Something Wicked This Way Comes, Volume 2

by Black, Jaid

  “Open your eyes, Carla. Let me see you come.”

  She obeyed, his control over her complete. Agony mingled with ecstasy in her eyes as he commanded her body. She was his to possess, his to own. She gave him everything.

  “Come for me, little one. Let me feel…”

  The muscles of her pussy contracted painfully around his cock and her body arched. Her eyes lost focus although her gaze never left his face. He’d glimpsed the passion she was capable of before, now it beamed from her in unfettered, raw emotion. She gave her orgasm with every part of her being.

  Passion begets passion. His balls tightened painfully and he knew his control was doomed. Never before had a woman given so much of herself so completely. She held nothing back. Her complete submission undid him.

  He could hold off no longer. He moved with her, feeding her orgasm, prolonging it. She was beautiful, and she was his. Holding himself still, he relished the pain in his balls, the raw sensitivity of his cock before forcing himself just a hair deeper.

  Their bodies convulsed together. The abyss opened and willingly he dropped into it, their souls connected, their bodies one. Her pussy contracted around his cock, the muscles pulling his seed from him in hot spurts. The condom filled and still she urged him on, milking him of every last drop.

  And when he was empty, when the world slowly came back into focus, he looked down at the woman who had so totally undone him. A strand of hair had fallen across her face, a face still flushed with their shared passion. Slowly she opened her eyes and smiled at him.

  His arms shook in shock. This woman, a one-night layover in a city he hated, had somehow entered his heart. He wanted her. For more than just this one evening. Lowering himself, he laid his head beside hers, his softening cock still buried deep in her pussy.

  “Thank you,” he whispered in her ear.

  Chapter Four

  Carla drifted in a haze of satiated relaxation. Josef had stayed inside her until nature parted them, releasing them both from her firm grip. He’d unlocked the cuffs and removed his condom, then climbed onto the bed beside her, pulling her into his arms, where she drifted between sleep and contentment.

  His stomach growled. She chuckled and turned over to face him. His hair, unbound and falling over his shoulders, gave him a rakish air, and the guilty grin did nothing to dispel the image of a satisfied Norseman.

  “Sorry ‘bout that.”

  He spoke slowly, replete, his voice as languid as she felt. Did she have any bones left? Apparently so, for she reached up and cupped his face with her hand.

  “Smile for me,” she told him, her voice as languorous as his.

  “Why?” Even as he asked, he did her bidding.

  She grinned in return, her fingers exploring the wonderful valleys and ridges of his dimpled cheeks. “Because I like how your face crinkles when you do.”

  His stomach growled again and he sighed. “Sorry again, but a man’s stomach has a mind of its own.”

  Taking a deep breath, she rolled onto her back and stretched, her body aching in all the right places. His hand fell onto her breast, kneading it, and he moved closer, placing little kisses on her skin. She moaned and ran her hand down his back.

  At which point his stomach became positively insistent. She snorted in laughter as he sat up and looked at the offending part of his anatomy.

  “I guess I shouldn’t have skipped lunch if I was also going to skip dinner.”

  “You didn’t each lunch? No wonder.” Giving a final stretch, Carla sat up. “We need to feed you or you’ll faint on the plane back to Egypt.”

  Josef’s eyes grew serious. “I do need to go back, Carla.”

  She put her hand over his. “I know. I’m not asking for anything, Josef.”

  “I’ll be gone for another three months before returning to the university for a semester of teaching.”

  Carla just nodded, unsure where he was going with this and not wanting to make a fool of herself.

  “When I return, will you… I mean, would you be interested in…” His voice trailed off.

  Carla smiled and squeezed his hand. “I think Dr. DiPaolo would be very unhappy with us if we didn’t.”

  This time Carla’s stomach gurgled and they both burst out laughing. “I skipped lunch as well,” she admitted.

  “Well then, in this city that never sleeps, let’s go find us some food, woman.”

  “Agreed.” She stood and picked up her panties and skirt, still bunched in the corner where he’d thrown them. But his arms were around her before she could untangle them. Turning toward that incredible chest, she reached up and slid a lock of his blond behind his back. He bent to kiss her and she held on to his muscled shoulder, surprised that she could possibly want more after all he’d given her this evening.

  And when the kiss ended, he bussed her on the nose and informed her, “After we’ve eaten, I know a good fetish shop that has a magnificent flogger in the window. And I just happen to know the back that I need to try it out on.”

  “You do, do you?”

  “I do.” He kissed her again and Carla felt her pussy clench at the thought of being at his mercy again.

  “Then let’s eat quickly and go shopping,” she murmured against his lips. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint Angie by not taking advantage of every moment of this blind date she set up.”

  “Nor would I, little one, nor would I.”

  Quickly dressing, Carla marveled at what the day had wrought.

  And she still didn’t have that damn report.

  Grinning, she followed him into the hallway and waited as he closed the door. Maybe she’d pick it up—next time.

  Fatman & Robyn

  Jaid Black

  Prologue

  “Fetishes of any sort are a direct result of the Oedipus complex,” the doctor sniffed. “Was your mother fat?”

  “No.”

  “Aha! Then your mother was thin and you subconsciously reject your innate attraction to her by fantasizing about plus-sized women.”

  Jake Chamberlin rolled his eyes and sighed. Fully reclined on Dr. Jordan’s couch, he wasn’t sure if the Freudian psychiatrist could see his frustration or not. “My mother wasn’t thin either,” Jake growled, running a hand over the line of his jaw. “She was average. Dead-ass average.”

  “And your rejection of average has resulted in your current fascination with chubby women. It’s so blatantly obvious.”

  “Blatantly obvious?”

  “Yes. A blind man could see it.”

  I can’t believe I’m paying this fucking moron $300 an hour. “I see,” Jake drawled.

  The pompous doctor had an answer for everything. He reminded Jake of those TV psychics who changed their interpretations of events based on the answers their audience members gave. The shrink had missed his calling. He should have been on some obscure cable channel wearing a swami’s turban and looking into a crystal ball as he dispensed advice from the nether regions of time and space. Lord knows he might have been more effective.

  Closing his eyes, he tuned out Dr. Snake-Oil-Salesman and took a deep breath. The only blatantly obvious thing happening in this room was the realization that this psychoanalyst wouldn’t be any more help to Jake than had the other five shrinks who’d preceded him. Six psychiatrists, two faith healers and a weird back-alley voodoo priestess later, fucking a stick-thin model was no more appealing now than it had ever been.

  Jake needed to get over this unnatural attraction to what society labeled “chubby chicks”, and he needed to do it quickly. The star quarterback of the New York Bloods should have a trophy wife—a young, blonde, stick-thin Barbie doll with fake tits and a sprayed-on tan. That’s what all men in his position coveted and he should be no exception to the rule. He didn’t like being different. He wanted to be the man society expected him to be.

  “…because your mother’s average weight was so arousing, you subconsciously began fantasizing about…”

  Jake sat up, frowning. He did
n’t have time for this bullshit. The Bloods had their work cut out for them. One more win and they’d be Super Bowl bound. At age thirty-seven, he knew this was his last shot at the ring. He should have retired two years ago after sustaining his third knee injury, but Jake had wanted to retire as a winner.

  He’d deal with his problems after he had that ring on his finger. And, he thought with a grunt, after he found someone who could actually help him.

  “This is stupid!” Jake snapped, standing up. At six-foot-five-inches and weighing in the vicinity of two hundred-sixty pounds, he knew he was an intimidating figure to most people. He supposed by the wary look on Dr. Quack’s face that the shrink was no exception. He didn’t care. The fucker had wasted enough of his time. “I don’t want to fuck my mother. Not consciously, subconsciously or unconsciously!” I’ll have nightmares tonight just from the suggestion! “Using your own logic, I think you are the one who wants to fuck his mother. It’s all you can think about!”

  “Well, of course I do on a subconscious level,” Dr. Jordan whined. “All men do.”

  Jake grimaced. He would need counseling to get over this counseling. His brown eyes narrowed. “Thank God I’m not like all men.” He picked up his leather coat and shrugged into it. “Get some help, dude,” he advised as he stalked toward the door. “Seriously.”

  Chapter One

  Three months later

  Robyn DiMarco decided that if today wasn’t the most aggravating day of her thirty-four years of life, it certainly rated right up there. She had woken this morning to hair that wouldn’t be tamed, broken plumbing, loud garbage trucks and a coffeepot on the fritz. To top it all off, the elevator in the co-op she lived and worked in had apparently joined a union and opted to go on strike. The clock hadn’t even chimed noon and already she was tired, hungry, caffeine-deprived and, six flights of stairs later, rather surly.

  “Yo! You gonna fix this elevator in my lifetime or what?”

  “I could crawl to Jersey faster than this!”

  “What about the water? My kids’ laundry doesn’t clean itself, ya know!”

  Exiting the stairwell, Robyn walked through the lobby and headed toward the front door. Completely in agreement with the other co-op owners who were bickering back and forth with the building’s maintenance manager, she harrumphed her solidarity before opening the heavy door standing between herself and Mulberry Street. Ordinarily she would have been polite and at least said a passing hello to her neighbors, but she needed a cup or three of coffee before politeness was biologically capable of setting in.

  Besides, she was a writer. Coffee was a must for her occupation, and those suspense novels weren’t going to write themselves.

  “Yo! Robby! Where you going?”

  Robyn sighed. She wasn’t in the mood to be civil to the others in her co-op. The fact that she was related to all of them made her feel even less inclined. That was the good part about family, she conceded. You could have your bitchy moments and all would still be forgiven. Well…eventually, anyway.

  “What are you? My damn keeper?” Robyn asked in fluent Italian, turning to face her brother. “I need air and I need coffee. And not necessarily in that order.”

  Dominic “Nicky” DiMarco flashed her a grin. The same devilish smile that had broken the hearts of countless women. “Bring me back some, sis,” he returned in English. “Coffee, I mean. You can keep the air.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Your generosity knows no bounds.”

  “That’s what she said.”

  “And that is soooo last Tuesday, Nicky.”

  “So is your hair.”

  “That’s what he said.”

  “That don’t make any kinda sense!”

  Robyn grunted, conceding defeat. She’d pick a verbal fight with her brother later. Like after she’d pumped enough caffeine in her system to regain her usual bitchy wit. “I’ll bring you back some coffee,” Robyn growled as she turned and reopened the front door. Her speech reverted to Italian, the constant flip-flop in languages a natural part of life for those native to New York City’s Little Italy. “And a muzzle for your mouth.”

  “And cannoli,” Nicky called out to her rapidly departing backside. “Plain! No chocolate chips.”

  Robyn smiled her first real smile of the day. Her annoyingly loveable Romeo of a brother would get his cannoli. And he’d get it with chocolate chips.

  * * * * *

  Jake decided that being a freshly minted Super Bowl hero was anti-climatic when you didn’t have a sexy woman to celebrate with and fawn all over you.

  That his idea of what made a woman sexy wasn’t shared by the average male was starting to matter less and less. Especially since he couldn’t even pretend anymore. Shutting his eyes and fantasizing that whatever stick-thin model he happened to be fucking at the time looked a lot less sticklike and a lot more voluptuous no longer worked. As soon as he touched her body and his hands felt nothing but skin stretched over bones…

  He frowned, recalling his last disaster of a date with that Swedish underwear model. His dick had gone limp inside her. He supposed his cock was bigger while soft than most men’s were while fully erect, because Ingrid hadn’t appeared to notice. He’d managed to keep up the charade until she got her rocks off, faked an orgasm at the precise moment she climaxed, made some dumb excuse about needing to wake up early the next morning and got the fuck out of there. That had been four long months ago.

  Sitting in the far corner of Cha Chas, his favorite bistro in Little Italy, Jake absently toyed with his Super Bowl ring while he did his best to go unnoticed. He wasn’t in the mood to sign autographs or talk to any dipshit reporters. He was in the mood to eat pasta and get laid. A man with a sexual appetite like his couldn’t be celibate for this long without a consequence. Judging from how rock hard his dick was for no reason, he supposed a serious case of blue balls was that consequence.

  Sitting with his back toward most of the other patrons, Jake broodingly stared at the bistro’s pastry counter. He asked himself why he cared what other people thought about his sexual preference. For the first time in his life, he could understand how a gay man felt when he knew it was time to come out of the closet. Jake was as far from gay as a man could be, but it was the best analogy he could think of.

  I love chubby chicks. So fucking what?

  At least he didn’t get wood from fantasizing about his own mother like that psycho shrink. He didn’t want to eat dirt, get shit on or smell strange women’s underwear, like on that TV special he’d seen about fetishes. And he wasn’t anything like Tony, the Bloods’ star receiver. Holy shit! What a mess that guy was. What the press didn’t know about his teammate—but Jake unfortunately did—was that Tony would only date women who were unnaturally hairy in all the wrong places and who didn’t mind him wearing a diaper to bed before they fucked.

  Jake pursed his lips. Why Tony had confided that particular piece of information in him, he had no idea. To this day he couldn’t pass by a box of Pampers in the grocery store without grimacing.

  Deep in distressed thought, Jake absently ran a hand through his thick mane of hair, which reminded him that he needed to stop by the barber shop to get it buzzed off. He’d never let his dark hair go so long without a trim. He preferred to keep it crew-cut short and the shit was damn near to his shoulders now.

  Distraction and depression, he decided. The state of his hair, like everything else not working in his life, was a direct result of distraction and depression.

  “Ciao, bella signora!”

  “Ciao, Marco! Ho bisogno di cannoli.”

  “Nicky?”

  “Sì.”

  Jake glanced over to the pastry counter in time to watch one of Cha Chas’ employees share a laugh with a customer. He started to look away, uninterested because he couldn’t understand a word they were saying, but found himself doing a double take instead.

  He stilled. His damn dick that wouldn’t stay down for nothing got impossibly stiffer. “Holy shit,” he
mumbled.

  Jake’s dark eyes narrowed in desire as he watched the embodiment of his every sexual fantasy throw her head back and laugh. Her laughter was vibrant, enthusiastic and very real. And, he thought, unable to stop himself from cracking a half-smile, her happiness was apparently contagious.

  The mystery woman finished her conversation with the bistro’s employee, then turned and walked toward the empty table next to his. She didn’t notice Jake, which was fine by him, because it gave him more time to stare at her.

  You. Are. Fucking. Hot.

  The more he saw, the harder he got.

  She was average in height and very, very curvy. She wore a tight little yellow sundress that, thankfully, left little to the imagination. Her breasts were round and large, her hips wide and provocative. He loved the way they swayed as she walked, tugging at the sundress, forcing her to show off legs that Jake wanted wrapped around his waist in the worst way. Her thighs were fleshy, not bony, thin or muscular. As she sat down at the table nearest him, Jake couldn’t help but notice her tummy wasn’t flat either. There was flesh there—sexy, hot, rounded flesh that looked so ripe and perfect.

  Everything about her looked…right.

  She didn’t look stereotypically Italian-American, not that he would have minded if she had. Jake had always found women of Mediterranean heritage to be the embodiment of sexiness. But Italian women, at least in theory, were supposed to have dark hair and eyes. Jake’s mystery woman had the curly hair he expected to see in this part of town, but it was a warm honey color that appeared to be natural. Her eyes, sparkly green, were definitely real and not contact lenses. He could always tell when someone with naturally dark eyes was wearing fakes because the lenses never seemed to completely cover the iris of the eyes.

  Her skin, however, was very Mediterranean. She had a natural olive undertone that had darkened into a fuck-me bronze with the sun. The contrast of brown skin against light eyes was powerful, causing her baby greens to glow just a little.