then the drawer slammed. She returned at a trot, a trio of foil packets in one fist. Shawn’s heart did a happy jig.

After that, it was as if his hands belonged to someone else. The appendages divested the beautiful lady of her shirt. They fondled both breasts at the same time, flicking the tiny nubs of nipples to hard points. When he sucked on them he was sure he pulled in half of her breast, but she didn’t complain and he loved every blasted moment.

His hands hung suspended in midair as she backed away long enough to tear open one of the packets with her teeth. Then she expertly rolled the bright pink, strawberry-flavored condom over his throbbing dick.