by Brenna Zinn
Mi Toro
by
Brenna Zinn
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Mi Toro [Destination Pleasure Series]
COPYRIGHT Ó 2008 by Brenna Zinn
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Contact Information: [email protected]
Cover Art by Angela Anderson
The Wild Rose Press
PO Box 708
Adams Basin, NY 14410-0706
Visit us at www.thewilderroses.com
Publishing History
First Scarlet Rose Edition, 2008
Published in the United States of America
Dedication
To my favorite lover. He knows who he is.
Mi Toro
“Just put them…” I glanced around my hotel room. Though spacious for an older hotel in the heart of Seville, every available surface in my accommodations were covered with bundles and bouquets of fresh, long-stemmed red roses. Their dark crimson hue popped against the contrasting bright white of the stucco walls and marble floors. The only area the flowers hadn’t taken over was where I had set up my portable studio. The lights and taupe backdrop couldn’t be compromised if I still planned on using them for my photo shoot.
My Men of the World Revealed photo book would be complete after today’s session, and none too soon. My editor would cover me in oil and set me ablaze on the streets of Dallas if I didn’t get my photos from the European section in soon.
I sighed, breathing in the thick floral atmosphere. The damned place was starting to smell like a funeral parlor.
The middle-aged maid waited patiently near the door, another enormous bouquet of red roses in her arms. The arrangement was so ridiculously huge, only the petite woman’s large, doe-like eyes and shiny black hair were visible over the tight buds and greenery.
I ground my teeth at my rising agitation. The flowers crowding my room were so like the men who had sent them - beautiful and charming, but all the same. And quite frankly, boring. Where was the creativity? Where was the mystery? Where was the challenge?
“You keep them, Senora.” I reached for my purse and pulled out fifty Euros, then carefully tucked the money in the pocket of her uniform. “If any more flowers arrive for me, please find some deserving woman to give them to. Comprende?”
The dark head behind the bouquet bobbed. “Si, Senorita. Gracias.”
When the maid retreated to the hallway, the silence of my room was broken by the noise of distant clapping, stomping, and the echo of plucked guitar strings. The sounds were undoubtedly coming from unseen casedas, party tents, out on Seville’s nearby fair grounds. The music, clipped and uncompromising, combined with flamenco dancing could only mean the feria, the April festival, was already well underway. If the loud level of the partying was any indication, the throng of people attending were having a bang-up time, and it wasn’t even dark yet.
Impatience grew alongside my irritation, and my back stiffened. I tapped the pointed toe of my boot on the floor and glanced at my watch, though already knowing what I’d see. My Spanish model, the matador, was late, and not just a little. Philippe Cordova probably forgot about our meeting and was among the revelers at the fair.
I stepped away from the flower filled room and passed through ancient-looking double doors to the patio, which was little more than an iron-railed ledge covered with potted red geraniums. A gentle wind tugged at the open top of my untucked blouse, cooling off my warm skin and my heated temper. As I peered over the rail, I realized searching for my model among the crowd below would be fruitless. Having never seen the man before, I had no idea what to look for. Thanks to my manager who had set up this meeting, the only information I had on the guy was his name and that he was a popular local bull fighter.
My hands balled into fists. How could I have let this photo shoot slip so far from my control?
I sucked in a deep, cleansing breath. Unfortunately, the extra oxygen in my body couldn’t change the facts. From the looks of things, I had no model, and finding another man to pose nude for my photo book before I flew back to Dallas would be impossible.
I scanned the neighborhood. The surrounding buildings, as old as Christopher Columbus, were painted a crisp, bright white. On the narrow streets below, small cars and mopeds zipped along, taking little notice of the stop sign at the intersection. Small orange trees loaded with fruit dotted the sidewalks. People sat and talked at outdoor cafes or worked their ways through the bustling crowd to small shops.
I ran a hand through my long hair and groaned. Any of the men down there could be Philippe Cordova.
“Senorita Walters?”
I whirled in time to see a man with loose, shoulder-length black hair stick his tanned head around my hotel door. The serious set of his broad jaw and his intense, almost angry, dark eyes stopped me cold but intrigued the hell out of me. “Senor Cordova?”
The man stepped into my room, his appraising gaze never leaving mine. “Si. I am Cordova.”
A strong, immediate attraction sent adrenaline pouring into my blood, making my heart race and my stomach tighten. His black pants fit his muscular form so well, every bulge, from the taut cording of his legs to where his cock rested along his inner thigh, was well-defined. Even his short bolero jacket and white cotton shirt did little to mask his body’s perfection.
If this man wasn’t my model, I was in trouble. His exotic, almost dangerous look and disposition was the most titillating sight I’d seen in months. No way I could let him get away without capturing every inch of his naked flesh with my camera.
My spirits brightened. I smiled, hoping to coax a less than threatening look from him. “I’m so glad you’re finally here. I was beginning to think you were going to blow me off.”
His face remained stern, aloof, but something flickered in his eyes. Was it humor?
Realization hit me hard. This man probably only spoke Spanish. If he did speak English, the term blow me off probably didn’t translate well. Unfortunately and despite the fact I lived deep in the heart of Texas, my Spanish began and ended with my ability to order a beer. I thumped my forehead with the palm of my hand. “I’m sorry. Do you speak English?”
Cordova’s back straightened, adding to his already regal demeanor. “Si, of course. My English is nearly perfect.”
“So it is.”
His English might be perfect, but his Spanish accent was thick enough to spread on bread. The foreign sound of each word from his mouth was sensual, erotic. So unlike the humdrum men who had sent me the room full of bouquets.
I sucked in my bottom lip and allowed my teeth to scrape the sensitive skin as I slowly released it, wishing in vain I could pick up some tasty essence from him. He simply looked good enough to eat. Every inch of his physique was a gourmet dish on an incredibly appetizing buffet, making me hungry with desire. No doubt about it, this brooding, handsome man and his delectable pronunciations were worth my wait.
Cordova took several steps into my hotel room, and then pulled a rose from an arrangement near the bed. “Has someone passed on?”
I almost laughed out loud. He hit my own sentiments about the flowers right on the nose. “No. Just some admirers.”
He glanced in my direction and nodded. “You are muy bonita, senorita. Such beauty as yours is rare.”
The muscles in my already tightened stomach now constricted without mercy
. I forced in a breath of air and nodded toward the backdrop. “Are you ready to begin?”
I certainly was. I could barely wait. Within the course of the next two hours, Cordova would not only pose in his native matador costume, he would also be laid out in nothing more than a smile, contorting any way I pleased, just so I could capture the right angles for my pictures.
He had to.
I was the photographer, and he was my paid subject.
A wicked thrill coursed through me, tightening my nipples into hard pebbles. I controlled his movements. I was able to touch any part of his body to help him get into position. All these things and more were possible for no other reason than I could. I gave the orders, and I had the last word. Period.
Lord, I loved my job.
He lifted a cardboard box tied with twine. “My matador clothing.” A single eyebrow raised in challenge. “Shall I change here?”
“Yes. This is fine. Though...” I placed my finger in my mouth and bit the tip while making my own appraisal of him. For just a moment, I thought I saw his dick twitch, sending a rush of hot cream to my wanting pussy. I raised my gaze to catch his, then allowed the corners of my mouth to pull up just a little. “I think we might be better off if we do your nude pictures first. No sense wasting time...” I deliberately hesitated as I walked to where he stood, “having you take off these clothes and putting on others.”
Taking the lapel on his jacket between my index finger and thumb, I caressed the fabric. The material, made warm by the heat he radiated, was soft against my skin.
Cordova dropped the box, then brushed the backside of his hand against my cheek. “I hope your manager told you of my conditions.”
His hand continued sliding further down my neck until it found my necklace. He hooked the pad of a finger around the chain and skimmed along its flexible boundary to the lone star charm. He rubbed the little piece of metal, then placed it back on my neck.
The warmed medallion spread shivers of excitement down my chest to my very core. “Conditions?” The word mixed with my exhale. The sound was barely audible, even to my own ears.
“Si.” He tugged at the top button of my blouse. “I refuse to pose without my clothes unless you are nude as well.”
The small ivory fastener easily gave way, and he lowered his wandering hand until it rested on the next button, grazing the curves of my unbound breasts. My tits were suddenly heavy. I shifted, trying create space between us and rein in my body’s wayward reaction, but the pleasant rubbing my pussy received from the crotch of my snug jeans only made me ache with need.
I had photographed many attractive nude men for my book, and though often tempted, had never once given into my carnal cravings. Unfortunately, Senor Cordova not only tested my professional resolve, he had me prepared to drop kick that resolve right out the window. But having a model give me orders was not how I conducted business, no matter how fuckalishous he might be.
“I’m afraid that’s not in the cards, cowboy.” I placed my hand over his, capturing the digits and taking back control. With immeasurable slowness, for my benefit as much as his, I swept his palm over my hardened peaks as I pushed him away. “I don’t play by anyone’s rules but my own. Your conditions mean nothing to me.”
The heavy rise and fall of his chest and the slight swell of his cock behind tight black pants were the only indications that my bold move had any influence on him. He remained unfazed, standing tall and straight, his arms resting at his sides. Relaxed, yet confident.
“Then I wish you a pleasant evening, senorita.” He nodded, picked up his box, and turned toward the door.
A swift intake of air caught in my throat. “Wait!” I ran ahead, barring him from moving further. “You can’t just leave. You’re under contract to me.”
A triumphant grin spread across his face. “Sue me. Is that not what you Americans do when you do not get your way?” Cordova leaned forward, ran a hand up the inside of my thigh to the damp cleft between my legs and stroked my pussy through my jeans. “Hmm. So hot and wet.”
A low groan escaped my throat. I leaned into his touch and shamelessly rubbed against the solid contact. My drenched pussy throbbed for more than just the tease of his fondling. “That feels so good.”
He abruptly stopped, and my body screamed in protest.
Cordova sighed. “Pity we cannot do business. I would have very much enjoyed working with you.” He veered to the right and took several steps around me.
“But…” My mind froze. No model had ever disobeyed me before.
I couldn’t let Cordova leave. Too much was invested in this trip to let things fall apart now. Plus, I had to have him. My decision was made. He couldn’t possibly walk through that door before I had a chance to sample the tempting cock hiding in his close-fitting slacks.
I grabbed his arm. “I give. I’ll take off my clothes. If that’s what it takes to get you to pose for me, I’ll do it.” Though the words slipped freely from my mouth and I truly had no trouble with anyone seeing me nude, the defeat was not easy to accept. I was used to men who complied with almost anything I asked for and showered me with indulgences. Allowing anyone to control me or my actions was a bitter pill to swallow.
He lowered his chin and angled his head in such a way as to stare up at me under heavy, menacing brows. His eyes narrowed, their color no longer dark brown but an ominous black. The look was one of power, defiance and raw, sexual hunger. So reminiscent of a predator stalking its prey.
“What of your rules?” he questioned.
The deep tone of his voice coaxed yet provoked, almost daring me to back down. I may have lost the battle over my clothing, but I had no intention of losing any further control of this situation. My best defense was a stronger offense. To successfully deal with Cordova, I needed to be the aggressor.
I fingered each button of my blouse until, one by one, they came undone, and then shrugged the shirt from my shoulders, revealing each rounded breast. “Let me worry about my rules.” My top fell to the marble floor and puddled around my boots.
Many years experience getting in and out of tight western clothes aided my quick escape from my boots and jeans. Before Cordova could utter, “Bob’s your tio,” all my clothing, except for the barely-there red panties, lay crumpled in a heap near the bed.
A shudder rippled through me. Perhaps my muscles trembled because the cool air in my hotel room made contact with my heated skin. Perhaps my reaction was caused by the intense, feral look Cordova gave me as he grazed over my exposed flesh. Either way, my body, now liberated of restrictive clothing, tingled all over, almost as much as my mons quivered for the return of his sure touch.
I opened my mouth to make my demand that he take off his clothes as well, but he spoke first.
“Put your boots back on,” he commanded. His voice deep and seductive.
My eyebrows shot up. “My boots?”
Cordova pulled off his short jacket, tossing it carelessly to the floor. “Si.”
“Listen here, buddy. I’m not one for taking ord—”
“Put them back on, or I leave.” He ripped open his shirt, exposing golden, skin-covered muscle.
A dark patch of hair lightly covered his chest and made a b-line straight to the waistband of his pants. The infuriating man looked good enough to lick from his drawn up nipples to his swelling dick.
I clenched my jaw, suppressing the urge to bite him. Not only would the feel of his firm flesh between my teeth be satisfying, the nip would inflict a bit of the pain he caused by forcing me to obey his wishes...and making me want him.
Obviously, I needed to try harder. I had no doubt I would give into my surprisingly swift and powerful urge to fuck this tantalizing man, but first I had to shake his command of me and regain what little power I still had left to wield.
After slipping on the well-worn leather boots, I turned my back to him, and then caught the sides of my g-string with my thumbs. I slightly swayed my hips from side to side and shimmied the pantie
s down my thighs. Purposefully keeping my knees locked and my legs straight and spread, I bent at the waist and continued inching the little red undies down until my hands met the floor.
Before leaving this position, I reached up and ran two fingers from my ass to my soaked pussy, pausing when I found my swollen clit. I rubbed the aching nub with exaggerated strokes and lowered my straight back even further, making sure Cordova didn’t miss a single movement.
I couldn’t see the expression on his face, but I didn’t need to. His drawn out hiss was all I needed to know the effectiveness of my efforts. To complete my return to dominance, I lunged forward and placed my free hand flat on the cool floor, then threw back my head. The ends of my long hair whipped my lower shoulder blades, providing me a most delicious, sensual sting.
The self-induced gratification of my massaging fingers must have consumed my thoughts. Before I realized what was happening, Cordova had already removed his pants and moved behind me. He placed a hand on each side of my hips and laid the length of his thick cock at the cleft of my ass cheeks. Unable to stop, I pushed back and ground against his hard shaft. Cordova’s solid frame rocked with me, and his dick slipped further in my natural crevice, heightening my pleasure. He then pulled back, adjusted himself, and slid between the slick outer folds of my pussy. My entire body trembled.
Cordova bent over my form and situated his mouth near my ear. “What do you desire, mi belleza?” he whispered.
As if attempting to answer his own question, he reached around and placed his hand over mine, quieting my fingers from their titillating work. He gently pushed my hand aside and slid the tips of two fingers over and around my aroused clit.
“You do not answer my question. Is this all you want from me?” he asked, continuing his massage.
The stimulation nearly sent me over the edge of sanity. I couldn’t talk, I could barely think.
