The Carnis Collection

 

MORE THAN JUST ROOMMATES

By

Terri Carnis

&

Justine Mayne

© copyright March 2008, Terri Carnis & Justine Mayne
Cover art by Alex DeShanks, © March 2008
New Concept Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events and places are of the authors’ imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

CHAPTER ONE

“Young lady, you’ve lost a week’s worth of data!”

Jada flinched at her boss’s nasty tone.

“But Mr. Quirk ....”

“You’re fired!”

“But,” she said, “my shift just started. I’ve barely signed onto to my workstation. How could I have lost ....”

“Fired,” he said. “Don’t blame it on someone else!”

Jada spilled her steaming latté across the computer keyboard.

“And that’ll be sixty dollars, docked from your final check for ruining company equipment!”

This can’t be happening, she thought. Not now. Not with my first job in six months. Especially with Philip insisting that I start paying my share of the rent and living expenses.

But it was happening. And in less than five minutes she was fired over someone else’s mistake, then rudely escorted out of the Chrysler building, into a New York downpour.

She checked her purse, which held two crumpled fives and a ten. She watched a Yellow Cab cruise by, looking for fares, but decided to walk. From now on every dollar had to count. And it would be three days before she got her final paycheck.

By the time she’d hiked two miles to the Manhattan loft she shared with Philip, she’d been soaked by the rain, splashed with mud from a passing garbage truck, and nearly run over by a platinum blonde in a sportscar. To top it all off, the elevator was out of service in her building, so she would have to climb three flights of stairs to the fancy loft Philip rented, solely because it went with the high-powered self-image he’d become so consumed with creating.

As she started up the stairway, shivering, she wondered how things had gotten so bad between her and Philip. He’d seemed nice enough when she’d met him--a sharp dresser, well spoken, and determined to make his mark as a financial advisor. When they’d first met six months ago, he’d taken her on some whirlwind dates to the fanciest restaurants and plays in town, wooing her like Prince Charming. Feeling like she’d at last found true love, she’d gladly taken the plunge, leaving her upstate job to move into Manhattan, to be with him.

But things had gone down hill ever since.

Water squished in her shoes as she crossed the landing and started up the next flight of stairs. Soon after she moved in, Philip’s expectations of her had turned to criticisms, and he’d become obsessed with “improving her.” Suggestions for changes in her wardrobe soon expanded to every aspect of her life … that she should eat less, let her hair grow longer, and that it was her responsibility to keep the loft spotless while he paid the rent.

She sighed, trudging up the second flight of stairs, thinking today couldn’t get any worse. Two weeks ago, Philip had suggested they could improve their love life with some role-playing, and she’d welcomed the notion of something new in what had become his totally predictable and seldom inspiring bedroom routine. She’d hoped that they would take turns spicing things up. But this had also turned into another one of Philip’s maneuvers to remain in control.

She hated to admit it--especially after just getting fired, but their relationship was in trouble, and she wasn’t happy.

So far, the only sexual fantasies allowed had been Philip’s, in which he practiced being the “Alpha male,” dominating her with his “manliness.” Since he dealt with Japanese investors, whose culture was male-dominated, he claimed this could help his career as well as improving their love life. And that wouldn’t have been so bad, if he’d given equal time to her fantasies. But he hadn’t shown the slightest interest in hearing about or acting out her fantasies.

She sighed, pausing on the final flight of stairs and wrung some of the water from her hair. If only Philip had a big cock and the physical stamina to match his fantasy, she’d be all too glad to experience a little domination from an Alpha male. But that was hardly the case.

Dripping water, she cleared the last landing, stepped down the hall and opened the door to their loft, where she found yet another of Philip’s notes.

Before she unfolded it, she wondered which aspect of her looks or personality he felt compelled to address this time, with his endless suggestions for improvement. Or would this be the note she’d been waiting for--where he finally expressed some degree of satisfaction with her?

Taking a breath, she opened the note and read.

UNDERCOVER

By

Terri Carnis

© copyright Oct. 2007, Terri Carnis
Cover art by Alexis DeShanks, © Oct. 2007
ISBN 978-1-60394-097-9
New Concept Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events and places are of the authors' imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Chapter One

Kyla Cusack rushed to the motel mirror to check herself out, knowing she only had a few minutes before her 'john' arrived, expecting sex.

Wavy red hair framed her pale blue eyes and pouty lips, accented by sapphire-blue eye shadow and ruby-red lip-gloss. Both looked good on her skin, pale as milk, and the black silk bustier acted like a push-up bra, all but putting her breasts on full display. It was too much for her taste, but there was no point in complaining. When you worked as a sex decoy in the Vice Unit, you had to look convincing, playing whatever role you'd been assigned.

The day before, she'd gone to a fashion ball as a high-end call girl, wearing a gold lame´ cocktail dress and two-carat diamond earrings, along with a splash of French perfume that cost $200 an ounce. She'd received the VIP treatment at Seattle's Alexis Hotel then been propositioned for sex in the famous Space Needle, where she'd busted her date … all of which was classier than her current grit-and-grime assignment near Denny way.

She ran her hands over the black vinyl mini skirt. Shifting her weight, she regretted wearing the fuck-me mules, with three-inch stiletto heels. True, they pushed her height to five foot eight-inches. But they also killed her arches.

She glanced at her watch, then rapped on the wall shared with the next motel room. Two reassuring taps came back, which signaled that her partners, Vice Detectives Ruben Morales and Paul Schaffer were ready to protect her and help arrest her client.

Behind her, a tentative knock sounded on the door, followed by a muffled voice. "Hey, Babe. You ready?"

She glanced in the mirror, pushing up her breasts-careful not to disturb the wire concealed in her bustier to record the transaction. Then she smoothed down her skirt, making certain that her badge-hooked over the front of her panties-didn't show. Quickly, she stepped to the door and peered through the keyhole, making sure her trick was alone.

He stood there, a big guy wearing a pin-stripe suit, with perspiration dotting his forehead. He hadn't bothered to take off his gold wedding ring, which reflected the hallway lights. She figured him for a traveling businessman, maybe in town for a convention.

For reassurance, she touched her necklace, with its array of dangling metal rectangles. The longest rectangle held a small, carefully disguised knife blade.

"C'mon, Baby," he said, giving the door a thump. "I don't like waiting."

Usually, she carried a snub-nosed pistol, but its bulge would have shown in tonight's 'uniform', so she made do with the mini-knife and backup from her partners.

Quickly, she manufactured a smile and opened the door, shifting to her sultry voice. "I'm ready," she said, "if you are."

He hesitated at the doorway, his gaze darting about the room. Did he think a pimp was inside, ready to rob him? That happened a lot, so she understood his caution. Or had he made her as a cop?

She gave her breasts a slow squeeze, working them higher in her bustier and then gestured at the bed. "Ready to fuck?"

He bit his lip, and for a moment, she thought his conscience as a married man might win out. Then, towering over her, he focused on her cleavage, where the bustier showed part of her nipples. But he didn't say anything … didn't respond to her offer.

She stifled a sigh of fatigue. Her feet were killing her, and he had to commit, or there'd be no arrest.

"Come on," she said, giving her hips a little twitch. "If you're willing to pay, I'll give you a ride you won't forget."

"Oh yeah," he said, stepping forward, making her retreat to the bed. "A hundred bucks for a half-and-half."

She forced a smile at his use of street lingo, using 'half-and-half' to refer to oral sex and intercourse in the missionary position. "Fine," she said, "a blow job and a straight lay."

He grinned. "How about warming me up, by flashing a little pussy?"

"My pleasure." She lifted her skirt and flashed her badge.

"You're under arrest," she shouted, a cue to her partners, who burst through the door and grabbed the guy's arms.

Instead of fighting like some of them did, this john folded. Blinking, he stammered, "There m-must be some m-mistake."

"Yeah," she said as she cuffed him. "There was a mistake, all right. Bad judgment on your part."

THE ZEN OF PASSION

By

Terri Carnis

© copyright by Terri Carnis, April 2007
Cover art by Jenny Dixon, April 2007
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
w ww.newconceptspublishing.com

This is a work of fiction. All characters, events, and places are of the author’s imagination and not to be confused with fact. Any resemblance to living persons or events is merely coincidence.

Disguised with a floppy sun hat and sunglasses that didn’t match her power suit from work, Angela gripped her briefcase and stood facing a weathered door with blistered yellow paint.

She wasn’t about to be recognized entering a run-down shop that displayed the sign, “Érotique, Fortune Teller of Passion & Love.”

In fact, Angela was mad at herself for even agreeing to come. Now that she’d finally caught up on multiple marketing projects at the advertising agency, she should have gone to a movie, or done something to relax. But at her last outing with the girls, her best friend, Jeanette, had sworn--after a “reading” by Érotique--that her love life had gone from sorry to sizzling.

Usually, with a spare day, Angela would have poured it into the job, working her butt off to stay on fast track for promotion. But with Jeanette swearing on her mother’s grave about her rejuvenated love life, Angela had two reasons for coming. First, Jeanette didn’t bullshit. Second, Angela had been immersed so deeply in the advertising agency, that she hadn’t been laid in who knows how long, let alone had any sex that truly satisfied her.

She took a deep breath and then blew it out. When she reached for the brass doorbell, a woman’s deep voice said, “Come in. The door, she is open.”

Angela hesitated, then opened the door, which creaked loudly, and looked without stepping inside. What greeted her was a tiny room lit by flickering candles that cast shadows from the ebony-skinned woman who sat at a small circular table. The woman wore a peasant blouse and an ankle-length skirt covered with intricate swirling patterns. Mostly, though, what Angela noticed was the woman’s air of confidence.

“Your name,” said the woman, with a Caribbean lilt, “I see that it begins with an A.”

All business, Angela sat down. “That doesn’t impress me. You’d better give this your best shot.”

The woman smiled slowly, a deep chuckle building in her chest. “Feisty, yes? Very feisty.”

Angela opened her purse. “Shall we cut to the chase? How much?”

The woman canted her head. “For others, five dollars. For you, nothing.”

Angela snapped her purse shut. “Then how am I to believe your services are worth anything? Including my time, which I only have so much of.”

The woman said, “Yes…of course. You’re in a hurry.” She reached out. “Give me your hand and I’ll be quick.”

Slightly embarrassed, but determined not to back down, Angela did as she asked.

To her surprise, Angela felt a slight jolt when their hands touched. Then the woman placed one hand on each side of hers.

“Not that you care,” said the woman, “but my name is Érotique.”

The woman leaned forward, meeting Jeanette’s gaze, and suddenly Angela felt as if she were falling--then suddenly surrounded by a blanket of darkness that--somehow--gave her a sense of comfort and safety.

“Be not afraid.”