BORN OF GREED
J. T. Baroni
Erotic Romance
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
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A Secret Cravings Publishing Book
Erotic Romance
Born of Greed
Copyright © 2013 J. T. Baroni
E-book ISBN: 978-1-61885-560-2
First E-book Publication: February 2013
Cover design by Dawné Dominique
Edited by Mary Clark
Proofread by Rene Flowers
All cover art and logo copyright © 2013 by Secret Cravings Publishing
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.
All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.
PUBLISHER
Secret Cravings Publishing
www.secretcravingspublishing.com
Dedication
To my wife, Rebecca. As always, she is my inspiration.
The author acknowledges the trademark status and the following trademark owners mentioned in this work of fiction.
Calgon
Old Spice
Mennens
Audi
Ferrari
Lamborghini
Porsche
Chevrolet
Maserati
Yashica
John Deere
Tanqueray
Old Milwaukee
Burger King
Ivory soap
Smith & Wesson
WD 40
IHOP
Propofol
Polaroid
St. Jude’s Hospital
Old Bay seasoning
Camel cigarettes
Kraft Macaroni and Cheese
ESPN
Ford
Five Brothers Tobacco
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Marla isn't looking for love or anything else from a man. Can Marla put aside her distrust of men for a younger man? Can Chris convince her he's not like other guys?
*Hunting Jaguar, paranormal erotic romance:
Rachel Hayes' father set out to prove the existence of the Miloni temple and the Jaguar people. Tumi is a descendant of the Miloni race and is sworn to protect their secret with his life. Will he be forced to uphold his vow at the cost of his heart and Rachel's life?
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BORN OF GREED
J. T. Baroni
Copyright © 2013
Part I
Chapter One
“Imaginary lovers, never turn you down.
It’s my private pleasure. Midnight fantasy.”
Atlanta Rhythm Section
“Eighteen…nineteen…twenty,” Jack Trotter grunted out the last of the repetitions, letting the three hundred and fifty pound barbell slam back into the weight bench’s support brackets.
Wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his hand, he sat up on the end of the bench in one graceful motion and proudly bragged to himself in a deep sigh, “Twenty reps, not too shabby, you old Jarhead.” A self-satisfying wry smile curled at the right corner of his mouth.
Trotter hit the sauna and enjoyed a relaxing twenty-minute session of steam-induced meditation, thus ending his early Thursday morning regiment. His workouts consisted of a two mile run on the treadmill, fifty each of pushups, mountain climbers, sit ups, squats, and of course, the twenty reps with dead weights, all of which contributed to the ex-marine’s massive, twenty-three inch biceps, and ripped torso. He’d been fitting this thirty-minute routine at least once or twice a week into his schedule, faithfully, ever since being dishonorably discharged from the Corps twenty-three years ago. Back when he was a young twenty-two year old kid from Iowa wanting nothing more than to “Fight for my country and learn a skill.”
Unfortunately, for him, though, it wasn’t his fault when Tony Scarpelli, a smart-assed, expert card-cheat from the Bronx, mistakenly pegged Trotter as a big and dumb corn fed farm boy. Scarpelli had tried to cheat him out of a full months pay; the New York City slicker regretted making that terribly wrong judgment call. When that Ace of Spades fell from Scarpelli’s sleeve, Trotter went ape shit ballistic. After he was done with that y
oung Private First Class, the medics said Scarpelli would be in the hospital for a week or two, eating his chow through a straw. Moreover, they also said it would be longer than that till he’d try to cheat anybody in Poker again, the young PFC also suffered three fractured ribs, a broken hand, and a busted jaw.
As for Lance Corporal Jack Trotter, all he said in his defense during his court martial was, “Come on, Colonel, you’d have lost your temper, too, if that sum bitch city boy tried cheating you out of a month’s pay. Christ! I had to scrub shitters for that lousy five hundred bucks.”
He stepped from the sauna, wrapped a towel around his thirty-four inch waist, and strutted to the sink where he generously lathered his face, and gave himself a nice close shave. Then he showered, spending a luxurious fifteen minutes with Old Spice scented body wash and an endless amount of hot water.
After snatching a second towel from the neatly folded pile, he dried off, wrapped that towel around himself and then stopped to scrutinize his physique in the full-length mirror as he passed by. “You know what, Trotter?” his reflection smugly asked, then quickly answered, “Yeah, I know. You can’t wait till tomorrow, because you get better looking every day. You humbled bastard.” He smiled. Trotter’s spirits seemed to be as particularly pumped as his muscles were on that Thursday morning.
He executed a quick three sixty, and with his hand in the shape of a pistol pointed at the mirror, he said, sneering, “Feeling lucky, Punk? Make my day.” Oh, yeah, Clint was definitely one of his idols.
Don’t forget Al Pacino. Another three sixty, but this time, two hands, and the make believe weapon was now an Uzi. “Say hello to my little ‘fwend’,” the six foot four, two hundred and sixty pound image in the mirror spouted off in a crappy Italian accent before shooting the imaginary bad guys.
His quick pirouette and emptying the clip of his make-believe machine gun caused his towel to slip off and fall to the floor. “How ironic.” Trotter chuckled, glancing at his huge manhood. “My little…friend!”
His gaze drifted back to the chiseled face in the mirror. “Who loves ya, Baby?” he asked, while slapping Old Spice aftershave on his cheeks.
He did have that Kirk Douglas cleft chin going for him; with his blond hair cut short, military style, and with those big deep blue eyes where a woman could easily drown. He definitely was one good-looking son of a bitch. The muscular ex-marine fit the description, to the fucking tee, of the man in the tired old cliché, “He’s the man every man dreamed to be; and the man every woman dreamed to be…with”.
Dressed in gray sweat pants and a bright red sweatshirt displaying the USMC’s Bulldog mascot in white, Trotter tossed the wet towels into the hamper, exited the complex’s small gym and strutted like a proud Marine as if the Commander in Chief had just pinned the Purple Heart to his chest. Old Spice lingered in his wake.
The two-minute walk back to his apartment took him past professionally manicured evergreen shrubs, new Beamers, shiny Jags, and expensive Mercedes Benzes.
He also had to pass by Judy Sloan’s apartment. Nearing fifty years of age, she kept her easy chair positioned just right, angled three feet behind sheer curtains, enabling her to watch for the studdly Marine when he left the gym. She saw the facility’s lights were on, and she knew his schedule by heart; soon, he’d be marching up the paver locked sidewalk.
Excitedly awaiting his arrival, she was busy readying herself for his secret knock at her door.
Her right hand worked a vibrator on her magic spot while her left hand massaged her sagging, plump breasts. She heard the gym door shut.
That’s him, seven o’clock sharp. He’s coming up the walk, just like clockwork. Good God, look at those muscles—and that bulge. I can’t wait to rip the clothes off that stud Marine!
The vibrator moved a little faster. Her hips swiveled involuntarily, as her left hand squeezed one breast, then the other. She hungered for his humongous package.
As he passed by her window, she leaned forward so she wouldn’t miss seeing his cute, little, rock hard buns. As she always did, she watched Trotter walk past her window, and the entire way to his own door. And open it.
Judy then closed her eyes and let the power of both her vivid imagination and two D-cell batteries, magically, mentally, transform his front door—into—her back door.
Her fantasy lover taps their covert knock ever so lightly. She opens the door and orders her private dancer, “Get your ass in here, Marine. I’ve been waiting for you.”
She then closes the door behind him and coos, “We only have time for a quickie, my Love. Dickhead Craig will be home in an hour.”
Trotter replies, “Any longer than that, and you’d probably kill me, you sex starved nympho.”
She’s wearing a see-through teddy. He eyes her sexy body up and down. She senses his tormented hunger for her. He can’t help but to utter, “God, you’re one beautiful bitch! I’m AWOL right now, but I don’t care. I couldn’t stay away. I’d face a firing squad to be with you.”
As though a model on the catwalk, she sashays to him. With the confidence of Mae West, “I knew you’d be back. You can’t resist my charms. Aching all over, aren’t you?”
He swiftly and easily pulls her to him with one arm and plants a long wet kiss on her mouth. Their tongues play hide and seek. Her knees weaken as she drops to the floor. She pulls his sweatpants off, then his speedos, while he rips off his Bulldog sweatshirt, exposing those gorgeous, rippling muscles. Still on her knees, she caresses him with her cheek.
Within seconds, she has her Marine standing at rock hard attention, ready for duty. She looks up into his big blue eyes. “I can’t wait any longer. I surrender!”
He picks her off the floor with his massive arms and sits her on the bed. She rolls on to her back, he follows. His mouth lingers on her voluptuous lips, then to her neck where he teasingly nibbles. Ever so lightly, he sprinkles kisses on her glistening breasts. His tongue weaves its way downward and circles her belly button. She clutches his head; his short hair feels like velvet in her hands as she pulls him tight to her. He buries his face in her downy mound. His tongue flutters lightly on her trigger, causing her hips to quiver. Her cute little ass raises off the satin sheets of her king size bed. “Oh…Ohh…Ohhh…” Wave after wave of intense pleasure race through her shuddering body. Each one more intense than the last, lighting a fire deep in her loins as she grinds her pelvis hard in his face.
“Now. I need to feel you deep inside of me, now. Give me that big schlong, Marine,” she orders, moaning out in a whisper.
“Yes, ma’am, you outrank me.” He gracefully slides his muscular body up and across her flat tummy as his lips search for hers. Hungrily, they kiss. Feverishly, she rakes her nails across his back as he slowly, teasingly engulfs her. She gasps while tenderly biting his lower lip. Her gasps turn to moans.
“Slam me. Hard!” she orders. “Now!”
He obeys, plunging his entire manhood into her wet pussy in one vicious thrust.
Her moans turn to quiet screams, drowning the hum of her vibrator, as he pounds away in long hard thrusts.
For the next hour, Corporal Trotter obeyed Judy’s every command; be it in the bedroom, on the kitchen table, in the shower, on the floor, or in Craig’s Lazy Boy recliner. Even in the pool. Anywhere and every way her little mind fantasized. Her Marine is a beast that never tires.
Her vibrator’s batteries were running low when she heard her husband’s car door slam. “Fuck! He’s early. Quick, my love. Out the door.”
He pulls her close for one more kiss. “Tomorrow?”
“Yes, my Love.” She sighs heavily, exhausted.
Judy heard her husband’s keys jingling at the front door. She jumped out of her easy chair, grabbed the soaking wet towel from under her huge, fat ass and ran down the hall to the bathroom. She threw the towel in the hamper, and ran to the bedroom. She tossed the dildo in her nightstand, and snuck under the blankets. Where’d an hour go?
Craig’s key turned the l
ock; he came in and headed straight for the refrigerator. “Oh, good, there’s salami.” The fool always talked to himself. Then she heard the distinct ‘ssshhhpop’ when he opened a can of cold Old Milwaukee beer. Twenty minutes later she heard the toilet flush, but no sounds of any hand washing.
Craig, short, fat, and balding, stood by the bed and dropped his trousers and tidy whities to the floor. He left his smelly, sweaty T-shirt on and crawled under the blankets. Then he put his face next to his wife’s ear, and whispered with his beer and salami breath, “Honey, are you awake?” She did not reply as he silently burped from the beer.
Then in a louder voice, he said, “Daddy’s home. Does my little Muffin need some sugar?”
“Huh? What? No, Dear. I’m too exhausted. I was up all night with a migraine, again. I need sleep,” she replied, wincing from the nauseating stench of his burp.
“Okay, Muffin, maybe later. Go back to sleep.” He patted her fat rump, turned his back to her, put his glasses on the nightstand, and belched long and loud before dozing off.
The later is usually much, much later. Craig’s lucky if it’s once every two months when Judy lets him have any of her ‘sugar’. She will only give in after tiring of his constant whining and begging. Then she orders the repulsive little fat man, “Here it is. Make it fast, and don’t you dare come in me.”
She tells him she likes it best from behind, just so she doesn’t have to smell his beer and salami breath. However, it’s not her short-peckered husband banging her. Oh no, it’s—her Marine, her Love, the rock solid soldier boy with the tight buns and massive schlong who obeys every command she barks out, never tiring.
Born of Greed Page 1
