Did you know that it has been six months since I released any new original F/F ebooks? (Not counting the Lesbia series, of course.) I think it is high time to fix that. I plan on having a new F/F spanking romance out before Christmas, featuring a couple of lovers you may have met recently in The Biting Brat.

Here’s an excerpt in which our lovers first meet. Because there’s nothing like a good ‘How I Met My Lover’ story, is there?

Stay tuned for this book, which will be available sometime in the next week or so. I may or may not have been working on it since my imagination was fired by these two ladies. 😉

***

Jerry remembered the day they met like it was yesterday. It was a hot enough to fry a bunny’s balls day in the middle of June. She’d been speeding along an arterial street when flashing lights in the rear view mirror put a kink in an otherwise decent drive.

After cursing for a bit, then pulling to a stop, she lowered the window, left her hands at ten and two and waited for the officer to approach. Sure enough, a female officer with shapely hips and a nice rack soon sauntered out of the cop car and made her way to Jerry’s window.

The first words out of her mouth were classic. “Do you know why I pulled you over?”

Jerry smirked up at the mirrored glasses. “Why, did you forget?”

The feminine jaw hardened. Serious business. “Step out of the car, ma’am.”

The officer stood back, hand on her hip whilst Jerry got out of the car. Her demeanor seemed to soften a tad when it was revealed that spiked hair and all, Jerry only stood about 5’1.

“Hands on the bonnet,” she said, pointing to the front end of the car.

“You want to frisk me? Is that what you want?”

Lips thinned and the order was repeated. “Hands on the bonnet, ma’am.”

“But I’m not wearing a bonnet.”

There was a jangling as the officer reached for her cuffs. “I’m placing you under arrest.”

“For what?”

“For resisting. You want to be a smart-ass, you can leave your car on the side of the road and spend some time in a cell. Hands on the hood.”

“You must be British,” Jerry said. “Tea and crumpets, matey.”

“Put your hands on the hood, ma’am, or I’ll have to use force.”

“Use force?” Jerry bit her lower lip and grinned. “How much force are we talking about?”

She couldn’t see through the mirrored shades, but something about the way the officer’s lips quirked told Jerry she’d made a chink in authority’s armor.

“Put your hands on the hood.”

Jerry finally took pity on the cop and put her hands on the hood of the car. Soon slim, strong hands were patting along the lines of her body. They stilled on her inner thigh.

“What’s this?”

“It’s a P-99. Original green polymer frame. Loaded”

“Do you have a permit for this?”

Jerry grinned toward the hood of her car. “Yeah,” she drawled. “I have a permit.”

The hands descended lower. Stopped at her left ankle. “What’s this?”

“Third generation P-99. I like the P-99.”

“Ma’am, how many weapons are you currently armed with?”

“Four.”

The officer stood swiftly. Jerry felt a stilling hand locked on her hip, a silent don’t go anywhere.

“Mind explaining why you feel the need to walk around with an armory?”

“The world’s a dangerous place,” Jerry quipped. “My permit is in my wallet, which is about two inches away from your thumb, and about three inches away from my butthole.”

“You can cut the back-talk.”

Jerry felt her wallet being slid out of her back pocket. There was a brief rifling and then a dry exclamation.

“Why didn’t you say you were on the force?”

“More fun not to?” Jerry wiggled her backside back and forth enticingly.

The officer tossed her wallet onto the hood. “Get up, Schwartz.”

Jerry got up, grinning broadly.

“That was a complete waste of the department’s time,” the officer said. She reached for her shades and lowered them, treating Jerry to a serious blue-green gaze. The woman’s eyes were the color of the Pacific on a hot summer’s day. A blaze of red hair under her ball cap completed the complexion. The woman was beautiful. Drop dead, stand up, knock down, fall over, writhe around for a bit, curse the good Lord, pay for Botox, get a haircut, cry ’cause you hate it, gorgeous.

“Ginger,” Jerry said.

“Excuse me?”

“Isn’t that what they call red heads where you’re from? Gingers?”

“It’s an impolite expression,” Officer Gorgeous said. She hooked her thumbs in her belt loops and cocked her head at Jerry. “You are off duty, I take it?”

“Nope,” Jerry said. “I’m off to sprinkle some crack on a body.”

“Excuse me?”

“You missed it when you patted down my pockets. You don’t often make stops, do you?”

The inquisitorial shoe was on the other foot now. Jerry had gotten better pat downs from passing bums. This woman didn’t come across like a rookie, but she seemed to have about as much street experience as snakes had legs.

“I’m spending some time doing road patrols, familiarizing myself with the area before moving into my official capacity.” The woman spoke with a pretty decent American accent, but dribs and drabs of her native English parlance were in evidence.

“And they let you out alone? Without a minder?”

The woman’s lips thinned at the inference of incompetence. “I could ask the same question of you.”

“Oh me, all the minders gave up and quit,” Jerry laughed. “I handle things on my own now.”

“Things like sprinkling crack on bodies.”

“It was a joke. I’m just going to sell a little.” Jerry held up her hands before more questions could be asked. “It’s for a very good cause, I promise. I’m saving up for a new paddling pool.”

“A pool isn’t the kind of paddling you need,” the woman said grimly. “You seem to be an undisciplined brat. Precisely the sort of problem I’ve been bought in to correct.”

“Correct away,” Jerry winked. She was not at all threatened by the, well, by the threats. Nor was she put off by the woman’s stern demeanor. She was, however, tired of mentally referring to the woman as ‘the woman’. “Do you have a name?”

“Lara,” the woman named Lara said. “Lara Ashbury.”

“Nice to meet you, Lara Ashbury. I’m Jenny Schwartz. I go by Jerry.”

“You’ll be going by bus if you keep driving the way you were,” Lara said, returning to the original subject at hand. “Twenty miles over the speed limit and still accelerating.”