eBook Details



Series: Cougars, Cars and Kink , Book 1.0
By: Teresa Noelle Roberts | Other books by Teresa Noelle Roberts
Published By: Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
Published: Feb 09, 2016
ISBN # 9781619232846
Word Count: 69,851
Heat Index     
Eligible Price: $5.50

Available in: Adobe Acrobat, Epub, Mobipocket (.mobi)

Categories: Romance>Contemporary Romance>Erotic Romance


Drive (Cougars, Cars and Kink) by Teresa Noelle Roberts - Romance>Contemporary eBook

He’s a kinky dream come true—and her only protection from danger.

Cougars, Cars and Kink, Book 1

Eight months after her (cheating, almost-ex) husband’s death, Suzanne Mayhew has a plan to move on with her life. First step: sell off Frank’s classic cars, starting with the red vintage Mustang convertible he never let her drive. Second step: get her unexplored kink on with a delicious younger man.

Preferably the one an old friend sends around, ostensibly to check out the Mustang. Neil Callahan—Boston cop, Dom, fifteen years her junior.

Neil feels the mutual sizzle, but if the blush staining her cheeks is any indication, her flirting skills are a little rusty. Though his instinct tells him to take things slow with the recent widow, he can’t resist inviting her along for a test drive—for the whole weekend.

Throwing caution to the wind, Suzanne takes him up on it. But they’re barely out of the driveway when Neil’s cop instincts kick in. They’ve got a tail…and it looks dangerously like her ex’s secrets looming large—and deadly—in their rear-view mirror.

Warning: Spies, lies and vile bad guys. A meddling BFF. Inappropriate use of kitchen tools. Completely appropriate use of rope and floggers. Your mileage may vary, depending on battery life.
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Sensuality Rating:   Not rated
Copyright © 2016 Teresa Noelle Roberts
All rights reserved — a Samhain Publishing, Ltd. publication

The red Mustang with the FOR SALE sign on it was the second thing to catch Neil Callahan’s eyes, even though he’d been looking for it on this tree-lined suburban street of huge, handsome, but cloyingly similar houses. Cookie-cutter, but an expensive cookie cutter. The first thing he noticed was the ass and long, jean-clad legs of the woman cleaning the windshield of the classic convertible.

The car was hot, a vintage Mustang—1965 or so, he thought—in near-showroom condition. Yet the car’s current owner drew his attention away from the vehicle. It said something about how tempting that butt was. How firm, yet curvy.

How spankable…

Which was definitely not what he should be thinking, unless he wanted to talk cars while sporting a mammoth hard-on. If this were porn, he could do that and find himself banging the callipygian redhead within thirty-five seconds, and she’d turn out to be as kinky as a cheap garden hose. But this was real life, so she’d probably pepper-spray him, or at least think of some good reason to cut the conversation short, leaving him without either the information he wanted on the car or a chance to flirt with her.

Neil made himself ride a couple of blocks while thinking distinctly non-sexy thoughts about the details of the latest investigation at work (looked like a straightforward case of one drug dealer shooting another over money, but it was early yet) and the schematics of Ford engines from the ’70s. When he thought he could talk without sounding like a horny teenager, he whipped his vintage Indian motorcycle around and headed back. Probably the woman would have gone back indoors and he’d have to call but with luck, she’d come back out to answer his questions, so he could see if the rest of her was as impressive as the rear view. Then maybe he’d ask her if she’d like to get lunch sometime, or coffee, which could lead to all sorts of interesting places, including his bedroom, the inside of his favorite bondage club or…

Down, boy! All the meeting was likely to lead to was finding out if he wanted to pursue the car, not the woman. She was probably married with kids, seeing as how she lived in a big house in upscale, suburban Bellwood, with the whole manicured-lawn thing going on. A far cry from his home base in Boston’s working-class Dorchester neighborhood, but one of his kink-community friends knew how badly he longed for a new project car and had mentioned seeing a Mustang for sale in this area.

Not that this car looked like a project. More like it had been someone’s precious baby, lovingly maintained all these years, and would be out his price range, even if his dad wanted to go in on it. Their usual project cars were more the “three tubs of parts and a frame” kind. But he could always drool.

Whether he’d be drooling more over the car or the woman was an excellent question.

When he pulled up, the woman was still out front, idly adjusting the FOR SALE sign, which had been resting on the bumper but was now in a more prominent position on the windshield.

The rest of her looked just as good as the rear view suggested.

Older than he was, early to mid-forties, he’d guess, to his thirty—the perfect age, in his opinion. Older women were more confident, as a rule, more in touch with their own sexual needs and less likely to use the submissive role as an excuse to avoid responsibility.

A guy could dream. Just like he could dream he could afford the car.

He pulled up and stepped off the bike. “What a beauty!” he said, gesturing at the Mustang.

Which wasn’t quite what he’d meant to say. It applied as much, in his mind, to the hot cougar—at least he hoped she had cougarish aspirations—as it did to the Mustang, but he really was talking about the car.

What he was thinking was another story, but it was too nice a September day to get slapped, so he was going to keep that to himself for the time being.

She nodded. “We should all look so good at this car’s age. Of course it helps to be steel rather than flesh and blood. Easier to repair scratches and dents.”

If she thought she had scratches and dents, she was wrong. But it was premature to say that. “Do you have a few minutes? I’d love to find out more about the car.” And about you, but let’s start with the car to see if you show any signs of being available and interested.

“Sure.” The woman walked around to the front of the car, closer to him. God help him, she even walked sexily. Not like she was trying to strut her stuff, though. She was wiping her hands on her jeans and seemed unselfconscious, but she moved well. Graceful. Athletic looking, but not too slim, which suited his taste. She met Neil’s gaze firmly. Her eyes were greenish brown—hazel. A soft color, but for a second, they looked coolly appraising. He couldn’t tell if she liked what she saw or not, but he thought he caught a hint of a smile. “I’ll warn you,” she said, “I’m ignorant about what’s under the hood, though I’ve got maintenance records and stuff. Even an original manual. I know it’s been well cared for, but not by me.”

“That’s a good start.” Really good start. If she didn’t know much about cars, he might be able to get a better price. On the other hand, she didn’t come off as naïve, so she’d probably done her homework. “How about a few basics? What year is she? ’66?”

“’65. The car and my late husband were twins.”

Neil didn’t move, but mentally, he pulled back about fifteen steps. The lady might be technically available, but it was anyone’s guess whether she was in a place to consider dating, wild flings with younger men, or even flirting. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not.” She laughed without humor. “Wow, that sounds bad. Of course I’m sorry he’s dead. At the time he died, we were careening toward a divorce.” She shrugged, glanced away. “Sorry. That was more information than you needed as a follow-up to Frank’s bad joke slipping out of my mouth.”

Neil didn’t usually find himself at a loss for words, but he had no idea what to say to this. The fact that some unrepentantly shallow part of him (that would be his dick) found the whole not-terribly-grieving widow situation promising, both for buying the car and getting a date down the line, made it even more difficult to think of a response that didn’t make him sound like a jerk. A few houses away, someone was mowing their lawn and the mower sounded like a monster truck in the awkward silence. A bird chirped in the Japanese maple on the lawn; he looked for a giant mutant freak-bird, but it turned out to be the world’s loudest sparrow. Say something. Anything. She’s going to feel even more awkward if you don’t.

What he really wanted to do was put his arm around her, kiss her on the forehead, ruffle that silky-looking red hair.

And not just for the reasons he’d been pondering before the little foray into TMI territory, but because she’d gone from confident and sexy to closed in on herself and not exactly sad, but melancholy. Like she regretted that she couldn’t miss her dead husband more.

He took a step closer before common sense kicked in. “Maybe we should set up a time for me to come back?” That would give them both a chance to regroup so they could get down to business without the specter of the late but not very lamented Frank watching over their shoulders.

She shook her head briskly, decisively. “Last thing I need is to spend more time alone surrounded by half-packed boxes of my dead almost-ex-husband’s stuff. So what can I tell you about the Mustang? Ask me anything. Obviously, with the mood I’m in, I might just tell you.”

Did you ever have sex in it, back when you and your husband still loved each other? Would you like to have sex in it now?

Definitely not the right questions. At least not yet.

What came out of his mouth didn’t seem much better, especially knowing about the dirty images of red hair, long legs, leather seats and awkward positions that had been flashing through his mind. “How does it handle?”

“Frank had no complaints. I’ve never driven it, except to take it out of the garage today, and turn it over once in a while to make sure it kept running.”

“You’ve never… Woman, that’s a crime!”

“Now you see why I have a hard time missing Frank too much. I never got to ride in this one, let alone drive it. The Chevy Bel Air was worth more, according to the guy who appraised them, and Frank drove the Stingray more often—that was the one he crashed.” She hesitated and he thought he caught a catch in her voice. “But this one was his baby.” She snorted. “Don’t ask me why I haven’t driven it since he died. Just wasn’t ready, I guess, and then I decided it made more sense to sell the cars than hang on to them forever. Sorry, I’m babbling, and I’m not even answering your question.”

“Then there’s only one way to find out how it handles. We’ll take it for a ride.”

“Makes sense.” She rummaged in her jeans pocket, fished out a key ring with a lone key, and handed it toward him. “Here you go.”

“Oh no,” Neil said. “You get the first turn behind the wheel. And since we’re about to get into a car together and head off, my name’s Neil Callahan, and I’ll show you my license and stuff, so you can text the details to someone in case I turn out to be a sex-crazed lunatic.” Which I am, but not the bad kind, and only with women who are into it. He extended his hand to her.

“Suzanne Mayhew.” He liked the way her fingers clasped him, warm and confident.

He showed her his ID. She glanced at the license then took a picture of it with her phone. Smart lady, although part of him liked to think she wanted a trophy so she could prove his age to her hot suburban MILF friends. She took a longer look at the other ID he showed her. “Boston PD? I feel safer already. The girlfriend I’m about to text will definitely feel better about this adventure knowing I’m with a cop.”

“I’m off-duty. Who knows what might happen?”

She laughed. Nice laugh. Not a girl’s cutesy giggle, but deep, throaty, hinting at adult experience and adult pleasures. “That’s why this is an adventure. You want to text anyone just in case I’m a black widow?”

“I’ve dealt with way more murderers than I care to think about on such a nice day. I doubt you’re a black widow. After driving this car, though, maybe you’ll be a merry widow.” Well, that came out a little more suggestive than he’d intended, but since she didn’t look offended, he followed up with a teasing, challenging grin.

She grinned right back. “I like the sound of that. It’s about damn time to be a merrier widow. I think I even have a merry widow stashed somewhere, but boned lingerie seems too fussy for the occasion.”


By: Teresa Noelle Roberts