Witchy Women Series
Appointed Barbados' acting Attorney General, Dee Bloom, failed witchy healer, wants one last fling. Alex Mayfield, West Palm playboy fits the bill perfectly. Doesn't he?
An orphan, Alex is engaged to a Mayflower debutante, but he's obsessed with Dee.
Sparks erupt when they meet in Trinidad on Carnival Monday. Belly-button tequila shots, Dee's scanty costume, mud baths, dancing in the streets, explodes into a week of sexual ecstasy. Stunned by his reactions to Dee, Alex retreats.
Three months elapse. A pregnant Dee makes network news when she's kidnapped by a drug-lord.
Show and tell time.
Dee agrees to marry Alex. It's the end of her career, the end of her witchy healing, until her best friend's diagnosed with cancer. At six months pregnant, Dee awakens in a pool of blood.
Can she learn to control her powers? Cure her best friend? Will her baby survive? Will Alex ever trust her again?
"I had so much fun writing Dee and Alex's story. I love the way she's strong and decisive in her career, but terrified and confused when it comes to the simple things like bathing a newborn, or cooking. And she's a control freak who can't manage her own witchy powers married to a dominating man whose devilish good looks and easy charm ooze seduction." ~ Jiane ~
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Carefree mother earth goddess, hands thrown up in the air, forefingers pointed, eyes closed, sensuality personified. She bent her knees and did a rapid stripper's roll, circling her hip to the left. The burlap flap fell away as her bottom lifted, and Alex got a ten-second glimpse of a high, rounded, naked cheek. A slash of scarlet slashed its edge. Dizzying desire sparked lightning bolts, and primordial instincts wrestled away any remaining veneer of civilized man.
His hands snaked around Dee's narrow waist, and he locked them together. Dee jerked to a halt becoming un-pliant in his embrace. Alex pulled her back to his chest. Her head popped around, and she didn't seem surprised to discover it was he. Dee let him hug her, but Alex felt her doubt in the rigid tension of her spine. He loosened his hold letting a few inches separate them. Gradually, she began moving to the music, hips undulating. Alex drew her closer in small increments until they chipped forward together.
A large man bumped into Alex's shoulder, warm liquid from the bottle in his hand sloshed over Alex's arm. Sparks lit the dark morning to the right of them, and the pungent aroma of marijuana battled those of rum and perspiration for dominance.
"Here comes the rain." Michael materialized at Alex's side. The music halted for a moment, and his shout resonated over the shuffling of feet. "The bubbies, here comes the bubbies. I need some whiskey and a woman to wine on."
A smattering of stinging, cold raindrops assaulted Alex's skin.
Michael passed the bottle of Black Label to Dee. She twisted out of Alex's arms to get it, took a swift swallow, and plopped the bottle into his hands. He took a sip of the fiery liquid and gave it to Jake.
Alex's eyes were drawn inexorably to Dee's breasts. Sure enough, her nipples had hardened under the chill torrent of raindrops, tightening into stiff, round points. His lips dried out, parched, thirsting. His mouth burned with the need to suckle, sip at those nubs. He grabbed the whiskey bottle and took another long swig, trying to eradicate the flood of lust threatening an embarrassing release. When he encircled her waist again, Dee relaxed, snuggling into his arms. His cock grazed the small of her back, feeding on the slight friction. A fierce breeze whooshed down the six-lane road, puckering flesh.
Dee's petite form shuddered, bursting into a series of little shivers. Alex touched his mouth to her ear. "Cold?"
Dainty hands came up to cup her shoulders, and she nodded.
Planting his feet wide apart, Alex shouted, "Stay there." He braced against the crowds milling at his back, hooked his t-shirt over his head, and offered it to her.
The crowd jostled Alex along the length of a blaring music truck. A man wearing black spandex cycle shorts sang into a microphone under the fluorescent lights of a canopied music truck. He warbled a calypso, equal parts Rap and Soca, his bluesy voice climbing above the crowd's sing-a-long and the rain's drumming. The moment proved intoxicating in the extreme. The scent of musky coupling and sweet rum filled the air. The music wove into Alex's brain. Pelvises gyrated friction, from the front, behind, and at the sides.
As individuals, they held no goals, no direction. As a united crowd, bent on sensory pleasure, music, elation, touching, grinding, the scent of heated arousal, a sugary, languid, soaring excitement with one end in sight: climax, the poignant fulfillment of a bacchanalian dawning. J'ouvert, the day opening, the literal translation of the term.
Drunkenness stole over Alex in time to the rising red ball of the sun on the horizon. They crossed the Savannah Stage at six o'clock. The band refused to leave the wide wooden podium, even after some self-important official pleaded with them over a megaphone to let other bands have their turn.
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