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Hanky-Spanky Christmas
by Amy Andrews
Ratings:
89 pages52 minutes
Summary
T'was the night before Christmas....
With a sudden hankering to be spanked, Darcy Henderson figures Mitch Callaghan is the man for the job.
But is she woman enough to take it?
Publisher: Macmillan PublishersReleased: Dec 18, 2017ISBN: 9781640634794Format: book
Book Preview
Hanky-Spanky Christmas - Amy Andrews
To curvy girls and kinky girls and Melrose Place tragics.
Chapter One
Mitch Callaghan knew a fine piece of ass when he saw it and Darcy Henderson’s was about as fine as it got. It was a pity she covered it up so frickin’ much.
Here you go, Mrs T,
Darcy said, as she pulled out of the ass-up bend she’d performed right in front of him and handed the elderly woman the magazine she’d dropped.
Oh thank you, my dear.
Mrs T placed it in the basket of her wheelie walker. Bright red tinsel wound around the handlebars reminded him it was less than a week before the jolly fat man visited. I’m so clumsy.
She winked at him as she wheeled past and Mitch smiled. The meddling old biddy had dropped it deliberately so Mitch could cop a perve.
He didn’t know whether to high five her or be insulted. He wasn’t so hard up that he needed seventy-eight-year-old women playing wingman, although, God knew, there were a slew of them around here.
Mrs T stopped and looked over her shoulder at them. You’re so good to us, Darcy. So sweet. Isn’t she sweet, Mitch?
Mitch laughed again as he checked out the short, curvy blonde in question. Her face was free of make-up and her long hair was pulled back in its usual low ponytail. Normally, a scrunchie that should have been abandoned in the 80s, held it in place but, today, some kind of Rudolph inspired tie did the job. He was pretty sure the stain on her sleeve was either mashed potato or baby sick and any discernible body shape was hidden in a sloppy old t-shirt she could easily fit another person inside.
For which he would happily volunteer.
Because he knew what was under all that baggy. He’d seen her, a little too often for his sanity, in her black one-piece around the pool and she was all dangerous curves. He’d also felt the dip of her waist and the roundness of her butt and the press of her very nice breasts as she’d drunkenly kissed him not once, not twice, but three times now.
Sweet? Sweet as.
Oh phfft, don’t answer that,
Darcy muttered with a quick dismissive wave of her hand, pushing back some hair that had fallen loose from her ponytail as she eyed the older woman. Do you need a hand with that polishing now?
Oh no dear.
Mrs T turned away from them as she got underway again. I’m sure Mitch has something you could polish though.
Mitch blinked. In his peripheral vision he could see Darcy’s mouth drop open as Mrs T chortled to herself and threw, Tootle pip, my lovelies,
over her shoulder.
I’m so sorry.
Darcy glanced at him. She’s incorrigible.
He laughed again. That was one word for it. Who’d have thought such a cute little old lady could have such a dirty mouth?
You should hear her parrot,
she said as they watched her shuffle around to number twelve.
Mitch had thought scoring low-rent digs in a senior citizens’ apartment complex on the glittery Gold Coast in exchange for handyman duties was going to be quiet and uneventful. Essential for someone who worked a bar from eight till four, six nights a week.
But he’d been wrong.
The complex, straight out of the Melrose Place School of Architecture, was a hotbed of gossip thanks to a bunch of matchmaking, horny, widowed senior citizens with one-track minds. Old Mr Miller took care of the day-to-day maintenance of the pool, around which all the apartments were set, and Mitch was fairly certain he switched out the chlorine tablets for dodgy Viagra pills he bought by the boxful from the Internet.
If only his granddaughters knew he wasn’t using that laptop they’d bought him to research his family tree.
You babysitting tonight?
Mitch asked as Mrs T reached her door.
Nope. Char and the twins have gone away for two weeks. They’re spending Christmas with Mickey’s family in Sydney.
Wow. You won’t know yourself.
Neither would he. The walls were kind of thin around here and not being woken by two noisy-four year-olds demanding Darcy’s attention after only a few hours shut-eye would be bliss. I hope you’re planning on hitting the clubs or something?
That’s what any normal twenty-four-year-old single chick did on the glitter strip every Friday night. Except for Darcy who, after minding strangers’ kids all week at the local childcare centre and fussing over old kids, including her grandmother, at the apartment block, looked after her widowed sister’s kids on the weekend while Char worked the midnight shift at the local
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