Tropical Flavas (One Woman's Sexy Adventures in the Caribbean)

By Teri Dean

African American blogger Black Nympho owns her sexuality and blogs about every detail of her active sex life so when she gets an assignment that takes her to the Caribbean what follows is an exploration of the erotic joys to be had on each hot, tropical island.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Moon Mountain Press
• Release date: Dec 8, 2018
• ISBN: 9780463415894

Book preview

Tropical Flavas (Book Two)

by

Teri Dean

Copyright 2018 Teri Dean

All rights reserved.

This story is for sale to an ADULT AUDIENCE ONLY. It contains substantial sexually explicit scenes and graphic language. Please store your files where they cannot be accessed by minors.

License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re–sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the bookseller and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Disclaimer

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

For more sexy titles, please visit my author page.

Tropical Flavas (Book Two)

October 3 9:33 a.m.

Red Bull, Anyone?

What’s playing on my iPod now? You Can Get It If You Really Want by Jimmy Cliff. Classic reggae.

I’m sorry to report that Ricky, the nineteen-year-old, did not live up to expectations. Young guys have that whole youth thing going for them—you know, all gangly, enthusiastic, and energetic,but that was about all he had. Don’t get me wrong—the dancehall was a real Jamaican experience. I mean there were only a few white tourist faces there—mostly women brought by their rent-a-dreads. It wasn’t a disco, or really a dancehall as you might think of it. It was a concrete yard with wooden poles around the perimeter holding up sheets of galvanize in case of rain. The DJ was on a raised wooden platform at one side. Huge speakers in every corner pumped the music through the crowd and into our bones. No lie. I could feel the beat in my chest. Ricky wined on me and I wined right back, giving as good as I got. I go to West Indian clubs back in Boston, so I’m accustomed, but it was wild to actually be doing it in the Caribbean. It just made the whole thing more real . . . rawer somehow. A couple other guys tried to cut in on Ricky, but he wouldn’t let them.

I’ve smelled this kind of sweet scent here and there since I arrived in JA. At first, I thought it was tobacco—I don’t know why—some kind of brain fart.