Authors: Alice Clayton
is an instant classic, with plenty of laugh out loud moments and riveting characters—highly recommended!”
Bestselling Author Jennifer Probst
“Hilarious, romantic, and compulsively readable,
delivers the perfect blend of sex, romance, and baked goods.”
~Ruthie Knox, best-selling author of
About Last Night
“Alice Clayton strikes again, seducing me with her real woman sex appeal, unparalleled wit and addicting snark; leaving me laughing, blushing, and craving knock all the paintings off the wall sex of my very own.”
~Brittany Gibbons, brittanyherself.com
“Caroline Reynolds. Finally a woman who knows her way around a man and a KitchenAid Mixer. She had us at zucchini bread!”
~Curvy Girl Guide
Wallbanger, Copyright © 2012 by Alice Clayton
All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without prior written permission of the publisher.
10000 North Central Expressway, Dallas, TX 75231
First Omnific eBook edition, November 2012
First Omnific trade paperback edition, November 2012
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Library of Congress Cataloguing-in-Publication Data
Wallbanger / Alice Clayton – 1st ed
1. San Fransisco—Fiction. 2. Contemporary Romance—Fiction. 3. Interior Design—Fiction. 4. Romantic Humor—Fiction. I. Title
Cover Design by Micha Stone and Amy Brokaw
Interior Book Design by Coreen Montagna
To my mom, for letting me have coconut on my birthday cake
even though no one else likes it.
To my dad, for reading me Garfield comics
until we laughed so hard we were both crying.
“Oh, God, that’s so good!”
I scrambled up out of sleep, confused as I looked around the strange room. Boxes on the floor. Pictures propped against the wall.
My new bedroom, in my new apartment,
I reminded myself, placing both hands on the duvet, grounding myself with the luxurious thread count. Even half asleep, I was aware of my thread count.
“Mmmm…Yeah, baby. Right there. Just like that…Don’t stop, don’t stop!”
I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and turned to look at the wall behind me, beginning to understand what had woken me up. My hands still stroked the duvet absently, catching the attention of Clive, my wonder cat. Butting his head under my hand, Clive demanded to be soothed. I stroked him as I looked around and oriented myself in my new space.
I’d moved in earlier that day. It was a gorgeous apartment: spacious rooms, wood floors, arched doorways—it even had a fireplace! I had no clue how to actually build a fire, but that was neither here nor there. I was aching to put things on the mantel. As an interior designer, I had a habit of mentally placing things in almost every space, whether it belonged to me or not. It drove my friends a wee bit mad at times, as I was constantly restaging their knickknacks.
I’d spent the day moving in, and after soaking in the incredibly deep, claw-foot tub until well past prune, I settled myself into bed and enjoyed the creaks and squeaks of a new home: light traffic outside, some quiet music, and the comforting
of Clive exploring. The
came from his hangnail, you see…
My new home
, I’d thought contentedly as I slipped into an easy sleep, which is why I was so surprised to be woken at…let’s see…two thirty-seven a.m.
I found myself gazing stupidly at the ceiling, trying to return to a relaxed state, but I was startled again as my headboard moved—banged into the wall was more like it.
Are you kidding me?
Then I heard, very distinctly:
“Oh, Simon, that’s so good! Mmm…”
Blinking, I felt more awake now and a little fascinated by what was clearly going on next door. I looked at Clive, he looked at me, and if I wasn’t so tired I’d have been pretty sure he winked.
I guess someone should be getting some.
I’d been in a bit of a dry spell for a while. A very long while. Bad, rapid-fire sex and an ill-timed one-night stand had robbed me of my orgasm. She’d been on vacation for six months now. Six long months.
The beginnings of carpal tunnel were threatening to set in as I tried desperately to get myself off. But O was on seemingly permanent hiatus. And I don’t mean Oprah.
I pushed the thoughts of my missing O away and curled up on my side. All seemed quiet now, and I began to drift back to sleep, Clive purring contentedly beside me. Then all hell broke loose.
“Yes! Yes! Oh, God…
A painting I’d propped on the shelf above my bed fell off and rapped me soundly on the head. That’ll teach me to live in San Francisco and not make sure everything is securely mounted.
Speaking of mounted
Rubbing my head and cursing enough to make Clive blush—if cats could blush—I looked back at the wall behind me again. My headboard was literally banging against it as the ruckus continued next door.
“Mmm…yes, baby, yes, yes, yes!” the loudmouth chanted…and concluded with a contented sigh.
Then I heard, for the love of all that’s holy,
You can’t misinterpret the sound of a good spanking, and someone was receiving one next door.
“Oh, God, Simon.
. I’ve been a bad girl. Yes,
…More spanking, and then the unmistakable sound of a male voice, groaning and sighing.
I got up, moved the entire bed a few inches away from the wall, and huffed back under the duvet, glaring at the wall the whole time.
I fell asleep that night after swearing I would bang back if I heard one more peep. Or groan. Or spank.
Welcome to the neighborhood.
, my first official morning in my new place, found me sipping a cup of coffee and munching a leftover donut from yesterday’s moving-in party.
I wasn’t quite as awake as I’d hoped to begin unpackingpalooza, and I silently cursed last night’s antics next door. The girl was plowed, spanked, she came, she slept. The same for Simon. I assumed his name was Simon, as that was what the girl who liked to be spanked kept calling him. And really, if she was making up a name there were hotter ones than Simon to be screaming out in the throes.
God, I missed the throes
“Still nothing, huh, O?” I sighed, looking down. During month four of The Missing O, I’d started to talk to my O as though she were an actual entity. She felt real enough when she was rocking my world back in the day, but sadly, now that O had abandoned me, I wasn’t sure I’d recognize her if she saw her.
’Tis a sad, sad day when a girl doesn’t even know her own orgasm,
I thought, looking wistfully out the window at the San Francisco skyline.
I unfolded my legs and padded to the sink to rinse out my coffee mug. Placing it in the sink to drain, I pushed my light blond hair back into a sloppy ponytail and surveyed the chaos that surrounded me. No matter how well I planned, no matter how well I labeled those boxes,
no matter how often I told that idiot moving guy that if it said KITCHEN it did not belong in the BATHROOM
, it still was a mess.