Trista Russell Bedroom Bully

ISBN 13: 9781476727196

Bedroom Bully

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9781476727196: Bedroom Bully

Trista Russell, author of Going Broke and Dead Broke, turns up the heat in this erotic urban tale featuring a powerful attraction between a fugitive and the woman he is holding captive.

Bound by an impossible crime, lovers confront a dangerous seduction that sends them over the edge. . . .

At first, Audra Chandler is terrified to find Miami’s infamous “Turnpike Cop Killer” waiting outside her home. But as the stranger nudges a gun to her body and demands protection, she has no clue how deeply he will penetrate the hardened layers of her heart.

Dean Tyson is a hardworking father pushed to the brink of insanity by a malicious act against his young daughter. Now he must figure out how to save the girl before he vanishes from her life forever.

Audra and Dean are overcome with the thrill of a forbidden lust—until sudden tragedies and shocking twists force them to escape Miami. As the fugitives set sail on the tranquil Caribbean Sea, their treacherous journey will, once and for all, test the limits of their passion.

"synopsis" may belong to another edition of this title.

About the Author:

Trista Russell was born in Miami, Florida. She is the author of Going Broke, Fly on the Wall, and Chocolate Covered Forbidden Fruit, and lives in Chicago with her husband and daughter. Visit her online at TristaRussell.com and EbonyAuthors.com.

Excerpt. Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.:

Journal Entry:

Audra

All the local drunken regulars were at the local bar watching a search for a maniac when Kayla shouted out, "I don't think I could ever be raped. I enjoy dick entirely too much." She took everyone's attention away from the television.

"I think everyone heard you," Jackie, her seemingly shy friend said while nudging her.

"I don't care. None of these cheap bastards bought my drinks" -- she got even louder -- "and they never do, so I don't have to act like a lady for anyone in here."

"Yeah, but you never know who's listening," Jackie said, "and hearing you say something like that about sex could plant a bad seed in one of their sick minds."

"So what? I haven't had any in a while," Kayla said and pointed at a man across the bar. "If I planted a seed in your mind, let me know, 'cause you can have it, baby." Everyone around the bar laughed.

I don't know if it was what I was drinking or the fact that I too was longing for sex, but I found myself pondering her statement about rape. I secretly agreed with her. I couldn't see someone having to force me to have sex. I love it. Unless it was the neighborhood crackhead. What puzzles me is how she made the connection between the news story and sex. She was a bona fide freak. We were all gathered at the bar with our eyes glued to the forty-two-inch plasma television watching a tragic story unfold in our backyards -- literally. Some new faces were at the bar because they couldn't get to their houses. The Miami-Dade police had all streets within a ten-mile radius of the crime shut down as they vigorously searched for the maniac who shot and killed two police officers at a routine traffic check. Florida's turnpike was shut down, and police were randomly searching cars entering or leaving the Cutler Bay area. It was a hot mess on a Friday night.

Regularly scheduled television programming had been preempted all day. People were told to stay indoors, and those who lived in the area where the crime occurred were told to stay with friends or family until the situation was completely under control. It was crazy. I left work at five, took the train and a bus to get to my car only to be stuck in traffic for two hours because of some asshole with a death wish. He had to be suicidal, because as soon as they showed his picture on the news, a black man, everybody knew that the police would make Swiss cheese out of him the first chance they got.

"I wonder if they would've done all of this if he shot just the average person," Kayla asked her friend. "Those bastards would be at Dunkin' Donuts." A few of us laughed at that thought. Her ranting was nothing new; she came in all the time. We all gathered at this local watering hole several times a week like Christians meeting for Bible study. She always drank screwdrivers and she was always at the bar on Fridays at six thirty-five. I know because I get there at six fifteen.

I don't know how Sammie's became the hot spot for drinkers. It could be that drinks were always two-for-one, and the characters who walked through the door couldn't be found anywhere else, not even on soap operas. Tonight, a dude we all call Dirty Harry, because he is a white guy who always wears a cowboy hat, was there. I can always count on Harry to be there. It's sad but refreshing to see a familiar face. I also like seeing Anthony, a good-looking brotha who is a manager at some local office. He was better looking before he started having sex with half the women who hung out at the bar. Now he got one of them pregnant. Crystal, the sloppy drunk, has given all the male bartenders head. She always made sure to do a good job, so she expected more than just the two-for-one deal, but she was always too drunk to notice that she was still paying full price.

As we all know, the spirit of alcohol temporarily delays good judgment, so people around the bar go home together all the time, and then, "lo and behold," things are never the same again. You'll see Jamal and Tamika chatting it up week after week, then all of a sudden she'd rather stand up if the only seat at the bar is next to him. That's the result of the two-for-one special and a lonely Friday night.

I have also gotten caught up. The men of Omega Psi Phi used to stop by after some of their frat meetings on the first Saturday of every month. At times, it would be only four or five of them and other times it would rain purple and gold everywhere. The eye candy was sweet, and they would behave like dawgs, barking and hopping.

However, there was one guy in particular who caught my eye. I had nicknamed him Mr. Suave. He was very charming and I would have to change my underwear every time I saw him walk through my door. It was orgasmic. His essence just reeked sex. His dark brown chocolate eyes would stare at me from across the bar and would tell me just what he wanted. I hoped to God that he knew he could have it.

One glorious night seven months ago, it all came to fruition when I left my cell phone on the bar and went to the restroom. I returned to my phone and noticed a text message: "What color panties are you wearing?" It was from a number I didn't recognize.

"You have the wrong person," I replied.

Another text came in: "I beg to differ, Ms. Low-Cut Pink Shirt."

I glanced around the restaurant and bar in search of someone who knew me. "Who is this?" I asked.

"Answer my question and I'll answer yours."

I already had four tequila sunrises and probably needed to take my butt home, but oh, no. I wrote back, "Black...lace...thong."

"You look delicious."

"LOL! C'mon, for real, who is this?" I asked playfully.

"One of the bartenders said that you call me Mr. Suave." Before I could pick my mouth up off the floor, another message came in: "Allow me to introduce myself. My name is Darryl."

I couldn't believe that we were talking...texting...or whatevering. "Hi, I'm Audra."

"Nice name, but I'd rather continue calling you what I've called you in my mind for weeks."

I couldn't even look up at him. I just stared at my phone. "What's that?" I typed.

"Sexy as hell," he wrote to me again. "May I call you that?"

"Sure." I blushed and finally glanced over at him. He wasstaring at me.

"May I join you?" he asked.

I could already feel my lower lips throbbing. "Yes, you may," I typed, fighting to be polite.

Darryl was six one or two, athletic build, dark chocolate, with striking and unique features and perfectly aligned pearly white teeth. He was handsome, smooth, and sexy. He was wearing khaki slacks, a beige shirt, and a speckled brown tie. I wondered how long I could wait before that tie was dangling in my face as he sweated on top of me.

He came over and sat next to me. We talked, and I blushed as the right corner of his upper lip curled when he smiled. I had a feeling we'd be lying naked somewhere together before midnight. Now, I don't make a habit of sleeping with strangers. But this guy had captivated my mind for weeks without ever speaking a single word to me, so I had to be honest with my body.

I didn't resist him that evening or any other evening since then. Darryl takes full control during sex. He doesn't "let" me do anything; he tells me what he wants me to do and I do it. I have these naughty fantasies of being forced, so he is perfect. He spanks me and likes me to call him Daddy. I love it! He roughs me up and puts it down hard-core like he is overdosing on Viagra pills.

Whenever we were done drinking, talking, and flirting, we were naked. As we spent time together outside of each other's bedrooms, he recognized a good woman in me. Darryl was 75 percent what I was looking for in a man. He was goodlooking, independent, employed, and educated, and we were sexually compatible. Problem? That other 25 percent. He had a girlfriend, a fear of commitment, was as selfish as a three-year-old with no siblings, and could express his feelings only when he was drunk. We've been together seven months now, and for the last five months he's been making up excuses for why he can't leave his girlfriend yet encouraging me to hold on. "It'll be just me and you soon enough. I'm working on it. Just let me do what I have to do, but don't leave me," he kept saying. The minute I found myself believing him I knew that I was playing myself.

It was now after eleven and the bar was crowded. Everybody seemed to be there except Darryl, who had promised he'd meet me for drinks. It seemed the more often we saw each other in private, the less I saw him at Sammie's, which told me that he was probably "relating" with some other chick who is normally in there. I sent him several messages throughout the night asking him to come over, until he finally wrote back to say he wasn't on his way and didn't know what time he would be. I text-messaged him back, "Fuck you."

"Here you go, Henry." I handed over my bill and forty dollars. "Keep the change." I headed out the door. The night air was awesome, but that's every night in Florida. I was feeling all the drinks I had and desperately wanted to be cooped up under a man tonight -- my man, or at least the one I was sharing. Damn, I was angry. My vibrator would hit the spot, but not like him.

I couldn't cry to my best friend, Casey. She'd say, "As I've said a million times, fuck Darryl. Call somebody else. I don't know why you waste your time with his ass anyway, he doesn't even like black women. He's not gonna leave that Spanish chick for you. Can't you see that?"

She's right, but I would never tell her that. I was faithful to Darryl because I hoped that someday he'd choose me. I ignored the fool he was making out of me every day. I went into our relationship knowing about his girlfriend. I thought I could handle it since our relationship was purely sexual. But now that I've turned the page and fallen for him, I get physically ill when I know that they're together. However, all it takes is for him to tell me he loves me. Then my heart is tranquilized and I'm willing to wait another day.

On my drive home, Casey called. "Wow, you answered! Let me guess, Darryl is nowhere to be found?"

Of course, I w...

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