Thursday, February 5, 2015

His Boss Her Dom By Raven McAllan








Hiss Boss

Why the hell did she look familiar? Jamie scratched the ears of Russ, and searched his brain. He'd seen her before, he was sure of it, but for the life of him couldn't think where. He hoped to god it wasn't somewhere that could jeopardize this job.
The voluptuous woman standing in front of him was, he judged, in her early to mid forties, so around ten or twelve years older than him, with a body he itched to taste. Those curves were made for him to touch and hold and…whoa, hold it there. She's not one of the subbies who want a little bit of pain, nipple clamps, a nice crop mark over their ass, and a butt plug. She's just someone on this postal round that may or may not know something to help me. More's the pity. He coughed to regain her attention.
"Bad news?"
"What?" The woman—Eva—looked up from the paper in her hand with a peculiar smile on her face. "Oh no just the opposite. Am I last on your route like normal?"
He nodded. "Well you're last on my route anyway."
"Good, then you can come in and tell me all about it." She unlocked the door and preceded him into the kitchen. "Russ can come in as well. I can't be doing with chasing after him again. Although he has a well honed sense of preservation, and after the first kick up the jacksie the asshole, sorry my neighbor gave him, he only heads off in that direction when their car has gone down the lane."
Jamie shut the door behind them. Even though the day passed as warm for Scotland, there was enough humidity to make the midges a pain in the ass. A pain everywhere in all honesty. He scratched a bite and made a mental note to put repellant in the van the next day.
"Here." Eva handed him a small bottle. "Antihistamine. It'll stop you itching. At this time of year the midges are horrendous. Lovely long evenings that I admire from behind glass, and watch clouds of the buggers trying to get in. Remember, repellent is your best friend on this route." She picked up the kettle and turned on the tap.
Jamie laughed. "Yes, Ma'am."
Eva spun round from the sink, unheeding of the water that spilled over her hands and dripped onto the floor. "Why did you call me Ma’am?"
Now he was confused. "Well, you sounded bossy. Sorry, I thought you'd get the joke. You know Ma’am, in charge sort of thing. I'm sorry if it upset you." Shit, I hope she's not one of those touchy feminist types.
 "Not at all. I just wondered why Ma’am." She turned back to the sink, switched the tap off and then the kettle on before mopping the floor. Only then did she swivel around to face him again. "And yes, Sergeant, you can call me Ma’am, if you want to. Otherwise, here, Eva will be fine."
He knew fine well his jaw dropped. She'd made him? How the fuck?
Eva smiled at him. "Sorry Sergeant." She waved the letter he'd brought, and she'd signed for. "It doesn't matter how often I tell them that post to this neck of the woods takes longer than in the city, do they ever listen?" she asked—rhetorically he assumed. "Oh no," she went on. "They post this at some stupid hour of the night and expect me to get it the day after. Not only that some penny pinching asshat put a second class stamp on it. So, Sergeant James Swinton, from a different area of the force, How about telling me what you've found out."
He shut his mouth, and swallowed heavily. "Ah. Oh bollocks, am I deep in the shit?"
"Ah, indeed." Eva reached into a drawer and took out small leather wallet. "And no, not at all, unless you think you should be for not recognizing me." She went bright red. "Although I've only had brief contact with you. I…er…taught a session when you were on a training course last year." She, handed him the wallet, and he saw what was inside.
A warrant card with her photo on and stating she was a Chief Inspector in the Scottish Police force. Okay, he'd buy that, even though it was the biggest cock deflator since Sadie Stewart laughed at his attempt to find her clit. Mind you he was only a teenager at the time, and his aim and attention to the female body had improved considerably since then.
"Ma’am." He snapped to attention and she laughed.
"I'm allegedly on holiday, and you're allegedly a postie, so we can cut the formalities I reckon. Time enough to get out the tags and labels when we have to. You're a long way from home, why did they choose you?"
 Why did he think she was deliberately changing the subject? Oh she'd taught him, he didn't disbelieve that, but there was something else, he'd stake his pension on it. Now he thought about it, he couldn't believe he'd missed the connection. However this luscious woman with, he reckoned, braless breasts covered in a soft lawn gypsy style blouse, teamed with a long almost see through maxi skirt was nothing like the stern-faced woman in uniform that had addressed his class. Only the eyes were the same. A deep glittering blue-green that reminded him of the Caribbean Sea. As he stared into her eyes, a dim memory teased him. Where else had he seen eyes that beautiful color?











A multi-published, best selling author of erotic romance, Raven lives in Scotland, along with her husband, in a house much too big for them—their children having flown the nest—surrounded by beautiful scenery, which inspires a lot of the settings in her books.

She is used to sharing her life with the occasional deer, red squirrel, and lost tourist, to say nothing of the scourge of Scotland—the midge. As once she is writing she is oblivious to everything else, her lovely long-suffering husband is learning to love the dust bunnies, work the Aga, and be on stand-by with a glass of wine.



Or….



Well what can I say?



I'm growing old disgracefully and loving it.

Dh and I live on the edge of a Scottish forest, and rattle around in a house much too big for us.

Our kids have grown up and flown the nest, but roll back up when they want to take a deep breath and smell the daisies so to speak.

I write in my study, which overlooks the garden and the lane. I'm often seen procrastinating, by checking out the wild life, looking—only looking—at the ironing basket and assuring tourists that indeed, I'm not the bed and breakfast. That would mean cooking fried eggs without breaking the yolks, and disturbing the dust bunnies as they procreate under the beds. Not to be thought of.

Being able to do what I love, and knowing people get pleasure from my writing is fantastic. Long may it last.

https://www.facebook.com/rmcallan        (my page)
https://www.facebook.com/ravenmcallan            (author page)

 

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