Jezebel Koko Brown (best books to read non fiction txt) 📖

and crushed his mouth againsthers. Celeste groaned. She tasted herself on his lips, his tongue.

On and on, his tonguetangled with hers. She was so wet he slid in and out with ease. Thetip of him drove deep, tapping her womb. He was big, and it had beenso long.

“Shane,” shepanted over and over in sync with his powerful thrusts. He reared up,sinking deeper than she ever thought possible. A shiver dancedthrough her. Electric pulses pounded through her veins.

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

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

Celeste wrapped her armsaround him in surrender. She wanted to hold Shane forever and neverlet go.

“Forgiven.”

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

“Promise?”

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

Celeste sighed. His devotionsounded good to her.

The End

ABOUT THEAUTHOR

Koko Brown is aquintessential erotic romance junkie who once read over 200 ZebraClub novels the summer before her senior year in high school.

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

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

PLAYER’SULTIMATUM

BY KOKO BROWN

CHAPTER ONE

Roma InternazionaleFootball Match

Rome, Italy

“Time to put up orshut up.”

In an attempt to bolster herflagging confidence, Yvonne Floyd recited Robbie’s wordsverbatim. Of course, talking the talk and walking the walkcompletely diverged into a mile-wide chasm when faced with RomaInternazionale’s friends and family box.

Nicknamed the Hen House bythe press, the soccer club’s reserved seating garnered just asmuch attention from the team’s fans as the rabid media campedaround it.

Supermodels rubbed shoulderswith socialites, actresses hobnobbed with reality stars. Theircombined chatter rose above the sound of crying children and pregameannouncements like a cacophony of over exaggerated impersonalnonsense.

Yvonne’s shouldersslumped.

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

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

A few members of the HenHouse cast her speculative looks through lashes, that were mostlikely fake, and then with dismissive flicks of their professionallystyled tresses, they promptly dismissed her.

Used to being on the outsidelooking in, Yvonne brushed off their unified disregard. She didn’ttake a leave of absence from her graduate studies or sublease herapartment for the rest of the year for them anyway. She’duprooted herself at the ripe old age of twenty-nine, albeittemporarily, for Robbie. And her loyalty to her best friend helped toheal the sting of their brush-off and motivated her to get into thegame.

“Posso auitarla?”

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

Whyeven bother? Nobody was getting past The Human Refrigerator!

Not knowing a word ofItalian, Yvonne fumbled with the access pass around her neck, holdingit up for him to see. The ‘giant’ eyed the plastic IDcard skeptically. She almost turned around, happy to settle for thecheap seats. At least they didn’t come with a gaggle ofgorgeous, but mean spirited women.

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

“Noproblemo!”Yvonne replied in Spanish. One language was good as another wasn’tit?

Yvonne felt like a freshmanon the first day of high school—all pimply faced and kinkyhair. Still, she lifted her chin and smiled, hoping to win them overwith her dimples. The combination of her pearly whites and twincrescents embedded into her brown skin always worked back home.

Not with this crowd itseemed as she scanned the first few rows. She took note of theunoccupied seats, conveniently located in the center of each row, andsighed. If four years of high school taught her anything, theseskinny heifers would eat their children before any of them wouldshift over for her.

“G’day! There’sa seat up here.”

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

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

“I’m KeithaMacDonald,” the woman volunteered, holding her hand out for afriendly handshake. “And no my father’s name isn’tKeith, damned Flight of the Concords.” Deep throated, yetlyrical, the other woman’s Australian accent poured over Yvonnelike sunshine, a welcome respite this deep in the month of January.

“I’m YvonneFloyd,” she offered taking Keitha’s hand in hers. “It’snice to meet you.”

Glancing down at the seatsbelow them, the other woman winked at her. Although the hens didn’tlook directly at them, their chatter had died down to monosyllables.Only the children kept up their raucous caterwauling.

Keitha pretended to clearher throat. “I’m Freddy MacDonald’s ball andchain,” she said, her voice