Saturday, June 28, 2014

Tips for getting in the mood, to write

The muse wandered off because something shiny caught their attention and you're left staring at a blinking cursor wondering what the fuck to do. Are you mid-way through and still doubting this is even going to be something better than a piece of crap? Are you at the very beginning of something that was awesome in your head and you started but then had to stop and now you're wondering where the hell this is going? Me, it's always the damn sex scenes that sends the typing coming to a screaming halt and then getting it up and finished without it being the same scene I've written before and making it hot and interesting. I fumble, I take my eyes off the page and jump on Twitter, Reddit or even worse binge-watch on Netflix until the middle of the night as I'm trying to fall asleep and the whole scene falls out of my head but I'm in bed and it's a little after one am and I pop another Xanax and fall asleep. Then the next time I try and sit down and write the scene that fell out of my head last night is nowhere to be found.

Some of these are things that I've picked up (stolen) from others and some I came up on my own, none are guaranteed. 

1. Write something else completely, don't start another story! (I have three half-written stories doing this, bad, don't do it.) Write a blog post, this has gotten me far ahead a few times and it gets the words coming and the juices flowing. Maybe you keep up with friends via email, write the email. Writing exercises I like and are relatively short is one where you describe something in the room so that if you read it to a blind person they could see. Another short exercise I like is write a letter to someone just writing about your day, what did you do how did you feel throughout the day or do it as if it were a journal entry.

2. Write something about your characters, there is a writing exercise to list 20 things about your character that never make it into the story, i.e. they broke their arm at eight while learning to ride a bike, they've never broken a bone, never had a cavity, love thunderstorms. It further builds the world you are creating and helps you see your characters more clearly. Maybe write the blurb as you see the story working out. 

3. Keep writing but skip the part you are stuck in. Do you have another scene that you see clearly? Write that and then come back to where you are stuck. 

4. This is the one I use the most and works the best for me (I am a procrastinator and pressure works for me best). Set a timer and just start writing even if it doesn't sound right or look good (there's this thing called revision) don't stop writing until the timer goes off. For me ten minutes is the perfect time, knowing it will go off soon but not too soon and anything more than that gives me too much time to daydream. When the alarm goes off read through and change or if it's so bad that won't work just reset the alarm. For me by the third time I set the alarm it starts to flow all on its own. 

5. When you sit down to write, give yourself a word count goal. Give yourself a reward for hitting your word count like time on Pinterest, Reddit or Twitter or even television. (This one I stole and don't really believe in, your reward is a finished story, but for some people this works). 

6. Set a word count goal every day or the days or even by the end of the week, and if you meet it the reward thing or if you don't meet it, loss of distractions. (Again this kind of thing doesn't work for me as the moment someone tells me no, I say yes.) This was an idea I stole. 

7. Read something, this is a double-edged sword. If it's too good then you can get a little doubtful of your own ability but for me it helps because it gets me in the mood and I want to be as good or better than the writer I usually read. (It's the competitor in me)

8. Don't write, yes, I did say don't write. If you're having a hard time, stop. Get comfortable on the couch or the big smooshy chair and daydream your story some more. Think about what you've written so far and does it work? How do you see it end, how and what will it take to get there? Don't force it, just think about it and then when it feels like you've got it. Get up and write. (This will hopefully stop the 1 am story flowing)

9. Mood music anyone? Do you listen to music when you write? Maybe try it if you don't and if you do try listening to something that reminds you of the story or scene of feeling a character is going through. 

10. Change your scene, or create one. Do you usually write on the couch or comfy chair? Maybe create a dedicated space to just your writing, even if it's the dinner table. If you have a dedicated work space, change it up and try the local coffee place or even the library (free wifi, and no $6.00 cup of coffee to purchase). 

11. Step away from the computer and maybe do your yoga, take a walk or get your time in on the treadmill. Get the blood flowing and for me, my mind works on the story as I plead for the timer to count down my time on the treadmill. 

12.  Remember the most important fact, a writer writes. A writer who doesn't write is a cranky, miserable person and even if it feels like you can't, it won't be good, it will be the most vile thing anyone's ever read. Sit down and write and don't stop. Anyone can start but it's the finishing that separates a writer from a wanna-be. No one says you have to write the great American novel, not every sentence will be perfect, not every page will flow, just write and then when you are done, you will rewrite. 

Tuesday, June 24, 2014

Doing a Giveaway for free Amazon Gift cards and Free Ebooks!

3 lucky winners get an ebook off  backlist, and also giving away one $20 Amazon Gift Card to one winner, and one $10 Amazon Gift Card to another lucky winner. 

For a chance to win please fill out the rafflecopter below.



Also don't forget Abby has Gone Wild is free and is available everywhere, even iTunes!

This is a standalone novella at 39,561 words, it is an erotic romance with explicit language so please be aware that it is graphic in nature before purchasing. 

Below check out the second excerpt from Abby has Gone Wild


If I thought he was done, I was so very wrong. He sends me texts begging me to call him. Then he gave up and pretended like I was responding and we were having conversations, long texts about what we were doing at the time. He was funny and sarcastic and he had me laughing again. Then he sent texts that were so hot I don’t know how my phone didn’t melt. Even though I told myself not to, I gave in. I used my vibrator, wishing it was him as I came to his words. What made me crazy was he knew I did it. I don’t know how he did but he knew. He was making me crazy and that had to be the reason, the only reason, when after three weeks he calls me late on a Saturday night I answer.
I open my mouth to tell him to stop calling but instead I moan his name and sigh. I’m still trembling from the orgasm I’ve had to the text he’d just sent. His intake of breath is clear.
“Abby, did you just come for me?”
“Yes.” I whisper, floating as I drift back from the stars.
“Are your fingers still in your pussy?”
“Yes.” I moan as my fingers linger in my wet pussy.
“I want you to lick your fingers baby. Taste yourself the way I tasted you after you left me standing in the parking lot with your juices on my fingers and my dick hard.”
I do as he orders and sigh. I know the taste of myself and I like it.
“Abby, I want to bury my face in your pussy and taste you all over again. Is your clit still tender?”
“Hmm.” Sitting up, I undo the clasp of my bra that I’d been in too much of a rush to remove and just pulled up to get at my aching nipples.
“What are you doing baby?”
“My bra, tight, taking it off.”
“Your breasts are so beautiful, my cock is twitching thinking of them. Are your nipples hard, have you been playing with them while you read what I want to do to you?”
“Yes.” I whisper, ashamed as I attempt to sooth the tight peaks.
“Don’t baby, don’t sound like that. I wrote it to make you come. I wrote it because I can’t be near you and I want to be so badly. But if you aren’t ready for that, I’ll take what I can get.
I wish I were there with you now. I want you to take a nipple into your mouth and suck it deep into your mouth. Will you suck your nipple for me baby? Suck it deep into your mouth and play with your nipple with your tongue. That’s a good girl I can hear you moaning. Say my name. Say it.” I moan his name and he sighs. “Good girl, now do the same to your other breast but now I want you to use your teeth just a light grazing of your teeth and then suck it deep inside your mouth while your tongue plays with it. That’s it baby, you like that don’t you? I can hear you that you do. Put your fingers back in your pussy.
Put them back in for me. I want you to slide your middle finger deep inside yourself while you suck your tits.” I can only moan his name. He’s setting my body on fire all over again from his words. His voice in my ear makes it feel like he’s here with me. “I’m looking at your tits right now. I can see they’re wet from your mouth, make them wetter for me. Suck them into your mouth and then I want you to take a nipple between your fingers and roll it around and squeeze it, almost till it hurts. Your little gasp just caused my cock to jerk, I’m leaking all over my cock for you. Is your finger still in your pussy, sliding into you where my cock should be?”
“Yes, oh yes.” I’m so close. I want to come.
“Not yet Abby, don’t come yet. I want you to add another finger to your pussy. Do it for me baby, add another finger for me. Feels good, you like that?” I can only sigh, and whimper, speech is too much for me. “That’s good baby, now a third finger, add a third finger. Now I want you to slide your thumb up to your clit, I know it’s swollen and as hard as my cock. Slide it over again and again.” I’m sobbing with the power of my climax and my body is shaking. I want him here with me and it’s his name on my lips as I fall apart. His breath is hard in my ear and through the phone I can hear his hand stroking his cock. Then he groans my name and I know he’s come for me. 

Moaning, feeling lost and alone I roll over in bed and bury my face in the pillow. Knowing I have no other words left, I end the call. Then terrified of what might happen next, I turn off my cell.  

Saturday, June 21, 2014

Who am I?

I was asked recently if I told the truth in a blog post I wrote and just the other day I was asked if Fiona Murphy was my real name. While the first question pissed me off and led me to feel insulted does the fact the answer of no to the second question make me a hypocrite? I don't think so, and not just because it makes me feel better but because the discussion has been held often that most people writing erotica are not using their government name. Mainly to protect themselves and their family from embarrassment but also because I sometimes think there is an expectation of an erotica writer that 'normal' writers don't have to deal with. 

There was the statement that Fiona Murphy was/is a persona, a part I play to or up and the simple fact is that's not true. Fiona is me, I don't act the same way at work that I do with my friends, is at work Fiona a persona, not really. Mainly, I just keep my mouth shut (seriously, I do not talk at work unless I have to and it's usually yes or agreeing and expanding on what the other person just said). My own family doesn't know how many boyfriends I've had or that I've been proposed to four times-just the one time). My family doesn't know my financial situation and there have been more times than I care to count that they didn't know or understand what I did for a living. (I have never done anything illegal they just didn't understand and it was easier to say I worked for a bank than I was a trader). I'm a very private person, even with my family, that's just who I am.

I don't make shit up because I have the memory of a gnat and if I can't remember what I did yesterday then I sure as fuck am not going to remember something I tweeted or blogged weeks ago. Also, I really couldn't give a fuck what people think about me. I've worked long and hard, both with and without a therapist to get to a place where I'm okay with who I am, what I believe and what I need to make me happy and I'm not going to go back on that for anyone. 

I have lived in many different places, Phoenix, KC, Chicago my hometown in the midwest (I'm not going to name). I spent months in a city in Iowa, a city in Nebraska, Boston and DC and several weeks in San Francisco and visited several cities in the area. I had a boyfriend who lived in Dallas and I spent a lot of time there. In my family, my parents and their parents and even their parents have dealt with illegal issues (too long and nothing to boast about but something they told me led me to write the gangster's girlfriend and yes there was an aspect of a real love story). Here's the thing, there's really no difference between me and the name I use other than it's just a different name. I grew up upper middle class and that led to some of the habits and my comfort level with that environment, I've also been so poor and lived off food stamps and often I was the kid in the classroom who wasn't black and so my comfort level with people outside my race came from that experience). As far as the name I picked, it is special to me and a few people know the significance of it, it wasn't picked at random. 

Here's the thing, if you pay real attention, and most people don't. The things I tweet and blog about are not that personal. I did write about the journey to publishing because although it was personal to me, I don't think it is all that different than what other writers have gone through. Yes, I have said I grew up in a dysfunctional home with a psychotic mother (I have come to realize I am so unalone in that) I have a gay brother and a shitload of brothers and sisters (7 brothers 2 sisters). I do not differentiate between them, half or step or full because for me there is none. I tweet hot pictures of gorgeous men (when I was in middle school I took a men's catalog to school because it had hypercolor underwear-I have always been a horndog and six years later a person I hadn't seen in all that time remembered me for the catalog). I have tweeted I hate my job-who doesn't when they aren't doing what they really want to do. I've tweeted about a few health issues that aren't really interesting and are pretty general. 

I don't tweet about my personal life or take selfies or post pictures of my tattoos or my home or anything I deem too private because I believe the moment you open that door, it's damned hard to close. Unlike most of the people in my generation and younger I have no desire to put my life on blast. One, I'm boring as fuck and quite happy that way (for many years my life was like shit out of a soap opera until I took control and stepped the fuck out). Two, I don't judge people because I have no idea what lead them to be the people they are, the choices they made and the demons they are fighting so I refuse to open myself to judgement. Three, while I have met some great people through Twitter and Facebook and I hope that continues I'm completely cool with never meeting or becoming besties with anyone because too often in my past I have opened myself up and it lead to disappointment and even a few times complete and utter disaster but it was too late to go back. 

Who am I? Does it really matter? I don't want the focus to be on me, I want the focus to be on the stories but here's the thing, to quote Virginia Wolfe: Every secret of a writer's soul, every experience of his life, every quality of his mind is written large in his works.

Saturday, June 14, 2014

You are what you read

I've said it before, and it's on my profile and it's not exaggeration or an attempt to be interesting. I started reading at the age of five because I had a brother who was two years older than me and with three brothers we were an extremely competitive lot (also very violent at times). So if my brother was learning to read and could read then damn it so would I. There was also the fact that my mother was a big reader, she stayed at home and she read all the time, in bed and on the couch, books were scattered about on every available surface. Very quickly I mastered the children books and then my mother brought home a book called Why is the grass green? it was one of those books to shut up an annoying kid who wanted to know everything, my dad said it was perfect for me (he wonder's why he only got a father of the year shirt once). This book was amazing, I read it back and forth and then I didn't understand some of it and my mom handed me a dictionary. Wow, all the answers to questions I had were in this book and the other things were in this dictionary. Books had the answers, without asking (she didn't care anyway there were absolutely no parental controls in our home) I picked up one of my mom's books.

It was Carrie by Stephen King. I didn't understand, really understand half of it and what I did understand had me shrugging. I was six years old, okay yeah it was mean of people to be mean to the girl but that was no excuse. I shrugged and moved onto the next book at hand. It was Dean Koontz, Nightchills, ooh me likey. I then devoured all the Dean Koontz books in the house, I think there were six more. Then I moved onto John Saul, again a handfull of books and it was back to King. I'm not going to lie, even at six there was ego involved in reading those books. I was so proud of myself for reading 'adult' books. It didn't matter that I often got no sleep and didn't just have a night light, I slept with the light on for a good three years.

So yes at first there was the look at me, a little kid reading a big person book but so quickly I didn't even realize it, they became my escape. School would be boring and my mind would drift back to the story, the scenes, the dialogue would all run through my mind and I would reread them again and again. When I read them I wasn't stuck in a dirty house with an abusive and quite frankly psychotic mother. There wasn't any screaming or throwing or fear of a belt or shoe or whatever object at hand she could turn into a weapon. For years I was addicted to reading, it was my only escape and I needed it like I needed food. When I couldn't get it, I was desperate enough to write my own stories. In these stories everyone died, no one but the cat made it out alive. Little by little I kept writing more and the stories were longer and they were all dark, brooding and snippets of Koontz and King and Saul came through each story. In the fourth grade we had to write and read a story in front of the class, I made a girl and a boy sniffle, my teacher kept asking why the little girl had to die, (Oddly, didn't end up in the principal's office) in side I was punching the air, I had done it. I had created character that was cared about and when I offed her, people cared. (I've seen a therapist, twice).

Then one weekend I stayed at a friend's house and her grandmother had a collection of old Harlequin novels. Books! Was my first thought and I picked one out and began to read. Oh my, no one's dying and he sounds hot. I was ten and I was hooked. I started going to my friend's house just for the books. Before long I had devoured the small collection. More, I needed more but I couldn't get them at the library so I would walk to the grocery story and sit down in the aisle and read them. Seriously.

As the years went by my interest in one author after another died off and I hadn't read a King book in years. Working in a book store in Chicago we got advance reader copies of books to read and discuss with patrons. There was this eye-catching book and it was free, I shrugged and showed it to the manager as I left (you have to declare and open bags in the retail business) and he goes, great book, you'll love it. That's nice I thought. It was late and I had work the next day really early so I went to bed. I was off the next night and decided to settle in with it after dinner. It was about eight in the evening and I couldn't stop reading until I was done at two in the morning. Never mind that I had to be up at six in the morning, it was that good. Wow, there are other authors out there than the ones I grew up with?

The door was open and I walked through it. I tried all sorts of authors and even gave the oldies another look, to mixed results. One night, without a thing to do I decided I wanted to write a book as good as that book I read while living in Chicago, something different and fresh and with a twist. Well, it was a lot more of a twist than I thought it would be or wanted but I couldn't stop.

When I was finally done, I printed it out and read through it. Half of it was pure crap and half of it was usable. I also noticed something, the style of what I was writing wasn't the tone of the book from Chicago, it was very Koontz. Huh, maybe I'm seeing what I want to see I thought. Then a family member read and she said, it was good, it reminded me of Dean Koontz. So it wasn't just me. I didn't attempt to mimic Koontz, I was going after a whole different kind of style. But here's the thing, I had grown up reading Koontz and still did. The writing voice was different but the thing I liked the most about the new book was it was a tighter read, there was no long rambling description of the full moon. Every word counted, nothing extra was left on the table to chew on and spit out because it didn't go down.

When I sat down to write erotic romance, I read everything I could get my hands on. Some of it was good, some ehh but when I stalled I went back to Lynne Graham and Michelle Reid, I'm almost positive I have every book both have ever written. Both did great Alpha males, sometimes the heroine was a little too soft for me. Regardless, I loved them both, they're writing was strong and I longed to write a story someone would want to read more than once. (When I read a review where someone said someone read it twice and another where someone read it three times, I cried like a little bitch)  There's just one problem for both of those authors, apart from the scary father/uncle/mother/sister pushing the heroine into a position she wouldn't normally find herself in, the secondary characters were practically nonexistent and often no more than card board characters.

I realized I had fallen into the same damn thing, laying in bed thinking of a book I really enjoyed and the funny secondary characters. I actually said over and over, I can't see my secondary characters. Fuck, once while writing it had stopped me but in my mind it seemed to make sense it would all be about the two main characters in a love story. But when I saw how well it had been done and how much it added to the story I stopped writing for a week.

I stopped and wondered about my first story, had I messed up there? No, was the fast response I got from a a pretty rude uncle who has no problem being honest. The secondary characters were extremely vivid and a little scary. Then again, the authors I read for mystery, thriller drew their secondary characters as clearly as the main character, they weren't just supporting the story, they were a part of the story.

And that boys and girls is just one more reason to read, read, read.




Friday, June 6, 2014

Second excerpt for The Gangster's Girlfriend


Smashwords
Nook
Kindle
 Also available on iTunes

This is a standalone novella at 36,218 words. This is an erotic romance with explicit sex scenes please be aware of that before buying. 


“What? What more business is there to discuss?”
A light smiled played over his beautiful lips. “Sweetheart, this isn’t about business. What I want to talk about now is pleasure, yours and mine. Stay with me. We can have dinner and then we can learn more about the desire that is between us.”
Miranda gasped in outrage and shock at his words. How could he know—was she so completely transparent? “How dare you?”
Shaking his head, he sounded sad, “Darlin’, do not be denying your desire for me. There is no need, as I find myself suffering the same. True, a desire this strong is not a common thing, but to deny it does nobody any good.”
No, she couldn’t do this. She stood up, and he did too. “Stop, no. No way. I will do the audit, but that’s it. I will not get involved with you at all on a personal level. Criminals are absolutely a no-go for me, ever.”
Turning away, she made it to the doorway of the office before he reached her, his hand on her wrist. His touch was a brand on her skin. He pulled her around to face him, and he was so close to her that she had only to lean forward to touch her body to his. She froze, terrified of touching him.
“Miranda, why does this attraction frighten you? Talk to me, sweetheart.”
Stepping back, she attempted to yank free, but he tightened his grip. “I am not your sweetheart, so quit talking like that. I’m sure your wife or girlfriend or whatever wouldn’t appreciate it. I’m not a toy to be picked up and played with. Take your hand off me.”
Sighing, he let her go. “I have no woman, Miranda, and I believed that being honest and forthright would be welcome. I mean no disrespect to you. I had no idea that deep down you are a child when it comes to sexual pleasure. I apologize.”
Miranda opened her mouth to argue with him, but she couldn’t find the words. He stepped closer, and as he leaned into her she could feel the heat of his body. Her mind screamed to move, but she was frozen. His lips were soft as they teased the corner of her mouth with light, fluttering movements. Heat hit her hard and flooded over her, and still she couldn’t move. At her lack of reaction, his lips moved over hers, just grazing, without the slightest bit of pressure. Yet everywhere they touched, she felt it down to the core of her, and she opened for him without thought. With a sigh, he swept into her parted lips. His tongue was hot, and the taste of him was sin and sweet in a heady mix. Slowly, almost gently, he explored her mouth, and with long, sure strokes of his tongue, he tasted her. Shock held her in place. She wasn’t responding but she couldn’t pull away. It felt too good. Deeper he moved into her mouth, his tongue sliding over hers causing her to tremble with need. He was drawing her into his own mouth, the soft, hot cavern of him, and she moaned. The sound woke her from the dream he had woven around her, and she pulled away, swaying as she went.

“No.” It killed her that her voice shook and her body trembled. There was so much she wanted to tell him. That he was wrong—she knew about sex and how painful and lonely it could feel. How she could never be what he wanted her to be because she wasn’t like other women. But she couldn’t. She closed her mouth and half ran down the hall and out the front door. He was right, and she had no defense against him. 

Wednesday, June 4, 2014

Second Excerpt for His Secretary with Benefits

Smashwords
Nook
Kindle
Also available on iTunes

This is a standalone novella at 31,103 words.
Beta readers have deemed this Romantic Smut. Graphic anal and rough sex, spanking scenes. 
(NOT BDSM) 



Tina was shaking her head as Laura walked up to their table with a sheepish expression on her face. “That man is a genius. He sends you out looking like you’ve already been very thoroughly and satisfyingly fucked so all the guys can just keep walking.”
Laura couldn’t help it. She blushed and buried her face in her hands. “I’m sorry, okay? Please don’t be so mean.”
“She isn’t being mean, sweetie, she’s being honest. I’m not even going to ask how things are going, because it’s obvious they are going very well.” April said with a chuckle.
“Fuck that, I’m asking. How’s it going?”
Laura smiled and then, without any warning, she burst into tears.
“Oh shit, you didn’t. Damn it, you weren’t supposed to fall in love with him.” Tina says as she grabbed napkins and stuffed them into Laura’s hands.
“Oh, dear, I’m so sorry, Laura. I didn’t think that would happen.”
That got through to her, and Laura wanted to smack April. “Are you insane? How could you not think that might happen? He’s gorgeous, kind, scary smart, and he doesn’t treat me like a damn blow-up doll. You want to know why Kelly isn’t mousy any longer? It’s because he listens to you, asks you questions, draws out your opinion on business, and if he likes it, he’ll actually do it. He pushes you to learn more and think for yourself when it comes to business, not just what you think he wants to hear. He doesn’t just take from you—he gives back. Then there’s the ‘body of a Greek god’ thing and that he can make me come without even being inside me or touching my clit. I have no idea how he does that, but oh my god, how could you not see this coming?”
Tina looked at April. “This is all your fault.”
“My fault? You were the one who practically blackmailed me into telling her about the job. No way, this is all your fault.”
A short squabble broke out before Laura couldn’t listen anymore. “It’s nobody’s fault. If it’s anyone’s fault it’s mine. I should have known better that very first week it started. He was commanding and very demanding, yet he was also so gentle and sweet at times.”
“Are you sure it’s love? Maybe it’s just the really amazing sex. Look at me and Tyrone—I would have sworn on a stack of Bibles the first year that it was love. Five years later and I’ve finally kicked his ass out and changed the locks this time. Good sex fries the brain. It’s chemical and shit; I read about it on the internet. I mean, it’s only been about six months. It’s really easy to be dickmatized in those first few months.” Tina asked hopefully.
Shaking her head, Laura laughed as she wiped away her tears. “I’m sorry about you and Tyrone, even though we all knew that was way overdue. I am not dickmatized. It would be nice if that was all it was. I know it’s love, I just do, all the way down to my bone marrow. Jeff, I can see it now, that wasn’t love. That was longing not to be alone and a desire to be in love. This is completely different. I’m sorry to bring you guys down. I didn’t mean to. I had no idea I was going to cry like that.”

“Hey, who’s to say there’s anything to cry about? So he’s a little gun shy after one bad experience—who hasn’t been? If he’s as smart as you say he is, then he’s going to figure out that letting one bad experience prevent him from being happy with you is stupid. Don’t forget that’s he’s asked you to move in with him. That has to mean something.” April patted her arm, and Laura sniffed and nodded. 

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Second excerpt for Abby has Gone Wild



This is a standalone novella at 39,561 words, it is an erotic romance with explicit language so please be aware that it is graphic in nature before purchasing. 

If I thought he was done, I was so very wrong. He sends me texts begging me to call him. Then he gives up and pretends like I am responding and we are having conversations, long texts about what we are doing at the time. He’s funny and sarcastic, and he has me laughing again. Then he sent texts that are so hot I don’t know how my phone didn’t melt. Even though I told myself not to, I gave in. I used my vibrator, wishing he was there as I came to his words. What made me crazy was he knew I did it. I don’t know how he did, but he knew. He is making me crazy and that has to be the reason, the only reason, when after three weeks, he calls me late on a Saturday night, and I answer.
I open my mouth to tell him to stop calling, but instead I moan his name and sigh. I’m still trembling from the orgasm I’ve had to the text he’d just sent. His intake of breath is clear.
“Abby, did you just come for me?”
“Yes.” I whisper, floating as I drift back from the stars.
“Are your fingers still in your pussy?”
“Yes.” I moan as my fingers linger in my wet pussy.
“I want you to lick your fingers, baby. Taste yourself the way I tasted you after you left me standing in the parking lot with your juices on my fingers and my dick hard.”
I do as he orders and sigh. I know the taste of myself and I like it.
“Abby, I want to bury my face in your pussy and taste you all over again. Is your clit still tender?”
“Hmm.” Sitting up, I undo the clasp of my bra that I’d been in too much of a rush to remove and had just pulled up to get at my aching nipples.
“What are you doing, baby?”
“My bra, tight, taking it off.”
“Your breasts are so beautiful, my cock is twitching thinking of them. Are your nipples hard, have you been playing with them while you read what I want to do to you?”
“Yes.” I whisper, ashamed, as I attempt to sooth the tight peaks.
“Don’t baby, don’t sound like that. I wrote it to make you come. I wrote it because I can’t be near you and I want to be so badly. But if you aren’t ready for that, I’ll take what I can get.
I wish I was there with you now. I want you to take a nipple into your mouth and suck it deep into your mouth. Will you suck your nipple for me, baby? Suck it deep into your mouth and play with your nipple with your tongue. That’s a good girl I can hear you moaning. Say my name. Say it.” I moan his name and he sighs. “Good girl, now do the same to your other breast, but now I want you to use your teeth, just a light grazing of your teeth, and then suck it deep inside your mouth while your tongue plays with it. That’s it, baby, you like that, don’t you? I can hear you that you do. Put your fingers back in your pussy.
Put them back in for me. I want you to slide your middle finger deep inside yourself while you suck your tits.” I can only moan his name. He’s setting my body on fire all over again from his words. His voice in my ear makes it feel like he’s here with me. “I’m looking at your tits right now. I can see they’re wet from your mouth, make them wetter for me. Suck them into your mouth and then I want you to take a nipple between your fingers and roll it around and squeeze it, until it almost hurts. Your little gasp just caused my cock to jerk, I’m leaking all over my cock for you. Is your finger still in your pussy, sliding into you where my cock should be?”
“Yes, oh yes.” I’m so close. I want to come.
“Not yet, Abby, don’t come yet. I want you to add another finger to your pussy. Do it for me baby, add another finger for me. Feels good, you like that?” I can only sigh, and whimper, speech is too much for me. “That’s good, baby, now a third finger, add a third finger. Now I want you to slide your thumb up to your clit, I know it’s swollen and as hard as my cock. Slide it over again and again.” I’m sobbing with the power of my climax and my body is shaking. I want him here with me, and it’s his name on my lips as I fall apart. His breath is hard in my ear, and through the phone, I can hear his hand stroking his cock. Then he groans my name and I know he’s come for me.

Moaning, feeling lost and alone, I roll over in bed and bury my face in the pillow. Knowing I have no other words left, I end the call. Then, terrified of what might happen next, I turn off my cell.

Sunday, June 1, 2014

Second Excerpt from His Next Chapter

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 This is a full length standalone novella at 36,543 words.
Please be aware beta readers have deemed this Romantic Smut, due to explicit sex including anal and mutual masturbation. If this offends you please do not buy. 




There isn’t much—a small table that screams seventies that a hipster would drool over but I think is awful. Oh well, better than nothing. I attempt to help with the table, but am shooed off, so I grab the two chairs that go with it. I refuse to notice his muscles flex and move beneath the black shirt. My body is already humming for him. He allows me to help with the only soft covered chair. Maroon with arms that are low and the back high, and it’s heavy as hell. There are bookshelves that don’t match that I think will look good after a fresh coat of paint. Of course, no bed. I shrug it off when Lukas mentions it. I place the table in the small area off the kitchen and move the matching chairs around it.
“No big deal. I can run to the store and get an air mattress. I’ve slept on them before; they aren’t so bad. Thanks for your help.” I need him out of here, now. Before I do something very stupid, like go down on my knees and beg him for sex. He leaves and closes the door, and I’m so relieved I can breathe again. Running for the kitchen, I wash my hands. My hands are covered in dirt and dust, and I’m not going to wait to find one of my vibrators—I need it now.
Collapsing into the maroon chair, I’m filled with relief it doesn’t face the open blinds, but rather the door out of the apartment, as I don’t have the patience to close the blinds. I tear open my jeans and stick my hand down my panties and sigh with pleasure as I lean back and move my other hand up to play with a hard nipple. I put my leg over one of the arms of the chair and close my eyes as I remember his two simple touches and the flexing of his muscles beneath his shirt. I want him over me, his dick hard and deep. I want his mouth on my breasts, sucking my hard nipples into his mouth as he drives into me. I’m so wet and hot that it takes only minutes of playing with my clit before I hit my climax.
A sound catches my sex-fogged brain, and I open my eyes to find Lukas there. The door is open and he hasn’t crossed the threshold. He is simply frozen with a box in his hands. When his eyes meet mine, the heat there is scorching hot, but he says nothing. He simply puts down the box down and turns, taking the stairs at what sounds like two at a time. It’s so quiet that I can hear the quiet clicking of his door, but I’m still so filled with shock that I’m having a hard time taking it all in.
My fingers are still in the wet heat of my pussy, and my other hand is cupping my breast. As I look down, it’s as if I’m disconnected from it all. Looking down, all I can think is, Well, at least my body is covered—except for about six inches of my stomach, there isn’t anything on display. Except he saw me touch myself until my body shook with an orgasm. Finally I can move, so I take my hands off my body and redo my jeans. I wonder if he knew it was him I was thinking of.