Irish Coffee

by Jeanie Johnson

  www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

  Copyright ©2012 by Jeanie Johnson and Jayha Leigh

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or shared in any form, including but not limited to: printing, photocopying, faxing, recording, electronic transmission, or by any information storage or retrieval system without prior written permission from the authors or holders of the copyright.

  This book is a work of fiction. References may be made to locations and historical events; however, names, characters, places and incidents are the products of the authors’ imaginations and/or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), businesses, events or locales is either used fictitiously or coincidental. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.

  Published by

  Beautiful Trouble Publishing, LLC

  PO Box 61

  Colfax, NC 27235

  www.beautifultroublepublishing.com

  Cover Art: Marteeka Karland, http://www.marteekakarland.com/

  Editor: Legacy Editing

  Proofreader: Novellette Whyte

  http://authorgurunovellette.blogspot.com/

  Formatting: Jim & Zetta, http://www.jimandzetta.com/

  E-book conversions: Jim & Zetta http://www.jimandzetta.com/

  ISBN: (ebook) 978-1-61788-229-6

  To the podiatrist and the fry cook and to your feet only fight since y’all use your hands to do great things.

  Note about eBooks

  eBooks are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving away eBooks is a copyright infringement. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author or Beautiful Trouble Publishing.

  CAVEAT

  This work of erotica contains adult language and sexually explicit scenes, which are smoking hot. This book is intended only for adults, as it is defined by the laws of the country in which the purchase is made. Keep this book out of the hands of under-aged readers.

  FOREPLAY

  Grand entry of the Buckland-Serranías Estate Atlanta, Georgia

  Alchemy Coffee, Godiva Seville and Nittany Creed mouthed the same word at the same time: “Fuck.”

  Their curse was vulgar, considering that they stood in a room that was more like a cathedral than a personal home, yet apropos considering the couple who owned the home and what they were doing. Their homie, Revolution, defied fucking words, reason, and from the hot as hell dry humping going on, any semblance of give a damn whatsoever.

  A woman who made her money making off with high end toys the ultra-rich didn’t, wouldn’t or couldn’t pay for, Revolution had always been a piece of work. When they said ‘piece of work’ they meant it. It’d taken Revolution three different colleges to earn her undergrad, not because of poor grades but due to poor judgment. Revolution’s first recovery had been the luxury vehicle of the Chancellor’s wife, which she’d lifted on her way to Freshman English. Her second recovery had been the team bus of her second university, which she’d lifted during a bowl game. The only reason she’d gotten into her third college (besides her 3.8 GPA) was the fact that they were bitter rivals with her second college and had been the team playing them the day their bus was “ganked.”

  To this day, only a handful of people knew where she’d attended undergrad, they simply knew that she’d graduated from an Ivy League university in the north. The chick actually listed it like that on her resumé. All of them had desperately wanted to know and could easily find out but they collectively decided that would be like taking off a superhero’s mask and you just didn’t do that sort of thing.

  Revolution’s husband was a mountain of hot Spaniard man. Those in the jet set crowd and in the business world referred to him as Don Andoni Serranías. To them however, he was M.O.C.H.A.—Most Orgasmic Captivating Hotness Around. The motherfucker was just fine, and thus they ogled him every fucking chance they got. He was a right proper wealthy, cultured Spanish man and then he’d gone and fallen for Revolution and the only proper thing left about him was the way he looked in a suit.

  Revolution might have recently married into billions but the money obviously hadn’t changed their friend one damn bit. Good, they had plans for her because if anyone could do a hot extraction and pull it off with panache, it was her. They knew because not only had the chick recovered a F1 race car, the private yacht of a cartel member and the prized camel of a warlord, yeah they could pretty much stop at ‘camel.’ Considering the sheer magnitude of the shenanigans their homies got into, a hot extraction was something that could be on the menu at any time.

  “That’s a damn shame what Revolution’s done to that man,” Alchemy said.

  “No, what’s a damn shame is that she’s the one getting to do it to him,” Nittany bemoaned.

  “Well, all I can say is that the rumor that M.O.C.H.A. cornered the market on absolute motherfucking hotness ain’t nothing but the truth,” Godiva said.

  “The whole truth,” Nittany said.

  “And nothing but the truth,” Alchemy finished.

  Shaking their heads at the erotic display, they took a moment to marvel at the fact that a forty-thousand dollar crystal chandelier lit the scene. And what a scene it was. Their toes were inches away from a fifty thousand dollar hand-knotted oriental rug. They faced stained-glass windows that rose above a double cherry wood staircase. The walls were decorated with art that was priced in the millions. Even with the riches surrounding them, none of them could keep their eyes off of the couple leaning against the fine wood.

  “Revolution, could you stop being a greedy show off and please pass M.O.C.H.A. or at least go find a room in your twelve bedroom mansion?” Alchemy snapped.

  “No,” Revolution finally said as she dragged her mouth off of her husband.

  “He’s mine…all mine. Besides, you’re not supposed to be here for another twenty or thirty minutes,” Revolution said as she grinded herself on her husband, eliciting a moan from the besotted man.

  “You said lunch was at two and the big hand is on the twelve and the little hand is on the two, chick,” Alchemy huffed as she tried in vain not to be turned on by the sight of her friend riding the Spaniard like a coaster at Cedar Point. M.O.C.H.A. was a sensual man, Revolution was a sensual woman, and the two of them together was a pregnancy just waiting to happen, which explained why the couple had only been married four months and Revolution was fifteen and a half weeks pregnant.

  “Yeah, but I expected you here on C.P.T., which means I had another twenty minutes on the short side, forty on the long side, of having my way with M.O.C.H.A.,” Revolution said.

  “Contrary to popular belief, Colored People’s Time is the same time as Regular People’s Time,” Godiva said.

  “In parallel universe world, maybe,” Alchemy threw in.

  “That’s wrong on so many levels but funny as hell,” Nittany laughed beside them, obviously not the least bit perturbed about the stereotype.

  Alchemy blamed Nittany’s lack of concern on the general weirdness that went along with having the surname Creed. Everybody in that damn family was crazy as hell…and that was being generous. Having a MFA in Production Design, Alchemy had mastered the art of visual communication, but she didn’t have the skills to come up with words to describe the chaos, mayhem and whatnot that described the Creed clan.

  Revolution’s put out voice, filtered through the cavernous room. “No, Nittany, the truth isn’t wrong as hell. What’s wrong is y’all interrupting me from my afternoon of debauchery,” Revolution said as she attempted to peel herself off of M.O.C.H.A.

  The Spani
ard wasn’t having that. “No,” M.O.C.H.A. said as he dragged Revolution’s ample curves closer to him and backed her against the wall earning thunderous applause and catcalls from them.

  None of them were cheering for Revolution to get it and get it good because despite being one of their best friend’s, Revolution didn’t deserve that. Nope, they were cheering at the view. No matter what was going on, getting to eyeball six foot eight inches, two hundred seventy-five pounds of half-naked muscled deliciousness was a treat any day of the week. The front view of M.O.C.H.A. was to die for, but then so was the rear view as M.O.C.H.A. had an ass that should’ve been on display at Seville’s Museo del Prado and then loaned to all the rest of the museums in the world. And his ass was looking particularly good in stone-washed jeans that apparently weren’t fastened to the top. Yay for them.

  “Well, now we know that M.O.C.H.A. likes to go commando,” Godiva quipped as she walked around the spectacle. “I’m going to find the chef and have lunch, since we were promised a meal that’d make our toes curl.”

  “I’d rather have a man that would make my toes curl,” Nittany said. “Since you’re being selfish with M.O.C.H.A., I can take one for the team and settle for one of M.O.C.H.A.’s hot ass cousins.”

  “Hell, I’d settle for M.O.C.H.A.’s clone,” Alchemy said, “because that ass combined with that intellect and that accent…hmm, hmm, hmm.”

  “Food,” Godiva called over her shoulder. “Now. Before people start going missing.”

  “Food eaten off of one of the Serranías men?” Nittany asked hopefully as she walked after Godiva.

  “Now that’s not a bad idea,” Alchemy said. “It’s nice to know that your parents didn’t waste their money sending you to that fancy northern graduate school.”

  “Every penny my parents spent was money well-spent. However, your parents might’ve wasted their money sending you to your mediocre southern school,” Nittany said as she hip-checked Alchemy with her substantial hips.

  “It only became mediocre once they let your sub 4.0 GPA ass in,” Alchemy said as she mushed her fellow alum.

  Ignoring the smack-down which was brewing and the hot ass man a half of a room away, Godiva piped in. “What’s not a bad idea is some ribs, macaroni and cheese, and sweet potato pie.”

  “Godiva, if you can look at an ass like M.O.C.H.A.’s and shrug it off, you obviously bat for the other team, not that I’m judging. But since it’s clear that you prefer women, I want to know why you haven’t hit on me? I’m hot,” Alchemy said as she smoothed her hands over her jean-clad hips and did a little shimmy as they entered the kitchen. Since she’d already done a shimmy, Alchemy simply had to drop it like it was hot, back it up and smack it down. Caught up in her little dance, she wasn’t aware that a man was taking up space in the kitchen—a lot of space—until his voice slid through the room…and straight through her body.

  “Indeed, you are hot,” a voice that sounded like raw sex cosigned.

  Turning, Alchemy got an eye full of the man who was going to have her babies. Six foot five, a hair under three hundred pounds, the future Mr. Alchemy Coffee had steel-grey eyes that fucked her from across the room, lips that should be permanently pressed to her skin, and a swagger that dared anyone to try him. Lucky, she wasn’t anyone, and thus she tried him.

  “You better not have a significant other,” she said, “because it’s going to be a damn shame when she finds herself with an ass-whipping and all of her shit in the street.”

  “So you’d fight for me?” he drawled in a voice that reminded her of Gambit from X-Men.

  “And win,” she sassed.

  “I do admire a woman with fire,” he said as he extended his hand. “Côme Acadian.”

  “Alchemy Coffee,” she said as she took it and silently tested out her first name with Côme’s last name. Alchemy C. Acadian sounded good to her, but then again so did Côme Acadian Coffee. Something told her however, that Côme Acadian wasn’t the type of man to be anybody’s bitch…not even hers. Shame, because she made such a good domme, or at least she looked damn good in black leather and stiletto boots. Though Côme was smiling, everything about the man screamed alpha. While she considered herself to be a badass bitch, everything feminine in her wanted to know what it was like to be dommed by him. They’d get to the scenario that involved both of them naked, after she found out a bit more about him.

  “Tell me, Mr. Acadian, what does a man do that allows him to get free reign around the Buckland Estate.”

  “Buckland Estate? I was under the impression that it was the Serranías Estate.”

  “Ah, you’re so cute thinking this is M.O.C.H.A.’s house. Everything he has now belongs to Revolution.”

  “Considering how smitten Andoni is with his bride, an estate is such a small thing to fret about. Now as to what I do to be allowed to be here without Andoni killing me, besides being awesome.”

  “And conceited,” she threw in.

  “In addition to being a friend of Andoni’s, I’m a consultant to Serranías Holdings.”

  “Consultant. I didn’t peg you for the suit and tie type,” Alchemy said.

  “But I look so good in a suit.”

  “Better out of it, I bet.” Whatever else might’ve been said was interrupted by Revolution’s cry of pleasure. “Yes, sí, sí, sí!” she shouted from the other room.

  “Bitch,” she, Nittany and Godiva yelled simultaneously.

  “Jealous?” Côme asked with a hint of amusement lighting his eyes.

  “Hell yeah. Unless you give me a reason not to be.”

  Côme pulled her close and whispered in her ear. “Cher, I can give you several reasons a day to not be jealous. Of course, I’d need to be out of my suit because as you said, I do look much better out of clothes than in them. And from what I’m feeling in my arms, so do you.”

  And just like that, Alchemy came…and came hard. She was just waxing poetic before about making him hers, but that one word—cher— said in that sexy accent sealed Côme’s fate. From that moment on, Côme Acadian was known as I.R.I.S.H.—Infuckingcredible Ravishable Irrefutable Shonuff Hotness…and he was going to be hers.

  Côme Acadian scared the shit out of most men, even when he was wearing a suit and tie and carrying nothing more lethal than a leather portfolio. Of course, considering his Special Forces background, he could fuck someone up with a lot less. No longer on the prowl for insurgents, the deadliest weapon on his person was his mind. Of course, even when loaded down with all manner of lethal gadgets, his mind had always been his best weapon. Always sharp, the Navy had helped hone that in his rigorous undergraduate and graduate studies, which resulted in a BS in Quantitative Economics from the Naval Academy and an MBA from the Naval Postgraduate school.

  After lending the Navy his physical skills for eight good years, he took a job that tapped into his intellectual skills. Regardless of if he was wearing fatigues and dog tags or dress pants and an ID card, he was at heart, a problem solver. Only now, the problems he solved had less to do with death and more to do with money.

  His experience had helped land him jobs at the leading management and technology consulting firms in the country. His success there, along with his desire to be his own boss, had prompted him to start his own firm. He was fantastic at analyzing various problems and predicting rates, but he was mint when it came to optimizing profits. Word got around and soon after, Andoni, CFO of Serranías Holdings who had a stronghold in wine, olive oil, citrus, and luxury shipbuilding, had come to New Orleans requesting his expertise.

  While his skills had been the catalyst for Andoni to come knocking and Andoni’s money had been the catalyst for Côme to answer the door, it was Andoni’s wife who’d been the catalyst for him sealing the deal. A woman with an abundance of curves and a keen wit, she’d actually recovered the personal jet of a warlord, foiling his getaway. That chick had moxie and Côme couldn’t help but want to do business with a man smart enough to marry that woman. Of course, that was before Côme r
ealized she was the cause of all of Andoni’s grey hairs. All two of them.

  He’d agreed to work for Andoni as a consultant but no more. Andoni had done his best to cajole him into making the Atlanta area his permanent home, but Côme was a Cajun, the bayou was his home and he’d been away from it long enough. As a concession, he did make a monthly trip to Atlanta where Andoni put him up in grand style and fed him like a king.

  If he’d been a lesser man, Côme would’ve caved to the Spaniard’s pleas, especially after Andoni had flown in one of New Orleans’s most celebrated chefs to prepare dinner for him.

  “What can I do to change your mind, Côme?” Andoni had asked as he’d poured him yet another shot of one hundred forty year old unblended cognac. At thirteen grand a bottle, that was some expensive courting. Not even the hints of chocolate, coffee and big oak in the expensive spirit could convince Côme to accept Andoni’s offer.

  “Nothing can pull me from New Orleans for long, Andoni,” he’d said with all of the conviction in the world. And he’d meant it with everything in him…until thirty seconds ago when he’d laid eyes on the woman with the abundant sass, delicious curves, and enticing moves. She was a siren, and he’d follow her wherever she led…even if it was out of Louisiana.

  Come hell or high water, Côme was going to have her. That wasn’t the boast of an arrogant man but the promise of an earnest man.

  Côme had done all manner of things in his thirty-six years, but one thing he hadn’t made a practice of was lying. He never made idle threats or promises he didn’t intend to keep. When he made a threat, it was carried out. When he made a promise, it was kept despite the personal inconvenience to him. A man who’d made plenty of threats, he’d made few promises. Only a handful came to mind, and two of those were made to his twin, Aristide, or “Aris” who was twenty-three seconds older.

  The first involved promising Aris that he’d parlay their minimal savings into a mini fortune. He’d delivered on that. Of course, having an affinity for numbers and a healthy dislike of losing money, made that promise easy to keep. His promise to help deliver Aris’s woman Sarita safely to his twin when she ran off after what his brother called ‘the best night of his life’ had proven to be much harder. The private security expert was wily, disagreeable, and a perfect match for Aris.