Jilted Read online

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  Phaze

  www.phaze.com

  Copyright ©2007 by Leigh Ellwood

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  JILTED

  A Phaze Fury HeatSheet by

  Leigh Ellwood

  Phaze

  6470A Glenway Avenue, #109

  Cincinnati, OH 45211-5222

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, organizations, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  eBook ISBN 1-59426-911-4

  Jilted © 2007 by Leigh Ellwood

  All rights reserved under the International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Cover art © 2006 by Kathryn Lively

  Phaze is an imprint of Mundania Press, LLC.

  www.Phaze.com

  Also by Leigh Ellwood

  A Winter's Dare

  Dare Me

  Daring Young Man

  Double Dare

  Dulce

  Jack of Diamonds

  Jack of Hearts

  Muse

  Phaze Fantasies, Vol. 1

  The Healing

  The Stars Look Down

  Truth or Dare

  Under Covers

  Voyeur

  "I'll be right down,” Dara Winter called over the rail separating the lofted stairwell from the airy downstairs foyer. “Let me get my gloves."

  She walked into her bedroom, and quickly the white satin, arm-length gloves she'd planned to retrieve were forgotten. Instead, the Ghosts of Engagements Past demanded her attention, as they were currently arranged in an arc before her.

  Only they weren't ghosts, but muscle-hardened flesh and blood. Scowling lips, folded arms, and ramrod postures greeted her this morning, invoking a discomforting sense of doom that wiped the smile off Dara's own face.

  "Big day, huh, Dara?” the closest to her challenged. “Bet you never expected to find one of us here, let alone three old flames."

  "What...?” Dara's heart leapt into her throat.

  "We meant to send cards,” the man continued, “but figured something like this deserved a more ... personal salutation."

  She said nothing, only stared, then blinked, as though lamely attempting to wish them away by not acknowledging them immediately.

  "This is the curse of neglecting to acquire something borrowed and something blue,” the front man snickered. “I didn't see anything here that tells otherwise, which is surprising, considering your history with cast-offs."

  Dara did not look happy; that was apparent. Who could blame her? “On the day of my wedding, of all days, this has to happen?” She watched the faces of the three, studying their reaction to her. Could they detect the surprise, fear, and fury flitting as one new emotion across her features on a whirlwind tour of her nerves? She didn't know how to react to something like this, and it showed.

  Her voice, she imagined, would put things better into perspective.

  "How did you get in here?” Dara demanded. “This house has been full of people since Friday, and I was just up here twenty minutes ago when I got up. No way in Hell that you three crawled up the trellis on the side of the house.

  Indeed, the intricate white wooden grid that trained ivy along the house's exterior toward the roof was frail. Any one of them would have cracked it on the first step. The three men together would have easily rendered it to toothpicks.

  "Look,” she continued, flouncing toward the widest window in the room. “I had the window locked all night. You couldn't have come in that way."

  "Who says we did?” another of the visitors challenged.

  "How did you get in here?” she echoed. “You're too large to be missed."

  This was the truth. Big men, they were. Strong and cut with identical lantern jaws and thick veins roped around biceps. One in every flavor—blond, brunette, redhead—dressed in jogging shorts and T-back tanks. It looked like the set of Alpha romance cover model convention had been relocated here.

  And yet, not one drop of sweat to indicate any had been out for a run and decided at the last minute to spoil her big day. To think they were able to spoil her nuptials without much effort or strain ... and look so damn delicious.

  Of course, the real physical exertion was yet to come. There was going to be a struggle, she knew, and she swallowed hard just contemplating the consequences.

  She eyed the three behemoths lowing toward her. “This is unreal, usually you people wait until after the wedding party is gone to rob the place,” she joked. “I know how that works, you scout the society pages and look up addresses ... whatever. There's no money in here.” She folded her arms tightly over her breasts, nodding to her bureau. “I have some jewelry in the box over there—"

  "Cut the crap. I know you remember us, Dara,” spoke the blond in a deep, menacing voice.

  "I do.” What they intended to take, she knew all along, couldn't be sold in any fleabag pawn shop.

  "Little early to say that line, you think?"

  Dara rolled her eyes. Her arms flapped about her sides in defeat. “Yes, Rusty. You kind of caught me at a bad time right now. I'm supposed to be getting ready,” she sighed. “And you, and Glen,” she pointed to the redhead, “and Mark,” then the dark-haired god, “still haven't told me how you managed to slip past my entire family and a pair of Mastiff hounds without being caught."

  "What can we say?” Rusty shrugged. “Dogs and kids like us."

  "And little old ladies,” Glen supplied.

  "And younger ones, too.” Mark winked.

  Dara's face softened. It was difficult to stifle at chuckle at their charm, which brought on some much-needed levity. Her voice hinted at wistfulness as she spoke. “Any other time, boys..."

  "Yeah, we know.” A low-throated chuckle vibrated through Rusty as he sauntered past her, barely brushing her aside, to the door. That she didn't move to stop him was no surprise. Trembling in place, she seemed unsure of which way to move. It looked as though the combination of weakened anger and uncertainty kept her rooted, as though immobility equaled safety.

  Right.

  The door quietly snicked shut in his hands, and Dara whimpered as he turned the lock. Quiet as it was in that brief moment, one could likely hear her heart actually plummet to her bare feet. Such pretty feet, too—petite with slender toes, each manicured and painted a pearly pink. Ross had always liked them.

  Ross was probably at church now, wondering when she would arrive.

  She'd painted them pink to match the tiny, silk floral buds sewn into the veil hanging from the open closet. In a frosted clear zipper bag, the gown was draped over a Queen Anne chair. White as the driven snow.

  Ha.

  "You really spared no expense, did you?” he teased, watching those digits curl into the shag carpet. “Or rather, your groom-to-be didn't."

  "Answer me,” she bit out. “How are you here? Why? One of you, somebody! This is not the time for a reunion, especially the one I think you're here for."

  Rusty feigned innocence. “Why do you think we're here?” he asked. The backup demi-gods snorted and shook
their heads.

  Dara opened her mouth to speak, but words failed her. They would have been the same ones asked before, anyway. No sense wasting her breath.

  He tutted and shook his head. “You'll know soon enough. Like you, darling, we're not one to reveal our secrets right off the bat."

  "What is that supposed to mean?” Dara glared at him.

  "He means this."

  Dara whirled back toward the sound of Glen's voice. It was almost comical the way she did so. The silence of the other two seemed to have lulled her into a false sense of fantasy. Hearing Glen talk now was reminiscent of a statue coming to life.

  Glen was holding up a section of newspaper, folded back to reveal a studio shot of Dara in her wedding gown. This was the week's society section, announcing her pending nuptials to Ross Hubert. “You see, we do read the papers, and we knew exactly when to show up."

  "Big deal, you found out about the wedding. Like it's been a big secret around town,” she scoffed. “Don't tell me you've come here to stop it."

  "No, but maybe we'd like to know if ol’ Hubie knows about your secrets? Stuff he won't find next to baby announcements and lingerie ads?” Mark challenged, and took the paper from Glen. He scanned a few lines, then looked up at her with a sly grin. “Dara Braxton is an office manager with Hubert-Spangler Associates. Ross Hubert is CEO of Hubert-Spangler Associates."

  "That's one way to get ahead,” Rusty spat. “What else did you manage in the office besides landing the big fish?"

  "Shut up!” Dara's face was hot now. “My life is none of your business. It hasn't been for years."

  "This is the first marriage for both,” Mark finished, and tossed the paper to the floor. “First marriage, but not your first engagement."

  "Or your second,” Glen chirped.

  "Or your third,” Rusty added.

  "What does that have to do with anything? This will be my first marriage, and hopefully my only one.” Dara finally regained the power to move, waving the drooping sleeves of her satin robe in all directions. She must look like a diva directing traffic. “If you'll excuse me, boys, I don't want to be late for it. As I recall, none of you were invited."

  She moved to unlock the door, but Rusty deftly blocked the knob from her reach. He proved too set in stone to be budged as well, and Dara became more frustrated ... and excited as her gaze took in Rusty's hard body. He was granite sheathed in smooth skin, rippled in all the right place.

  The struggle to dislodge him appeared more ceremonial now, with Dara trying to save face in the wake inevitable failure. A failure to make it to the church on time, yes, but how badly this would turn out for all parties involved remained to be seen, and felt.

  One last flail against his chest sent her reeling backward into the brutish, muscular arms of Mark. He tucked her tightly against his chest, encircling her waist and lifting her toward the bed. Wavering his head to and fro to glance half-hearted blows, the grin never left his face.

  "Gah!” she cried. “Let go of me. Let me out! I'm marrying Ross today. You can't stop me."

  "We're not going to do anything to you that you don't want done,” Glen told her. “Don't deny yourself, either. Hubie can wait."

  "Don't call him that!"

  "We're also not going to tell you how we got up here,” Rusty was saying as he approached. The growing heat of her arousal spiked as he stood barely centimeters from her robed form. Her scent perfumed the air. “However, we will indulge you just one secret."

  "W-what's that?"

  Rusty dipped his head lower, whispering into her ear. “You're not going to get out."

  "That hardly sounds like a secret,” Dara murmured. “More like stating the obvious."

  "Well, let me put it this way.” Rusty grinned. “You're not going to get out ... walking straight."

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  Like a rag doll cast aside by a distracted child, Dara was flopped back onto her rumpled bed. She scrambled in the floral sheets for some semblance of balance and gasped as though the soft mattress might suck her into a void and render her helpless. Limbs askew, clutching at sheets, she tried vainly to sit but one light touch of Glen's hand to her shoulder eased her back into a submissive position.

  Almost too willingly. Rusty arched an eyebrow at that.

  The look on her face clearly read, It shouldn't be this hard to resist. The temptation to let her know exactly how hard Dara would be getting it played on Rusty's tongue, but the words faded in his smile. He'd find a more suitable use for his mouth later.

  A glance to Glen and Mark, standing on the other side of the bed, and the three stripped their flimsy shirts in unison.

  "Do you remember our wedding day?” he asked. “You probably don't. You didn't get to see the how the church was decorated, and how all the guests were dressed, shifting uncomfortably on wooden pews. You didn't see the caterers moving this gargantuan white cake in and out of the parish hall, trying not to drop it."

  Dara whimpered as she stared at the ceiling. She wanted to watch and everyone in the room knew it. Right here she had to access to the one thing her precious Ross Hubert lacked—body mass. True, the man's financial endowments far outshone what the men combined made annually, but money wasn't everything.

  Dara had to realize that now.

  She was lovely in this state—her gaze pale with curiosity, her full breasts heaving underneath the flaps of her robe. Standing at the correct angle, one might spy a fleck of dusty rose skin. Already her nipples were hardened enough to poke the light fabric. Delicious and ripe. What would “Precious Ross” think to know how they had been worried between the teeth of three men on the day of his marriage to her?

  "Two hours I waited for you, pacing the altar like a jackass,” Rusty said, “and you never told me why. Not a letter, you didn't answer my phone calls, nothing!” Thumbs hooked under the band of his shorts, he thrust them down in one motion and kicked them to the side. His cock, long and hardened with anticipation of this moment, sprang to attention and tapped at his abdomen.

  Nice. That one look, that slight tilt of her head and her eyes bulging, was a welcome reward to this plan. “Remember this, too, how it used to fill you up at night?” He gripped the base of his shaft and slid his fingers upward, squeezing his circumcised tip in a corkscrew motion. “At night, in the morning, during lunch breaks at the mall when you worked there ... you loved my cock inside of you."

  "Please,” she whined, her voice a sob, “don't do this.” Her body betrayed her vocal wishes.

  "What happened, Dara?” Rusty demanded. “What happened between our engagement party and our wedding day that turned you completely against the idea of marrying me?” He leaned forward, his fists indenting the mattress. His cock twitched in reaction to the coolness of the sheets. He watched Dara stare at it with growing fascination, and want.

  "I loved you, and wanted to spend the rest of my life with you,” Rusty said. “And two hours after you didn't show up I had to hear from your cousin that you'd skipped town with a friend. You didn't even put on the dress, just had breakfast and left!"

  "I-I was young then, Rusty. We both were.” Dara managed to prop herself on her elbows. The action caused her robe to slide open, and there she lay in near bare-breasted glory. Her nipples, as had been guessed, were pinched and distended—a sure sign of arousal, no matter how badly the forcefulness of her voice tried to disguise it.

  "We were just out of high school. I-I wanted to be sure we weren't making a mistake,” she continued. “I can't understand why you'd still be mad at me. I did send a letter."

  "Three years later,” Rusty sniffed.

  "I did you a favor,” Dara insisted. “I did us a favor. We'd have been divorced within six months. Don't tell me you haven't considered that in retrospect."

  "I've considered a lot of things since we broke up, or rather since you broke up with me, seeing as how I didn't have much say in it.” Rusty tugged at her robe, smiling at her shock as he pulled it the rest of the way to reveal her nu
de body. Long, lean legs could have kicked him away but remained bent in an awkward position to one side. Her bare pussy twitched, nestled deep between her quivering thighs. By the way she pressed them together, it was a safe bet she was trying to hide the fact that she was wet.

  "But I don't plan to say much right now,” he added. “You wouldn't be able to hear me, anyway."

  Hands smoothed over her shoulders and down her arms. Dara was startled at the touches administered by Glen and Mark, who leaned to either side of her. Both were naked as well, and as equally gifted as Rusty where it counted. The mattress audibly sagged under their knees as they moved deeper onto the bed. Rusty remained bent at the edge, and wedged one hand between her legs.

  "What are you doing?” she hissed.

  Rusty shrugged. “Something old, something new..."

  "There are people downstairs.” Dara was panicked, yet her body was pliant to his touch. “I just came up for gloves. Somebody's going to wonder what's taking so long."

  What more she planned to say was quieted with an earnest gaze into Rusty's eyes. “You bribed somebody to get up here,” she said.

  "I can assure you no money changed hands,” Rusty said, smiling. “Let's just say not everybody in your family loves Hubie as much as you."

  "Who was it? My sister? Not Dad, for Christ's sake. He'd have a heart attack to know this was going on."

  "And Hubie?” Rusty dared. His answer was a narrow-eyed glare, invisible daggers aimed point blank. At least she had the courtesy not to knee his groin, but he knew why.

  She didn't want to render it useless, deny as she might.

  Dara's hips shifted for comfort and her legs gave way to reveal her moistened slit. Her pussy lips parted unaided, unfolding like a flower in spring—fragrant and pink, her bud glistening with dew. She seemed to arch toward him in a silent plea to relieve her ache. So much for worry of an audience.

  "What's wrong?” Rusty gazed up the taut, heaving landscape of her body to where Glen and Mark caressed her breasts and neck. “Wedding day jitters? You should relax."