Half Native American medical professional BENNET GILLESPIE'S "off track" life dangerously spirals, as his compulsive and sexual, love entanglement with DAY, a knife-happy, African American innocent, and her overbearing, elderly British guardian, HOPKINS, threatens to cost Benn more than his life.
[Fiction / Explicit / Dark Adult Fiction / Dark Sensual Romance / Erotica / Dark Romantic Erotica / Romantica™ / Psychological Erotica / Spiritual Erotica / Multiracial / Interracial]
Trade Paperback and ebook [Adobe, Microsoft, Palm]
More Excerpts: HOBBLE
Barnes & Noble.com
Hobble [An Adult Fiction]
“Day, if you don’t mind, I don’t want blood on my mother’s locket.”
She held the blade, handle end out, and allowed Mrs. Gorbachev to retrieve it. The poor woman had left it alone a few seconds, while cutting bread, to answer the phone, then turned to find Day had it. It turns out that “Ms. Day’s not allowed to handle sharp knives.”
I didn’t ask about pointy forks. Or hard, plastic sporks.
Hopkins sighed deeply, before retreating to his bedroom. I tended Day’s inflamed ankles, and she wasn’t happy that I was being wholly professional, emotionally distant, and a bit sullen.
I don’t like being manipulated, without my permission.
That night, I was still not able to sleep, on their sofa, in all the strained tension, which also seemed to live there. I heard him again, late night, somewhere in the middle of my restlessly checking the email off my Mac Titanium PowerBook®.
I heard him with Day, who I remembered was still wearing my locket, as I absently scratched the area on my bare chest that missed it. It was very notable that I had forgotten to get it back from her. I closed the computer, and for some perverse reason, rose and went toward his grunting and snuffling to stand near her door. His rutting noises peaked, violently, and were followed by a bout of strained coughing.
Then the light went out.
Eventually, I heard water running and Hopkins snoring. He was all tuckered out, I guessed, as I stood there a long while, not really thinking or feeling, just there; then finally roused myself from my stupor, realizing what I was doing, or not doing--not leaving this mess and—.
Day was only a few yards from me, having gone from her bedroom through the connecting bath and out through the empty adjoining room. She was wet and shivering in a large towel. Taking a few steps to me, she faltered, her towel fell, and I caught her. She smelled of peaches and apple soap or shampoo and was enticingly naked; closer scrutiny of her body telling me that it was athletic but slightly gone to softness for lack of activity.
Did I mention she was naked, shamelessly, casually naked, which, of course, caught my attention, but she seemed to take no particular notice of it, while in my arms.
Part of me was thinking of what Hopkins did with her, which was soon flushed from my mind, when she brushed her electrifying hand down my bare chest. She placed one of my very warm hands on her gooseflesh cold, round breast, warming the plump flesh of it, as I ran my thumb tip around its dark brown, hard nipple. She took my other hand and swept it across her soft, damp bush of gentle curls.
Then, I slipped my probing fingers deep into the inviting, warm cleft between her thighs; she was dry, hav-ing just bathed and evidently assiduously douched; until my touch was rewarded by generating liquid heat.
People with heightened, excited minds, like hers, are often unerringly prescient; she preempted my better judgment of stepping back from her, by grabbing me “below the belt,” through my boxer briefs, causing me to swell and harden faster in her hand than I already was. And, like most men, grabbed by a desirable, naked woman, who’s every look and touch most clearly states she greatly wants him, I kissed her. A moment of stray logic halted it though, until she smokily spoke.
“Benn, I only want you.” That’s an ego booster.
I glanced back at the closed door between Hopkins and us, and unlike how so many of us swear--“one thing” did not “just uncontrollably lead to another,” as we quite plainly chose to be seduced by each other.
I carried her back through the short hallway, past the intimate, small dining room to my bed for the night, his sofa in the front room. Her ankles were cold and uncovered and I asked if the wrappings had come off in the shower. She nodded and said they felt fine. I got a pinprick twinge in my gut, which made me suspect she was probably fibbing a little, to be with me, which I let go, because I wanted her badly and because she still had that look for me, you know—-that look.
I kept my fingers swimming in the carpeted, hot pool between her legs, as I kissed her deeply for a long while, because she has an incredible mouth and because her whole body partakes in her kisses. Then, I asked what she wanted me to do to please her; she graciously said whatever I wanted.
“Yippee!” was my first mental response, followed by, “Yeah, but does she really mean it, and what exactly does she mean when she says it?”
It’s amazing how much miscellaneous crap and white noise goes through a person’s brain, at such crucial times and situations. Or how enjoyably and/or annoyingly aware one’s senses become: hearing her quietly tense re-sponses and my own hungry responses; and whether or not he’s making a response from the back of the house to our not completely discreet responses, which he thankfully wasn’t, as he snorted then snored on.
I was kneeling on the floor beside his sofa, making my pleasant dining journey downward; from her responsive lips and tongue, her tantalizing, plump breasts, the little softness of her belly, and below, where I was daw-dling, before devouring.
One hand kneaded a breast-—all natural, the best kind-—while the other was still happy to be knuckle deep in the oven between her softly peachfuzzed thighs, as I watched her react to me, writhing seductively as a serpent, until she looked at me oddly in her impatient breathlessness. She actually pouted in indignation.
When you’re with a woman, especially a new-to-you woman, in such a vulnerable position for you both, it’s always best to ask and not imagine exactly what she might be thinking. Then, take what she says with a big grain of salt; depending on the lady and whether you think she says precisely what she means or whether she couches her phrases. I asked her if I were doing something wrong, and her answer . . . .
“You don’t like me?”
It was a strange, pleading question and because of the way she said it and the way her face appeared made me reconsider the entire situation, as I removed my hands from her and sat back on my heels.
“How old are you, Day?”
It was her turn for another perplexed look. Then she smiled, as she sat up, and I half realized that even the simple thing of her hand sliding gently up my arm made me want to be hers.
“Old enough for what you want of me.” She saw by my expression of suspicion, that that wasn’t the best an-swer to give me. “I’m legal, in every state of the Union. I wouldn’t lie about that, not to you.”
I chose to believe her.
We choose everything we do, somewhere along the line-—the stuff we swear we don’t want to do, even the stuff we’re terrified of, probably even the stuff that kills us, too. Day’d been a strange girl since I’d met her, but she hadn’t lied to me, not seriously anyway, I was certain of that. Conversely, I didn’t ask about the other thing hanging about in my mind. I harnessed it, bound and gagged it, and temporarily buried it somewhere-—the relationship between her and . . . him.
CLICK for more "Hobble"
“She asked if I could ‘take the chance,’ did I have ‘that much confidence’ you’d never leave me, because, even if you came back, this time, for a while, my ‘moods,’ my ‘desperation’ would drive you away. And, that even if you stayed, after he’d die, you’d never visit me, not there. Not once. Stephanie’s right, you wouldn’t.”
I stood up. They say if you really love someone, you really know them. Funny, both my sister and my lover were right; I would ‘never visit [Day] there.’
“She said she would. Stephanie would visit me, even there, particularly if I . . . . She’s always wanted me; but—. Shit. She wants you to be mad at me, she and Hopkins both, don’t they? I should’ve known that. She was too . . . hungry for me.”
I didn’t look down at her, her voice sounded like she was exhausted, resigned, completely whipped even. I know the feeling. She was still in my peripheral vision though.
“I was, am incredibly hungry for you, too, Day; I always am.” She nearly looked up at me but didn’t.
Fear is a prison in itself, but that’s not news, is it?
“You’ll always be hungry for me, Benn, until you get fed up.”
That had the ring of truth, too, and somewhere inside me, something Mama once said was trying to get me to see that we all have “different hungers”; that “some are forever,” others can “be satiated,” and that some do just get fed up. And move along.
My skin was crawling with too much energy running wild inside me and there was no one I could reasonably beat the shit out of, to make myself feel better. It was bad enough dealing with Hopkins alone, but him with Stephie as well was too much.
There’s nothing like an enemy, who knows you inside out and isn’t afraid to use that knowledge to cut you off at the knees.
My only personal redemption was that we’d spent a lot of time apart these past few years and there was no way she knew my every thought, plus there was no way Stephie could know my every reaction when it came to Day.
I didn’t know that myself.
Day touched my trousered leg, I pulled away then reached for her to rip the locket off over her head. I went back inside to get my keys and drove until I was afraid I’d run someone over in my preoccupation and rage. I found a patch of green and, inappropriately dressed, just ran until I’d run the circumference more times than I could remember, and it was getting too dark to see.
Eventually, I drove back to the house where Day was sitting outside, her eyes hidden in the darkness by black shades, with her knees pulled up tight to her chest. All she had to do was tuck her head and she’d be the em-bodiment of the human football she seemed to be. Mrs. G was stroking Day’s hair, and it was way past her usual knockoff time, which meant Hopkins wasn’t around.
I asked if Stephie had called recently for him, she had. I’d spoken with Steph and she’d known when I’d get back. The bitch had warned him not to be around when she tilted my temper over the edge, with her visual gift. At least she didn’t want me going to jail for assault and battery, or homicide. Also, Stephie, in her usual quest to control anyone and everyone, obviously hadn’t imparted excessive info about me to fellow control freak Hopkins, or he would’ve been around breaking my balls about it, giving me grief in front of Day.
I told Mrs. G she could go, I wasn’t going anywhere for the night and I’d “keep an eye on our little knifewielder.” Mrs. G didn’t like my joke or the fact that “Ms. Day” was “so extremely upset.” I walked past them and inside, then heard Day softly beg her to “just go,” that she’d “be fine alone” with me. Day’s voice didn’t sound rock steady on the matter. Thankfully, Mrs. Gorbachev left for home.
I like Mrs. G a lot and have a great deal of respect for her, but she misses a lot of the crap that goes on, no matter how much Day tells her; plus, she’s deferentially partial to Day’s side of nearly everything, whether the girl is “extremely upset” or not.
I was sopping with sweat and still “extremely upset” myself, because the past few hours hadn’t actually abated my emotions much. I was pissed at Day for being Day, at my sister for being herself, at Hopkins . . . always, and was throwing a little self-loathing in for letting my libido and ego suck me so deep into all of this.
I also still greatly wanted to hold Day tightly to me, soothe and coo to her, and make it all better, take care of everything for her, which seemed a bit null and void after only less than two weeks gone. Despite that and more importantly, I’d been without her for all that time and, despite the video, I still wanted her badly.
Being pissed is such a burdensome bitch.
I’d reemerged from soaking my head in the tub. I would have stayed under longer, but I haven’t yet acquired Aquaman’s® useful knack of breathing underwater. Or, of not wanting to be with Day. I was massaging myself, my masculine self, shall we say. Geez, I had my dick in my hand, hazily thinking of her, when I turned to see she was at the door on her side of the bathroom.
“Come here, Day.”
She looked at me oddly then disappeared; perhaps my emotions were too raw and naked on my face. I jumped out to pursue her.
When I entered her room she was half way across it, her back to me, frozen in place, evidently, since I’d last barked her name, knowing there was no way she could outrun me in this life or the next. I was leaving a bathwater trail, as I went to her and took a good look at the back of her; at her thick hair, the slope of her back, the round promise of her ass, which I covetously touched before spooning her against me. I know she felt my desire for her pressing hard along her spine, as I harshly whispered in her ear.
“Get on the bed.”
She didn’t move and I scooped her up and threw her on it. I made her face me and she modestly tugged her dress down, as I took my first really good look at her, since I’d returned and ended up watching homemade porn from my loving, big sister. Day’s not to everyone’s taste but I’ve seen men trip, while staring at her, as they jog past, even when she’s frowning, let alone smiling.
She closely watched me reach over her for a pillow for her head, her gaze was suspicious and resigned; I hadn’t known such a thing could be managed. I resumed masturbating, partially conscious of buying time in a losing attempt to decide what to do or say, or not do or not say, half wanting to release myself from the shapely, humid destination my body was already leading me to.
I pushed her skirt out of my way and immediately thought Mommy and Hoppy weren’t totally wrong in saying “pretty face/prettier . . . .” My lonesome, drying palm wasn’t good enough, not with the house to ourselves, days since we’d last . . . indulged, and the raging anger I still felt. Sometimes I carry a bit of a grudge, even when I know I shouldn’t.
There’s seeing what you shouldn’t see and feeling inside you what you know you’re too smart to be feeling.
I unhurriedly slid inside her, which was the greatest feeling, as she made a pretty sigh, which I liked exceed-ingly much and which almost made me forget I was still angry, especially once the pleasant humid heat of her snugly enveloped me. She yielded to me, letting me have of her whatever I wanted, as she moved with me. When I felt her really wanting me, I pulled out, leaving her empty.
Leaving myself feeling starved, chilled, and alone.
Her expressive face silently questioned what have I done, are you still pissed with me, how can I make it all the way you want it to be?
CLICK for more "Hobble"