Saturday, April 13, 2013

Mickie Sherwood's Men and the Hair of the Women They Love

It's a hair thang!

Men in a moment of weakness.
(View covers in sidebars.)


       Chance kept his eyes on hers as he lowered his head for a kiss. "You make loving you so easy. And it feels so good."

"I'll bump my hair and let you have the bathroom." Chance let her go with a look that said he had no idea what she meant. "Want to watch?"

"Hmmm," he moaned suggestively.

"Watch me bump my hair, that is," she elaborated.

"Bumping," he repeated, his lips twitching in delight as he dropped to the commode top. "Sounds like something that'll give me pleasure."

Angela laughed. A real—full—rich sounding laugh. "You're incorrigible."

"And you wouldn't have me any other way," he supplied arrogantly.

Angela looked down at him, her face beaming with love as she stepped between his knees. "You're right, Chance. I wouldn't."

He grinned.

Moving from his embrace, she began the task of curling her hair giving it the lift and body that brought her features back to life. She did a two-handed fluff to loosen the ringlets for a softer, curlier look than before. "I've got to call home, again," she announced to him while disconnecting the curling iron.





The self-confident action she took by throwing the covers back as he rooted in the doorway engrossed him. Mike eased out, but not before his eyes zoomed to the soft-looking long pajama outfit she wore. Her sleepy-eyed, mussed-hair vision cinched his heart. Combine that picture with the complementary color of the sleep set next to her silky skin, and fascination gripped him.


Sam’s yell snapped Mike out of his love-starved stupor. “Coming, bud.” He closed her bedroom door, sealing her in, plus his reawakened desires. “Meet us across the highway, Veronica.”




Drake gulped, sputtering water in his attempt to yell. “I’m sorry!” He hung on to the life preserver for dear life. He saw his chance as the boat slowed. Long pulls had him within grasping distance of the ladder, and he hauled his tired body onboard. All he could do was lie facedown in a puddle of his own making. Smooth—brown—shapely—legs came into his line of sight when he dared to look up. He allowed himself the luxury of scanning her anatomy at his leisure from the top of her short, curled, cayenne-pepper hair down to her snow-white deck shoes.

His eyes retraced their trek to land on hers.

“Are you finished?”

Her candid way of putting him in his place affected him. Yet, it was the dazzle in her sparkling brown eyes that captivated him. He knew better than to respond, for his sarcastic wit was well known in his circle. Instead, he devoted all of his energies to getting off the deck. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”




"It's still very early and I don't have to report in until later in the day." He held her hand hostage. "Let me drop you someplace. My ride's just over there." Following his finger point, her face took on a why am I not surprised look at the uniformed chauffeur holding the placard with big, bold lettering.

"Nick Hart." She read aloud. "That's you, isn't it?"

"That's my name, not my idea."

She gleaned humility from his tone.

"I gather you're an important fellow. What's your profession, Nick Hart?" She liked the sound of his name.

He wouldn't lie. "I'm a physician." Suspicion quickly replaced the friendly look in her eyes. "What's the matter? Have a beef against doctors?"

"Not all. I'm sure your bedside manner is honorable."

"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence." They looked each other squarely in the eyes sensing the dynamics of their acquaintance rapidly shifting gears. "Let me drop you—"

"No, thanks. I've decided to let the wind restyle my do." Her joke was lost on him. "I'm going to rent a convertible and enjoy the wind in my hair." The removal of one pin and hair cascaded around her neck as it settled into a bouncy curly bob, the headshake flinging it into her face—a two-handed fluff finishing the styling job.

His eyes locked on the scene with him seeing every—single—floating—strand—in slow motion before finding his tongue.

"Mind company?" He took off to release his driver and was back at her side, her elbow in his hand as he steered her to the car rental kiosks. "What do you have a feel for?"

Exhilaration turned her words into song. "It doesn't matter as long as it's…topless."



Jack handed her the soup cup and had to make a rapid recovery to prevent spillage. The fleeting touch of her hand scorched his skin. "Dammit, Mesha!" he exclaimed. "You're on fire!" His hand brushed wisps of hair from her forehead to test her temperature. Doing so focused him on yet another one of her self-reinventions. The short jagged cut enhanced her lovely features and spotlighted her magnetizing eyes, now red and puffy. His hand continued around to caress the close cut tapered at her neck.

"The soup will help if you just reach it to me." Her voice was almost gone.

"How the hell long were you out there?" he demanded, sitting on the bedside.

"Not, too," she circumvented his question. "I had an idea about a new book."

Mesha wrapped her hands around the cup while he held onto the handle. A minor slap from her persuaded his release of the container to her complete control. Not a good idea, for soup crashed so close to the rim Jack had to come to the rescue. He steadied the cup as she sipped.


Tell me. What's your man's weakness?


Mickie Sherwood

~~Sweet, spicy romance – a heartbeat away!~~

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