Curvy Delights: Billionaire Romance BBW Boxset

by Tara Brent

  Before I go inside, I make a note to myself to check out the whole compound on Google Earth. I know that part of the planning to make this Roach Coach thing work is mapping out where to put each truck, just like I would work out where serving stations would go with a standard catering set up. I wonder if I should make a diagram of the layout available for the wedding guests. Give them a way to find which truck has the Japanese food, the Mexican food, the Italian, and Greek, and Barbeque. Goddamn, this is making me hungry.

  And when I start to review the list of food trucks Mom and Cici have already found, I start to think this lunatic idea might just be a stroke of mad genius.

  The mothers are certainly enthusiastic. And just a little bit hammered. They start going over a list of food truck vendors. They have a lot of my favorites (places I always take Mom when she’s in town). There’s Danny’s Oki-dog. An incredible fusion of American junk with Okinawa standards. Their signature dish is the eponymous Oki-dog. A fat Hebrew National wiener, smothered in refried beans, salsa, cheese, onions, and all rolled up in a tortilla, and crisped on the grill. And there’s Mama Mago, with another rainbow of ethnicities, like the Chashu and Avocado Burrito. The Vegmobile has the most amazing vegan food on earth. Even I think it’s heaven, and I am a total carnivore. Which reminds me about the Brazilian Bomber, a rolling churrascaria with grilled meat of every kind; beef, lamb, sausages, pork, rabbit. The Abyssinian Express has the best fiery Ethiopian food. They found a Tapas wagon I’ve never seen before. Then there’s The Juggernaut - chock full of savory Bombay style Indian Food. And for the northern taste, there’s the Mobile Moghul. Kasbah Moroccan rules, with flaky B’stila, and Zaalouk to die for. Kim’s Mongolian Barbeque never fails. There’s Cantonese and Mandarin, Szechuan and Hunan. The Duck Joint has fowl with a Hungarian touch. Bangers & Mash isn’t the luckiest name for a truck, but their fish and chips kill.

  Igor materializes again, to inquire if the cook should heat up any of the leftovers the Mothers brought home. I’m about to shout “All of it!” but Cici and Mom are both groaning “God, no.” I don’t try to override the veto.

  “Did you two actually get to talk, or were you too busy chewing?”

  Mom says “Honey, you have made me so happy.”

  “I thought I had everything,” Cici adds, “but to have my best again?”

  “Oh, stop Cici. You’ll have me sobbing again.” Too late – the water works are already flowing.

  Cici dabs at her eye, trying to hold back. Fat chance.

  Clash of the Matrons – they clasp each other in urgent hugs. The boo-hoo-hooing cuts off as suddenly as it started. As if on cue, the two of them now start to chant. “Two bits, four bits, six bits a dollar, all for the Flyers stand up and HOLLER!”

  Before they can ask me to join them in forming a cheerleader pyramid, Blake saunters in. “Wow,” says he. “I feel like scoring a touchdown already.”

  In unison, the Mothers blurt “Pish Posh.”

  Blake has turned his attention to me. “Kira. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

  For pushing you in the pool? “Uhh... Thank you?”

  “I mean it. I haven’t seen Mom this happy since... Well, maybe ever.”

  “That goes double for me, Sugar,” Mom tosses in.

  “Did I hear that you two brought home some leftovers?” he asks.

  “Oh, God. Don’t remind me,” Cici groans.

  For good measure, Mom allows “I’m so stuffed.”

  “But Marcel just offered to have Cook warm something up, if you’re hungry, dear,” Cici says.

  “I might just do that.” He looks at me, with a little smile. “Kira? How about you?”

  “Maybe a little snack. Don’t want to spoil my dinner.”

  “You have plans?”

  “Well, not exactly...” I turn to Mom, letting her know I am available if she wants to eat dinner with me again.

  “Don’t even think about me. Make your own plans.”

  “I guess I’m free, then.” Realizing he didn’t invite me to dinner with him – he just asked if I had plans. “I mean, to have a snack. Nothing to spoil. For dinner, I mean.” I’m flushed and stammering. God, he’ll think I am an idiot.

  “Okay, great. Let’s go find Cook.”

  “Yes. I mean, I’d like Cook to cook. Or I could just warm it up myself.”

  “Fine. Let’s go warm something up together.” He turns and waits for me to get my legs to work. “In the kitchen? Follow me. This way.”

  And I fall in behind him.

  Walking along, I find that I can’t quite take my eyes off those buns of his. The pants are linen – very fine linen, to be sure. A black silk shirt is tucked into them. He looks good. He’d look good in a Kentucky Fried Chicken uniform. Maybe even a chicken suit.

  As we pass the open door of a side room, I hear the sound of a TV. Blake stops at the sound, saying. “Hang on. That might be Cook in the TV room.” He turns, and I follow him into the room. It’s bigger than my living room – double that, but in this house, it’s barely a nook. A couple of big leather couches, three Lazy Boy style recliner chairs and a flat TV no larger than a garage door. He switches it off. “Guess not. Nobody home.”

  This is the time I can turn around and go to the kitchen with him, but he hasn’t moved yet. I can see his beautiful eyes, I watch the pupils as the dilate, I feel a little shortness of breath and have to breathe deeper.

  “Kira. I was out of line this morning, and I’m sorr..”

  “Shut up,” I tell him. For a second, he looks like he expects me to lay into him with an angry tirade. I turn around and quietly close the door. When I turn back to face him, he can read my face. I can read his. I walk up to him, run my hands up his chest to take his face between my palms. I kiss his lips, very lightly.

  “I forgive you.” Then I slide my hands back down to his chest. And I shove him backwards, so he lands on the couch. This could get to be a habit.

  Our hands take over. Pulling his shirt off. Stripping my sweater. I’m unhooking my bra as he fumbles over his belt. I put my hands over his, lift them so they are on my breasts. Then I use my hands to unbuckle his belt. I open his pants, pulling the zipper down. He groans, and I can see a growing bulge in his shorts. I step back and kick my shoes off. So does he. Time expands and slows down. It feels like I am trapped in tar – like I’m in slow motion as I take the cuffs of his pant legs, and pull his trousers off. His cock is practically ripping a hole through his underwear, which is all he has on now.

  I drop my skirt, step out of it. We’re even now. Nothing left but our undies. I put my lips back on his again. This time there nothing light in the kiss. We are hungry, our mouths each trying to lock together. Tongues. They are such wonderful things. I decide to see what else it might be good for.

  My hand reaches into his shorts and locks onto that throbbing dick. There’s already a drop of fluid pushing out of the tip, and it makes his cock slick in my hand as I pump it., but his shorts are in my way, and I peel them off, rolling them down his legs and tossing them on the floor, where all our clothes are scattered.

  Well, not all. Not yet, but we correct that flaw quickly, as he draws my now quite dampened panties out of the way, and drops them on top of his, the last two barriers tangled together. I nearly jump as his hand slides between my legs. Oh God, I think my pussy is going to make a puddle on the floor, the way it is practically gushing over his fingers. Blood is pounding so hard in my ears that I wonder if I’ve fallen into an MRI machine.

  He sure knows what he’s doing with those fingers. He doesn’t start mashing my clit. He gently rubs his index and middle fingers on either side of my pussy, manipulating my hot button by the motion on the top of the labia, and across the top of the clitoral hood. I can’t believe how hot this makes me. He’s been doing it for maybe thirty seconds, and I’m so close to cumming I want to scream.

  Then I remember what it was I wanted to do with my tongue. And I need to slow down and enjoy this rollercoaster
. In one long, slow lick, I slide my tongue down his chest, his rock hard abs, to his rock hard cock. I know that’s too many rock hards, but it’s the only thing I can think of. Rock. Hard. My tongue make a slurpy circle around the head of his beautiful cock. Did I mention it’s Rock Fucking Hard? I can’t hold back gently now, I open my throat, suppress the slight urge to gag, which disappears like smoke as his whole dick enters my mouth. I am breathing through my nose, so I can keep my lips wrapped around the root of his shaft. He groans as my hand takes his scrotum and I squeeze his balls with just the slightest gentle grip. His breathing starts to race, and he pulls his cock out of my face, and takes my wrist, drawing my hand off hit nuts. Now it’s his turn to shove me onto the couch, and his insistent power sends another cascade of pleasure through me. His hands pull my thighs open, as he begins to eat my pussy with even more skill that he has in his magic hands. As his tongue slides into exactly the right spot to drive me insane, I start to huff in sharp, fast breaths. I’m near again, closer than before, and I can’t stay on the edge any longer. I can’t imagine stopping him this time, as the mercury climbs up my thermometer to the top. I can’t hold back the yelp that comes out of me as a shivering climax pushes me home.

  He doesn’t stop, and I feel like I might explode if he keeps this up. My hands find his ears, and I very gently lift his face out of my pussy. “Fuck me,” I say. Surprised how raw my voice sounds, almost an animal growl. “Fuck me stupid. Fuck me, fuck me, fuc—”

  —And he’s in. Balls deep. And now it is me who’s moaning like I’m being stretched on the rack. He knows just how to move – the right speed, the perfect placement, driving me up the ladder again. As I get closer and closer, it feels like his cock starts to get hot, I imagine it glowing, the light pulsing into me like waves of energy. I start to scream in ecstasy as the wave breaks over me. I cum again, with a bliss that sends that glowing light right into my skull. And as that light explodes in my brain, I feel his cock exploding deep inside my cunt. I feel his seed pump into me. I feel opened as wide and deep as I can be. I feel spasms roaring through him, through his balls, out his cock, and into my being.

  We are lying tangled, slick with sweat. I am filled with a new kind of pleasure. Peace. The feeling that nothing can hurt me. Nothing can bring back any of the anxiety, doubt, fear, insecurity – all that has been driven out of me. I want to sleep with this man. Right here. I want to doze off all wrapped up in each other. And that’s how I want to wake up. Every morning for the rest of my life.

  Chapter 11: Wake Up, Little Susie, Wake Up

  Here’s the thing about great sex. It can re-wire your mind. I know it just did that for me. but as I look over at the mildly snoring Adonis snuggled up against me on the TV room couch, I begin to wonder if it did anything to re-wire his. In fact, given his usual modus operandi, I have just a teeny weeny bit of wondering – was it great sex for him, too?

  It’s not a matter simple insecurity. The fact is, I’m not insecure about much of anything. For one thing, in my range of carnal experience, which is perhaps a bit above average, but well within normal limits (no, I am not going to quote any exact figures). You’ll just have to trust me that it’s well within the range of standard deviation on that spectrum. Distinctly a part of the hump of the bell curve, no pun intended. Now, I don’t require the lovers I have taken to fill out any satisfaction surveys, but I’ve never gotten any negative feedback. Honest, you can check Yelp. (Yes, that’s a joke.)

  On the other hand, I’ve had more than half of those few, those happy few, pronounce voluntary reviews. And not to brag, but I’ve gotten more than my share of raves. So often these rankings are laudatory; occasionally even pure astonishment. Basically, for you handicappers, if I don’t win, I place. Once in a while I merely show, but the only times I run out of the money, I’d have to blame bad track conditions, or the jockey.

  Nevertheless, compared to the dozing stallion next to me, I’m practically a novice. This man has been on more National Enquirer covers than anyone except Donald Trump. Even if we only consider the “public record”, his stats are of Ruthian dimension. Enough Rock Divas to hold their own Woodstock. Stars and starlets enough to fill an entire constellation. More models than a Vanity Fair v. Vogue rap challenge. News anchors. Authors. Even one Senator, if rumors are true.

  And that’s just declared income; how much is there ‘off the books’? Anybody’s guess. Like with a renowned gunfighter, anyone who is up and coming wants to see how they match up to the top dog. He has more groupies chasing after his world-class shlong than a Platinum selling band. From barmaids to bloggers, waitresses to heiresses; Blake Okoye has done them all. Doctors, lawyers, C.E.O.s, ballerinas, Uber drivers, beach bunnies, truckers, cashiers, stunt women, realtors, engineers, professors, and now, a dizzy event planner with a fucking trash compactor of a crush.

  Even if I make the top one percent on his great sex roster, I’ll bet there are dozens of strong contenders. And I don’t even know if I make that team. I mean, take a look at the competition. More eye candy than a Halloween carnival.

  Oh, wait. We forgot what might be the deepest bench in the league. The Gold Diggers. The ones who aren’t even after his magnificent dick. They’re on the ride strictly for the brass ring. They’re chasing the White Whale of high net worth individuals. God knows what they’d do to achieve a Great Sex sobriquet. Or to get adhesively pregnant.

  And me? Let’s just say I look less like a Barbie doll, and more like a Sumerian fertility goddess fetish. You know. Plenty of everything.

  So, although I’ve certainly studied more than my share of Cosmo articles on how to drive your man into a blithering, mindless sex machine, I have to wonder – where do I stand with this guy? What’s my class rank? Am I a Merit Scholar? Valedictorian? Or the dolt who flunked woodshop.

  And do you want to know the real skinny? I don’t think I have ever wondered about this before. Why? Because I never cared before. And now... I care very much. I am treading brand new ground here. And it feels a lot like quicksand. Something unseen and overwhelming has latched on to me. And it makes me feel powerless and out of control.

  Now, he stirs.

  My face is near his, as those deep pools of beauty beyond his eyelids are revealed. I feel hypnotized. Drunk on pheromones.

  “Whoah,” he murmurs. “Wow.”

  “Which is it? Whoah, or wow?”

  “Both. Definitely.” He grins. He looks at the window, sees it is dark outside now. “Jeez. What time is it?”

  I reach over and lift his left arm. The Rolex says 8:45, I tell him. He sits up, stretches, squeezes his eyes shut, opens them again. Rubs a finger in the corner of one, removing an imaginary crust. “I can’t believe I fell asleep.”

  “Oh, I think you earned a little rest.” I sit up too, now. Turn to him. Plant a small kiss on his cheek. “You just about wore me out.”

  “Only just about?” There’s a wicked glint in his eyes now. Or is that just a smug look?

  “Are you fishing for compliments?” I stand up, walk over to where our tangled briefs are lying together on the floor.

  As I reach down to pick up my panties, he says “You’re not leaving already? Are you?”

  “Don’t you think it’s about time I take my mother home?”

  “Oh, shit.” He says, as this thought just occurs to him now. “I... uh... What’s she going to think?” And he almost blushes. Which is cute.

  “Well. We could always tell them we were really hungry, and the leftovers were great. Speaking of which... are you hungry?”

  Then that wicked gleam returns, as he says “In a way...” And I take note that his private is standing at attention again.

  “In that case, we’re going to need to come up with a better story.” And I drop my panties back on the floor...

  At around nine thirty, we slink back into the living room/airplane hanger where we last left the bonding Moms, but we don’t need to bother making up weak excuses, or hiding sheepish looks. Both of them
are grabbing a nap as well. If you can call what Rip Van Winkle was up to a “nap”. From the looks of the spread laid out on the coffee table, we won’t need to worry much about those leftovers, either. Which probably explains why they are both in the kind of coma you would usually only see after Thanksgiving dinner.

  I smile at the sight of them. “Besties,” I say.

  “They even snore alike,” Blake observes. He walks over to Cici, and gives her a gentle kiss on the forehead. Her eyes flutter open. “Oh. My. I must have dozed off.” She looks at him. She looks at me. She says nothing. She knows. Oh, God, she so knows.

  And the thing is, she looks... happy.

  “It was very nice of you two to leave some of those leftovers for us,” says my Mom, sitting up on her couch. Oh, Christ. She obviously knows too. And she exchanges a little smile with Cici. The both of them happy as a dog with two peckers. They couldn’t be more thrilled if it had been their idea.

  Was it?

  Oh, pish-posh.

  They both have the tact to play dumb, of course. The last thing they want to do is jinx their obvious plans for a joint dynasty. They twitter innocuously about their schedule for tomorrow. They already have a list of roach coach raids laid out. I better get Jimmy on this. When you’re planning for about a thousand wedding guests, give or take, dealing with one caterer is a nightmare; but thanks to Cici and mom, we’re going to have a couple dozen to worry about. This is going to be almost as much fun as being the reptile wrangler for Snakes On A Plane.

  But as I head for my car with Mom, I’m not worrying about an armada of food trucks. I’m not worried about anything, because as we walked to the door, with Mom and Cici still jabbering away to each other, Blake leans in to me. His lips barely brush my ear (which nearly sets me on fire again) as he whispers to me “That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”