Indecent Cravings: Part Three Read online

  Indecent Cravings

  Part Three

  of

  a super-dirty Coming of Age tale

  with lots of

  kinky submissive fun

  By

  S.K. Cross

  (WARNING: If you are a prude, or even remotely prudish, delete this book right now! It’s not for you. You’d better be 18+ too. Not to mention open-minded.)

  Copyright 2015 D2Rev Publishing / S.K. Cross

  First Edition

  August 20, 2015

  Editing: Missy Borucki (missyborucki.com)

  Cover design: Letitia Hasser at Romantic Book Affairs (designs.romanticbookaffairs.com)

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  All characters depicted in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. The actions the characters sometimes take are often based on very bad decisions and should never be applied to real-life situations. Be safe.

  Dear Readers

  This is an ongoing series, an experiment in organic storytelling.

  Each book is approximately 125 pages and priced at $2.99, a new “episode” released approximately every three weeks.

  Here’s the deal: This is YOUR story. YOU have control. I’ve started it, but I want YOU to tell me where to go.

  So, sit back, pour yourself a delicious beverage of your choice, check your lube and battery supply, kick your shoes off and get comfy, and then read on.

  Once you’re done, get on my VIP list:

  http://skcrossbooks.com/get-on-the-list/

  where I will be posting Top Secret updates, as well as having contests with prize giveaways.

  Then, visit my Facebook Page:

  https://www.facebook.com/skcrossauthor

  Or . . .

  Email me at:

  [email protected]

  . . . and tell me what YOU would like to see happen next!

  Episode 3:

  “Control”

  Chapter 1

  The entire courtyard is a blur as I run toward the limo.

  “Drive!” I say as I leap into the front seat next to Trevor.

  He’s about to bite into a hamburger. The fast food bag next to him on the seat reads Checkers. He freezes in a slack-jawed expression with open eyes as I slam the door shut.

  “Drive!” My voice comes from deep within me, from a part of my soul that’s still an animal, not yet human.

  “What happened?” says Trevor, his eyes assessing me and checking around for signs of any movement. One hand replaces the hamburger in the bag while the other goes under his jacket.

  “I need you to drive! I need you to fucking drive right now!”

  “Talk to me, Smudge. What’s going on?”

  “Just drive!” I’m in tears now.

  “Abigail, I’m not going to leave your dad here. I work for him. He pays me, remember? If he’s in trouble, I need to go rescue him.”

  I so want to poke holes in his argument because I’m so fucking pissed off.

  His eyes go wide like he’s figured something out. “Oh no.”

  I bite my nail as my eyes fill up. “My father . . . and my . . .”

  “Yep, say no more. I get it. Be right back. Just want to do a quick wellness check. Stay here. I’ll fix this.”

  I nod.

  Trevor is good at fixing things. Lord knows he’s done it enough times in my life. His expression assumes the commanding presence I know so well.

  I watch his strong frame as he darts up the stairs. I wipe some tears from my eyes and check my phone. The battery is still dead.

  A few seconds later, Trevor comes bounding back down the stairs to the car.

  He leaps inside, starts the engine, and puts the limo in gear.

  We drive in silence for a while, my fingers in my mouth as I bite off my nails. I push the image emblazoned in my head out and away from me. I can’t deal with it right now.

  Trevor picks up his cell phone and dials a number.

  “Rodrigo,” he says. “Hola, viejo amigo. Sí, estoy aquí en Miami. Sí, lo sé . . . sí . . . no, no, recuerdo . . .” He laughs. “Su nombre era Adriana, pero se olvidan de ella. Eso se terminó. Mira, Rodrigo, necesito un favor. Necesito una habitación. Discreta. Ahora. No nombres . . . sí, la disposición habitual. Bueno, voy a conocerte en el frente.”

  I got some of that. He asked Rodrigo, whoever that is, for a private and secure room somewhere. Something about the usual and meet him out front.

  The usual? What does that mean?

  Trevor navigates the Miami streets with the assurance of a driver who has traveled them many times before. We take I-195 out to the Beach. As the sun disappears behind a row of thick black clouds, we drop down 40th Street onto Pine Tree Drive. Same route as the bus that takes me to work. Hm, Trevor‘s taken many vacations. One must have been here.

  “You saw that, huh?” he finally says.

  “Yes, I saw that! How could I not see that? Her cock was in his goddamned mouth! Why the fuck do you think I ran to the goddamned car?”

  He sighs and looks out the driver’s side window. “Yeah.”

  He takes several turns, and we end up on a street a block over from Collins Ave near 18th Street. Lots of boutique Art Deco bed-and-breakfasts interspersed between taller condos. He pulls over in front of a white, two-story, concrete building nearly hidden by tall, thick shrubbery. Standing out front is a Latino man with a pockmarked face in a service uniform smoking a cigarette.

  Trevor gets out, greets the man with a hug. A hug? And they talk. The man offers Trevor a cigarette and he lights up. That’s weird. I’ve never seen Trevor smoke. But then again, I’ve never heard him speak a word of Spanish before, either.

  My world is getting stranger by the day. I bite my nail some more. The wind kicks up, and the sky grows ominously dark.

  The man hands something to Trevor; they hug again, and Trevor scrambles back into the limo.

  “You’re staying here for the night,” he says. “It’s not the most glamorous place, but it’s safe.”

  “How do you know?”

  Trevor turns to me with that look I’ve seen so many times before, one that tells me shut the fuck up.

  I get a stirring down below.

  His look and tone are brutish. They remind me a little of Lukas Thorn. I feel myself shrink into place.

  “Okay,” I hear my voice say with a tremble.

  He gets out. I don’t wait for him to come around and open the passenger side door. I just get out and follow him.

  The sign over the door says Redmond Apts.

  There is a low courtyard out front, hidden from the street by an incredibly tall hedge. Trevor types a code into the lock on the latticed door, and I follow him inside just in time. The rain pours down outside almost the very second our feet hit the tile floor.

  My room is apparently the first one on the left. Trevor swipes an electronic key while placing his hand under his jacket. That must have been what the Latino man with the pockmarked face handed him.

  Then he reaches under his coat and pulls out a large silver gun while pushing the door hard and leaping inside. He holds the gun out in front of him, glancing fast to his left and then to his right.

  I’ve seen him do this a few times before. One memorable occasion was when we returned to the Cape Cod beach house after sneaking into the ocean for a swim. Another time w
as when I thought there might be a burglar in my Newton apartment.

  Come to think of it, Trevor is the only man I’ve ever known who carries a gun with him all the time.

  He flips the light switch. We’re in an apartment with a hardwood floor.

  He checks the front closet, then moves through the living and dining area and disappears around a corner, checking everything in his path.

  The place is nice, but not spectacular. Venetian blinds cover the large front window that looks out onto the tiny, hidden courtyard out front. Old parquet floors. 1950s, I’d guess. Charming, though, with a strong Art Deco flair. Ultra-modern furniture in pastels. A chandelier that looks it’s right out of Star Trek. A plain round kitchen table. A pre-widescreen era TV set.

  Other than that, everything is ancient. The bathroom is all aquamarine tile. Matching porcelain sink and tub, very solid.

  Not elegant, but not bad.

  The kitchen is small but well-equipped. There is a full-size refrigerator, empty, along with a gas stove that needs a deep cleaning. A Keurig coffeemaker sits on a kitchen countertop to my left.

  Amid the Art Deco theme are three black and white portraits on the wall. Jimmy Stewart, Frank Sinatra, and Lauren Bacall.

  Trevor appears, having satisfied himself of the apartment’s safety. He replaces the gun back into its holster under his jacket. “You’ll be safe here.”

  “That’s why you walked around with a gun first?”

  “I always do that, Smudge. You know that. Paranoia is my friend. It’s kept me alive this long.”

  “You’ve been here before, haven’t you?”

  He turns to me with that look again. “Once or twice.”

  He walks to the window, separating some Venetian slats to look outside. The tropical fronds from the hedge out front are lit oddly by the glow of the amber-tinted streetlights, creating a Venetian blind tapestry of palm frond shadows in slatted silhouettes.

  If I were here with Lukas Thorn, it would be perfectly romantic. Oh, wait, no. I forgot, I fucking hate that bastard sloth.

  Then Trevor turns and faces me.

  God, his green-brown eyes are gorgeous!

  My breathing goes slack, and I feel a tingle dancing up the back of my legs. My toes scrunch inside my flats.

  For a moment, I’m back to that night, the night three years ago that we dare not mention. Feels like so long ago now. I had just graduated high school, spending the summer at the family cottage by the ocean on Cape Cod when shit got weird.

  At my dad’s request, Trevor came out to protect me and we ended up sleeping in the same room.

  That was the first and only time that we both lost control.

  I can’t say that I never had urges and thoughts about Trevor while growing up. You might label it as a complex or something, yeah. I mean, I always liked the boys at school, and began dating when I was fourteen.

  But there was always something about Trevor that showed up in my fantasies and dreams.

  The thing is, I always knew he felt the same way. I caught him looking at me several times in that way. You know the way. Like how Clark Gable looked at Olivia deHavilland or Richard Gere looked at Julia Roberts.

  When we leaped on each other that summer of my eighteenth birthday, it was like a fury of pent-up energy was finally allowed to release itself.

  We made out like wild animals. He ravaged my body with his tongue, the sound of the Atlantic crashing in on the beach.

  He ripped his shirt off and was about to fuck me. He reached down and put a finger into my pussy.

  Then he stopped.

  “You’re a virgin?” he said with incredulous eyes.

  “Shut up!” I said, turning red and curling away from him.

  “But you were with Brian for two years. And then Todd. You never—“

  “No, I never! Okay?”

  “I just assumed—”

  “Well, I didn’t, okay?”

  “Jeez, Smudge. I can’t—“

  I leaped on him, but he lifted me up and pushed me off.

  Next thing I knew he had moved into the living room and crashed on the couch.

  I was so embarrassed I cried for hours, curled up on my bed.

  Somehow, and I have no idea how, Trevor and I went back to our regular lives and never mentioned it again.

  But now . . . alone again with him in this strange Art Deco apartment under a brewing Miami storm . . .

  All those feelings rush back to me as I stand in the center of the palm frond silhouettes. The whipping hot wind outside causes them to dance beneath my feet.

  There is a rumble of thunder and a flash of lightning. Trevor’s eyes glow in the bright flash. I gasp, knowing full well that he’s feeling it too.

  Then the wind dies down, and everything becomes calm again. The rain stops.

  I put my head down and bite my nail.

  He shakes it off too, placing his arm behind his neck and rubbing while he looks around the room again.

  “So,” he says, “you’ll be safe here.”

  “Yeah, you said that already.”

  Trevor looks down, sighs, and puts one hand in his right pocket. “Look, Smudge, I know it’s your dad and your . . . friend. But don’t let it get to you, huh?”

  “You know stuff, don’t you?”

  “Stuff?”

  “About my dad.”

  He looks away, then down. “Smudge, I’m his driver, his bodyguard . . . his confidant. What can I say?”

  I fold my arms and stare at him.

  He sighs, scratches his neck, and looks down and to his right. “Remember when Addison was kidnapped?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, I got that all straightened out . . .”

  “Yeah, how did you get all that straightened out.”

  “Never you mind. Then your dad asks me, seeing as I had been in the service, if I know of some girls.”

  “Some girls?”

  “You know what I mean. In my circles, you can’t help but know shit. So, I said sure.”

  “And?”

  “And I brought him some girls. Well, actually brought him to the girls, and it became a regular thing. So I wasn’t just your family’s chauffeur, personal assistant, and bodyguard. I was also your dad’s hooker provider.”

  “Why?”

  “Do you know how much your dad pays me?”

  “No.”

  “A lot. I can almost retire. Not to mention I feel bad for the guy.”

  “Yeah, I know. Because of Mom.”

  “If I were married to your mom, I’d pay hookers too. Either that or shoot myself.” We both laugh. As we do, our eyes meet for just a little too long. We pause that way, just gazing at each other again for a solid moment.

  “You need some food,” he says, snapping the moment shut.

  “Okay.” Anything to keep him here longer. My dirty mind is formulating a plan, a very naughty plan.

  Next thing I know, we’re back in the limo heading over to Dade Boulevard. Trevor pulls into the parking lot of a large supermarket, and we walk inside.

  The storm took a break and the early evening sun is out again, but another wave looks like it’s headed our way. High bright funnels of clouds surrounded by blue sky are interspersed with ominous dark beasts of clouds with tiny white flashes visible. A steamy mist rises all around us from the recently deluged asphalt.

  “Get whatever you want,” he says as the cool of the air conditioning hits us at the entrance.

  We go in, I pick out a handful of basics and drop them into a basket.

  At the checkout, an elderly employee wearing a vest with the supermarket logo is arguing with the cashier, whose nametag says Steve Bestman - Manager. He looks about thirty, brown hair with a receding hairline.

  “I work here so I should get the full employee discount!” she says.

  “Hello,” says the cashier to us with a smile and a tone loaded with apology. “Wanda, we’ve been over this. You got your discount. It’s at the bottom
of the receipt.”

  “That’s not the discount I was promised when I was hired. I’m going to go to the labor board about this. In fact, I’m going to mention this at the next city council meeting.”

  “I’m so sorry,” he says to us with an even bigger smile that subtly communicates please shoot me. “That’ll be twenty-eight thirty-two.”

  Trevor takes out his wallet, but I’m prepared. I yank out the debit card. Yeah, that one. Zander’s card.

  Swipe!

  “Too late,” I say to Trevor with a girly giggle. “Old man, you’re getting a little rusty there. Gotta work on those wrist muscles.”

  “I want to talk to the manager,” says Wanda.

  “I am the manager, Wanda! You know that. You work here!” He turns to us and smiles. “I’m so sorry about this. Would you like cash back?”

  Oh what the hell. “Yes,” I say. I type in $100.

  “Have a nice night,” says Steve Bestman - Manager.

  “You too,” I say with a smile that I hope tells him good fucking luck.

  “So what card was that?” Trevor says as we reach the limo.

  I throw him a how-dare-you-ask look with the accompanying gasp.

  He scoffs and shakes his head. “You’re fucking unbelievable.”

  We get back to the limo, then head to the Redmond Apts on James Avenue. Trevor parks in a valet lot.

  “Oh, thank you, sir,” says the valet after Trevor hands him a hundred-dollar bill.

  “Shit,” I say, “you’re somewhat fucking unbelievable yourself there, Captain Cash. I didn’t know you had Benjamins like that to throw around.”

  “Like I said, your dad pays me well.”

  With grocery bags in hand, we walk across the street and soon we’re back inside Unit One of the Redmond Apts.

  This is weird. It feels boyfriend-girlfriend. With a hint of protector-witness. And a dash of… no, I’m not going to go there. But I think you know what I mean.