Rekindled

By: Ashlee Price

A Billionaire Second Chance Romance


Prologue


Callie

"Woohoo, sounds like Jeff is finally gettin' some!" the boys who'd sneaked through the dense brush in a crouch verified.

The dancing bonfire flames had burned down to a steady glow that spring night. We had gorged on burnt hotdogs roasted on severed sticks, marshmallows sandwiched between graham crackers... and beer. Lots of beer. Most of us were in couples, and some had already drifted off to darker, more private nooks in the woods. A few of the single guys lurked in thickets, waiting to jump out at the first sign of a naked breast or the sound of a lowering zipper. They leapt out with a bellow and the ensuing screams pinpointed the girls who routinely "put out." I wasn't one of them.

Woodford was a dry county, making it illegal to even be in attendance. That fact alone gave everyone a small thrill of excitement. If Bull Thornton, the former football hero now turned local cop, found us, we'd be spending the night in the county jail.

There weren't any strangers in the group; we'd all been through school together, at least through high school and many all the way back to kindergarten. We knew the subtleties behind arcane jokes, what buttons to push to tease one another, and the hierarchy which determined who had the final say-so for any group activity.

All except for me. I was the rogue, the unpredictable piece of the group puzzle, and that put me in a vaunted position, despite my five-foot-two-inch, eighty-nine-pound stature. Most of my power was borrowed from Michael, my boyfriend of three years, captain of the football team, and president of every other club or organization recognized as worthwhile by our inner circle. But even Michael let me have my way, although I was never sure whether it was due to his impeccable, old-money manners or the fact that he had yet to bed me.

Don't get me wrong. I chose my battles wisely, deferring to him on any issue that didn't directly interfere with what I wanted. I liked to call it a balance of power, but I think it was more of a balance of my pussy.

The bonfire had a special significance. It was probably the last one we'd ever all share - we'd graduated earlier that evening. Michael had, of course, been class valedictorian, and he was headed for whichever university was lucky enough to land him and his quarterback skills.

I, on the other hand, was the daughter of a widowed horse trainer, and although in the Bluegrass Region of Kentucky that could be a lucrative profession, Dad's love for certain underdog horses seemed to take precedence over financial aspirations. Maybe he related to them.

"C'mon, Callie," Michael pleaded, working off my bra as we lay in the distant shadows furthest from the fire. No one would bother us - they knew Michael wouldn't allow it. He'd brought a U of L stadium blanket, and although it was as red as a matador's cape, the others pretended to ignore us. He had my top off by then, and the blanket was over us and his varsity jacket below me. I could smell his cologne. The mere scent of him always made my nipples hard, and despite my diminutive size, I was generously proportioned in that area. We'd gotten to this base before, many times, but never any further. I lie. There was the time I'd touched his crotch and he'd jumped as though hit with electric current. He'd unzipped himself and pleaded with me to suck him. I was no stranger to sex, having seen many a stallion mount a mare. Once excited, the male never backed down, and to me, Michael was as dangerous as a randy stallion.

What is it he sees in me? I'd wonder. He could have his pick; tall blondes and leggy brunettes threw themselves before him on a regular basis. He'd never taken any of them, as far as I knew. I was fairly sure that had any of them coerced him into their bed, they would have made sure it wasn't kept secret - he was too big of a catch. I had asked him about that once, and he'd told me he liked me because I was feisty, small and not full of bullshit. I was real, he'd said, and I was content with that because it had all been true. His parents thought otherwise, though.

Michael had left the field on homecoming night and headed straight for me, pushing aside others waiting to congratulate him on his winning 55-yard Hail Mary throw. His dad had been one of them. I'd been close enough to hear their conversation.

"Where you goin', son? This is your big chance, buddy - you're the king!" his father had berated him. "The press wants to talk to you and there's half a dozen recruiters here. This is your big chance."

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