Accidental Foursome Read online

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Accidental Foursome

  ISBN # 1-4199-0740-9

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

  Accidental Foursome Copyright© 2006 Daisy Dexter Dobbs

  Edited by Briana St. James.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Electronic book Publication: September 2006

  This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  ACCIDENTAL FOURSOME

  Daisy Dexter Dobbs

  Chapter One

  “Heart-shaped, oval or rectangular?”

  Yorgo “George” Kokoris cocked his head to the side as he studied the appealing view just a few feet away. It was clear by the American twang in the woman’s accent that Greek wasn’t her native language. “Definitely a rounded heart-shape,” he answered in English, eyeing the store clerk’s curvy bottom as she bent forward from the waist to reach a low shelf. The seam of her denim jeans perfectly divided the plump inverted heart. It was all he could do not to grab the inviting halves and squeeze.

  “Oh, good, you speak English. That makes things easier.” The clerk popped her head up and turned toward George with a bright smile, a large heart-shaped box of chocolates in one hand and a smaller one in the other.

  George straightened but not before the luscious little blonde caught him checking out more than the chocolates. Her pale cheeks flushed pink almost immediately and George couldn’t help smiling.

  After a moment of contemplative silence, she cleared her throat and blinked. “Our two-pound Helena’s Grecian Chocolates deluxe assortment,” she said, thrusting the larger box under his nose, “is covered in quilted satin, which gives a softer, rounder appearance. It has two each of our most popular chocolates.”

  “Perfect,” George said. “I’ll take it.”

  “We also have an assortment of free gift cards in English or Greek to include with your purchase if this is for a special occasion,” she said with a glance at his ring finger so quick it was almost imperceptible. “Like a wedding anniversary or your wife’s birthday.”

  “I’m not married. It’s for my mother’s birthday. Do you have a card appropriate for that? Something in Greek.”

  “Yes, absolutely,” she said as she walked to the cash register and plucked a small card from the display there. “Eytyx…eytyxis…” With a sigh of frustration the clerk looked up at George. “I’m sorry, I still have trouble with some of the pronunciation.” She handed the card to George with an apologetic smile. “But I know this one says Happy Birthday, Mother.”

  Feeling the coolness of her fingers against his skin as he took the card, George read aloud, “Eytyxismena Genethlia, Mitera.” He smiled. “I can see how this could be a difficult phrase for an American.”

  “Oh, you can tell?” she asked. “That I’m American, I mean.”

  “The accent is unmistakable,” George said, nodding. “My brother and I own a fitness club in Portland, Oregon. We split our time between there and here so I’ve become familiar with the nasal character of American speech.”

  “Nasal?” The woman bristled noticeably. “My voice isn’t nasal. I’m from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. That’s a Midwestern accent.” Elevating her chin, she stood proud, forcing her shoulders back and chest out.

  “Wisconsin…ah, yes, I know that!” George fought the magnetic pull to lock his gaze on her breasts. “You are a cheesehead, eh?”

  The clerk gave an indignant huff. “I most certainly am not.” She stood straighter still.

  “Da Bears,” George added in his best American accent, hoping that she’d thrust those inviting pink-apron-covered breasts of hers clear into his face.

  “That’s Chicago,” she said with a tsk as her shoulders slouched. “I think you’d better stop while you’re ahead.”

  George made a dramatic, sweeping bow. “My sincere apologies if I’ve offended you, ma’am.” When he straightened he could see that she was trying to squelch a smile.

  “That’s all right,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Will there be anything else for you today?”

  “Just you,” George said and the woman gazed up at him with a curious expression. He watched as her big green eyes grew wide, deciding that they were every bit as mesmerizing at her cute behind.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Just you,” George repeated. “For dinner.” Her eyes grew even wider and George winced. “No, that wasn’t right. I don’t want to eat you.” He paused because the notion was actually quite pleasant and then he shook his head, frustrated at his lack of mastery of the difficult English language. “What I mean is that I would like very much to take you to dinner.” He gave a hopeful grin. “Unless you’re married or have someone else, of course.”

  “Oh.”

  Her cheeks colored again and she lowered her head. George felt hopeful when he saw the telltale signs of a smile emerge.

  “No.”

  George’s face fell. “No?”

  “I mean, no, I’m not married or in a relationship,” she clarified. “And—”

  “Excellent,” George cut in, anticipating a lusty evening of food, drink and dessert. Especially the dessert. “So what time can I pick you up?”

  “And, no,” she continued, ignoring George’s question, “I can’t go to dinner with you because I don’t even know you.”

  “Sure you do. I’m Yorgo,” he said clapping one hand twice against his chest as he projected his most charming smile. “George in English.” He rested his elbows on the counter. “I was born right here in Mytilini, the capitol of Lesvos, thirty-one years ago. My family has owned Kokoris Olive Oil for several generations. My mother and father, most of my brothers, and all my aunts, uncles and cousins work there. No one in my family has ever committed murder, although rumors of insanity are whispered about at holiday dinners. I already told you that my brother Nikolas and I own a fitness club in the states, the Apollo Health and Fitness Club. We split our time working there and working here at the family business. And, let’s see…oh yes, Nikolas and I are identical twins. We’re six-foot-four and upon close inspection it’s clear that I’m definitely the more handsome twin.” George grinned. “The only other difference between us is that Nikolas recently got married to an American girl and I’m still single. There. Now
you know everything there is to know about me.” He leaned in closer. “And when I pick you up for dinner tonight, we’ll spend the evening talking all about you. What time is good for you? Six, seven, eight?”

  “My goodness, you certainly don’t waste any time, do you?” The woman laughed. “You forgot to throw in the part about you being a man who’s thoughtful enough to buy his mother designer chocolates for her birthday.”

  “Ah, yes, being a perfect son is one of my many redeeming qualities.” George winked.

  “I’m Helena.” She took his hand and pumped. “Well, it’s really Helen, actually. I just use the name Helena for the shop because it makes it sound more Greek.”

  “Ahh, so you’re the store’s owner?”

  “Yup.” She gestured around the cheerful pale-pink, cream and chocolate-brown shop. “Welcome to my very own little corner of chocolate heaven.”

  “It’s a fine little corner. Almost as pretty and sweet as its owner. So,” George persisted, “how about that dinner date, eh?”

  Helen looked at him for a long moment. “I have to admit it’s tempting. Especially after all of your barefaced sweet talk.” Her eyes sparkled as she grinned. “But I’m afraid I still have to say no.”

  “Ouch!” Clutching his shirt just over his heart and stepping back, George sucked in a deep breath, letting it out with a noisy whoosh. “That hurt. What was it, the mention of possible insanity? Because I can assure you, Helen, sanity is my middle name. In fact, I’ll even have my mother write a note to that effect if it would help.”

  “No, it’s not that.” Helen laughed. “You seem relatively normal, and you’re quite charming, George, it’s just that…” She trilled an audible sigh and stepped around the counter, standing in front of George with her arms outstretched. “Look at me, George.”

  He did. She looked so damned delicious he wanted to lick her from head to toe, paying special attention to a couple of particularly promising areas.

  “I’m soft and round without a speck of muscle definition,” Helen said, poking herself in the belly and patting her hips.

  For someone as devoted to fitness and muscle tone as he was, George was more than a little surprised to find himself on the verge of drooling. At somewhere in the vicinity of five foot two, Helen embodied all the best attributes of a classic mid-century movie siren.

  “You look like you were carved out of marble,” she went on. “You own a health club and I own a chocolate shop. Trust me, the two aren’t compatible. Besides, you’re too young for me. I’m…well, let’s just say that I’m old enough to be your…” she cleared her throat, “your older sister.” She blew a wisp of hair out of her eye and went back behind the counter.

  “Why do women insist on doing that to themselves?” George asked, shaking his head. “You’re always busy finding fault with yourselves. Helen, listen to me, if I didn’t find you attractive, I wouldn’t have asked you out. For the record, I like my women to look like real women, not like…how do you say it…like lollipop sticks. And I don’t care if you’re twenty-five or sixty-five. What difference does it make if we’re attracted to each other?”

  “George, I’m thirty-nine.”

  “Yes?” He shrugged. “So what’s the problem?”

  “Okay, what’s wrong with you?” Helen asked, a distinct look of suspicion etched across her features as she planted her fists at her hips.

  “What? I don’t understand.”

  “First of all, you waltz into my chocolate shop looking like you just stepped off the cover of the Greek God Gazette. Second—”

  “So you think I look like a Greek god, eh?”

  “Second,” Helen continued, her cheeks flushed, “you’re buying birthday chocolates for your mother. Third, you like your women fat and old. And finally, you speak like a poet…” She gazed at him with such intensity George almost felt it bore a hole right through him. “You’re gay, aren’t you? I mean,” her arms flew into the air and then flapped against her sides, “what else could it be? Unless maybe you’re just kinky. Is that it?”

  “Gay? Me?” That got George’s hackles up. Just because he and Nikolas were buff and good looking, people were always assuming they must be gay, or at least bisexual. “If I was gay why would I ask you out to dinner? To chat about how you put those little swirls on top of the chocolates? No. If I were gay I’d be two doors down at the butcher shop buying a kefalaki for my mother and asking the six-foot-five tobacco-chewing Demetrius to tea.”

  “So I guess that leaves kinky,” Helen pointed out. “Well, I’m not into that sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing? What do you have spinning around up there,” George twirled a finger at his temple, “that you think I want to do to you, eh?”

  Helen’s cheeks zipped right past pink to a deep shade of plum. “How should I know? You like older women. Maybe…maybe you have a mother fixation.”

  George was aghast. “That’s disgusting.”

  “Or maybe you’re into…I don’t know…handcuffs, whipped cream and chocolate sauce.”

  Before George could answer he felt his dick spring to attention.

  “Whatever it is,” Helen said, “I’m not into it. Just because a woman is older and wears a plus size doesn’t mean she’s desperate.” She took a deep breath. “Or so grateful for attention that she’ll jump at the chance to perform wild, wanton sex acts.”

  George’s erection bloomed mightily.

  Growling, he shoved a hand through his hair. “Hazi Americana!” he blurted.

  “Crazy!” Helen gasped, waving an accusatory finger toward George. “You just called me a crazy American woman!”

  “Sorry.” He closed his eyes in a long blink. “I forgot that you understand Greek. But, still, if your foot fits into the shoe then you are wearing it.”

  Helen looked at him as if he were crazy. “Huh?”

  George tsked. “I’m not good with American sayings. What I mean was—”

  Crossing her arms over her chest, Helen pinned him with a narrowed glare. “If the shoe fits. Is that what you’re trying to say?”

  “Yes.” George nodded. “I think so. It means—”

  “Oh, I know exactly what it means,” Helen shot back. “Well, I may be a little eccentric, but at least I’m not nutty enough to eat kefalaki.” She shuddered. “Ugh.”

  “Roasted lamb’s head is a time-honored tradition in Greece,” George said in proud defense of his country’s customs. “And even all throughout America’s Greek community during special holiday celebrations.”

  “Each time I see those things hanging in the window of Demetrius’ shop staring at me with those dead eyes and grinning with those huge teeth I feel like I’m in the middle of a horror movie.” Shuddering again, Helen rubbed her arms where George saw visible goose bumps.

  “The eyes are considered a delicacy,” he explained calmly, pegging her for one of those taste-bud-challenged Americans whose idea of culinary heaven was to slather ketchup over everything.

  “Ugh!”

  “Along with the cheeks, the tongue and the brain,” George added. It never ceased to amaze him how the average American preferred junky fake food to fine quality, traditional ethnic cuisine.

  “Eew, eew, eeew!” Helen clapped her hands over her ears and stamped her feet. “Please, not another word. I’m not kidding, George. I’ll have nightmares about sheep faces chasing me all night long.”

  George studied the skittish woman. “What is your last name?”

  Helen frowned. “Krasilkowski, why?”

  “That is, what—Russian, Polish?”

  “Polish, but what has that got to do with—”

  “You eat feet pickles,” George said. “Yes?”

  “What?”

  “Animal feet and knuckles made into pickles.”

  “You mean pickled pig’s feet?” George nodded and Helen shrugged. “Well, sure, but for heaven’s sake, George, they don’t stare back at me when I eat them.”

  “True, but many p
eople would find the idea of eating animal feet most unpleasant. So you see, Helen, we have tradition from our ancestors in common. You eat the feet, I eat the head and I think we both eat most of the meat in the middle. It’s what we’ve known and have become accustomed to since childhood.” He gifted her with a patient smile.

  “Uh-huh, well thanks for the lesson in food history but I have to get back to work now.” Helen snatched the money George had deposited on the counter and rang up the sale, slapping his change back on the counter. Then she rammed the quilted heart-shaped box into a bag and held it out to George. “Thank you, sir. Have good day.” A saccharine smile did little to mask her curtness.

  George took the bag and stood there gaping. The woman may be beautiful, but she was obviously beset with mental problems. “I don’t understand. Didn’t we just establish that we have something in common? Why are you angry now?”

  “Because you said I was crazy, remember?” Helen explained before turning on her heel and marching off to the backroom.

  “Look, I’m sorry,” George called after her. “But what did you expect me to say after you accused me of being gay and kinky?”

  “I didn’t accuse. I was only asking,” she retorted from the other room.

  George could tell by the sound of her voice that she was pouting. He stared at the pink and white striped curtain separating the store from the backroom, replaying their conversation in his head and wondering how it had escalated into this mess. He’d been quite nice, he thought. A perfect gentleman. He’d been charming, complimentary and reassuring. And what did he get in return? A tongue-lashing from a crazy American woman living in Greece who hadn’t bothered to learn anything about local customs, much less appreciate them. She was nothing more than a ditzy, curvy blonde who made his dick twitch. He could have slapped himself at that moment for instantly wondering if her pussy would give her away as a bottle-blonde. No…he didn’t need this kind of grief—not when he could have most any woman he wanted with a snap of his fingers. Grumbling a sigh for having wasted a good portion of his morning, George turned to leave.