Authors: Julia Kent

Merry Random Christmas (16 page)

“To Christmas!” we said in unison, chugged the beautiful, tangy beer until we each belched.

Mine was loudest. I won.

“What now?” Joe
asked with
a long sigh, like he was releasing the world.

“
Truth or dare?” Trevor asked.

I hit him in the penis.

“Ooof!”

“Don’t even joke,” I muttered.

“I can’t believe you punched me in the cock!”

“I can’t believe you’d even joke about Truth or Dare!”

“Who won
that game
?” Joe pondered, his voice sleepy. “One of us had to.”

I reached between Trevor’s legs and began rubbing his wound. “That help?”

“Kiss it and make it feel better,” he said with a pretend pout.

I just hit him again.

“You suck,” he joked.

“No. I don’t, buddy.” I snuggled in, spooning against his front, whether he liked it or not. “
Not now.”

“
Merry Christmas, Darla,” Joe said as he drifted off to sleep, his hair across his forehead, the strands like black coal in the darkness.

Trevor took a deep breath and tightened his arms around me, his smile felt on my shoulder, his warmth making me slip into a kind of sweetness I wished the whole world could know.

“Merry Christmas,” I whispered back, surrounded by the most precious gift a woman could have.

The random love that came from being open to the world.

Merry Random Christmas, folks.

It doesn’t get any better than this.

BONUS
SCENE

FROM BETWEEN
Random Acts of Love
(Book 6) and
Random on Tour: Los Angeles
(Book 7)

For those of you who have read every single book in the Random series, first of all, YOU ARE AWESOME.

Second, YOU ARE CRAZY. Glad to have some company in the land of Darla! ;)
We’re all a little nutso in our own superb way here. Welcome.

I’m assuming you’ve read
Random on Tour: Los Angeles
, which is Maggie and Frown’s story. As you’ll recall, the beginning of that book opens with poor Joe in the hospital, injured in a devastatingly embarrassing sex act that became virally public. Darla and Trevor tell the story after the fact. It’s a hoot.

So many readers have asked me to write the scene itself, and confession: I actually had written about two-thirds of it, but never included it in
Random on Tour: Los Angeles
because that book was about Maggie and Frown. Not Darla, Joe and Trevor. I opened that book with Maggie and Frown meeting at the hospital (again), and felt that including the actual
scene would be a distraction.

But.

You’re now finishing up a Darla, Trevor and Joe book in the Random series, so here’s a bonus scene. Think back to the time between
Random Acts of Love
and
Random on Tour: Los Angeles
, and I hope you enjoy this
short little bit
that is raunchy as hell, utterly inappropriate, and wildly fun. :)

D
arla

Hey there. Pull up a chair and grab a drink, because I know you’re still wondering what in the everloving fuck me, Joe, Trevor, Mr. Fluffer and Mavis were doing that day Joe nearly became roadkill
by falling through our bedroom window and crashing to the ground in front of an amphibious vehicle carrying a bunch of vacationers on a Boston tour
.

Might as well get this out once and for all. I’m not tellin’ it twice, and you damn sure as hell better not tell a soul. Especially Josie.

Trevor knew someone who said a Sybian was the latest toy to experiment with, and
I
had no modesty when it came to sex—jump right in, do what felt good, and because
I
knew Joe and Trevor had the same approach, it was all good. A little too good.

Real
good.

So the toy...seat...vibrator....thing that Trevor brought home that one night had been like riding a bucking bronco. Except on the seat there was a four inch dildo. With a seven inch attachment.

And
then
.

When the electricity
cut
out
I
’d been at that maddening point after holding back from a series of almost climaxes, building to that really big one, the elusive multigasm that women whisper about in hushed tones during super-private conversations after many drinks, when they think no one will ever remember what was said in the morning.

Yeah,
that
.

You know that conversation, because you’ve had it once or twice.
Don’t pretend you haven’t.

Because everyone remembers in the morning. They just pretend they
don’t
.

Anyhow,
I
was about to have
that
orgasm. The God-damned Moby Dick of orgasms. The kind of multigasm where all the blood rushes to your head and begins to pinprick the skin around your eyebrows and cheekbones, and you think you’re going to pass out and piss yourself at the same time, but you hold off (unless your guys want you to piss, which is a whole ’nother set of issues...) because you trust the whispers and assume that there is a fucking Holy Grail of orgasms, the Order of the Blessed Climax, waiting for you on the other side of that blood-vessel-popping rainbow.

And then motherfucking
electric company
goes and fails the entire region with a blackout
because they couldn’t be bothered to manage capacity for an Indian Summer that meteorologists had been predicting like Nostradamus
.
Like Jonathan Edwards (the psychic, not the cancer-patient-wife former presidential candidate cheater).

I
had found
my
self in suspended animation, a guttural yell stuck in
my
throat, the kind of sound that was supposed to be a victory cry, like a clitoral warrior going in for her first orgasmic battle and coming out on top,
large and in charge, and by God I had turned that Sybian into my bitch.

Until it died, stopping on a dime, leaving
me
speechless, engorged, and enraged.

“No!”
I
had screamed. “What the fuck!”

“Blackout,” Joe had whispered, his nude outline silhouetted by
late afternoon daylight
.
T
he industrial hum of one anemic security light
buzzed
somewhere in the hall.

“I KNOW IT’S A BLACKOUT! I HAVE TWO BRAIN CELLS. I ONLY HAVE TWO BRAIN CELLS, THOUGH, BECAUSE THE REST ARE S
ITTING
IN MY CLIT,
READY TO DIE FOR THE SAKE OF A GREATER PURPOSE
.”

“Darla,” Trevor had choked. “
Shhhh.”

“
ARE YOU SHUSHING ME? ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? I AM SITTING HERE WITH A DILDO BIGGER THAN YOU AND JOE PUT TOGETHER SO FAR IN ME I CAN TASTE WHETHER IT IS CIRCUMCISED AND YOU ARE TELLING ME TO BE QUIET?”

“I don’t—I—” Joe had stammered.

Naked as could be, covered in sweat,
my
hair stuck to
my
back and
my
clit pulsing so hard
I
might as well have been banging a gong at some
Rinzai
Buddhism retreat,
my
thighs were quivering for all the wrong reasons and all reason had drained out of
me
long ago in waves that built up to a crescendo that was supposed to bring
a ca
p
pella
notes of pure release.

Something had to come out of
me
, and if it wasn’t going to be an earth-shattering orgasm that would defy the laws of physics and half the pornos
I
’d ever watched, then it would be pure, red
rage
.

“
Good lord, Darla, you’re screaming so loud Sam and Amy can hear you—”

“DID YOU JUST INVOKE THE NAME OF JESUS, JOE? BECAUSE UNLESS I HAVE A BUTT PLUG OF THE HOLY CROSS SHOVED UP MY ASS AND A ROSARY AS ANAL BEADS, YOU DON’T GET TO SHAME ME BY USING THE LORD!”

Silence.

“AAAARRRRGGGHH!”
I
’d screamed,
my
arousal deflating, leaving
me
with fallout without explosion, shrapnel without a bomb blast,
F
rench fries without ketchup,
Sookie without Bill.

My
skin was a wall of layered energy, electrons and neutrons and annoying-trons and molecules of fury all shoved together with sweat and hormones and the musk of two men.
As I struggled to get upright
, the dildo had slid half out of
me
and popped off the Sybian, but as
I
straddled the device and stood on a soft mattress with two other human beings on it,
I
swayed, losing
my
footing, and flailed frantically for purchase, grabbing the only thing
I
could—

Joe’s head.

Unfortunately, that head was attached to nerve endings in him that sent pain signals, which made him flail and scream. As I went down (and not in a good way) he wavered, crashing in to Mavis’s little cage and upending Mr. Fluffer’s habitrail.

I
screamed, “DON’T LET ME FALL ON MY PHONE,” which both guys had later questioned
me
about but how do you explain that you’re not nearly as afraid of a broken bone from falling off a bed as you are of having your aunt’s boyfriend extract your own
cell
phone out of your hoohaw?

I fell down and Joe shot up. Trevor lunged to try to save me from
tumbl
ing to the ground and somehow, all I remember is the sight of poor Joe crashing backwards through the window like something out of a Michael Bey movie, only without the cool Transformers fighting in space.

The animals followed, like a space ship docking station, sucked out in an air vacuum.

And that is how poor Joe ended up dangling out the window with his nibbly bits on display, a chicken on his shoulder, and poor Mr. Fluffer trying to crawl up his poop
chute
.

And the worst part?

I never did get my damned multigasm.

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