Jezebel

by Koko Brown

  “I’m sharing my company.”

  “I d–don’t think sitting on my lap is a good idea.”

  Celeste looped her arms around his shoulders. She leaned into him and whispered, “Why not.”

  “If my girl, Sadie, sees you on my lap, she’s going to raise a ruckus.”

  “Then let her.” Celeste wasn’t giving up her post, not when she had a captivated audience. Ever since she’d walked into Sadie’s Supper Club, Shane had tracked her movements like a bloodhound. “Now that’s settled, how about you order me a drink.”

  Somewhat hesitant, he raised his arm. A passing waitress, a teenage girl wearing an apron and carrying a tray, circled back around.

  “What do you want, Dean.”

  “Go ahead an order whatever you want.”

  Celeste smiled. Her pawn might have been clueless to what she was doing, at least he was polite. “I’ll have a soda water, please.”

  The girl looked her up and down. Celeste returned the favor. She’d weathered worse.

  “That all?” the girl drawled.

  Celeste nodded. She wouldn’t dare order anything else. She didn’t like spit in her food.

  “I’ll be back in a jiff.”

  Moments later, Celeste heard a commotion. She swiveled around. At the far end of the room, their waitress was struggling with another woman. Slightly older and wider, the girl’s adversary flung her aside like a sack of potatoes.

  “Y–y–you better get up,” Dean pleaded.

  “Why?”

  “That’s my girl, Sadie and she’s on the war path.”

  Celeste refused to budge. She was itching for a fight, welcomed it. Ever since Shane showed up on her doorstep, she needed an outlet for the frustration and built up anger.

  “You better get your behind up.” Celeste should’ve heeded the woman’s warning. It was everyday a woman rolled up her sleeves. Plus the woman’s fists looked like twin hams.

  “And what if I don’t?” Celeste crossed her arms.

  “I warned you.” With lightning quick reflexes for a woman her size, Sadie licked her thumb, tapped her nose and then swung.

  The woman’s fist hit Celeste so hard, her head twisted on her shoulders.

  The room tilted, swayed alarmingly to the right. Dean’s face swam before her eyes. And then someone flipped the lights.

  CHAPTER THIRTY ONE

  Celeste sniffed. Somebody was cooking bacon.

  What a marvelous way to be awakened, Celeste thought, snuggling deeper under the heavy quilt.

  Celeste froze. Her hotel room was on the fourth floor of the Street Hotel. Plus, her bed didn’t come with a quilt. The covering had been a thin chenille spread that came standard with most public lodgings.

  Curious, Celeste drew back the covers.

  “You need to keep this on.”

  Celeste tensed when Shane leaned over her. He picked up something behind her and plopped it on her face. Wet, cold and mushy, she had the distinct feeling it was chopped beef.

  “It’ll take the swelling down.”

  Despite the pressure against her eye socket and the loss to her pride, Celeste couldn’t help finding the humor in the situation. “I guess prize fighting doesn’t run in the family.”

  Shane’s green eyes twinkled. “She got lucky. In any other circumstances, I know you could’ve taken her.”

  His faith in her made her toes curl. Feeling unusually content, Celeste decided to come clean. “I deserved it.”

  Shane sat down on the bed. He had on a pair of loose dungarees and a simple white tank. His sun-streaked hair was all tousled, and his eyes still puffy with sleep.

  Exposed to so much skin, Celeste curled her fingers into the bedcovers lest she make a fool of herself. Seeing him like this and in close quarters was enough to make her forget all the months she’d cursed him to hell.

  What was a girl to do? She had no business thinking of him in this manner. Not when she wasn’t going to forgive him for what he’d done. She wasn’t made of stone either. She was flesh and blood and hers was pumping through her veins like molten lava.

  “Why didn’t you come after me?” There she said it. His waiting all these years to reconcile hurt more than anything he’d done.

  An intense look entered his green eyes and Celeste just wanted to reach out and pull him into her arms. “I wanted to, but I was rotting in jail. Navy picked me up right after the fight for desertion”

  “But you wrote me.”

  His mouth curled up on one side, giving him a boyish air. “They have ink and paper in the brig.”

  “You wrote me a lot.”

  “Every day, if I could have.”

  Blister it! Why did he have to say things that further weakened her resolve?

  “Thank you for coming after me.”

  “That’s my duty as your husband. In sickness and in health.”

  Reminded of their marriage vows, memories of their honeymoon flashed through her head. Him naked wrapped in only a sheet and the sunshine streaming through the cabin window. Celeste gripped the quilt to keep from snatching him to her.

  Shan—”

  His mouth silenced her. A moment later, he pounced, pressing her into the mattress. His hard body covered hers.

  “What…what are you doing?” she panted, her defenses crumbling.

  “I’m doing what you want to do.” He yanked up her slip and hauled it over her head, baring her breasts. The slab of meat fell on her lap. He flicked it away right before he dropped his head and pulled one of her nipples into his mouth.

  Celeste gasped for air, she clutched at his shoulders. Somewhere along the way, he’d lost his shirt. His skin felt so hot and firm.

  “I want you to love me like you did before,” he whispered huskily.

  Celeste arched her hips upward, bumping against the hard length of his erection. This felt so right, them together again. Familiar feelings and sensations assailed her.

  His hand drifted between her thighs, his fingers playing with the dark curls.

  “You’re already wet,” he said hoarsely. “Got to have a taste.”

  He inched downward, licking down her body. Hot, heavy and strong as steel, his penis fell on her hip. Celeste bucked against him, wanting it inside her.

  “Wanna kiss you.” His tongue traced the underside of breast. He flicked her belly button, made slow wet circles on her tummy.

  The moment her fingers threaded through his hair, his mouth dipped between her legs.

  “Taste so good like honey.” His mouth closed around her clitoris at the same time he slid a finger inside her. Celeste gasped and her hips shot off the bed.

  His tongue and fingers worked her. He pumped his fingers deep. He sucked at the tiny button between her legs.

  The combination of sensations made her squirm and buck against him. She cried. She sobbed. Her hands clutched at him, the muscles in his back clenching beneath her fingertips.

  It only took moments for him to push her to the edge. There was no help for it. His fingers were filling her and stretching her, giving her everything she needed. And yet, not enough.

  “Please, Shane,” she gasped, running her fingers through his hair, as he bent over her to kiss her belly.

  Shane rolled from the bed.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Something’s missing.” He padded over to the bookcase, and then returned to the bed. “Give me your hand.”

  Without even thinking, Celeste placed her hand in his. The heavy gold band when on as easily as the first time. “My wedding ring,” she whispered, looking down at the gold band.

  Rejoining her on the bed, Shane positioned himself. Slowly, he sunk into her, sliding to the hilt at the same time he swooped down and crushed his mouth against hers. Celeste groaned. She tasted herself on his lips, his tongue.

  On and on, his tongue tangled with hers. She was so wet he slid in and out with ease. The tip of him drove deep, tapping her womb. He was big, and it had been so long.
>
  “Shane,” she panted over and over in sync with his powerful thrusts. He reared up, sinking deeper than she ever thought possible. A shiver danced through her. Electric pulses pounded through her veins.

  “Forgiven?” he asked, still moving his intoxicating hips.

  The sly bastard! How convenient to broach this now when she was at her most vulnerable. Celeste groaned. Her heart and body conspired against her common sense and she no longer had any fight left in her.

  Celeste wrapped her arms around him in surrender. She wanted to hold Shane forever and never let go.

  “Forgiven.”

  “You won’t be sorry,” he whispered against her lips.

  “Promise?”

  He lifted her hands above her head and entwined their fingers. “I’ll spend every day of my life devoting myself to it. You deserve that.”

  Celeste sighed. His devotion sounded good to her.

  The End

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Koko Brown is a quintessential erotic romance junkie who once read over 200 Zebra Club novels the summer before her senior year in high school.

  A Florida native, Koko loves to travel, shop in thrift stores, ride motorcycles, renovate houses, and volunteering.

  For more about Koko Brown and her other books visit www.kokobrown.net

  PLAYER’S ULTIMATUM

  BY KOKO BROWN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Roma Internazionale Football Match

  Rome, Italy

  “Time to put up or shut up.”

  In an attempt to bolster her flagging confidence, Yvonne Floyd recited Robbie’s words verbatim. Of course, talking the talk and walking the walk completely diverged into a mile-wide chasm when faced with Roma Internazionale’s friends and family box.

  Nicknamed the Hen House by the press, the soccer club’s reserved seating garnered just as much attention from the team’s fans as the rabid media camped around it.

  Supermodels rubbed shoulders with socialites, actresses hobnobbed with reality stars. Their combined chatter rose above the sound of crying children and pregame announcements like a cacophony of over exaggerated impersonal nonsense.

  Yvonne’s shoulders slumped.

  The countless photo spreads and editorials she’d poured through before today’s game didn’t do any of them justice. Akin to exotic peacock feathers the Hen House represented the full spectrum of a multi-hued kaleidoscope, yet they shared one common denominator. All of them, unlike her, were jaw-dropping gorgeous.

  Passably cute, Yvonne knew the limits of her own looks all too well. She might have been blessed with a curvy Coke-bottle figure and thick shoulder-length hair, but her cinnamon brown skin and average looks wouldn’t call any boys to the yard. So very few tasted her milkshake. But she was fine with that. She’d been raised under the motto that quality was better than quantity and safer too.

  A few members of the Hen House cast her speculative looks through lashes, that were most likely fake, and then with dismissive flicks of their professionally styled tresses, they promptly dismissed her.

  Used to being on the outside looking in, Yvonne brushed off their unified disregard. She didn’t take a leave of absence from her graduate studies or sublease her apartment for the rest of the year for them anyway. She’d uprooted herself at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, albeit temporarily, for Robbie. And her loyalty to her best friend helped to heal the sting of their brush-off and motivated her to get into the game.

  “Posso auitarla?”

  Yvonne looked up and up until finally meeting the gaze of a man who reminded her of Don Corleone’s henchman Luca Brazi. Boxy and wide, he blocked the reserved box’s roped-off entrance.

  Why even bother? Nobody was getting past The Human Refrigerator!

  Not knowing a word of Italian, Yvonne fumbled with the access pass around her neck, holding it up for him to see. The ‘giant’ eyed the plastic ID card skeptically. She almost turned around, happy to settle for the cheap seats. At least they didn’t come with a gaggle of gorgeous, but mean spirited women.

  “Mi scusi, Signorina. Mi scusi!” The giant stepped aside, allowing her to pass.

  “No problemo!” Yvonne replied in Spanish. One language was good as another wasn’t it?

  Yvonne felt like a freshman on the first day of high school—all pimply faced and kinky hair. Still, she lifted her chin and smiled, hoping to win them over with her dimples. The combination of her pearly whites and twin crescents embedded into her brown skin always worked back home.

  Not with this crowd it seemed as she scanned the first few rows. She took note of the unoccupied seats, conveniently located in the center of each row, and sighed. If four years of high school taught her anything, these skinny heifers would eat their children before any of them would shift over for her.

  “G’day! There’s a seat up here.”

  Yvonne glanced up at a beautiful blond sitting several rows up and two seats from the end. Her smile stretching in gratitude and resisting the urge to thumb her nose at the hens, Yvonne took the steps two at a time. As she drew closer, a feeling of déjà vu stole over her. The other woman seemed vaguely familiar with her slender frame, high cheek bones, wavy blonde locks and doe-like chocolate brown eyes.

  Yvonne gulped. Her savior was the face of Allure cosmetics! Only last week the woman’s gamine profile had convinced her to buy the cosmetic line’s Go-On Sheer-Stay-On Sheer lip gloss in jazzy pink.

  “I’m Keitha MacDonald,” the woman volunteered, holding her hand out for a friendly handshake. “And no my father’s name isn’t Keith, damned Flight of the Concords.” Deep throated, yet lyrical, the other woman’s Australian accent poured over Yvonne like sunshine, a welcome respite this deep in the month of January.

  “I’m Yvonne Floyd,” she offered taking Keitha’s hand in hers. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Glancing down at the seats below them, the other woman winked at her. Although the hens didn’t look directly at them, their chatter had died down to monosyllables. Only the children kept up their raucous caterwauling.

  Keitha pretended to clear her throat. “I’m Freddy MacDonald’s ball and chain,” she said, her voice rising with each syllable. “Which player are you cheering for?” Her perfectly, arched eyebrows lifted, prompting Yvonne to play along.

  “I’m Robbie Gutierrez’s fiancée.”

  Satisfied she hadn’t come to the match to cheer on one of their men, the chatter in the box resumed.

  Keitha settled back into her seat, the black handkerchief-style sweater she wore draping elegantly over her long limbs.

  “Now we can talk without an audience.” She tipped her head to the side and eyed her curiously. Disconcerted, yet relying on her script Yvonne steeled herself.

  “So…you’re Robbie’s fiancée?”

  Yvonne nodded afraid she might say too much too soon.

  “Can I tell you a secret?” Keitha leaned in, her chocolate brown eyes boring into hers. Without waiting for her permission, the other woman continued, “no offense, but we were all wondering when a sheila would finally show up. Robbie’s just too good-looking to be single. Don’t get me wrong. I’m deeply in love with my Freddy, but if I were single I would have gone after Robbie myself.”

  Although she hated to deceive this beautiful creature, who’d welcomed her while the others had shunned her, Yvonne knew when she’d signed on for this role she would need to jump into the deep end with both feet.

  “Well everyone’s curiosity should be satisfied because Robbie Gutierrez’s fiancé is here now.” Yvonne inhaled deeply and then released it with a heavy dose of guilt. “In the flesh,” she said, and then plastered a smile bigger than Texas on her face.

  “About time.” Keitha playfully slapped Yvonne’s hand. “Footballers attract women like flies to buttermilk, as you will—”

  Keitha mouthed the rest of her sentence because the crowd suddenly went wild, erupting into a riot of cheers and cow bells as more than two dozen soccer players wear
ing red and black jersey’s and black knee-length shorts trotted onto the field. As if on cue, Roma Internazionale’s fans began to sing the team’s fight song while their football idols jogged around the perimeter. Even a few of the hens joined in, chanting the anthem with awe-inspiring enthusiasm.

  One young woman in particular sang louder than the rest. Sporting dark tresses professionally streaked with platinum and falling to the middle of her back, her throw-me-a-sandwich frame supported a pair of snug jeans and thigh-high boots.

  Obviously, number sixteen had wedded and bedded her because the halter top she wore had been cut from one of his soccer jerseys. His name and number were emblazoned across the front, instead of the back.

  “That’s Nicky Merchant, she’s a famous pop star in the U.K. or used to be,” Keitha snorted, rolling her brown eyes heavenward. “Have you ever heard of her?”

  Even though Yvonne considered herself rather hip and quite familiar with pop culture, she hadn’t. At her blank look, Keitha snickered.

  “No worries. No one else seems to remember her fifteen minutes of fame either. You’ll see and hear a lot of her, she’s a press hog and she tries to sing at every gathering. Hopefully, she won’t sing at tonight’s gala.” Keitha winked before turning her attention to the coin toss.

  Yvonne had been warned football was an obsession in Europe, but she’d never seen this much passion and zeal. Not even at one of her Uncle Ray Ray’s Pop Warner football games.

  From the initial kick-off, the crowd grew frenzied with every faint, punt and drive. And each time a team entered the goal area, the crowd came to their feet. Despite all the flying sweat, grass and curse words, neither team scored a goal at the end of the first half.

  That all changed when Robbie took charge of the ball with only five minutes left in the second half. Yvonne glanced over at one of two jumbotrons positioned at opposite ends of the field and sighed. Robbie had always been a cutie pie, now he eclipsed just handsome and bordered on gorgeous.

  His skin, a warm cocoa brown, glistened with sweat that intensified his exotic coloring and the tattoos running down his muscular arms. He’d cut his naturally curly hair short on the sides and the top like a fresh military recruit, drawing attention to his perfect angular features. If he hadn’t followed his dream to be a professional athlete, Robbie could’ve easily graced the cover of any male magazine.