MESSALINA: DEVOURER OF MEN by Zetta Brown
When life imitates art... Eva Cavell is a woman with an embarrassing secret. She is sexually frustrated and is convinced that her size and race intimidates men.
In an attempt to relieve her sexual tension, every Thursday Eva goes to a local movie theater and allows desperate strangers to fondle her in the dark. She allows no eye contact, no phone numbers-and definitely no names.
During one of her escapades, renowned artist, Jared Delaney, a smooth Southern gentleman with irresistible violet eyes, has Eva breaking her own rules. He has been watching Eva on her weekly visits and sees through her icy defence and straight through to the hot passion burning underneath.
...expect to be framed. Messing about in dark theaters isn't a good pastime for Eva. She is a tenure-track instructor at a private Denver college that is currently embroiled in a sex scandal and she is the youngest child of a prominent black family.
To add to her turmoil, Neil Hollister, Eva's classroom aide and former student, is a handsome, barely-legal frat brat whose interest in her is carnal rather than academic-and she's tempted.
Despite desperate attempts to maintain control, Eva's world is spiraling into chaos. As emotional pressures build inside her, an explosion is imminent. Will she ever be able to live her life how she wants and without shame?
The answer may lie with a woman who is bold and unashamed in her sexuality. Can Eva be more like her? What would happen if she even tried?
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I dim the lights and turn up the saxophone jazz. Then we step onto the balcony to see the city lights. The sky glows orange and pink behind the silhouetted mountains and the night comes in like a band of dark blue melting from above with a few bright pinpoints for stars. Leaning against the railing, I want Jared’s hands on me, his long fingers satisfying my fetish for them as they find their way into my center once again.
Instead, I sense his gaze on me, sliding down my exposed spine and lingering on my bottom before continuing down my thighs to the back of my knees. I’m riveted to the spot, pretending to look at the skyline. He finally comes close behind me.
“Cappuccino,” he says as his cool fingers glide up the back of my neck and into my hair.
“The color of your skin. Definitely, cappuccino.” His breath is warm against my ear. “I wonder if it tastes as good.”
His kiss smolders on my collarbone and I wouldn’t be surprised if a burn develops there. He traps me by wrapping his arms completely around my middle and I get to experience just how hard his body is for the first time.
“You’re trembling,” he whispers, pulling away. “Why?”
I stay focused on the view. “I’m finding it hard to let my guard down.”
“Do you have to guard yourself?”
I shrug. “Once you start, it’s hard to stop.”
He laughs and I wonder if the man has a sensitive bone in his body. I turn to face him and encounter those eyes. For a moment, it’s as if we stare into each other’s core. He doesn’t move. I feel the warmth of his skin and inhale the sweetness of the wine on his breath.
“Let me guess.” He smirks. “You have to keep in control to save from getting hurt?”
“So what if I do?” I reply, perhaps too defensively. “I have yet to meet anyone who can handle me the way I can.”
“Ooh, I don’t know, Evadne. Seems to me as if your control is ready to snap.” He traces my jaw with his finger. “What is it, girl? I understand black women have a reputation for being lovers who take no shit.” His eyelids narrow. “Or is it all myth?”
Excitement rushes through me, warming and moistening my flesh . . . melting the cobwebs away. I’m enjoying this sparring match. That’s right. I’m a sistah with attitude and if you think you’re dealing with some little girl, you’re mistaken. But all I say is, “Myths survive on a kernel of truth.”
“Is that a challenge?” He grins. “I like a challenge.”
My gaze carves into his and I put my hands on my hips. As I do, it forces him to back up, but only a few inches. “You try me. Are you man enough to handle this?” I indicate my body with a flourish of a hand.
He reaches out with his glass and lets the cool, wet rim trace along my exposed collarbone, making me tremble.
“Girl,” he sighs, shaking his head, “don’t you know that when you ice your passion, you just make it hotter when it’s thawed?”
We stand, for what seems like hours, waiting for the first sign of weakness in the other. He tips his glass, letting a trickle of wine spill onto my shoulder.
“Oops.” He smiles and bends forward to lick the wine away, trailing his tongue up the side of my neck. When his lips connect with mine they are wet and sweet and I let his kiss engulf me.
Taking me by the waist, he navigates us back inside with the grace of a ballroom dancer as we maintain our kiss. Soon I’m on my Victorian fainting couch in a position many Victorian women probably never had the luxury to experience as Jared’s voyage of discovery takes him down between my thighs, his hair caressing me like silk.
As he pushes up my dress, I figure he’ll just give me a cursory nibble and move on like most men, but he sighs with contentment, a crusader reaching his pilgrimage. Without hesitation, he places my legs over his shoulders and spreads my intimate lips so he can lick each inner fold. One moment he’s soft, the next he’s rough, and the contrast is exquisite. When he manipulates my little power switch with his expert tongue, she stands at attention. He blows on her gently and I’m dropped into an abyss, making me release a trickle of my pleasure.
“Mmm,” he moans. “Skin like cappuccino but tastes like mocha.”
A squeal escapes my lips. Jesus Christ, I got me a connoisseur.
Jared seizes my hips in a vise-like grip while his mouth makes a seal to suction the hot liqueur seeping from within me and I explode. My hands grip his head between my thighs and my pelvis thrusts against his face. Considering our first encounter, Jared is running true to form and is about to make me come again.
Tears come to my eyes in spite of my trying not to get carried away. This is a sweet release, and he’s right. My iced passion is melting and it’s hot, wet. He drinks from me and I satisfy his thirst. When he finally rises, his expression is like one who has overindulged in a bacchanalian feast.
“Jared,” I whisper and touch his face. He blinks and snaps out of his reverie. His eyes focus on me as he kisses the Betty Boop tattoo located above my left hipbone. He climbs between my legs, which reflexively encircle his waist. We’re still dressed, but his cock is tenting his pants and is hard and swollen against me. I close my eyes, remembering when I saw it in the theater. Lacing my fingers behind his neck, I smile. “I was getting worried about you down there.”
His kiss forces me deep into the cushions. I taste myself on his lips and strain to get more, leaving us both gasping for air. A high-pitched beep goes off. He raises his head and glances at the phone clipped to his belt.
“Aw, fuck.” Then he looks at me and strokes my cheek. “Eva, I gotta go. My plane.”
My loins literally ache for him. I tighten my legs around his waist. His body trembles and he tries to calm his urge by pressing into me. Big mistake. Gasping, we shudder at the unexpected charge it provokes between us. He shakes his head rapidly, sucking air through his teeth.
“Sugar, please,” he says, voice straining. “If I stay, I risk having an accident. I’m about to do myself an injury as it is.” He makes a pointed glance to his crotch and I can see his distress.
“Here, allow me.” In seconds I have him on his feet with his pants down and my hand cupping his crotch. He looks down at me in surprise.
Looking him straight in the eyes, I lick my lips. I’m going to enjoy this. He’s going to enjoy it. He swallows again, his breath expelling hard and fast from flared nostrils.
“Evadne,” he groans, like a soul in torment as my lips make contact.
I hold his cock with both hands. He’s rock hard. I won’t be able to deep-throat him. That would take practice, lots and lots of practice. He plunges his fingers into the depths of my hair as I give his cock a gentle tug and trace the network of throbbing veins with my tongue.
Down, down, down the shaft I go and into the short curly hairs at the base that tickle my nose. I bury my face there, inhaling his spicy scent. The tip of his cock pushes between the plush pillows of my breasts, which I cup with my hands and squeeze, trapping his cock inside as I nuzzle.
He upgrades his caress to pawing. I continue licking his base before pulling my head back slightly.
“Don’t leave me this way,” I moan, close enough for my breath to feel cool against the moist skin of his erection. His cock twitches. I position myself and slowly enclose my lips around the head of his cock, relishing the girth of it as my mouth takes him in as far as it can. Again, he sucks his breath through his teeth and groans.
Tongue swirling, jaw pumping, I make sounds of contentment. He is my feast. I’m in heaven, and from the sounds he’s making, I’m sure he feels closer to God.
“Evadne—ah, yes! God—damn, work your mouth, just like that.”
I continue for as long as my jaw allows; his cock has grown to maximum capacity. He holds my head in place and thrusts forward, but I keep focused so as not to gag. Instead, I wrap my hands around his firm thighs urging for more. I want it all.
“Jesus, your mouth feels so good. So wet . . . so fucking wet . . .” He falls silent, gaining force. I look up and see his eyes are closed, his lips pressed into a thin line, and his face contorted. I’ve seen that look before at The DeLuxe. He’s going to come.
He can’t see my Cheshire grin as I continue. His cock thoroughly lubricated, I move away as a pearly tear drops from its eye.
“Aw,” I coo, rubbing his cock against my cheek. “Don’t cry, my sweet. You’re breaking my heart. Eva’s gonna make it better.”
“Evadne,” he growls. “You’re killing me. I’m gonna come. Please, I’ve got to.”
“Not yet, you don’t.” I squeeze the base of his cock, making him grit his teeth. “You still have that plane to catch?”
He can’t articulate a response.
Putting my forefinger in my mouth to get it wet, I prepare to make him come so hard that if I don’t blow his mind, I’m wasting my time.
“I can’t hear you, Jared. Do you still have to catch that flight?”
In an amazing show of self-control, he exhales slowly through clenched teeth. “Sugar, I have to.” He shudders again. “Eva, darlin’, please. Let me—”
With only seconds to spare, I take a swig of Asti from my glass. I release his cock and slowly slip my moistened forefinger through the slightly relaxed ring of his ass. Then I envelop his penis with a mouthful of liquid effervescence.
Never in all my life have I heard sounds like the ones coming from Jared as he explodes inside my mouth. It’s part groan, part cry, part curse, but all orgasm. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear he’s in pain. Maybe he is.
Eyes closed, I concentrate on keeping my finger up his ass and my mouth around his cock. Drinking my cocktail, I purr like the contented black pussy I am.
Another spurt shoots to the back of my throat. Some of it dribbles past my lips and trickles down his shaft, but I’m quick to go after it. I want to swallow all of his excitement. I want everything he can give and more before I’ll let him go. Finally, I take my mouth away.
“Gonna leave me, lover?” I push my finger even deeper inside his clenched ass, making him thrust.
Jared’s labored breathing sounds as if he just ran a marathon and I fear his legs may buckle. And although his cock is spent, I see enough life left in him that I’m smiling with expectation. He sighs, caressing my head, his thumbs glide down my cheekbones.
“Holy sweet mother of Jesus . . .”
He takes a step back and I look in his face; it’s drained of color. His eyes are red, his hair is disheveled, and sweat beads on his brow. He shakes his head like a man who’s taken the ride of his life then helps me to my feet. Grasping both sides of my face, he lays a soul kiss on me and moans as I give him a taste of sperm-enhanced Spumante. When we part, he stares at me with amazement. But soon the look in his eyes is desperate.
“Eva, listen to me. I have to go—now.”
My longing turns to disbelief and he reads it in my face.
“Sugar, listen,” he pleads, a note of anxiety and concern in his voice.
Here I am, for the first time in three years, ready to get fucked and not just felt up. Jared has gotten me so hot my dress is plastered to me like a second skin.
Enough is enough. I’m not letting him get away again. I put my hands on his shoulders and force him onto the couch. From the surprised look on his face I realize he wasn’t expecting this move. I straddle him.
“Jared Delaney, you are exactly five seconds away from being date-raped . . . any last words?”
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