Fifty More

By Darlene Hesley

In the final installment of The Fifty List series, the warm embrace of love collides headlong with the passion of sexual frenzy. Pam Williams rediscovers the joys of hot high-school make-out sessions with a political candidate. Her daughter, Samantha, has rough sex with her professor. Martin acts out a fantasy Viking rape scene with Ruby in Iceland. Pam’s son, Dylan, encounters a variety of mind-blowing experiences at arts camp. Keep one hand free – Fifty More delivers!
The past year has been a journey through sorrow and loss for Pam – toward a new way of life. She faces the anniversary of tragedy alongside the end of a year of self-enforced celibacy. Her lover, Martin Campbell, has spent the year discovering the joys of parenthood as he and Ruby welcome baby Dalvin into their lives. Martin’s love for Dalvin is intense, however, he didn’t count on the sexual fury he shares with Ruby evolving into something so meaningful – but does Ruby share his feelings?
Pam and Martin are drawn together at the end of a year full of changes for both of them. At their one-year reunion, memories of sexual fulfilment flood their minds and bodies. They have tried so hard to ‘be good’, but now they have the opportunity to ‘be bad’. Will they be?

EXCERPT: Martin and Ruby find adventure waiting for them atop a fjord in Iceland. (Explicit sexual content edited for this forum)
Ruby squirmed under him, pushing her chest and pelvis upward, seeking firm contact. She stared into an icy blue sky and closed her fists around clumps of grass, digging her nails into the gritty soil . . . gritty Viking soil.
Her expression defined the word lust . . . but she wasn’t looking at him. He watched her emerald green eyes burn at some imagined scene.
“What are you thinking about?” he whispered. Ruby didn’t respond. He clutched her chin, more harshly than he intended, and turned her face toward him. She blinked several times, as if awoken from a dream.
“What were you thinking about?”
Martin felt her chest heave under him. Her eyes opened wide.
“Vikings,” she spat gutturally. “Vikings right here. Vikings attacking.”
Martin nodded. “What did Vikings do when they attacked?”
“They murdered. They slaughtered. They pillaged,” she said hoarsely. “Killed the men . . . raped the women.”
“They took what they wanted,” said Martin.
Martin had never seen Ruby’s face look so fierce and wild. He stared into emerald green eyes, grit his teeth and pounded into Ruby harder than he ever had into any woman.

EXCERPT: Martin and Pam meet after a year of not touching. (Copy edited for space)

Martin cleared his throat. Pam sucked in her lips. Neither of them spoke, but they didn’t look away from each other’s face either. They stared openly at each other.
Martin set his hands lightly on her upper arms and took a step forward. Pam felt the heat from his chest on hers. Same as always. She smelled the smell that could only be Martin. Same as always. She felt tightening in her lower belly. Same as always.
Martin closed the distance until their bodies pressed together. Pam placed her hands lightly on his hips. Her head swam and the world around her became quiet.
Oh, no.
His lips were on hers and she was kissing back before she knew what had happened. His arms were around her back, gripping her, pulling her tighter, tighter, so much tighter. Her hands slid from his hips and moved to his lower back, slowly migrating down until she was cupping his ass, pulling him toward her. Warmth grew between her legs and spread outward.
God!
His lips moved mercilessly from her mouth down her neck and up to her ear. He tugged on her earlobe with his mouth, running his tongue on that spot behind her ear.
Surely this can’t be wrong. This feels so . . . so right!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darlene Hesley
• Release date: Dec 4, 2014
• ISBN: 9780991893713

Darlene Hesley

Darlene Hesley is a happily married mother of one who lives somewhere between Toronto and Manitoulin Island in Ontario, Canada. She is an avid fan of The X-Files and loves writing fiction, eating great food and drinking red wine. She was a reporter, trade magazine writer and corporate communications specialist before becoming a full-time novelist. The Fifty List was is her first full-length novel and she absolutely loved writing it. She started on the sequel, The Other Side of Fifty, moments after finishing the first book. The third book in the trilogy, Fifty More, is now available on Smashwords and its various affiliates. Earlier this year, she released The Warrior and the Healer - A Medieval Irish Tale. Set in 12th Century Ireland, it's historical romance, kinda on the sexy side, featuring a strong young heroine, and a warrior-for-hire with a mysterious past, somehow linked to the nobility of Ireland. Both share the cause of fighting for their ancestry after the Norman Invasion of 1171. Great history, great romance, great angst, great sex!

Book preview

Fifty More

Fifty More

Darlene Hesley

DISCLAIMER

Fifty More is a work of fiction. Names, characters and events are products of the author’s over-active imagination.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold

or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person,

please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did

not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to

Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work

of this author.

Copyright © 2014 Darlene Hesley

All rights reserved.

ISBN-13:978-09918937-5-1

Table of Contents

Books by Darlene Hesley

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

About the Author

DEDICATION

To my Studmuffin

:-)

BOOKS BY DARLENE HESLEY

The Fifty List series:

The Fifty List (Book 1)

The Other Side of Fifty (Book 2)

Fifty More (Book 3)

The Innocent Flame of Seduction – A Tale of Love and Loyalty in Medieval Ireland

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I am very thankful to my test readers, who motivate me to keep writing.

BRUCE, GAY, LAURIE

CHAPTER ONE

The baby was crying.

Ruby moaned and rolled over, half asleep, but came closer to consciousness as Dalvin wailed louder and louder. It was 3:30 a.m. Dalvin had cried at the same time for five nights in a row. She half-opened her eyes and tensed her stomach muscles, moving half-way into a sit up. An arm fell across her chest and pushed her back into the mattress.

Go back to sleep, her bedmate whispered. It’s my turn, grasshopper.

Ruby didn’t argue. She closed her eyes and was asleep again within seconds.

Martin had been wide awake, listening to Dalvin for at least five minutes. He hoped the boy would give up and fall asleep, but he was persistent. Martin had made up his mind if the baby didn’t quiet before he woke Ruby, he’d make her stay in bed and tend to Dalvin himself. It was the wee hours of Saturday morning – Martin could take a nap in the afternoon if he wanted.

Martin sat up and gazed at Ruby. Her long, blond curls fell across both her pillow and his. Her mouth hung open. Even in the dim light, he saw dark circles under her eyes. The kid was wearing her out. He wondered how she’d have the energy for their upcoming trip. Martin supposed he didn’t exactly look like a model out of GQ himself.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stepped into comfy slippers. Martin wore only boxers, which had always been enough nighttime attire for him, but these days kept a robe tossed over the chest at the end of the bed. He slipped it on and tied the belt around his middle as he left the bedroom. He gently closed the door.

Martin flicked on a nightlight inside the nursery door. The four-month-old baby was on his side, holding tight to the bars of his crib like a prisoner in a cell. Tears ran down his full, red cheeks.

Martin walked over to the crib and stroked Dalvin’s head. Until then, the baby didn’t even seem to realize anyone was in the room. The crying stopped suddenly.

Hey, sonny boy, said Martin, lifting the baby and wrapping his arms around him. What’s got you so upset, huh?

Martin patted the bottom of Dalvin’s diaper. It didn’t feel heavy. Dalvin stared at Martin’s face. Martin rocked him in his arms. He cried out a few more times and was quiet again.

Martin sat with the baby in the well-padded rocker-recliner in the corner of the room. He reclined the chair all the way back and lay the baby flat out on his chest and stomach. He moved his hand in large circles around the baby’s back. The boy’s belly pushed into his.

A moment later, Dalvin produced a huge fart.

Martin laughed and titled his head, looking at the chubby-cheeked infant. He was fast asleep.

"I wish I could fart myself to sleep," he whispered.

Martin wrapped both arms around the baby. The weight of him on his chest felt soothing. He kissed the tiny curls on top of Dalvin’s head.

Night night, son, he said. Moments later, all three people in the house were sound asleep.

For the first time in her life, Pam drew a blank . . . a total, all-encompassing blank. It was 1 p.m. Sunday afternoons were her favourite time for writing fanfiction. She stared at the computer screen, her fingers frozen on the keyboard. Usually she couldn’t move them fast enough. Images flowed through her brain and ran together like a movie. She saw people and settings and heard dialogue. It was simply a matter of getting it out through the ends of her fingertips. It should be easy. Dead simple.

Except this time.

This time, Pam stared and stared. Her mind was a total blank. No Mulder, no Scully . . . not even Skinner (who she also thought was hot). She removed her hands from the keyboard and let them drop to her lap.

Fuck!

Pam took in a long breath and heaved it out. Maybe I’ve used them up. Maybe I’ve done everything I can with them. Pam smiled slowly. Or maybe I’ve had them do everything they can with each other.

Pam pressed her palms and her fingertips together and dropped her head, staring at them.

"You must have something to say," she scolded.

She remembered Martin’s reaction upon hearing she wrote fanfiction and the shock she felt upon finding out he had actually read it.

You have quite the talent, he’d said. Pam didn’t know whether to cringe at the thought of him reading the sexually explicit passages she had written, or beam at the compliment.

You do have a fine sense of the erotic, he added, saying the details in the sex scenes were hot enough to set cyberspace on fire.

Still staring at her idle fingers, Pam grinned at the memory. She hadn’t known back then Martin was setting her up for one of the most erotic memories her brain possessed – phone sex with her co-worker.

Maybe I should write about that, Pam chuckled. She continued to stare at her hands. The smile left and she sat quietly for at least a minute. Her eyebrows came together slowly and she chewed at the inside of her right cheek.

Huh, she said, bringing her gaze back up to the screen. She nodded. "Maybe I should write about that!"

Pam brought her hands up and let them hover above home row on the keyboard. She blinked repeatedly. Visions formed in that spot at the back of her head where Mulder and Scully usually played. Only this time, it wasn’t FBI agents, but a pair of office workers doing nasty deeds. She saw herself and Martin as clearly as a movie playing in front of her eyes.

Without thinking, she let her fingers fall onto the keyboard. They started moving as she watched the movie play.

Her nightshirt was silky and soft. It was one of her favourites. She undid the buttons and looked down across her breasts and legs. She was curvy and voluptuous – she knew it, she didn’t apologize for knowing it – and she was going to make damned sure he knew it too.

"Oh, Emmett, if you were here, what you would see, she cooed into the phone. My tits are gorgeous . . . even I can see that. They’re round and full and have small pink nipples, but the tips are long and hard. She pinched them, threw her head back and groaned loudly. Ahhhh . . . I wish you were here to bite them."

"Jesus, Kirstie, you are killing me. If I wasn’t so far away, I’d be over there sucking every inch of your body, he said. Touch yourself some more, he growled. I want you to be my slut tonight. I want you to talk dirty and be loud when you cum. I want to hear you cum loud. I’ll shoot all over my sheets the second I hear it."

Kirstie laughed throatily. Slow down, Twitter guy. I’m gonna torture you tonight. I’m gonna tease myself and tease myself until I can’t stand it anymore. I’m gonna keep you on this phone as long as I can. Your cock is gonna hurt by the time I’m done. You’ll be in agony. She heard a whimper on the other end of the phone and laughed wickedly.

Kirstie filled her boob with her left hand and squeezed hard enough to leave marks. She cradled the phone under her ear. My hand’s going south, tall guy. I’m reaching down into the swamp. It’s dark and dangerous down there. Kirstie sucked in a breath. Oh, shit, I’m so wet! Oh, fuck, I’m so wet I can shove all my fingers in there.

Emmett panted like a dog on a hot summer day. If I was there, I’d shove my fist up inside you and turn it around until it was good and soggy. Then I’d take it out and lick it all off.

"Yeah, said Kirstie, in your dreams!"

"You wanna bet in my dreams. All my dreams are hot and wet and full of your pussy."

Pam stopped typing and re-read the last line aloud.

"All my dreams are hot and wet and full of your pussy?"

She stared at the words. What the fuck? Where the hell did that come from? Martin never said anything like that!

Pam started to laugh. She laughed and laughed. She put both hands on her belly and nearly fell off the chair laughing.

Pam finally managed to quell the laughter, but her torso still shook up and down. That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever written.

Pam read the short passage. She’d written it fast, and upon re-reading it, barely remembered writing it. That was the way with some of her best fanfiction. She’d write as fast as her fingers could fly and later was astounded by what she had written.

All these years, she had been writing about the drama in other people’s lives – people who weren’t even real – but had never considered writing about herself and her own experiences. What could possibly be interesting about a woman who was married with children and worked in a public relations office? How boring is that? Pam flashed back over the past two years. Nothing in her life could have prepared her for everything that had happened . . . and none of it had been boring.

Pam leaned back in her chair and stared into nothingness off to the right side of her monitor. She stopped moving entirely. Her expression became blank. She stayed that way for many minutes.

I wonder, she whispered.

Dozens of scenarios flashed through her mind. A man and a woman sitting in a Greek restaurant . . . as they leave, he encourages her to steal something. A woman pushed up against a bathroom door being fucked senseless. A man weeping like a child about his dead dog. A woman torn between a loving husband and a great lover. A widow, her heart ripped out without any warning, wondering if life was still worth living.

Pam turned back to the screen. She only took a couple of seconds before letting her fingers fly again.

The next time she looked at the clock, it was 5 p.m. and time to get dinner ready.

Dylan sat in Dr. Fleischman’s office, fingernails clawing into the puffy sides of the plush leather chair.

The psychiatrist stared in silence at the young man. The scruffy stubble that emerged last year had turned into a pretty decent full, dark beard. Dylan’s eyebrows were thicker and his jaw had grown strong and angular. It always amazed Fleischman how much change could happen to a young man within a year.

The shrink cleared his throat and made a scribble on a piece of paper. It really was only a scribble – it didn’t mean anything and didn’t look like anything. It was more of a habit; something to do before he spoke. Besides, it was Monday, Dylan was his last patient of the day, and he was tired. Scribbling kept him alert.

He looked up. Dylan, he said. How are your studies going at the University of Toronto?

Dylan gazed out the window and shrugged. His bottom lip protruded slightly. He turned back to the doctor. I’m flunking out, he said flatly. None of it makes sense to me. I’m flunking out, he paused, looking out the window again, and I don’t give a shit.

The doctor looked down to his notepad, made another nonsensical scribble, lifted his pen, then wrote the word flunking beside the scribble before looking up again.

Dylan, you’re taking a number of courses. Surely you’re not ‘flunking out’ in everything . . . are you?

Dylan shrugged again and looked back at the shrink. He cast his eyes down. I have an elective in material arts – metalsmithing – I’m actually getting an ‘A’ in that. Everything else, all the stuff toward my B.A., all the lecture hall crap, I’m barely pulling in passing grades.

Dr. Fleischman nodded. In your first semester, you did quite well, didn’t you? You told me you maintained a B average.

Dylan nodded. "Yeah, but that was mostly math and communications and easy stuff. This semester, I sit in lecture halls and nearly fall asleep as some asshole blah, blah, blahs about history and politics and urban economics. I pretty much wanna shoot myself after listening to that."

The doc turned to his pad again and wrote only two words – shoot myself. He glanced at his patient and took a slow breath, watching the fingernails digging into his chair. The shrink went through at least three chairs a year as a result of his patients’ behaviours. Regardless, he replaced them with the same ultra-expensive model time and time again. His fees more than covered the ongoing cost and his patients did best sitting in comfort.

Dylan, this isn’t unusual. Many students find their first year very difficult. In fact, many drop out either in the first six weeks or near the end of the first year. Fleischman sighed deeply. Look, he said, indicating his head toward a framed document on the wall. Dylan glanced up – it was a diploma from U of T with a Ph.D. designation. Under it were several other diplomas with varying degrees.

Dylan looked back at his doctor and sneered. Yeah, so you’re a genius . . . big deal . . . am I supposed to be impressed?

Fleischman laughed. He didn’t laugh often in front of patients. He looked up and saw Dylan’s scowl. It made him chuckle, but a little quieter this time.

Dylan, he said. Get up. Stop digging your claws into my expensive chair; get up off your ass and go look at the dates on that collection of framed papers on the wall.

Dylan huffed, but did as the doctor requested. He stood looking at diplomas and shoved his hands into his pockets. At the bottom – knee level in fact – was a high school diploma. The guy had grown up in Toronto.

Shit, the dude’s gotta be a million years old; he graduated in 1970!

Next was a certificate from the University of Toronto. It was for a bachelor’s degree with a concentration in biology. The date was 1977. Dylan furrowed his brow. Seven years to get a bachelor’s degree?

The next was something completely different – a certificate from the carpentry program at George Brown community college, dated 1978. Beside it was a framed photo of the doc up on a roof with a nail gun in his hand and shingles slung over his shoulder. Dylan glanced sideways at the doctor, who was smiling.

I’ve been coming here for over a year, he whispered. Why have I never seen these before?

The next were a series of certificates from U of T’s Faculty of Medicine, starting in 1981 and finishing in 1989.

Dylan looked at his doctor with incredulity. "It took you 19 years to become a shrink? He looked back at the frames. What the hell? Dylan stared at them for another minute, walked slowly back to his chair and flopped, his hands resting limply on the arms. I guess you’re no genius after all!"

Dr. Fleischman laughed heartily this time. Far from it, he said, still chuckling. "I’m far from stupid, but I’m also far from Mensa material."

The doctor quieted his laugh and took several long breaths. He gazed into Dylan’s youthful dark eyes. Some of us have to work a little harder at it than others. He paused. I dropped out of university three times. I could never seem to get myself together. In between, I found a love for building things. He pointed to the frames. That explains the carpentry certificate.

The doc stared at his shoes for a moment. Still . . . something kept drawing me back. I hated school, but loved working with people and I had this desire to be a doctor, but I even dropped out of med school once. He smiled. But when I came back and was finally able to work one-on-one with patients, there was no looking back.

He shook his head. My clinical residency in psychiatry was the best time in my life. I’d finally found exactly what I wanted to do. He smiled wider this time. I partnered with someone for a while, but I was 42 years old by the time I set up my private practice. He leaned forward. And I love it . . . I love every minute of it.

Dylan stared at the doctor, slack-jawed. He shook his head back and forth and spoke slowly. I’m not sure if I’m supposed to be inspired by that story or think you’re a total loser.

Fleischman snorted. You can think what you want. All I’m saying is that things don’t have happen overnight in our lives. Sometimes the things we want most take time.

Dylan raised his eyebrows. "It took you 19 years to come up with that one?"

The doctor shrugged. I just pull ’em out of a hat sometimes.

Riding home on the GO Train, Dylan stared out into a dreary landscape on the last day of March. He shivered at the thought of anyone taking 19 years to finish their education. His stomach curdled. No way, he whispered. "That’s as long as I’ve been alive. No way!"

The rest of the ride home, Dylan thought about his metalsmithing elective. He loved the way metal felt in his hands as he crafted it to look exactly as he envisioned. At least he had a material arts class to look forward to the next day. He could lose himself for three hours in a world of imagination and creativity.

She was like nobody he’d ever had before. He’d never met anyone with such raw, pure sexual energy. She liked to give and receive equally. If he wanted her mouth on his cock, all he had to do was place a hand on the closely cropped, platinum-coloured hair at the back of her head and give the gentlest of pressure toward his groin. Similarly, she didn’t hesitate to climb up his body whenever she wanted and straddle his bearded face with her cleanly-shaven pussy, expecting him to service her . . . and service her well. The smell of her often lingered on his moustache for hours afterward. Sometimes he’d catch a whiff of her and his words would catch in his mouth as he sat on the floor explaining the world of Plato to a collection of students with tattooed sleeves and studs protruding from every visible inch of skin.

She liked it on top – riding his cock. She rode him slow, she rode him hard, she rode him long . . . and often! The day started with sex, the day ended with sex and if they saw each other over the noon-hour, well, more often than not, their time was spent having sex.

It wasn’t that they never talked. The girl talked non-stop. But how he loved the talk. She didn’t just talk – she argued, she stated, she debated – and she loved it when he argued, stated and debated back. Some of their hottest sex was after a heated discussion. So . . . he never hesitated to bring up a subject that might annoy her – or a viewpoint she might she might find objectionable. He loved baiting her as much as she loved being baited.

He wondered if it was ethical for a 32-year-old philosophy professor to be having wild sex with his 21-year-old student on a Tuesday night. He gave her A’s in philosophy, but it had nothing to do with how hard she made him cum – and how often. The girl was brilliant, one of the best students he’d ever had the pleasure to teach. She had a brain designed to explore life’s greatest questions. She was a voracious reader and could bounce back between logical and abstract concepts as easily as a child skipping rope. He had begun to wonder if there was anything he really could teach her.

The love he felt for her was devastating. Even more devastating – Leonard was certain Samantha didn’t feel the same about him.

The plate hit the wall to the left of Raj’s head. He deked sideways in time to avoid flying shards.

You bastard! she screamed. You’re out of your mind. How could you?

Raj cringed and stepped aside, avoiding the sharp pieces on the floor with his bare feet. Whenever Hannah threw something, and that was fairly often, she always seemed to choose the object that would make the biggest mess. Corelle plates seemed indestructible, but they literally exploded when they did finally let go. Regardless, he was grateful it wasn’t one of his prized serving dishes from India. He bent down and began to pick up the jagged pieces.

Stop that, she shouted. "You’re going to cut yourself and I’ll have to take you to the hospital and that will make this anniversary even more perfect," she snarked sarcastically, grabbing the broom from beside the fridge. Raj froze as she stormed over to him. Hannah had never struck him, but her temper wreaked havoc on china and collectibles.

Stand still, she grunted. I’ll sweep around your feet. Raj didn’t move a muscle as Hannah swept tiny fragments into the dustpan. He looked across the room and saw a spray of white glass under the table. He opened his mouth, but closed it again. I’ll get those pieces later. It’s Wednesday; garbage day isn’t until Friday.

Hannah was already storming over to the garbage can and throwing the pieces in; they clinked and clanked as they hit the bottom. She put back the broom, stood across the kitchen with her arms crossed and glared at him.

Hannah, he moaned. I didn’t mean anything by it. I didn’t mean it as an insult. Honestly. I suppose I wasn’t thinking.

Hannah rolled her eyes and shook her head. Wasn’t thinking! You total turd. Wasn’t thinking? How did you think I’d react?

Raj lifted his shoulders and left them shrugged as he mumbled, I thought you might say ‘Thank you’.

Hannah grimaced as she looked at the kitchen table, covered in colourful gift wrap, ribbons and cards that sang a tune when you opened them. She looked at the large box beside the table . . . and kicked it. She turned to him and screeched.

A vacuum cleaner! Six years. We’ve been together six years and you give me a vacuum cleaner for our anniversary? Are you insane?

Raj nodded his head rapidly. Yes, yes I assume I must be. Very insane or very out of touch, he said, his Indian accent suddenly thick. It must be something cultural. Once, my father gave my mother a vacuum cleaner and she cried, but they were tears of great joy. We were so poor and no person in our neighbourhood had anything so grand.

Hannah stared at her common-law spouse for at least a minute. Her chin began to tremble. You never told me that before, she said quietly. I know you don’t like to talk about that time in your life . . . when you were living with two other Indian families in one house.

Raj swallowed. He took in a long breath. It was a pigsty. With that many people, how could it be otherwise? My parents came to Canada to make a better future us children, but for the first decade, all they could manage to do was survive.

Hannah sighed. But, Raj, a vacuum cleaner . . . really? Why a vacuum cleaner?

Mishay and Shahana. They are so hairy and shed everywhere and you are always complaining about the mess they make. Our old vacuum cleaner can’t keep up. This one is guaranteed to pick up everything. I thought it might make you happy.

Hannah’s lip stopped trembling but her shoulders shook and her lips pressed together. A moment later, a loud snort escaped and she began bellowing with laughter. Come here, she said, arms outstretched. Raj walked forward into her embrace, not sure if he should laugh along with her.

You know, you really are a total dork sometimes,