Driven by Destiny

by Falls, K. C.

  Driven

  By

  Destiny

  (The Driven Series)

  By K.C. Falls

  This is part 1 of a five part erotic romance serial for mature (18+) readers only.

  Dreams. Limousines. Ugly drag queens.

  Trina Ferreti makes the mistake of marrying a cheat with peculiar taste in whores. Post divorce she throws herself into the limo business that is her father's legacy.

  An eerie coincidence convinces Reggie Lewis that Trina is worth a risk he hasn't taken in a long while. His hard service with the elite Black Stallion Brigade has left him with scars that have been too much for other women to bear. And not just the ones on his skin.

  It's easy for Trina to accept Reggie just as he is. It's much harder for Trina to accept herself.

  When she finally trusts herself again will it be too late?

  All rights reserved.

  Copyright © 2014

  kcfalls.com

  No part of this publication may be copied, reproduced in any format, by any means, electronic or otherwise, without prior consent from the copyright owner and publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, names, places and events are the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter One

  I approached him first. I couldn't let the opportunity pass me by. I’ve been told I’ve got brass balls so why not put them to good use? I had him pegged as an Italian for sure which wasn’t rocket science considering our neighborhood. He looked like he could be a member of my own family—maybe a better looking version of cousin Tony with less nose and more hair. I instantly wanted to play with the small dark waves on his head that, thank God, didn’t look like a ‘product’ ever touched them. Generations ago that meant some sort of grease, these days it’s all about gel. Same look, different ‘ick’ levels. Grab a handful of slime or crunchy—neither feeling belongs in hair in my opinion.

  Mediterranean eyes with the kind of eyelashes most chicks would die for grabbed me and sent a nice little current south that said ‘yowza!". His smile was an unusual combination of tentative and cocky and softened features that might be considered sharp. I like chiseled. Soft male faces make me feel way too maternal. I was on the prowl for a play date of strictly the grown up kind. When I rose to sit beside him in the waiting room our eyes started the mating dance before we said the first word.

  "I don’t know why they fuckin’ bother to make appointments. They don’t keep ‘em for shit—mine was supposed to be at ten." He ran a hand over the curls that instantly sprang back into place and flipped the bird toward the frosted glass of the reception window. It remained resolutely closed. I'd known the receptionist, Maggie, half my life. She wasn't the type to be intimidated by someone giving her the finger.

  So, the language was a little crude right out of the starting gate. Big deal, I wasn’t looking for a priest. "Mine was at ten-thirty, but I’d be just as happy if I never got in," I told him. "Complete dental phobe," I added by way of explanation.

  "You got a root canal or somethin’?" He grinned as if the thought of my getting tortured in the chair appealed to him. But the grin looked as if he was a regular customer for the good Dr. This-Might-Pinch-A-Little. Points for that, I hate it when a guy neglects the upkeep.

  "No, just cleaning. But all the same, I dread it. The sound. The smell. Everything."

  "Aw, poor wittle chicken heart. Cleaning’s nothing and it’s good for you." He bared those perfect teeth, inviting me to have a look. I bared mine right back. "Nice chops," he said.

  Smoky eyes raked over me without any attempt to pretend he wasn’t appraising every inch of me. I was suddenly very grateful I had decided against yoga pants. Well, technically that's not exactly true. My mom had suggested that maybe the comfies weren't appropriate garb for a dental appointment. Mom's always aware that you 'just never know' who you might run into. She's right on the money many more times than she's off. My jeans did a far better job on my curves.

  "Nice rest of you, too." This he delivered a good octave lower and huskier than his ‘regular’ voice. It was a bit corny, but effective at the same time. I felt some rumbling going on inside of me that was not at all related to the dentist visit. "So, are you afraid of other things? Spiders? Rats? Heights?"

  "Actually, I’m remarkably fearless other than this one thing. My brothers call me when there’s a spider."

  "That’s good to know. I hate bugs of all sorts. Especially the eight-legged kind. Your talents might come in handy. Matter of fact I’m pretty sure you’ve got other talents I’d appreciate." He sure was cute, but did he ever need a line coach.

  I could have bitten, could have been more ‘flirty’, but I opted to dodge the obvious. "I’m an excellent driver."

  "I usually like to do the driving."

  "I’m sure you do." Macho much?

  "I’d love to take you for a ride sometime."

  "That might be nice. I don’t get out of the city often."

  "That wasn’t the ride I had in mind."

  "I know."

  By the time we'd killed the half hour it took for the dental hygienist to usher him in, he had my phone number and I had the promise that he'd call soon. I spent the rest of my wait thinking about how much I hoped that he'd keep that promise.

  He was everything I'd grown up looking for in a man. We were members of the same tribe and that was a comfortable place to be. We spoke the same language and didn't have to spend a lot of time laying any historical ground work. When you grow up Italian—I mean real Italian-American undiluted for generations—your world is pretty narrowly defined. At twenty-two safe and familiar are attractive qualities in a guy. At least until you know better.

  He was easy on the eyes and Napolitano right down to his cashmere sweater with the little Italian flag on the chest. He was pretty tall for an Italian guy, too--probably five ten or eleven. There wasn't an ounce of fat on his trim body. Maybe he could have cut back a little on the weights at the gym, but I'd rather have muscle than nothing, if you know what I mean.

  The tech job he described sounded solid and promising. All the little boxes got checked in a very short time and the chemistry worked. I wasn’t looking for Einstein dressed up as Prince Charming. I wanted one of my own.

  He called as he said he would and we made a date to go out the following weekend. I was working in my father's limo service office not far from our brownstone in Cobble Hill. I still lived with my parents so Salvatore offered to pick me up there and we'd go to a little neighborhood place both of us agreed was one of the best. Everyone says Italian food is soooo easy to make. Not if you do it right, it isn’t.

  My best bud, Rose, had gotten a blow by blow of the meeting in the dentist's office and was thrilled for me when I told her we were going out.

  "I'm glad you gave me something good to think about," she told me. "I broke up with Matt last night."

  "No! I thought things were buzzing along for you two." I hated that Rose was single again. That would mean needy. And that would mean me. It wasn't that I didn't want to be there for her, but the period following any of her many break ups was usually pretty traumatic. "What happened?"

  "I found out Matt's an asshole."

  "How so?"

  "We went to a restaurant that I go to pretty often. He came downtown for a rare mid-week lunch with me. The guy who usually waits my table is a sweet guy, but really clumsy. He tipped a glass of wine and spilled it on me and Matt went ballistic."

  "He spilled it on you and Matt went
off?"

  "I honestly didn't know he could be such a royal turd. I mean he really ripped the guy a new one."

  "Being nasty to wait staff is a deal breaker, for sure." I'd never worked in a restaurant, but nearly all my friends had and I 'd heard some terrible stories. Even in the limo business we see our share of customers who think they own you. Not pretty. The way you treat 'little people' says a lot about you. It was a reminder that I'd be watching Sal carefully at the restaurant. There was an element of cocky in him that could be trouble in a good way or . . . not.

  I dressed carefully for our evening because I was already hot for the guy and wanted to make sure he felt the same way about me. At twenty-two, I was already actively looking to settle down. No, it's not the most modern way in the world to feel, but it's the way I was raised.

  The pressure from my parents was enormous. It isn't so much that they wanted to see their only girl leave the nest, they just had this traditional sense of 'timing' and the time was now. My mother made no secret of the fact that she wanted grandchildren before, as she put it, "she was too old to enjoy them". What can I say? It’s what I knew. It was expected. It’s what my people did.

  When Salvatore pulled up in a brand new Escalade and double-parked it in front of our stoop, Mama was peeking through the lace curtains for a long first look. She did that with all my dates. My dad reclined with the paper and a beer, looking nonchalant. But I knew. I knew that each guy who came into that living room was being sized up by all three of us as my potential groom.

  Sal didn't disappoint my parents. He was polite, respectful and most importantly he was 'one of us'. My father gave him the third degree about his people and I knew he passed with flying colors. Dad was basically cut from the same cloth as Sal's father. Sal's father owned a couple of delis. Small business owners have respect for what that kind of life takes, especially in New York where, as my Dad used to say, "You need a damned permit to take a shit."

  By the time we closed the door to the house, I knew Sal had passed the ‘first test’. There’d be others but if you couldn’t get past the first one, you didn’t get a second chance.

  We had to circle the block a few times before we found a spot behind the little trattoria to park the big car. I don't know why Sal chose to drive if he knew this part of Brooklyn. Other than the pain of my mile-high heels, it would have been easier to walk. We were lucky we didn't drive around for hours looking for a parking place. But part of me knew that Sal had plans for that big old car later and that was cool. I had some tests of my own to run.

  When we went into the restaurant heads turned. Although I was a familiar sight there, my neighbors had to check out the man who was guiding me to the table, his hand at my back. During our courtship and beyond, we attracted a lot of attention. On our first date, I was wearing a very hot red dress with a thigh high slit and stilettos that brought me up to eye level with Sal. My dark hair cascaded down my back in shiny waves like a black ocean. I didn't overdo the make-up. My eyes don't need much and I leave my skin bare. I had matched my lipstick to my dress and glossed my plump lips to kissable perfection. A freakin' star is born.

  Sal had reserved the back corner booth for us. It was the darkest spot in an already dark restaurant. We ordered drinks and antipasti. I think we were both a little on the nervous side because I downed my Cosmo and he his Chivas before the plate even arrived. We ordered another drink and made small talk about growing up in New York, Italian family life, the limo business and the food business. With Italians, sooner or later, the topic is always food. Other than the differences between the limo business and his father’s delis, we could have lived the same childhood.

  "Catholic school?"

  "St. Mary’s. You?"

  "St. Ignatius."

  "Those Jesuits can be tough."

  He flexed his hands into tight fists. "My knuckles still hurt when I think about it. But my ass hurts more." He leaned forward and rubbed one tight cheek dramatically. I wanted to help him out. His ass was stunningly wrapped up in tight black jeans. I had a mind’s eye picture of how it would look clenched and pumping.

  I can only describe what that first date was like with one word: smoldering. Like I said, I was on the prowl and looking for a mate. In the first dizzy hour in that restaurant he’d done nothing to cool me off. Hormones and a ticking clock blurred any little flaws I might have found, if I’d bothered to look. I wasn’t looking.

  By the second drink, Sal became a little bolder and I felt his hand casually come to rest on my thigh—the side with the slit. His fingers brought little tremors to the skin on my leg and I could feel the insistent tug of desire on my sex. He continued to softly massage and caress my leg as we talked, drank and nibbled on the olives, cheese and cold cuts in front of us.

  His hand found its way up to my mound and he cupped it in the palm of his hand, applying gentle pressure that was just the right combination of tease and touch. By that time I'm sure he could feel the moisture that was seeping onto the crotch of my thong. He slipped a finger between my pussy lips and began a slow dance with my clit that had me gasping. I was trying very hard not to moan out loud in the restaurant. I recognized at least two couples who were friends of my parents. It would have gotten back if I’d pulled a Meg Ryan for real right at the table.

  The red-checkered cloth did a fine job hiding our hands and I think we did a fine job of not letting on what our hands were up to. I finally had to slide my hand into his lap and find the nice hardness under the fabric of his pants. When I began to stroke it, Sal abruptly removed his hand from between my legs. He pulled out his wallet and extracted a hundred dollar bill which he tossed on the table.

  Then he stood up and pulled me to my feet and we left the restaurant like our asses were on fire. The car was parked in the deep shadows behind the restaurant and Sal flung open the back door and pushed me onto the slick dark leather seat. I wasn't putting up a fight but he seemed more aggressive than I would have expected for our 'first time'. Sal shoved one knee between mine and spread my legs wide. My dress obligingly rode up past my hips. He literally snapped the thong off of my hips which pissed me off a little. The panties were new and expensive. I rationalized it as a crime of passion. I wondered if there’d be a bruise on my hip the next day. Even that seemed sexy at the time. Yeah, I was screwed by own traitorous mind.

  He busied himself with the buttons that ran down the front of the top of my dress. I found myself thinking that it was nice of him not to rip that too. The panties were one thing, but the dress cost almost two weeks pay. He made short work of unhooking the strapless bra I was wearing and exposed my breasts to the night air. When his head went down to my chest he nibbled and sucked at my nipples until they stood straight out and erect. He massaged one of my full breasts with his left hand while he unbuckled his belt with the other.

  By the time Sal pushed his trousers and underwear down to his knees and took his cock in his hand I guess I felt like I'd let it go too far to say no at that point. I guess I felt . . . I don't know, obligated. Maybe you've never had one of those kind of moments but a lot of girls can relate. I was the one with the 'come-fuck me' dress and heels. Frankly, I looked like I was asking for it. Come to think of it, I was. Don't go all bitchy and judgmental on me. You haven't heard the whole story yet.

  Sal mounted me and pushed himself completely inside my pussy without a whole lot of ceremony. His dick slid right in ‘cause I was all creamy wet with excitement and anticipation. The man thrust into me and the sound of his lust elevated my own. I very much wanted to be fucked—artlessly or not. He rammed himself in and out in a rather savage rhythm. Before I could begin to match his intensity, he grunted and stayed deep inside me with only a few pushes against me bone to bone.

  "You got me too excited, Babe," he confessed. "I’ll make it up to you."

  What is a girl supposed to say to that? I smiled and lied. "There’s no such thing as bad sex, Salvatore."

  "You’re awesome. Thanks for understanding."


  "What’s to understand? Really, it’s okay." And pretty awkward, too. Getting dressed after a so-so fuck in the back seat of a car is an experience I hoped I’d never have to repeat.

  Sal had told me over our drinks that he was not very sexually experienced and I confessed that I wasn't either. I didn't expect the earth to move the first time and it certainly didn't. Part of it was due to his rather artless performance and part was the fact that he was, to put it kindly, not very well endowed. I didn’t have much to compare him with, but I knew there wasn’t a lot of him filling a lot of me.

  I figured it would get better with time. And to a certain extent it did. When the initial rush wore off a little, Sal made an effort to please me more. Other than mediocre sex, we were perfect for each other—everyone said so. I believed them.

  We came from the same culture, we knew what was expected of us in life and we really did look great together. I never got tired of hearing people say what a beautiful couple we were. My parents made it clear that, in their minds, Sal put the moon and the stars in the sky.

  We married almost exactly a year after the day we met.

  Chapter Two

  It was a foregone conclusion that I would inherit the limousine business after Dad retired. That's the main reason I didn't go to college. The other reason was my parent's old fashioned notion that a girl didn't need a college education. It seems a little incongruent to be the heir apparent and my parent's precious girl-baby at the same time, but circumstances have a way of shaping a person's outlook. Even persons as traditional as my folks.

  Being the youngest by far in the family meant that my brothers all had plenty of time to strike out on their own. They were all doing their own thing and none of them had any interest in following in dear old Dad's footsteps. They moved up the ladder to swank office jobs that apparently satisfied them more than owning a business would have. They were long gone by the time I entered high school.