Free The Hound of Bar Harborville (A Jane True Short Story) (Trueniverse Book 1) by Nicole Peeler

The Hound of Bar Harborville
    Jane leaned over the backseat, waving toward where her dad stood holding the twins and flopping their chubby arms at us. My own lips spread in a smile at the sight of Jane’s dark, sleek head in the rearview, our sweet little girls on the horizon.
    Not least because we were speeding away from them.
    When we were out of sight, Jane twisted back around to sit normally, absentmindedly putting on her seatbelt when the car started to ding at her. She may have saved the world once or twice, but not even Jane True, Champion, was free from the tyranny of modern safety protocols.
    “You okay?” I asked, pitching my voice low and soothing. I really needed her to be okay.
    Her lip trembled for a minute, tears gathering in her eyes. Then she laughed, dashing them away and turning to me.
    “You bet I’m okay. And I am going to be even more okay when we get to that hotel and finally have some privacy…”
    I wasn’t sure if it was sadness at leaving our twins alone for the first time since they’d been born or if it was lust, but something was making her voice throaty and throbby, and I decided to go with lust. A quick maneuver of the steering wheel and gear shift and the car was pulled to the side of the road and Jane was in my arms, and she was kissing me as fiercely as I was kissing her and she was so small and sweet and soft and her breasts, oh gods her breasts, and there was that evil little hand, reaching down and…
    “Get a room!” yelled an adolescent male’s voice. A beat-up Toyota Corolla careened past us on the road and we pulled back from each other, startled. I snarled, and Jane laughed, removing her hand from the very nice place it had been resting on to pat my arm through my flannel shirt.
    “Easy, puppy. There’s more where that came from. And I thought the whole point of this weekend was privacy?” With a slight thrust of her chin, she indicated the road in front of us where, not too far ahead, we could see old Mr. Flutie walking in our direction on his morning stroll.
    I growled again, not bothering with human words. In dog I spoke fluently of my not giving a flying fluffernutter about Mr. Flutie, and how if she didn’t get that hand back where it belonged right now, I may just explode. But Jane didn’t speak dog, and she only laughed and pointed forward.
    “Bar Harbor or bust!” she called. And then she leaned toward me in the cab of our truck and her breath was hot on my ear. “And then I’ll give you something to growl about, you big puppy, you.”
    Bar Harbor or bust, indeed.
     
     
    “Oh, this is nice,” Jane said as we entered the small boutique hotel that I’d scoured the Internet to find. Her hand reached for mine and squeezed, and I resisted the urge to prance like a show pony.
    The hotel had originally been a mansion a few minutes’ walk off Main Street. The outside was classically Georgian, but the inside was funky, with lots of bold wallpaper and interesting furniture.
    Classy on the outside, but bent as hell on the inside. Just like my girl, I thought, squeezing her hand right back.
    “I know you like stuff like this,” I said, and she gave me the kind of sweet smile that made me want to motorboat her.
    It was inappropriate, but that was our relationship in a nutshell. Wickedly, deliciously inappropriate.
    “I do. Is the bed big?”
    “I got us a king.”
    “Good. And the bathroom?”
    “A bath large enough for two adults. Or four midgets. Or two adults and one midget…”
    “Excellent,” she interrupted “Any other features I should know about?”
    “There’s a chaise with a nice, high back that looks like it’ll go just about to your waist, a fireplace with a thick, shaggy rug in front of it, and what looks in the pictures to be a chandelier sturdy enough to hang from.”
    Her eyes narrowed at me with lewd intent. “Well, that should do us. At least for tonight. Tomorrow we’ll have to get creative.”
    I raised my eyes to the heavens in