Appetite

by Erika J. Kendrick

Genres: African American Women's Fiction; Women's Fiction; African American Romance

Synopsis

MANY CULTURES • ONE WORLD

With her exotic looks and killer body, Kennedy Lee is a rising star in the reality TV and soap opera worlds. Now she’s really hit the big time and landed a role on the hugely popular daytime drama America’s Next Sweetheart.

As this great news coincides with Kennedy’s birthday, her friends take her out for a wild night on the town. So wild, in fact, that the next morning Kennedy wakes up with a hard-bodied hunk in her bed, a vicious headache, and no recollection of how this gorgeous guy ended up beside her–naked. Not only that, but it’s her first day at the new gig, and Page Six has already chronicled her previous night’s exploits, calling her “America’s Next Lush.” Now Kennedy must endure dirty looks on the set, abuse from the soap’s bitchy diva, and the shocker that the guy who broke her five-year celibacy streak is none other than her co-star, Jesse James. As she battles catty actors, snarky production assistants, malicious gossip, and her growing appetite for food and sex, she struggles to fit in, find her true Prince Charming, and eat a slice of red velvet cake without any guilt.

Release date: June 23, 2009

Publisher: One World

Print pages: 304

Sample

Chapter One


My right nipple stands at attention. In my stupor I feel myself trace my fingers over my barely-there breast, stopping just shy of my left nipple, now erect and saluting me. I hack through cobwebbed lungs. Cotton mouth. Damn Capri ciggies. I force my eyelids open; a thunderous Biz Markie bass line pounding between my ears had been holding my thoughts captive. I squint through the blurs in the distance. Dangling from the edge of the leather lounger across the room, the middle hook on a lace bra catches a ray from the sunlight pouring through, drowning out the bay window. It flickers. Slowly I reach beneath the damp sheet and touch my bare breast again, confirming that it is, indeed, my bra. Shit!

Realizing that the jigsaw puzzle that is last night is missing a few key pieces, I whip my achy nakedness around to the crescendo of a bellowing snore. Yikes! A strange man is stretched out on the floor beside me entwined in half my sheet—clearly one of the puzzle pieces misplaced somewhere between the first Bacardi Mojito and last call’s obligatory double shot of Patrón. Triple shit!

Immediately, I snatch the other half of the sheet away from him to shield myself (from what, exactly, I dunno). I am totally stuck as I watch him roll a tumble and a half toward me—naked and tanned—very nicely tanned! He slowly shifts his body, his muscles flex, and I feel my mouth drop as he adjusts himself. It is beyond evident that at least one part of his randy body is already wide awake. Wow. I sigh.

My thoughts begin to race. I try to rewind my mind while blinking away the foggy film on my contacts. With each clarifying blink, Stranger clears into focus and before I can catch myself I reach toward his thick blond hair and nudge it away from his temples. He stops in mid-snore. I’m staring under his arched man-brows, willing his eyes to stay shut, when I sneak a peek at his round ass and strong long defined legs. Six foot three, I guesstimate, and I finally remember to breathe.

The last thing I can recall is toasting with my girls at Marquee and my BFF Hannah ordering me to “throw it back,” and right along with my head went the evil that was my fourth Patrón shot. Now I’m in hangover hell without the slightest idea of who this wildly arousing hottie is stretched out on my parquet floor. I can’t seem to help myself so, while clutching the sheet to my neck as if it were Grandma’s heirloom pearls, I lightly touch his shoulder and decide that he is, in fact, real. I touch him again and images flicker before me and I’m breathlessly, carelessly being carried to my couch between sloppy, deeply sensual, kisses. I blink hard. A moan slips from between my lips and the back of my neck stings from a power surge of sexy.

“Hey there,” Stranger mumbles raspily through a sly smile. He reaches out to comfortably settle his hand on my inner thigh and squeeze softly. “Coffee?” he casually inquires as he blinks his way into morning.

Dumbfounded, I scoot away, sliding on the floor and riding the sheet, continuing to shake my head in disbelief. Who are you? How did you get here? I practice asking, still unable to spit the questions out. Another image flickers before me: my legs stretched over his shoulders . . . deep penetration . . . moments of ecstasy accentuated by heavy breathing and textured moans. This time the power surge extends up my neck and straight down to my uterus. I shake it off just as Stranger is beginning a far too indulgent stretch. Immediately, I toss the sheet at him. It flies from my body onto his. With the realization that I’m now the one on the floor vulnerable and exposed, I jump up and run to my room to grab something—ANYTHING!

“I’m sorry, I—I didn’t get your name,” I hear myself uncomfortably scream from my bedroom as I get granny-pantied and double-knot my robe.

“No need to yell; it’s far too early for that,” Stranger’s scratchy morning voice offers in close proximity.

I’m rubber-banding my long bushy hair when I look up to see him moving toward me in the bedroom, apparently unaware that he’s been abandoned by the sheet somewhere between right here and OVER THERE!

“Uh, the sheet. What happened to the sheet?” I anxiously inquire, looking over him and next to him—anything but at him.

“Want me to make the joe?” he smoothly continues, as he looks down at his bare body with a shrug, completely indifferent that the sheet has, indeed, moved on without him. I freeze as I watch him wet his lips and take hold of my shoulders. He inches toward me and, in one swift beat, Stranger is gently kissing my neck and cheek. I shake in anticipation as he begins to caress my earlobe with his tongue. I desperately try to keep the secret that I am now wickedly weak.

“Morning, Kennedy. I hope you enjoyed your private birthday party last night,” he whispers seductively into my ear. “I know I did.” Pulling me firmly into his morning wood he continues, “You know the celebration doesn’t have to end yet. Today is your official birthday and since you’re already in your birthday suit, how about I take you for a swim?” Stranger suggests, as his tongue greets my inner ear. Helll-lllo! My legs go limp. He takes my arm with his left hand and wraps it around his waist. I am under his spell. With his other hand he frees me from my robe and any and all resistance, and within seconds we are on my bed misusing the satin and abusing the silk, satisfying leftover pm cravings and indulging ripe am appetites.

Chapter Two


“No, Bug, I can’t find it,” I whisper frantically into the telly to Hannah Marie Love, my absolute bestie since somewhere around age ten. Now a cutthroat music exec, she was sitting soo-per pretty as third in command at Tru Records, the hippest urban-chic label on the landscape. And it was no secret in elite hip-hop circles that she was being groomed to take over.

“What do you mean you can’t find it?! Every man carries his wallet in his pocket,” she said reassuringly, as I fumble through Stranger’s denim, searching relentlessly for any piece of identification—an electric bill, voter registration, library card—while his shower sounds off on full blast. “Keep looking; maybe he tossed it into his shoes, or maybe it’s in one of his socks,” she suggests.

“I hate that I can’t remember,” I admit. “I feel so vulnerable and embarrassed.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about, seeing that you two just went at it again for forty-five minutes,” she corrects, musing mischievously.

I plop down on the damp sheets. “It’s like I was in a trance, a total sex trance,” I mumble, staring at the floor, shaking my heavy head. “I can’t believe I’ve been celibate for almost five years and just like that, in a night of drunken birthday debauchery, I extinguished my burning flame of discipline.”

“Seriously?! You really don’t remember gyrating on the bar in your lace bra to J.T.’s ‘SexyBack’?” Hannah’s giggle has now escalated to serious LOLs. “You were down to your thong by the end of Vanity’s ‘Nasty Girl.’ ” She can barely catch her breath now. “Max had to sling you over his shoulder and fight you off the bar when Marvin Gaye’s ‘Sexual Healing’ hit liftoff,” she spouts between snorts. “You were feelin’ no pain by the end of the night and after drowning your face in that final swig of amnesia-in-a-shotglass, the Brats took charge of getting your overly stimulated vulva home safely,” Hannah informs between bellows. “But I honestly have NO idea who he or how he—”

“Shhh, I don’t hear the shower anymore.” I look over my shoulder. “And I still don’t know who the hell he is!”

“So what! It’s called a one-night stand—and you were long overdue. Just think of it as a birthday present sent to you from The Vagina Monologues with a greeting card that reads: Welcome to the world of the grown and fucking.”

I run my fingers through my damp, mussed hair that reeks of anonymous sex. “I feel so dirty.”

“Ahhh, good times!” Hannah chimes. “I remember the first time Max tossed me into the air—and not for a stunt jump, just to be clear.”

Usually I go gaga whenever my BFF talks of her moonlighting days as a professional cheerleader for the Chicago Diamonds when she high- kicked herself into love—and apparently acrobatic sex—with the star player and most eligible bachelor in the NBA, Max Knight. And yes, it was beyond brillz when he popped the Q on the JumboTron and in front of tens of thousands, but right now just isn’t the time; I am dangerously hyperventilating over here.

“No! There was absolutely no stunt jumping last night—I don’t think.” I am sinking in amnesia. “But I’m definitely super sore.”

“What do you mean you’re sore?” she questions. “Ohhh, you’re sore?”

“Muscles I didn’t even know I had.” I flinch in pain.

“You mean you didn’t remember you had.”

“No, I’m pretty sure most of these muscles have NEVER been used before.” A snapshot of Stranger bending me into a sexual pretzel makes a mental cameo. “EVER!”

She laughs even harder. “Sounds like Blond Boy did his thing and officially turned you out! Let’s just hope he’s not a pro . . .” She pauses way too long for my taste. “But come to think of it—”

“A pro? You mean—” I gasp. “Like he’s expecting some sort of, of—”

“Com-pen-sa-tion,” she enunciates, for the sake of clarity.

The horror! My heart races as I open my junk drawer and rifle through the pencil case where I keep tip money for late-night deliveries. I glance at my haggard, albeit dewy, reflection in the mirror. This would definitely qualify as a delivery.

“And if he is a pro—”

“Gentleman of the night—”

“MAN-WHORE!”

Ew!

“It sounds like he was worth every penny. So, fuck it, two points for team Brad Pitt.”

On second thought . . . I slam the drawer and go for my wallet instead, pulling out a crisp fifty.

“And Team David Beckham.”

I grab another twenty.

“And Team Josh Duhamel!” Max yells into the phone when Hannah laughs so hard, she can no longer hold the telly.

“Stop it! This isn’t funny!” I yell, then fade to a whisper, fetching another five, feeling my vaginal walls throbbing inside. “Is there a cream for this? Like a vaginal Ben-Gay?”

“No, Sweets,” she rejoins the line, “you’re on your own with this one; Summer’s Eve can’t help you now. It’s called getting off the wagon, taking off the training wheels, riding with no hands, and—”

“But I can barely walk.” I massage my inner thighs.

“That’s cuz you been poppin’ wheelies for the past twelve hours.” She breaks into a roar. “I gotta go ring Britt and—”

“Uh-huh, laugh all you want but I gotta get him outta here; I can’t be late for my first day on set and—”

“His job is done. Just pay him and tell him to leave. Or get out. Or kick rocks. Or—”

“But, Bug, it was really good, tantric even.”

“We’ve been telling you that the ridiculous degree of celibacy you had going on was absolutely counterproductive to everything, and that, well, once you let the snake out of the bag—” she muses, hanging up the phone mid–punch line, raging at her dead joke.

I sigh as I triple-knot my robe this time, completely intoxicated by the impromptu encounter and honestly hungry for more.

Chapter Three


“You didn’t want to join me in there?” Stranger asks, his ripped body emerging from the thick steam like a retro Fabio book cover. “I was hoping you would have stepped into heaven with me again.”

The phone falls to the floor and I swallow hard, staring at the towel in his hand that could’ve just as easily been wrapped around his waist. Instead he rakes it across his golden blond stubble then through his wet hair.

“So, about that coffee?” he coolly asks, glancing at the wad of money I’ve since crumbled between my moist fingers. He throws a smooth smile over his shoulder as he brazenly walks toward my kitchen.

“Listen, uh, uhm . . . You. This is really kinda so far past embarrassing for me at this point—believe it or not.” I look down at the floor and shake my head. Fidgeting with my fingers, I’m now delirious for a ciggie. “So before we settle up, uhm.” I grip the bills tighter. “Would it be too much trouble for you to tell me your name? I mean, really, you clearly have all the balls here and far more info than I have about, well, everything.” I pause, feigning diplomacy. “And it appears to me that you are well aware of this little discrepancy.” I follow him into the kitchen. “Truth: I have no idea who you are or how you got here. I was twisted last night. Twisssted!” I stare at the floor. “I mean I was really gettin’ it in.” I shake my head again at this revelation before finally peeking up at Stranger and inhaling the thick misty air that seems to be following him. I struggle to find my lost focus. “But I digress. Yesterday was a big day for me with celebrations all around, and well, I hit my wall at some point and woke up to you and—”

“Great sex!” he finishes, still smiling as he rummages through the cupboards searching for filters.

Assisting him in his search, I hand over the box from behind the coffee grinder and set the bag of Turkish coffee on the granite countertop. “I’m quite serious here.”

“So am I.” He smirks, eyeing the triple knot around my waist. “When was the last time you had great sex?” Casually, Stranger moistens his lips and preps the coffee to brew. “Or better yet, when was the last time you had sex—any kind of sex: good sex, average sex, bad sex?”

I swallow hard. My eyes avert to the floor, darting past his nakedness. “Would you care for another towel or your boxers or maybe your jeans—or anything?!”

“No, I’m good,” he says, leaning against the sink and crossing his arms over his hard chest. “What about disastrous sex?”

Anxiously, I fiddle with the lonely ciggie in my robe pocket, my eyes averting his man-scaped dick. “So I take it you’re not dropping any hints about last night’s forgotten sequence of events, are you?” I press, ignoring his series of frank and incredibly intimidating questions. Frustrated beyond belief, I slap the money down on the countertop and push it toward him. “Here.”

He eyes me closely before pouring his coffee into my Berkeley Alumni mug. He holds it up for inspection. “You?” he asks, nodding at the cup.