“Do you like Mr. T?” The words barely left my mouth. God, she tasted so good! To me, like honey.
“You mean that gold-chained action hero from The A-Team?” Her voice was breathless and enraptured. “That show was dumb.” Jen had a Master’s Degree in media studies from USC’s prestigious film school and knew every TV series there was from television’s beginning.
I flicked her clit with the tip. “No, I mean this Mr. T . . . my tongue. He’s substituting for my cock while he’s on hiatus.” Then I sucked her clit hard, eliciting a loud moan.
“Oh, yes! He’s doing a fine job!”
I spread her legs wider, putting her Ugg-covered feet on my broad shoulders. Not losing oral contact with her swollen, pulsing clit, I plunged my middle finger into her pussy and began to pump her. Faster and harder. Gripping the edge of the granite counter, my tiger flung her head back. Her breaths were coming out in gasps and soon she was whimpering.
“Oh my God, Blake! This is too much for me! I need to come!”
She began to buck against both my tongue and digit, and I wish I had an extra set of hands to keep her from falling off the counter. She was falling apart.
Beneath my sweats, I could feel Mr. Burns trying to burst out of my stupid cock brace. Fuck me. How was I going to make it through the week without being able to penetrate her? Come inside her? Come in her mouth? Come in her ass? Come in her hands? Hell, I wasn’t even allowed to masturbate and come in my own hands.
And then, my tiger roared.
And every selfish thought evaporated.
She was all I needed. All I wanted.
“I love you so much, baby!”
“The same.”
With the sweet taste of her still on my tongue, I held her impassioned face between my hands and kissed her madly.
Chapter 11
Jennifer
Almost One Week Later
I must have been dreaming of visiting Scotland with Blake. Bagpipes droned in my ears, their soulful melody rousing me. I forced my eyes halfway open. No, I wasn’t dreaming. I could still hear them.
“Blake, do you hear that?” I murmured, my voice groggy. We’d been out late last night with our friends Gloria and Jaime Zander to celebrate the signed Dermadoo deal. Neither of us mentioned our nightmarish experience with the moisturizer, and whether Gloria and Jaime had had better luck with the product than we did was never discussed. We all got a little smashed and when we got home, my husband had the munchies and ravenously ate me out. Since our terrifying ordeal, we still hadn’t fucked, but I couldn’t complain about the attention Blake was lavishing on me. I honestly didn’t know how he kept his dick intact. Pure willpower or maybe that ridiculous cock brace helped.
No response from Blake. I rolled over onto my side, thinking he must be fast asleep. To my surprise, he wasn’t there. Though it was Sunday, the one day we usually slept in, maybe he’d gotten up early and gone for a jog or to Starbucks. The bagpipes continued to chime in my ears. Sitting up, I was about to amble over to our bedroom window to see what was happening on the street below when a chipper voice that sounded much like Blake’s caught me by surprise.
“Good mornin’, m’lady! I have brought ye breakfast in bed.”
My eyes shot to our bedroom door where Blake, wearing his kilt, a T-shirt, and a megawatt smile, stood barefoot. Between his hands was a silver tray with a full tea service and a plate full of delectable pastries. There was also a greeting card standing smack in the middle.
As I lowered the fluffy duvet and got into a cross-legged position, Blake swaggered my way. “So, m’ lady, I want to know . . . do ye still think I look like a sexy warrior in a kilt?”
“Is that a trick question?” I replied, my lips curling into a seductive smile.
“No, it’s a straightforward one. Aye?”
I didn’t respond, noticing he wasn’t wearing the traditional leather pouch that accompanied the kilt. Not wearing my glasses, my morning vision was blurry, but I was almost positive—though not a 100% sure—there was a substantial bulge beneath the pleated plaid fabric.
Setting the tray down on my night table, he plucked the card and crawled onto the bed, sitting cross-legged in front of me. The front of the card featured an adorable Scottish terrier with a red tartan collar and the word “Woof!” Opening it, my husband began to read aloud in his perfect Scottish accent. I often forgot that Blake could have been a great actor, but this reminded me.
“Oh Jenny’s wet, poor body,
Jenny’s seldom dry:
She dragged all her petticoat
Coming through the rye!
If a body met a body
Coming through the rye,
If a body kissed a body,
Need a body cry?
If a body met a body
Coming through the glen,
If a body kissed a body
Need the world know?”
“You wrote this, baby?” I asked, somewhat incredulously. My husband, who’d once wrote silly limericks, now wrote beautiful poetry, his first unforgettable poem being the one he recited the third and final time we exchanged wedding vows at my parents’ house in July. My surprise Christmas in July wedding.
“Wishful thinking, m’love,” he replied with an eye roll, his voice still accented. “I borrowed and adapted it from a book yur father bought me in Scotland. The greatest poems of another gifted Burns . . . Robert.”
Robert Burns, best known for “Auld Lang Syne,” was one of my father’s favorite poets, and he’d once taught a course on him when he was an English professor at Des Moines University. It moved me that my dad had instilled Blake with a love for poetry and that they often spent time together analyzing certain verses.
Blake set the card down on the bed, and a devilish smile crossed his lips.
“So, m’lady, shall we enjoy breakfast in bed?”
My eyes darted to the tray of tea and pastries. “What are those?”
“Scones. I had them flown here from Scotland.”
“Wow! They look delicious. Do you want to share one?”
Blake glanced at the tray and then met my gaze. “Maybe later, but right now I want ye to devour the very special one I’ve brought ye.”
“What do you mean?”
Before I could blink an eye, he flashed his kilt. Beneath it stood his cock. Commando. And for the first time in almost a week, unsheathed by the protective brace. And fully erect! It was very big. Let me rephrase. Very, very big! So thick and rigid! And along it was a thin layer of white frosting and on the crown, a creamy bead of pre-cum.
“Breakfast in bed, m’love.”
I was so turned on. So hungry for him! My watering mouth hadn’t been near his beautiful cock for almost seven long days. I was going to make this a breakfast neither of us would forget.
“Oh, Blake, it looks so yum!” I was going to start with the cum and work my tongue up and down his length. Then, I was going to take him in my mouth and suck him dry.
Getting onto my knees, I planted my hands on his muscular thighs for support and, lowering my head, flicked my tongue on the beaded tip.
“Oh yeah,” I heard my warrior murmur as my vessel proceeded to trail along his iced shaft, licking off every bit of the vanilla-flavored frosting.
“Mmm,” I moaned, the salty-sweet flavor filling my mouth. “So yum.”
“Yer so yum,” Blake moaned back. “I’m going to watch ye devour my special scone.”
On my trip back up, I rolled my tongue around the tip, then licked my lips before clamping my wet, hungry mouth around the wide crown. Blake groaned with pleasure.
“Oh, m’tiger, the things that sweet, pretty mouth of yers can do!”
I’d only just begun to show him. On my next hot breath, I went down on him, taking his cock in my mouth all the way. Blake hissed and I could feel the rippled muscles of his thighs tense.
“Fuck, baby!”
On cue, I began to devour his cock with my mouth. Moving one hand to the b
ase, my mouth bobbed up and down his hard, thick, delicious length, picking up speed and adding pressure—and pleasure—with each determined pilgrimage. In tandem, my hand pumped the base, squeezing hard. I began to hum something that sounded like “Auld Lang Syne” as Blake’s shallow breaths joined the sensuous bagpipes, which were still playing outside. I glanced up once at Blake—his head was tilted back and an expression of tortured ecstasy was etched on his face. It was all so unbelievably erotic. I was so turned on, wetness pooling between my thighs and tingles dancing in my belly. Blake’s cock filled the hollows of my cheeks and I thought any second he would blow. Then, as I felt the telltale vibrations, he pulled out of me and on my next heartbeat, I was flat on my back. In one swift move, he yanked off my boy shorts and then undid his kilt, tossing them both to the floor. With a powerful thrust of one knee, he spread my legs and ordered me to wrap them around him as he anchored himself above me. His magnificent sculpted body grazed mine, his breath blowing in my face like a warm highland breeze.
“Tiger, if ye thought I was going to come in yer mouth, ye were wrong. I’ve waited all week to come inside ye.” My pulse sped up as he caressed me. “M’love, repeat after me . . . Oh, Jenny’s so wet.”
Breathily, I did as he asked—oh God, was I!—my wet arousal, my need for him so intense. “So wet,” I repeated deliriously as he sunk his colossal cock inside me with ease because, in all honesty, I was drenched to the core.
“Aye, so wet and ready for me,” he murmured, taking me to the hilt. “Aah, m’tiger! Ye feel so fuckin’ good. I’ve missed ye so much.”
“The same,” I moaned, my ache for him so great. “The same.”
And then he began to pummel me. In and out. Harder and faster. The strokes long and determined, like he was sprinting to win a marathon. And couldn’t wait to get to the finish line.
“Baby, I’m not going to last long,” he managed between thrusts and grunts.
“Me either.”
A few moments later, we were both coming through the rye.
After our breathing returned to normal, we were lying on our backs, Blake’s arm draped around me, my head on his chest, our eyes shut, our hearts beating as one in amorous bliss. Oh, how I loved my warrior! My lover! My protector! That man!
From this day onward, kinky kilt sex became part of our weekly rituals. And at the end of the month, he surprised me with a ticket to Scotland and a promise to fuck me until all my ancestors awoke and heard me roar his name.
A NOTE FROM BLAKE
Hey there, all you beautiful readers~
Man, that was fucking scary. I was scared shitless. Or should I say dickless. You may be laughing now, but it wasn’t funny then.
Can you imagine how different my life with Jen would have been if I’d gotten permanent ED? I would have let her down forever, no pun intended.
Thank fuck, all is well now. Dr. Cocker (Morris, not Boris) is my new proctologist. I’ve gone to see him a few times since the crisis and he’s assured me Mr. Burns is in tiptop shape. He’s still uncertain what caused the bout of priapism. It could have been the Dermadoo or maybe it was just a freak random thing. One thing for sure is neither Jen nor I are going near that stuff for as long as we live. I don’t even want it on my fingertips. I’ll sacrifice fine lines around my eyes for worry-free procreation. We gave the rest of the case Ari Golden had given us to Chaz and Jeffrey with no explanation except that we didn’t need it. Sex with my tiger—without it—couldn’t be better.
As always, some good came out of the bad. The best being that my potential ED proved to me yet again how much my tiger loves me. Unconditionally, with her body, heart, and soul. Even if I could never get it up again, she’d stay by my side. And love me for who I am. Forever and an eternity.
I promised her a trip to Scotland, and we went at the end of September. I wanted to stay in a famous castle; she wanted to stay in a cozy village inn. We ended up doing both, the first just outside Edinburgh, the latter in the heart of the Scottish Highlands.
I wore my kilt the entire time commando and bought Jen a mini-skirted version of mine. She looked so damn cute in it and I wanted to fuck her everywhere we went. Bend her over and lift up that little skirt and fuck her hard from behind. Or slip my hand under the front panel and finger her while we were driving around the countryside or listening to some tour guide lecture about the sights. One night, after fucking her senseless, I got inspired and pulled out my pen. And found a sheet of paper.
There once was a lad in a kilt
Who took his lass to the hilt.
She roared his name when she came
Till it was heard in Spain
And that’s how the legend of That Man was built.
Okay, so not every poem can be a masterpiece. I admit it needs work and is not going to win the Robert Burns prize for best romantic poem. But I’m working on it.
Until next time . . .
I.T.A.L.Y.~ Blake
PS. In case you don’t remember, I.T.A.LY. stands for I Totally Always Love You. And yeah, I do.
A NOTE FROM NELLE
Dearest Reader~
I so hope you loved reading this novella as much as I loved writing it. And I hope it put a big smile on your face and made you laugh aloud in these challenging times. It would mean the world to me if you wrote a review on Amazon or wherever you purchased or downloaded it. It can be as long or as short as you wish. Regardless of length, your reviews help others discover my books.
This is the first in a series of books I plan to write, which revolve around the first years of Blake and his tiger’s marriage as well as their friends and family members. It’s so much fun writing about them as a married couple!
Coming up next and very soon . . . THAT MAN 8. This is a full-length standalone novel and I’m totally in love with it! It has lots of steamy sex, laugh out loud moments, some nail-biting suspense plus a touch of tenderness that brought tears to my eyes! Grandma’s in it too! And wait till you meet the latest—and cutest—addition to Blake and Jen’s family. To get you excited, I’m including the first two chapters and a Pre-Order link.
As always, my Belles, thank you from the bottom of my heart for your love and support! Please stay safe and healthy! Don’t hesitate to drop me an email to say hello. I’d love to hear from you and will personally respond. You are the reason I write!
With all my love and appreciation . . .
MWAH! ~ Nelle ♥
THAT MAN 8
Nelle L’Amour
Chapter 1
Jennifer
Click.
“Blake, do you hear that?” I whispered, fear creeping into my bones. My heart pounded against my ribs. And my chest constricted.
Just home from our amazing trip to Scotland, in time for my twenty-sixth birthday, I’d tossed and turned for hours, unable to fall asleep. I was suffering from jet lag. I anxiously glanced at the clock on my nightstand—it was only ten p.m., but in Scotland, it was six o’clock in the morning. Almost time to wake up.
I heard another barely audible click. It sounded like it was coming from the door to our condo—like the deadbolt was unlocking. Someone was trying to break in! I was positive!
“Blake!” I repeated, my voice rising over his light snoring. He was sound asleep, his chest gently rising and falling. I swear my husband could sleep through a 9.0 earthquake unlike me who was a light sleeper because of the deep-seated anxiety I still harbored. Someone had tried to rape me when I was in college . . . and that someone—a deranged game show producer—had tried to kill me shortly after I joined Conquest Broadcasting and would have had not Blake showed up—just in the nick of time—and stopped him. Don Springer was out of my life for good, and while I’d gone into therapy after the harrowing life and death experience and taken a course in self-defense, I was still traumatized by the slightest disturbance.
“Blake, wake up!!” I said in my loudest hushed voice, nudging his shoulder.
He shifted in the bed, pulling the duvet up to his c
hin. “What’s going on?” he murmured, his voice groggy and his eyes still glued shut.
“Listen! Do you hear that?” The rattling sound was unmistakable. The front door had been opened. We were being robbed! I bolted upright, a cold shudder running down my spine.
Consciousness slowly filled Blake. His long-lashed eyelids fluttered, then blinked open. His irises glowed midnight blue in the darkness. Pulling down the covers, he pushed himself up to a sitting position.
“Blake, someone’s in the house!”
“Shh!” Light footsteps thudded in our ears, followed by the clatter of drawers and cabinets slamming open and shut. The frightening reality finally sank into my husband. “Shit!” Wearing not a stitch of clothing, he jumped out of bed. My eyes trained on his beautiful sculpted body—that gorgeous hard as rock ass and long muscular legs—as he hurried to his walk-in closet.
“Blake, what are you doing?”
“Shh! Be quiet and stay still! I’m getting a weapon!”
A weapon? Given that we lived in a luxury, high-security doorman building, we didn’t keep a gun in the apartment. Even after the incident at my former duplex. The closest thing we had was a set of butcher knives in the kitchen. And my pepper spray, which was likewise in the kitchen in my backpack. But those weren’t going to help.
My heart beating double time, I watched as Blake opened the closet door and re-emerged with a long stick in one hand and the other gripped around a small object I couldn’t discern.
“What are you holding?”
“My little league baseball bat!” He held it up, flexing his pronounced bicep as he brandished it and then tossed me the small object. With a thump, it landed on the bed close to me.
“What’s this?” I whispered, reaching for the small shiny object.
“My Swiss Army Boy Scout knife.”
Under normal circumstances, I would have playfully challenged my husband’s claim to being a Boy Scout—Boy Scout’s honor—but this was hardly the time. Our lives were in danger.
THAT MAN 7 Page 7
