Holiday Fantasy Read online

  Holiday FANTASY

  Holiday FANTASY

  USA TODAY Bestselling Author

  KAYLA PERRIN

  Essence Bestselling Author

  DONNA HILL

  Essence Bestselling Author

  ADRIANNE BYRD

  To the Adrianne Byrd Book Club, You ladies are wonderful.

  Thanks for being there for me in my time of need.

  We’re more than a club, we’re family.

  Contents

  FINDING THE RIGHT KEY

  Kimora

  Coco

  Birdie

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Patrick

  Joel

  Elijah

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Elijah

  Patrick

  Joel

  Coco

  Birdie

  Kimora

  ’ROUND MIDNIGHT

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  BLIND FAITH

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  FINDING THE RIGHT KEY

  Adrianne Byrd

  Kimora

  Every inch of my body aches—in a good way.

  Elijah Thomas, as always, had tossed it up, flipped it and rubbed it down until I was practically speaking in tongues last night. The delightful scent of sex and candy tickles my nose and I slide on a smile before bothering to open my eyes. When I do, I’m surprised and elated by the pretty mess Elijah and I have created in our hotel suite.

  I try to sit up, but then I’m quickly reminded of the silk scarves that bind my arms and legs to different bedposts.

  Some days you really have to ask yourself if it’s worth chewing through the straps to get out of bed.

  “Ho! Ho! Ho!” Elijah emerges from a steam cloud billowing from the bathroom. “Merry Christmas.” His tall, dark-chocolate body appears yummier while wrapped in a snow-white robe with the hotel’s moniker printed over his heart. On his head sits a cheap red-and-white Santa Claus hat.

  “Where did you get that?” I ask, laughing at his silly antics.

  “Don’t worry about it.” Elijah’s bushy eyebrows seesaw while his thick lips widen and he moves stealthily toward me. “Right now Santa needs to know if you’ve been naughty or nice this year.” His eyes glint devilishly.

  “What do you think?” I tease.

  Elijah checks the camera on the tripod before he settles his weight on the edge of the bed and slides his large, callused hand up the inside of my right thigh before it disappears into the moist juncture between my legs. I should resist him, make him work for what he wants, but before I know anything, my breathing thins, my body melts and my eyes roll to the back of my head.

  “Ah, that’s my girl,” Elijah praises.

  His fine ass always could make me forget how to spell my name. In truth, he’s the best Christmas present I could have hoped for—but I will never tell him that. For all his black magic in the bedroom, I know trying to hold on to Elijah is like trying to hold on to smoke. He has a habit of appearing and disappearing before the sun can catch him.

  I’m surprised he’s still here.

  As I rock my hips in the same languid motion of his probing hand, my legs tremble and strain against the silk scarves. I doubt if I have enough energy to sustain another orgasm. If anything, it would probably wipe me out and put my ass to sleep.

  “My baby is ready for me,” he says, referring to the sounds my body makes as his strokes turn into plunges.

  I’m ready—or at least I think I am.

  The hotel robe flies across the room in a flurry, and Elijah crawls his sinfully chiseled six-foot-four body into bed and hovers over me. Briefly I feel the weight of his heavy, smooth organ against the lips of my shaved kitty, but I have no time to react before he slips on a condom and glides inside and fills me completely.

  Watching Elijah work—his arm muscles straining to balance his weight, his washboard abs flexing while his hips pump and the delectable way he licks his lips as he gazes down at me—is such a mind orgasm. This is probably why I don’t mind his taping our sexcapade—and the fact I get a copy.

  I’m telling you, girls, my Christmas key party was the best idea I’ve ever had.

  Coco

  Why in the hell did I let that heffa talk me into going to that damn key party? In one night I’ve compromised my career in the district attorney’s office. For what? A quick romp in the hay with my superior, Patrick Holloway?

  My boss, for God’s sake!

  Squeezing my eyes tight, I pray when I reopen them I’ll wake at home in my own bed—alone. No such luck. Patrick’s snoring buzzes in my ear like a chain saw.

  Dear God, why didn’t you stop me?

  I would cry, but it’s been so long I’m not quite sure I remember how. It’s not that I’m a hard-ass, like Kimora and Roberta claim. It’s just that I’ve come from a long line of women who never indulged in such luxuries as feeling sorry for themselves.

  Get up and dust yourself off.

  I always smile when I hear my mother’s voice. It’s as if I have a tape recorder inside my head with all her sound advice. I don’t need a video cam in heaven to know that she’s up there shaking her head over my behavior.

  I listen a few more minutes to Patrick’s snoring symphony before I attempt to creep toward the edge of the bed. However, it’s not the easiest thing in the world to escape a cocoon of satin sheets. You inch one way and then slide another.

  “Where are you going?”

  I freeze at the sound of Patrick’s voice croaking out at me. Exhaling and then painting on a thin smile, I glance over my shoulder to meet his sky-blue gaze.

  A white man. What in the hell was I thinking?

  “Home,” I admit. What’s the point of sugarcoating it?

  “So soon?”

  His long muscled but pasty arms capture my small frame and drag me back against his body. I cringe, but my nipples harden at the feel of his rock-hard erection.

  “Who said I was through with you?” he chuckles and then nibbles on my ear.

  Hell no, my head screams, but my body melts against him. Something has to be seriously wrong with me. Patrick and I are like oil and vinegar—literally. My skin color has been my pride and pain for thirty-five years. I’m not just dark, I’m black. African-black. And in 2006 in America, it’s practically a sin to be this regal and this…black.

  “It’s Christmas morning, and I want to play with my gift.”

  His hands dive beneath the covers, and to my horror, my legs open up to receive his gentle strokes. I’m shamed by the way I arch my back and thrust up my itty-bitty boobs. No, I don’t have a handful, but I have sensitive coal-black nipples the size of marbles.

  At one flick of Patrick’s warm tongue, I’m nothing more than a moaning idiot aching for one last tumble before I take my butt home.

  “You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting you. Wanting this,” Patrick says.

  His words strike me as curious, because up until last night we haven’t been able to stand the sight of each other. We’re both bossy, brass and refuse to give an inch toward each other. But I have no time to question him o
n this because in the next moment he slides into me with one long stroke.

  Damn, he’s pretty hung for a white boy.

  My eyes drift to half-moons as I concentrate on my vaginal muscles. Squeeze and release, squeeze and release.

  “Hot damn,” Patrick moans. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”

  I smile and push him over to take the top position. “I know exactly what I’m doing.”

  Ten minutes later, I have District Attorney Patrick Holloway spelling my name frontward and backward. I’ll think about the repercussions of the damn key party tomorrow. Right now I have to teach this white boy a thing or two.

  Birdie

  The theme from Shaft—my cell phone’s ringtone—drifts in and out of my head for quite a while before I realize it’s not a part of my dream but someone calling. I frown, wondering who it could be at this time of morning.

  Whoever it is is just going to have to try back later. This sleep is feeling too good for me to climb out of bed. When the music stops, I smile and snuggle closer to the pillow with snippets of last night’s party flashing in my mind.

  First of all, I had no business taking my big butt to Kimora’s key party. When she’d told me the rules, it had just sounded like an excuse to have an orgy or something. That’s just the kind of freak Kimora is. She’s my girl and all, but she’s still a borderline “hochie.”

  As it turns out, I have a little “hochie” in me, too.

  It isn’t long before my mind focuses on a pair of hazel eyes framed by long lashes. They were attached to a man with the most kissable lips I’d ever tasted.

  There was drinking, dancing and even a little Mary Jane. Hell, it was like being in college again. Now, if I could only remember the name of that hazel-eyed gigolo that helped me get my groove back last night…?.

  “Jason? James? Joel?”

  “You rang?”

  I bolt upright at the sound of the honey-coated baritone. However, my faux eyelashes are matted together, rendering me blind.

  “Who is it? Who’s there?” I back up so fast I overshoot the bed’s edge, and the floor rushes up to smack my butt, and my head bangs against something sharp. “Ow.”

  Laughter rumbles above me, and I have to literally use my hands to pry my eyes open. Smiling down at me are those beautiful hazel eyes and a naked pecan-brown brother with pillow-soft lips.

  “Hi,” is all I can manage to squeak out.

  “Hi, yourself.” He winks back at me and stretches out a coffee mug. “I figured you might be needing this.”

  I know he’s referring to the coffee, but my eyes drift to my mysterious man’s package—if you know what I mean—and it seems like I still have some “hochie” residue.

  Shaft plays again and two things bolt through my brain: One, today is Christmas; two, my kids are calling me.

  “Damn.” I scramble off the floor as fast as I can, all the while pretending the room isn’t spinning beneath me. “Where in the hell is my cell phone?” I bend, I squat and then I belatedly realize I’m doing all of this and I’m still naked—all one hundred and ninety pounds of me.

  Red-faced, I turn back toward my—what? Lover? Boy toy? One-night stand?

  “Don’t mind me.” He smiles lazily. “I was just admiring the view.”

  I smile but then jerk the top sheet from off the bed and quickly wrap it around my body. Apparently I’m not the only one who has hit their head. The music stops just as I locate my phone buried beneath my favorite pair of jeans. I flip it open and read I’ve missed six calls from my babies.

  “I, uh, have to return a call, er, uh—”

  “Joel.” He flashes a bleach-white smile. “Joel Hawkins. We met last night.”

  I nod stupidly, even manage a wobbly smile. “I remember now.” From the corner of my eye I spot the room’s adjoining bathroom. “I’ll be right back.”

  Clutching the sheet, I dart toward the bathroom, but a surprised gasp jumps from my throat when the sheet is snatched from my fingers.

  “Like I said, I was enjoying the view.” He sets the coffee cup on the nightstand and eases back onto the bed.

  When Joel winks again, I’m struck by how young he looks. “How old are you—twenty-five, twenty-six?”

  “Twenty-three next Tuesday.”

  My heart sinks and I forbid my head to do the math. “I’ll be right back.” I turn again toward the bathroom and I don’t dare breathe until I’m hidden safely behind the closed door.

  “Twenty-three?” I whisper to my reflection above the bathroom sink. What does that mean—that he was born the year Michael Jackson released Thriller?

  I take a seat on the only chair available and quickly punch in my ex-husband’s cell phone number. Drawing a deep breath, I brace myself for an onslaught of questions. And as soon as he picks up, Kenneth doesn’t disappoint.

  “Where in the hell are you?” he questions in a harsh, graveled whisper. “The boys have been trying to reach you all morning.”

  “I thought since you had them for Christmas, I would sleep in.”

  “You’re not at home or you wouldn’t be calling me back on your cell.”

  Einstein at work. “Put Terrence and Matthew on the phone.”

  “After you answer the question.”

  “I don’t have to answer a damn thing,” I snap. “Put the boys on the phone.”

  The line clogs with tension. Without seeing Kenneth, I already know his nostrils are flared and his teeth are grinding together. He wants to bark, but I know the children are close by and he has no choice but to stew in his anger.

  Screw Kenneth.

  He lost the right to question my whereabouts the minute he stuck his penis in my little sister—just like she lost the right to one of her front teeth. But I digress.

  A few seconds later I hear Terrence—my eight-year-old baby—as his excited voice rushes onto the line. “Mama?”

  “Hey, baby. Merry Christmas.” On my small porcelain seat I lock my knees together and rest my head against the palm of my hand while Terrence hurries through the long list of toys his father had bought him. I have to bite my tongue about most of the items on the list. Kenneth knows how I feel about toy guns and certain video games, which is exactly why he’d bought them.

  Divorce is a bitch.

  Matthew is next, and his list has me cringing in my seat, as well. What the hell is a three-year-old going to do with a DVD player—other than break it?

  A soft knock on the bathroom door reminds me where I am, and I realize that I’ve been in here probably thirty minutes. I quickly place my hand over the small receiver and call out, “Just a minute.”

  “Mommy, Daddy wants to talk to you,” Matthew is saying when I return my attention to him.

  “Tell him I’ll have to call him back later,” I say, needing a day off from arguing. Of course, Matthew doesn’t listen, and the next thing I know Kenneth is back on the line.

  “Birdie?”

  I hang up. I’m so over his mess.

  Standing from the throne, I glance over at the mirror again, and this time I’m horrified by what I see. My hair is pointing every which way but loose, my makeup is MIA, and my love handles are like yards on a football field.

  He was enjoying this view?

  There’s another rap on the door. “Birdie, don’t tell me you fell in?” Joel jokes with an infectious chuckle.

  “A few more seconds.” I laugh and rake my fingers through my hair weave. Thank God there’s Listerine and Dixie cups on the counter. After a quick gurgle and a splash of water to my face, I’m back in business.

  “Go get him, girl.” I wink at my reflection.

  When I reopen the bathroom door, baby-face Joel is smiling and leaning against the door frame in his gorgeous birthday suit. The thing is, he’s looking at me as if I’m the most beautiful woman in the world.

  I can’t tell you the last time someone looked at me like that—if anyone ever had. You know, I think I might keep him.

  Seven days
before Christmas…

  Chapter 1

  Kimora rushed through the doors of the American Liberty Bail Bonds office, her eyes wide as she searched for her cousin. She wasn’t used to being up at this hour. Mornings were for the nine-to-fivers who slaved happily away in a five-by-seven cubicle—or something like that.

  She’d never been to her cousin’s little business and she was less than impressed with the cramped, noisy office sloppily decorated for Christmas.

  “Where’s Stephen?” she asked no one in particular.

  “He hasn’t made it in yet,” a stout older Korean woman, manning the ringing phone lines, answered without so much as glancing in her direction.

  Kimora walked toward her. “Do you know when he’ll be back? This is an emergency. My friend is in jail.”

  The woman looked up. Her gaze dragged over Kimora’s short red skirt, exposed midriff and overflowing breasts. “You don’t say?”

  “Hey?” Kimora snapped. “What’s your name? My cousin owns this place and I’ll—”

  “It’s a little early for a catfight,” Stephen said from behind her.

  She pivoted with an instant smile and her arms stretched wide. “Stevie!”

  Stephen’s brows leaped when recognition settled in his eyes. “I’ll be a monkey’s uncle. Little Kimmy.” He took her into his embrace, squeezed too hard and too long. “Well…you’re not so little anymore, huh?”