Forbidden Feast: A Blakely After Dark Novella (The Forbidden Series Book 2) Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Table of Contents

  Forbidden Feast

  Description

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Epilogue

  Thank you!

  Forbidden Daddy Sneak Peek

  Also by Kira Blakely

  Copyright

  About the Author

  Blakely After Dark

  KIRA BLAKELY

  Hello, my naughty Kiralites!

  You’re not going to want to miss any addition to my Blakely After Dark series.

  Click the image below to sign up to get notified on new releases in the series!

  “You are cordially invited to Mystique Island.”

  It’s a Thanksgiving feast fit for a king, and I’m the main course.

  This getaway is for wild, uninhibited sex, but there’s nothing wild about it for me.

  I have a plan, and a goal.

  There’s only one man that I want, and he’s going to lick his plate clean.

  Pretty please with a cherry on top.

  My cherry.

  Rainier is the most powerful man I’ve ever met.

  My boss. My master.

  I know he could never see me the way I need him to see me. He’s perfect, and I’m me.

  But on Mystique Island, we wear masks.

  So I take off my glasses. I let down my hair. And I open my legs…

  Welcome to Blakely After Dark. This is a naughty quick read for mature audiences only. Happily ever after’s are guaranteed!

  Forbidden Feast

  This is book 2 of the Forbidden Series. Each book is a stand alone and does not have to be read in order.

  Chapter 1

  Rainier

  I don’t even realize I’m staring at her. Miss Petit, my assistant, rifles through the top drawer of a sleek wooden cabinet in my office. She’s silhouetted perfectly in the bright window behind my desk. The roundness of her ass is so wonderfully accentuated in that pencil skirt. It’s a shock and a shame that her breasts are always smothered away in annoyingly professional blouses. She flicks through my files, peering over the rims of her square-framed glasses. Warm cinnamon-colored hair is gathered into a strict topknot on the crown of her head, and she looks so sexy right now. Normally, I don’t go for the librarian type; I prefer bombshells. But if you took off her glasses and pulled down her hair... if you unzipped her tight little skirt...

  Miss Petit finds the file she needs and whirls, then shrieks and staggers back into the cabinet, closing it with her shoulder blades. Her liquid hazel eyes widen in shock.

  “Mr. Howell, it’s you!” she exclaims, pressing the manila folder against her tits and exhaling in relief. I wish I wasn’t such a dirty man with this girl. I really do. She’s only twenty-two, and she doesn’t deserve to feel like a piece of meat—no matter how hard my mouth is watering. No matter how hard my—

  “I was just getting the last of your files in order for when you get back from your Thanksgiving trip. I’m so sorry I didn’t get your permission to be in here first.”

  “Bad girl,” I murmur, striding closer to her. I wonder what she wears under the skirt. Thigh highs? Or just wet panties? I bet she smells delicious between her legs and I thicken without meaning to or wanting to. “Somebody ought to teach you a lesson.”

  “Wh-what?” Miss Petit stammers, blinking up at me.

  I shake my head, clearing away the fog of lust. It’s been a few months since I blew my load inside an actual flesh-and-blood woman and it’s starting to affect my work performance. The invitation from Mystique Island couldn’t have come at a better time, honestly. Poor Miss Petit is about to be thrown against my desk and have her clothes ripped off.

  “Sorry, Miss Petit.” I pull in a deep breath and my cock relaxes. “Just kidding. That was inappropriate.”

  A deep blush flowers on Miss Petit’s cheeks. “You can call me Ella, sir.”

  Fuck. I get rigid again. You can call me Ella. She’s never said that before, and we’ve worked together for four months now.

  Hm. That’s how long I’ve been fucking celibate, too.

  A problem I seek to rectify this weekend.

  “Ella.” I repeat her name deeply, enjoying the way it rolls off my tongue.

  A little flame leaps in her eyes and I see the way her body shifts, like she’s just begging to be grabbed.

  “So,” she says, swallowing. “Where are you taking your holiday this year? Rex told me you’re always jetting off to mysterious islands.”

  I settle into the leather chair behind my desk, even though Ella is very close and now my eyes are level with her ass. Still, I like this position. I feel powerful, like I could grab her hips and yank her into my lap any second. I smooth a hand over my black and white suit and notice that I’m visibly erect. There’s no way to hide it from Ella, but she pretends like she doesn’t see it. I touch at my flawlessly styled black hair and then leave it. I know sometimes the tiniest touch can make everything unravel...

  “Rex, huh?” I prod, not answering her question. The last thing she needs to know is Mystique Island. “You two old friends?” I wonder, raising a thick eyebrow at her. I’m not jealous. Just amused. Rex is my partner at Howell & McKenzie, our six-billion-dollar property enterprise.

  But Ella is my assistant. Not his. And I’m not jealous. Just amused.

  “Er, no,” Ella corrects me, blushing harder. The hot pink on her fair cheeks only highlights the adorable diamond-shaped structure of her face. Her jaw is delicate, but her cheekbones are so sharp, they could cut a bitch. Paired with those pouty lips and that elegant nose, she doesn’t really belong in clerical services. She belongs on the front page of Cosmo.

  Or Penthouse... with her dewy thighs spread open and her glasses off, nibbling at them like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing.

  I need to get out of this office and pound into a woman pronto, before all this untapped masculinity ends with Ella suing the company. With just cause.

  “He just asked me to call him Rex,” she explains lightly. She turns and organizes the new file with some other folders on my desk, then pulls out a Post-It and presses it to the folder. She plucks a pen from its holster and jots down a note for me. “He was being nice,” she continues, but I’m staring at that juicy ass in my face right now. My cock pounds for her, and I know I can’t talk him down this time. He’s beating as hard as my heart.

  I come to a stand behind her. Her hips run parallel with mine, and I can tell that, if I leaned into her, the crack of her ass would nestle perfectly against my hard-on.

  “Am I not nice?” I wonder, my voice thick with restraint.

  Ella glances over her shoulder at me. “Not particularly, Mr. Howell,” she breathes.

  “Nor will I be,” I promise her. “My tombstone is going to say Mr. Howell on it.”

  She laughs, a light, musical thing, and stands upright, turning to face me. The
re’s a rainbow of color-coded envelopes on my desk. She really would be the perfect woman—if she didn’t work for me, of course. And if she wasn’t so meek and clean.

  “I think I’m all done here,” she says, “unless you need me for anything else.”

  Unless you need me for anything else.

  I imagine myself buried inside her mouth, her hair loose and wild in my lap, my load pulsing down her throat in hot rushes of relief. She knows I’m hard right now. Is she trying to suggest something, or is my brain so full of testosterone, I can’t think straight anymore?

  “Nothing,” I croak. “I guess you’ll be with your family this Thanksgiving, like everyone else.”

  “That’s the plan,” Ella answers brightly. “The rest of us will be at home, eating turkey and bickering about politics, while you’re on your Mystery Island.”

  My jaw clenches and I wonder how much Rex seriously told her. The identities of the partygoers at Mystique Island are confidential. It’s the kind of thing that could never ruin a billionaire... but it could certainly create an unnecessary ripple in the Twittersphere.

  “Rex doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” I assure her, reaching out and smoothing one flyaway wisp from her bun. Her chin tilts up responsively. A submissive. I knew it. Not recoiling from my touch but bending to it. I remove my hand and her eyelashes flutter like she’s waking from a daydream. “There’s no Mystery Island. Just a timeshare at Sandals. I carry a lot of stress in my shoulders, and it helps. Jamaica this year,” I lie.

  “I wish I could come with you.” Her eyes have never looked bigger.

  You can. You can come with me right now.

  “You don’t mean that,” I assure her. “Everyone needs to be with family.”

  “I’ve been in this office seventy hours a week for four months,” she answers me. “Sometimes it feels like this is home.”

  I bite my tongue from extending an invitation to Mystique Island to her. I want to be inside her, between her legs, to the hilt... but I know I just need to get into someone. It isn’t her. She’s just a beautiful woman, always bending over in front of me. That’s all. But she’s not my type, and bringing her on an extravagant sexcapade would only break her heart in the long run.

  Mystique Island is very selective, anyway. I couldn’t just bring her, even if I wanted to. They run STD screenings and pregnancy tests and everything.

  “Maybe next year,” I tell her, even though I know I’m lying. “I’ll bring you back a souvenir, though. What do you want?”

  She gazes back at me and says nothing.

  “Anything your heart desires,” I add.

  She sighs and answers, “Sand in a bottle. Sand from Jamaica.”

  I wink at her, feeling generous. I will bring her back sand from Mystique Island. It’s the least I can do. Ella is such a good girl for me, and I do work her hard. “You got it.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Howell,” she says. “See you next week.”

  I watch her walk out, suddenly famished.

  Chapter 2

  Ella

  It’s in my purse throughout the work day. It’s in my purse as I ride the subway home. Only when I’m safely behind closed doors do I dig it out and dare smooth my hand over the rich golden envelope. Embossed in diamantes is my name: ISABELLA PETIT.

  Everything is perfect, just like I imagined that it would be.

  You are cordially invited to join us for Thanksgiving Dinner on Mystique Island. Masks will be required at all times during the course of your stay over the weekend. All clothing, food, and accommodations will be provided for you. Welcome to the sexiest event of your life.

  If Rainier—Mr. Howell, I correct myself—knew about this, he would certainly blame Rex McKenzie, his partner... and the one who told me about these parties. In spite of the fact that I’m reserved solely for Mr. Howell’s needs, Mr. McKenzie—”Rex,” he’s constantly reminding me to call him—finds reasons to visit my desk every day. And on a day in late September, that reason was to ask if I had ever heard of Mystique Island.

  “Of course, you haven’t,” he said, and furnished me with this envelope. He pressed a single finger to his lips, implying that this was our secret.

  “What is it?” I asked, inspecting the envelope. I remained seated, and I held the envelope in my lap, now understanding its nature. “I don’t think this is... appropriate.”

  “Don’t think,” Rex whispered back. “Just come. This is Mystique Island.” Rex had told me that the island was a favorite getaway of his… and also of Mr. Howell’s.

  I knew it was a sex party because I had to get all kinds of screenings and start taking birth control to get clearance, which I learned when I called to RSVP. Let me say that I’m not the kind of girl to do this kind of thing... I’m still a virgin. A workaholic. A nerd.

  But I did it. I got all the tests. I started taking the pill. And I RSVP’d.

  But not for Rex.

  Mr. Howell isn’t the only one who won’t settle for anything less than the best.

  He’s the one I want.

  And his shitty lie about going to Sandals Jamaica was what tore it for me. There was no way a man like Mr. Howell would be caught dead at a mediocre second-honeymoon destination.

  Mr. Howell is... perfection personified. From the black hair that is never out-of-place, always combed into an Ivy League side part, down to his cufflinks, down to his manicured fingertips and muscled body, trained rigorously in everything from boxing to yoga. Mr. Howell is perfection. He only drives luxurious foreign cars. He only wears tailored, designer suits. He would never settle for a resort that brings throngs of middle-class workers onto its beach.

  My fingertips hum with adrenaline at the thought of him, so sleek and powerful, like a jaguar made into a man. I’ve been masturbating furiously for weeks now, picturing what a fucking scepter his cock must be, thinking about how the women he beds must always come their brains out before he lets himself go. He’s a workaholic, too. He can’t hide that kindred streak from me. I know his brutal spirit must transfer into the bedroom. So far, I haven’t seen him with any women, though—and I’m glad for that. I would be lime-green Jell-O if I had to see that.

  I unfasten all the pins and shake down crimped chestnut hair onto my shoulders. I unbutton my blouse. The constrictive shapewear I always have on makes my cleavage intense but it also makes me look flat. I slip out of my skirt next and then wiggle loose from the airtight slip. My ass and tits bounce into full gear immediately. Every time.

  I’m so excited to begin my trip, but there isn’t really much I can pack. The resort will handle my clothes and I’ll be masked the entire time. I can at least pack some different perfumes, though.

  I flounce to the bathroom, feeling like a jiggly hourglass. My body has always been out-of-control with its curves, and I never got a moment’s rest before I discovered slim wear. Men would cat-call me no matter where I was or what I was doing. I could be at the doctor’s office with a head cold and someone would ask me to back that ass up.

  I gaze at my body in the bathroom mirror. Without the control-top panty hose and the minimizing bra, I’m almost a new woman. I pull off my glasses and shake out my mane, playing with the idea of being someone else this weekend.

  The kind of girl who would slip on a mask and attend an anonymous sex party.

  I prop a foot up on the sink and let my knee fall a little, exposing my shaven, pink gash in the mirror. I trail my fingers sweetly up and down my smooth trim, licking my lips at the thought of finally letting go.

  After Rex gave me the invitation, I thought about it long and hard. He would be there, and he would be looking for me, hopeful that I had submitted to all the tests and gone through with it. Why else make sure that I was invited? What else could an invitation like that possibly say?

  But Rex won’t recognize me like this. I can barely recognize myself like this.

  It’s an exclusive party, and you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. That was the e
xplanation I received when I called the booking headquarters, before I sent off all my test results. That sealed it for me. I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.

  And the only thing I want to do is Rainier Howell. I won’t settle for anyone else. There’s no way that any other man will speak to me the way he does. I crave him late into the night. I crave him on a damn near poetic level. The thought of him makes my pussy open up like a flower in the sunlight. He woke me up from a long sexual slumber, but now I am awake.

  Wide awake.

  My fingers play over my pussy, idle and exploratory. I close my eyes and allow my head to fall back as I imagine Rainier Howell, so gruff and yet polished, so surly and broad, flicking open his cufflinks. Shrugging off his suit jacket. I’ve never seen his bare chest before and I imagine how it must feel so smooth and chiseled beneath a woman’s hands—my hands. And what about his cock? I bet that’s smooth and chiseled, too…

  My middle finger finds the tingling nub of my clitoris and works it. I remember bending over his desk today, and how he stood behind me, watching. That was hot. Now we’re back there again and he leans over me this time. I feel his hardness press into my ass. God, he’s always hard when we’re together. I hunch over my own hand and grate up and down, going harder. Faster. His hand binds my skirt up around my thighs as his thick finger slithers between my wet pussy lips. My eyes roll back. I want his fingers grinding on my clit. I want to hear his pants unzip, to feel the hot skin of his iron cock between my thighs... against my wet, waiting pussy. Oh, god, he called me a naughty girl today. He said he could teach me a lesson.

  My thighs tremble and I fold down onto the bathroom tile, on hands and knees now, forgetting everything else. Just thinking about Rainier’s palm flashing down onto my ass. Just thinking about Rainier seething and shuddering as he pumps into me. Thinking about how his voice sounds when he comes. How his cum feels. I want him in me bare. I want to ruin my career at Howell & McKenzie. I don’t care. I want him to fill me up and leave me on the desk to dry out again.