The Curse of the Tiger Read online

  He stroked between her legs, teasing the edges of her pussy lips with the lightest of touches, before sliding his fingers inside. Carmen arched against him and felt wetness flow from her cunt over his knuckles. She writhed in his embrace, twisting her spine so that his hardened shaft ground against her lower back. He shoved his fingers deep within her, stretching her, and Carmen spread her thighs wide. She covered the hand that fucked her with her own, urging him to push deeper and faster.

  Abruptly, he forced her to her knees on the woodland floor. Carmen caught herself with her hands and gasped to feel the tip of his cock nudging the entrance to her pussy. She lowered her weight onto her elbows and thrust her ass high into the air.

  He entered her with one aggressive stroke. His shaft, impossibly thick and long, seemed too big for her, but her dripping wetness eased the snug entry. “Fuck, yes,” Carmen whispered. She feared that she might split into pieces, skewered by that magnificent organ of his. It was a delicious, searing, perfect pain.

  She flattened her chest on the ground, bending in two. The dry leaves rustled beneath her, delicate and feathery on her sensitive nipples, as his thrusts shook her entire body.

  “Come inside me,” she murmured. “Fill me up.”

  He trembled and stopped briefly, pulling out with elaborate slowness, and gripped her waist tightly. Eager wetness coated Carmen’s lower lips.

  Then he shoved it all in, fucking her furiously, and came with a roar. She fell into her own shuddering, raging climax. The walls of her pussy contracted in rhythmic spasms, matching beat-for-beat the spurts of thick fluid that gushed from his shaft.

  Carmen bucked against him, drawing out her orgasm, and scraped her tits on the leaf-strewn forest floor.

  * * * *

  Cock-a-doodle-doooo!

  Carmen exhaled and pulled her slickened fingers from between her legs. Cool grey light flooded the room.

  Once more, that huge stray cat was sitting outside her window on the ledge, staring in.

  “Like what you see, kitty-cat?” Carmen asked.

  The fluffy grey cat meowed, brilliant blue eyes flashing, and leapt away. Carmen made a mental note to buy some cat food at the store and try to convince the big tom to stick around. Recently, she’d noticed signs of mice in the chicken coop—she could use a good mouser.

  Life on Carmen’s little farm meant rising at the crack of dawn, but she loved every day of her life in the eastern Kentucky country. She stretched with a satisfied groan and then used a tissue to wipe off her sticky fingers.

  * * * *

  “Come on, girls! Breakfast time!” Carmen opened the door to the henhouse and scattered scratch feed over the ground. Agatha, the dove-grey Silkie, and Bella, the black-and-white speckled Andalusian, trotted over and began pecking away. Scarlett and Melanie, the fluffy, fancy Faverolles, stuck close together and approached cautiously. The other birds sometimes bullied them. Carmen thought they must be jealous since Scarlett and Melanie were by far the prettiest chickens in the flock.

  Gretel, the robust black Jersey Giant, sidled up next to Carmen. Gretel was as friendly as she was hefty. Suellen, the orange New Hampshire Red, worked her way in between Agatha and Bella. Spare Tire, the Bantam rooster, hopped down from his favourite black rubber perch and strutted around his girls. Carmen’s mellow golden Labrador, Dax, exited his doghouse and sat by Carmen’s feet with a proprietary air. He and Spare Tire had an uneasy truce. Both felt it was their job to protect the girls—the chickens and Carmen—and Carmen had made it clear that peace between her boys was the only option. Dax locked eyes with Spare Tire and huffed, then trotted back to his doghouse to observe the scene from the comfort of his cedar chip bed.

  Rewind it all five years and Carmen would never have imagined that she’d be living here in this old cabin next to the woods, with six chickens, a rooster, and a big yellow dog as her foster children. Not to mention working at an organic vegetable co-op. Oh, and belly dancing. I’m a regular hippie, she chuckled to herself. City-boy Ian would be totally appalled.

  How things change, Carmen thought, scattering another handful of grain for the flock of chickens. Five short years ago she’d been on the career fast track in Chicago. She and Ian had both been corporate lawyers living in Lincoln Park. Ian was handsome, glamorous and driven, so being his girlfriend had been an ego-enhancing thrill ride. Carmen had loved going out on Ian’s arm and knowing that all eyes had been on the lean, elegant, fashionable man beside her. Their weekdays—and often weekends, too—had been busy and challenging with legal work, but free time had been nothing but sweet. Fabulous restaurants, the best wine, erudite friends, and trendy parties—Carmen had known she had it made. When Ian had taken her to Fishbone Alley on their three-year anniversary, Carmen had hardly been able to contain her excitement. She had just known he had been going to propose, and it was just like Ian to pop the question in their favourite restaurant.

  That night, Ian had shown her just how little she knew. “God, I never saw it coming,” Carmen muttered, watching Agatha and Bella take a break from pecking the ground to sip from their water dish.

  Ian had waited until after dessert before dropping his bomb.

  “I’m glad we had a last special evening together, Carmen, because I wanted us to share a final night together.”

  Those calm, cool words of his had sucked the blood right out of her face. “Final?” she’d asked, baffled.

  “I’d like you to meet someone,” Ian had said. He’d beckoned over her shoulder. Carmen had turned and had seen the head chef of Fishbone Alley walking to their table. Chef Morgan Greenway had worked his way across the crowded dining room, smiling broadly at Ian and greeting customers, then had given Carmen a brief nod.

  The stocky chef with the face of a seasoned boxer had marched right up to Ian and Carmen’s table then he’d taken Ian’s hand in his.

  Carmen’s head had spun. “Are you kidding me, Ian? After three years of being a couple, you’re telling me that you’re into men? Seriously?” She’d scrunched her nose, trying to make sense of what had been before her. “You’re into chefs?”

  Ian had cleared his throat. “Look, Carmen, I know it’s not fair to you. It’s just something I discovered about myself. Well, with Morgan’s help.” He’d locked eyes with the chef. The two men couldn’t have looked more different—Ian, with his delicate, aristocratic features, and Morgan, who looked fresh from a brawl in the alley—but they’d clearly shared a bond.

  Carmen’s reaction had surprised everyone, including herself. She had laughed.

  Ian and Morgan had exchanged confused looks. Carmen had stood up and had tossed her napkin down onto the table.

  “I should have seen it coming,” she’d managed to force out between loud guffaws. “You’re just a little too pretty, Ian, and a little too fashionable for a straight dude. The funny thing is that I thought you were going to propose tonight.” Tears of laughter had squeezed out from Carmen’s eyes and she’d gripped her shaking sides. An embarrassed hush had fallen over the restaurant. “I’m going to leave you the cheque though, or maybe you can ask your boyfriend to take care of it.” Carmen had collected her purse and jacket. “You boys have fun with whatever you do next, okay?”

  Carmen had walked past a couple of stunned tables before wheeling back around to Ian. “Give me three days in our house,” she’d announced, “to clear out my stuff. Don’t come home at all, and don’t call me. I don’t want to see or hear from you ever again. I want the house sold immediately and I want half of the profits sent to me through my parents. You’ve got their phone number, right? From those Christmases we spent with them?” Carmen, seething, had swept her gaze around the packed restaurant. Expensively dressed people had filled each table, and every single shocked eye had been on her. The cruel hilarity of the situation had overwhelmed her. “I’m grateful, Ian”—she’d laughed bitterly—“because I see now that I don’t belong with you, and I don’t belong among these people, and I don’t belong in this city.” Carm
en had marched to the front door with her head held high, had walked out, and had never looked back.

  She was snapped out of her reverie by a soft, insistent nudge. Gretel, determined to get at a cricket between Carmen’s feet, had wedged her chunky black bulk between her ankles. Carmen tossed the last of her grain to the chickens and replaced the cup in the feed barrel. She eased down into her padded swing and stared into the Prescott woods.

  In the five years she’d lived there, Carmen had only made a few short forays into the woods. Somehow, she felt out of place there, even intimidated. She’d attributed it to the fact that she was, in fact, trespassing, and decided to listen to her instincts. Those woods were better left alone. Besides, there was plenty of nature to explore in and around Charade, and plenty of wildlife, both human and animal. Gretel, appetite satisfied at last, clucked and looked up at her with curious black eyes.

  She lifted the chunky black chicken to her lap and stroked her glossy feathers. The June morning was already balmy, and soon temperatures would climb into the mid-eighties. The shadowy woods would be dark and cool, though…

  Carmen shook her head and gently placed Gretel on the ground. Those woods were off-limits, both because they belonged to Calvin Prescott and because of the creepy vibe they gave her.

  She picked up her basket and entered the chicken coop to collect the eggs. Oddly, the chickens had had another light day of laying. Normally, the girls would give her at least four or five eggs every day, and frequently more. Often, Gretel was good for two or three all by herself. The last week or so, however, Carmen had only found two eggs in the coop every morning. She checked the latch on the coop’s door. It was secure and hadn’t been gnawed by an animal. Besides, if animals had been getting into the coop, they’d have bothered the birds. And Dax, of course, wouldn’t tolerate anyone messing with his chickens. She looked back at the little flock. They all looked robust and relaxed as they explored the fenced backyard. She scanned the edge of the woods for any sign of the huge grey tomcat. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” she called out, but there was no sign of the furry grey feline. Apparently he’d gone off to wherever he went when not peeking through her window. Carmen shrugged and went inside to get dressed for the day.

  * * * *

  Carmen was Charade’s only lawyer. However, since the population was so tiny, she only practised law for two days per week. A few real estate transactions, some estate planning, and a more-or-less amicable divorce now and then helped shore up her savings account. On her lawless days—a term gleefully coined by her friend Dora—Carmen worked two five-hour shifts at the local vegetable co-op, Bushel and a Peck. Her other lawless activity involved dancing barefoot to exotic music. Carmen had expected to hate the belly-dancing class that Dora had dragged her to, but instead she loved every minute of the gyrating, sensual experience. After a year of attending classes religiously, she’d become a certified instructor.

  Slipping into her black yoga pants and cropped spaghetti strap top, Carmen wondered what Ian would have to say if he could see her now. She was about as far from their Chicago law firm as a girl could get. Carmen placed her hip scarf in her shoulder bag and locked up the house. Even though Dora and Colby had made fun of her for locking her doors in a community like Charade, it was one big-city habit that Carmen couldn’t seem to break.

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  About the Author

  I live in a teeny-tiny town in the southeastern United States, surrounded by rolling hills and lots of cows. My house is brimming with my rowdy sons, hot husband, and more pets than I can shake a stick at. When I close my eyes, though, I’m in a white stucco villa on the Mediterranean, sipping a Pimm’s Royal and watching the turquoise waves crash at my feet. Next to my hot husband, naturally.

  I love to read and write erotic romance, fantasy, and sci-fi because of the escape factor—I want to leave the ordinary and travel somewhere exotic, unusual, and sexually charged in a book. My characters are thrust into unpredictable situations, and they respond with humour, open-mindedness, and loads of scorching passion. I hope you enjoy escaping with me into the sultry world of erotic romance.

  Email: [email protected]

  Bebe loves to hear from readers. You can find her contact information, website and author biography at http://www.total-e-bound.com.

  Also by Bebe Balocca

  Carved Into Her Heart

  A Ghost on Two Wheels

  Learning to Soar

  Prescott Woods: Bubbles and Troubles

  Clandestine Classics: A Princess of Mars

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