Wydawca: Boruma Publishing Kategoria: Obyczajowe i romanse Język: angielski Rok wydania: 2018

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Opis ebooka Busted By The MILF! - Alana Church

Ron Hendrick is desperate. Out of money and out of food, he has to shoplift to feed his family. But when he is caught, the sexy security guard decides not to press charges. Ron is going to have to repay his debt to society in a different way. Because Ron's been "Busted By the MILF!"~~~~~ Excerpt ~~~~~So close, and so far away.Ron was driving her crazy, even though he had barely made a single move in her direction. Martya’s arousal rose with every breath she took, taking in his clean male scent. If the kids hadn’t been in the same room, she thought, smiling, she would have already been naked. She shivered at the thought of them making love someday, in front of the fire, the warm orange light gilding their bodies.Which didn’t mean she couldn’t do anything about the situation. As he spoke quietly, telling her about his theories about love and witches and Disney movies, she moved her hand under the blanket. With quick, deft moves, she unbuttoned his jeans and slipped her hand under the waistband.Jackpot.His manhood filled her hand, hot and hard and erect, and she had to bite her lip to stifle the moan of longing which would have had the girls looking at her curiously. As it was, his softly-spoken narrative stumbled to a halt as she stroked him, and he was unable to pick up the tangled threads of conversation.“What’s the matter?” she teased, running her fingers up and down his length. And damn, what a length it was! “Cat got your tongue? Or does something else…have something else?”A muted groan, little more than a huff of air, was her only answer.“From the first moment that I saw you, in the store,” she murmured, leaning close so she could whisper into his ear, “I wanted you.” She followed up the words with a sharp nip to his earlobe, which won a startled jerk. She licked the lobe in apology, then took it into her mouth, suckling softly. “So young. And no idea how hot you were.“Of course,” she continued, choosing brutal honesty, “if I had thought you were just jacking things from the store to get your kicks, I would have hauled your ass in to the station and turned you over to the cops, and never given you a second thought.”“Good thing I wasn’t then, isn’t it?”“Oh, yes. And it’s always nice to know that your interest is…returned.” She ran her thumb around his crown, spreading his moisture around and around the soft flesh, feeling him shiver in frustrated longing. She could sense him shifting on the couch, his hips lifting to push himself into her hand, and smiled. Over the past year, when she had been almost numb from the loss of Harry’s death, she had wondered whether she was still attractive. Ron’s unabashed desire for her woke a feeling of fierce pride inside her.I’m going to wear his young ass out, she thought.

Opinie o ebooku Busted By The MILF! - Alana Church

Fragment ebooka Busted By The MILF! - Alana Church

Busted By The MILF

By Alana Church

Artwork by Moira Nelligar

Copyright 2018 Alana Church

~~ All characters in this book are over 18. ~~

Another day, another dollar, Martya Stepanovich thought sourly as she entered the grocery store.

Too bad that hits a little too close to the truth, considering what I’m paid to make sure no one steals from this dump.

Of course, she had no one to blame but herself, really. There were lots of police departments in this part of Illinois who would be more than happy to take on an eleven-year vet of the Chicago PD, if she cared to apply. All she had to do was march into the personnel department of the Kankakee Police Department and start the process. She could be back on the streets in a couple of weeks, and could tell this place to kiss her blond ass.

No. Never. Life as a cop killed one of Annie’s parents. I’m not going back to that life.

“Evening, Martya.” Oliver Pinzetti’s voice was more than a little surprised as she walked into the tiny room which served as the office for the people who made sure La Familia Market didn’t get looted by shoplifters. Bare concrete, decorated only by OSHA flyers, formed the four walls. Along one side of the room sat a long narrow desk, with a bank of black and white television monitors overhead. Displayed on their flickering screens were live shots of the interior of the store, so the security guards could keep an eye on the customers who wandered the aisles, filling up their squeaky-wheeled carts. “I didn’t expect you here tonight. Thought it’d be Vance.”

She shook her head. “He called in sick. And I could use the overtime. Annie was at a sleepover anyway and I didn’t have any plans. I might as well pick up a few extra bucks.”

“How is that rotten little girl of yours, anyway?” Pinzetti asked, and she hid a smile as she hung up her jacket. Her daughter had taken an instant and immediate dislike to the hulking guard, and on the rare occasions when she brought her to the store, stayed as far away from him as she could.

“She’s fine.” She swiped a hand through her hair. “It’s a filthy night out. Be careful on your way home.” Rain had been sheeting down all afternoon, driven by a wicked west wind. The potholed parking lot had been full of puddles as she dashed into the store.

She sighed, despairing at what her life had become. What a damned mess. You used to be a real cop, once upon a time. Now you spend forty hours a week staring at a TV screen, just waiting to bust some sad sack who’s looking for a five-finger discount.

“Anything going on?” she asked, settling into the rhythms of the evening change of shift.

“Nah. Nothing. Slow night, really. Thought someone might be dicking around in the liquor section a while ago, but he just couldn’t make up his mind.” He handed over a clipboard. Dog-eared pages, filled with his scribbled notes, rested uneasily on top. “I did my last round an hour ago. Nothing suspicious.”

Gee. You’re almost a real cop, she didn’t say. At the best of times, she found the man distasteful. Fifty, fat, and balding, he still strutted around the store like a tin-pot dictator, scowling at the shoppers with one hand on his baton, as if he and he alone kept the world from sliding into anarchy. He wouldn’t last six weeks at a real police department, or as a guard at a jail, for that matter. He didn’t realize that his job was to keep the peace, not to scare and intimidate.

“Look,” Pinzetti said, hunching forward in his chair. breaking up her weary train of thought. His piggish eyes were suddenly bright and alert. “There he is again.”

“Who?” she asked.

“That little shit who’s been ripping us off for the last three months.” He pointed at one of the monitors. In the black and white screen, she could make out a familiar profile. “God, he thinks he’s so fucking smart.”

“Smart enough to do it four times so far and not get caught,” she replied mildly. “And that’s only the ones we know about for sure.” She pointedly did not look at Pinzetti’s fat bulk. Or mention the fact that it had been herself, not the beefy security guard, who had noticed the pattern of thefts while going over old security footage, which was supposed to be his job.

Or that Pinzetti had missed a chance to bust the teenager three weeks ago. Too fat, too old, and too slow, he been left gasping at the front doors as the shoplifter drove away. Martya doubted that the kid had even noticed that he had been recognized and pursued. Almost certainly not, in fact, or he would not have risked coming back.

Glancing at the clock, she said, “Listen. It’s nearly quitting time for you. I don’t think you want to deal with the police and the store management and all the paperwork. Let me handle this one, okay?”

With a groan, he levered himself out of the protesting chair. “You talked me into it, you silver-tongued devil.” He shrugged himself into a coat which could not quite close around his middle. “Clock me out at eleven, would you?”

“Sure.” The clock showed ten-forty.

As the door creaked closed behind Pinzetti, she studied the young man in the monitor. He was good, she had to admit that. Most shoplifters and petty thieves broadcast what they were doing with every move they made - sidling up and down the aisles, their eyes furtively glancing from side to side. Not this one. He walked through the store with a casual intensity, the walk of a man who was in a hurry and didn’t have time to waste. In one hand, he held a pair of reusable cloth bags, as if he had just popped in to grab a few items and couldn’t be bothered to push a squeaky, lumbering cart through the store.

As she watched, he shoved two boxes of breakfast cereal into one of the bags. Her brows pinched down in a frown. That was strange. Most shoplifters went for more expensive items. Small bottles of pricy alcohol, for example, which could be slipped into the inside pocket of a jacket. Or steaks. Or other, stranger things. One time she had busted an older woman who had gone into the bathroom with a bag of frozen shrimp and had tried to disguise it under a pair of baggy sweatpants.

She shook her head. You’re not being paid to critique his methods, Martya. You’re being paid to protect the store from people like him. People who are trying to rip it off. Now get out there and nail his ass before he manages to slide out of here for the fifth time.

She stood up, stretching to her full five-foot nothing height. A lot of her ex-colleagues on the force had made fun of her size. But the advantage, she reminded them, was that she didn’t look like a cop. And by the time a perp actually made the connection, it was too late for them and she had them in handcuffs.

Just like this poor slob. Grimacing, she made her way out the scuffed door and out into the store.

*****

Every time he stole, it got worse.

Ronald could hear the clock, ticking in the back of his head. The clock that told him that someday, his luck would run out.

This is stupid.

The words hammered into his mind, even as he dropped a half-dozen cans of generic soup into one of the bags, which grew noticeably heavier in his sweating grip. But the soup would serve as dinner for a full week for Maddie and Amelia. The packets of instant oatmeal and the cereal could be stretched to cover two weeks of breakfasts. Maybe even three. And the bread and peanut butter and jelly could be made into sandwiches for lunches.

Ronald knew this was a mistake. Knew that his luck wouldn’t last forever. But if he could pull this off just one more time…

The first time had been almost an accident. He had been halfway through his shopping list when he realized that he needed a cart to hold everything he needed to buy. When he carried his bags back to the corral by the front doors where they were kept, he had noticed he was only a few yards away from making off with upwards of sixty bucks worth of food for free. With his family’s desperate finances looming over his head like an axe, he had simply walked out the door, absolutely certain that a descending hand would grab him by the shoulder and that he would be marched off to jail.

But no one, seemingly, had noticed. He had done the same thing more than half a dozen times in the past six months, always when money was tight, always taking no more than he could comfortable carry.

Always late at night, when the store was all but deserted.

He took a deep breath, turning slowly, as if he were scanning the shelves for a particular item, when in reality he was trying to see if anyone was watching him. But this late on a filthy, rainy night, the store was practically abandoned. There was only one other shopper in his aisle, a petite blond woman with a plastic basket slung over one arm, who was slowly walking toward him, a small frown on her face as she looked at the shelves.

Enough. He’d gotten what he’d came here for. The girls might complain about the lack of variety at the dinner table, but they would have enough to get by for another week or two, and that was the important thing. Time to get out of here.

As he turned, the blond woman spoke. “Excuse me. I’m sorry,” she continued, as he turned back towards her. A pair of light blue eyes looked up at him from a face which seemed to be a few years younger than his mother’s. “Can you tell me where they keep the pasta noodles? I’ve been looking all over, but…” she trailed off, looking helpless.

He nodded. “Sure,” Even as he spoke, a stray thought niggled at the back of his mind. Something about this woman didn’t seem right. He turned to point. “It’s two aisles – ow!”

Quicker than he could think, the woman grabbed his wrist in an iron grip, turning it slightly and twisting it behind his back. One of his bags fell to the ground with a clank of soup cans knocking together.

“Got you.” Her voice was low, but full of satisfaction. “I’ve been waiting to bust you for weeks, kid.”

Now he knew what was wrong and what his subconscious had been trying to tell him. On a cold, windy night, with rain sheeting down outside, the woman’s clothes were bone-dry. And she wasn’t wearing a jacket or carrying an umbrella. He cursed himself for his stupidity.

“Now here’s how it’s going to go,” she said quietly. “We’re going to walk back to my office. Nice and slow, so no one notices what’s going on. If you try to make a run for it, I’ll break your arm.” As if to emphasize her point, his wrist was pushed a little higher on his back.

“We’ll have a little talk. And if I don’t like the answers I get, I’m going to call the police, and you can spend the night in a cell.

“Got me?”

*****

The kid didn’t even try to get away. Didn’t protest. Didn’t make an excuse. Didn’t pretend it was a mistake, or that she’d gotten the wrong person.

He didn’t bluster or threaten. Didn’t try to bribe her, didn’t snivel and whine and try to play on her sympathy.

Instead, he sat, hopeless, staring at nothing, like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Martya shivered. She had seen that look before. Too often. The hollow eyes, the shaking hands, the pale face, all told the story of a young man who had been pushed to the absolute brink.

She sat down in the chair opposite him, making her pose as unthreatening as possible. “Your name?”

“Ron.” A long pause, then he cleared his throat. “Ronald Hendrick.”

She nodded. “Do you have some ID, Ron?”

He shrugged and fished a wallet out of the back pocket of his jeans. With a quiet snap, he laid a drivers license down on the desk.

She picked it up. Nineteen years old. Jesus Christ. He’s just a baby. “Aren’t you a little young to be doing this kind of crap?”

He shrugged again, his face closed.

“Care to tell me why? I’ve got surveillance video going back three months. If I want, I can press charges for petty larceny on four separate occasions.”

“What difference does it make?” His voice was low and bitter. “You got me.”

“The difference,” she said quietly, “is that I’ve got some leeway in how these things go.