Thursday, August 4, 2016

Stripped Bounty Chapter Two Excerpt

Coming: 8/9/2016

Amazon | Barnes and Noble | iBooks | Kobo 

Later that night Badger pulled his Harley-Davidson Dyna into the back lot of Deuce’s Cabaret and parked in his usual spot near the back door. He pulled the bandana off his forehead and tucked it in his back pocket and did the same with his shades. It was nearing the end of summer and the late nights had finally started dipping just below the triple-digit mark, but seeing as it was just after seven thirty at night, the air temp was still pushing a solid one-oh-four.
Badger strode to the back door. “Evening, Jayson.”
“Evening, boss.” The bouncer nodded and held the door open for Badger to enter.
“Thanks.” Badger stepped into the cool air of the back hall and made a hard right directly into the office. Deuce was at the desk, shuffling through some paperwork and stroking his long beard as Evie lounged on the couch to the right, book in her hands. “Evening, kids.”
“Hey, Badger. You get the bad guy?” Evie smiled and Badger moved to her and gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Not yet.” He turned to Deuce. “Thought I told you not to wait up?”
Deuce snorted. “I got lonely.”
“Awww.” Badger clapped his boss on the shoulder and shot a wink to Evie. “Girls all present and accounted for?”
She gave him another million-dollar smile as she giggled. “Of course. Hey, how’s your grandmother doing?”
“She’s good. Saw her tonight before heading in.” He removed his Glock 9mm and holster and locked it in the top drawer of the filing cabinet.
“You’re such a good grandson. She’s lucky to have you.” Evie’s eyes softened along with her smile.
“Thanks. More like the other way around, though.” He looked back to Deuce. “You need anything, I’ll be up front.” With that he left them to their business and made his way down the hall to the bar.
Evie and Deuce Stevens had been together damn near thirty years, maybe longer. His boss was in his midfifties, but the miles the old biker had weathered when he wore his now-retired MC patch on his back made him appear a lot older. Evie had been with him through all of it. The miles had weathered her, too, but she was still a damn pretty lady.
Badger strolled past the dressing room. The noise from all the girls getting ready for the night was loud enough to penetrate the closed door as well as the dull echo of the music coming from the DJ in the bar. Damn, crazy ass, loud strippers. He shook his head and kept on his way.
The strobe and black lights were in full effect inside the main area of the bar as Tesla’s “Love Me” played on the sound system. Two strippers had the main stage and a few were scattered among the small crowd, working table dances.
Two of his security team flanked the open area on each side. He nodded to them both and then ambled past the bar and waved to Sadie, the night bartender. As he took a mental accounting of the lingering happy hour patrons, Badger took a seat on his perch between the front door and the bar.
It was Thursday night, so they’d draw a decent crowd over the next four or so hours and maintain it until closing time, though Friday and Saturday nights were always better.
Within two hours the crowd was in full swing. As Halestorm’s “Unapologetic” began on the sound system, the deejay announced a new dancer, Arianna, on the center stage. New song, new dancer. No biggie. But a tingle at the back of Badger’s neck had him glancing to the stage as he took a swig of his coffee…and almost choked on the lukewarm liquid. He cleared his throat and blinked. Twice.
It was her.
The goddamn brunette from earlier in the day.
Badger set the cup down. Fuck me. The very brunette he hadn’t completely stopped thinking about all afternoon. He watched as she strutted down the stage in a black fitted skirt that came just above her knees, topped by a white button-up dress shirt. All that pretty long hair of hers was pulled up and she had on a pair of sexy-ass glasses.
The woman looked like a librarian or schoolteacher—a fucking sexy-as-hell one.
Every hot-blooded male’s wet dream. Blowing out a breath, Badger ran his palm along his jaw and kept his eyes on her. As if they’d be going anywhere else.
Arianna—not likely her real name—rounded the pole at stage left, turned, and with the bar against her back, arched her body so her petite, upside-down heart of a rear-end was pressed against the shiny steel. She ran her hands down the front of the white shirt, giving definition to the small but pert breasts beneath it.
Three beats of the song later, she ran a hand back up her chest, to her cheek—her glossy red lips set in a pout—and pushed off the pole, strutting until she reached the other end. Arianna—or whoever she was—gripped the steel in one hand, hooked a leg around it and, lifting herself off the ground, spun a few times before dropping into a low squat, the post pressed between her parted thighs to her core. After stroking up and down, riding the pole a couple of times, she thrust her hips backward with a snap that had the audience cheering.
Men and women in the crowd began to rise from their seats and approach the stage. With the pole gripped tight in two hands, she bent forward before straightening—slow and sultry, unbelievably sexy. The curve of her ass in the tight skirt was enough to make Badger grind his back molars.
Holy shit.
Badger crossed his arms and leaned his back against the wall. Tracking her movements like a hawk, he watched as she moved center stage, gliding on those long legs like the devil herself, pulling the skirt higher with each step. In an effort to save himself, he glanced away. He had to.
A few beats later, the crowd cheered again, and without giving himself permission, Badger whipped his head back around. She was just too fucking hot not to watch. Badger’s mouth went dry as she turned her back to the crowd and made a show of tugging down the zipper of the skirt before sliding the fabric down her long legs and stepping out of it.
The hem of the white dress shirt hung past her ass, and as she strutted upstage to the back wall and, more importantly, the pole and mirrors, Badger knew this was only the beginning.
This woman was putting on a show, and by the time she was topless, Badger had a feeling it might be the best show the customers of Deuce’s Cabaret had seen in a long-ass time.
For sure, it was already the best show Badger had ever seen.


Rosie pressed her hands to the mirror upstage and rolled her hips around. She’d been beyond nervous since she’d gotten hired that morning. Evie, the house mom, and apparently also the owner’s wife, had been so sweet to her while she’d auditioned earlier in the day and again, just now while getting ready. Rosie could’ve hugged her. She’d even brought Rosie a double shot of Jack Daniels from the bar. Thank God. It was enough to take the edge off, but not enough to get her drunk—just what Rosie had needed.
The song ended, and just as she’d directed, the deejay queued up Karise Eden’s cover of “It’s A Man’s World.” If she had to get back on the stage, may as well do it with a bang. Rosie turned and slid down the mirror slightly, tugging on the ends of the shirttails, as she rolled her hips, using her legs to propel her movements.
Two steps downstage, and she stopped, raised her fingers to the arm of the prop glasses she wore, pinched it between two fingers, and peered over the top of the frames to the customers. As she scanned the crowd, her eyes landed right on him—the bartender from that morning. Rosie couldn’t make out the expression on his face but his eyes were on her. She felt them.
For the whole day, and especially when she’d reported in for her shift, Rosie had been plagued with the feeling that she’d somehow disappointed him. It was stupid. Not like she knew the man—he sure as hell didn’t know her. He had no right to judge her, and she had no reason to care. But really, why work in a strip club if he didn’t like strippers?
With a wink in his direction, simply to bust his balls, she pulled off the glasses and tossed them aside. Raising her hands to her hair, she yanked the two strategically placed pins free and let the mass of dark thickness fall down around her shoulders. Fine. He didn’t like strippers. Well, Rosie wasn’t the average stripper, and she intended to show him that.
Without hesitation, Rosie reached for the pole, swung around and pulled herself up, scissoring her legs into the air before curling herself around the cool steel as if she’d just done this deal yesterday. Technically, she had…
Rosie may’ve hung up her G-strings and stripper heels two years ago, but she’d continued pole dancing at a local fitness studio in Connecticut. It was strictly to keep her body in shape, as well as release the constant flow of energy that’d always plagued her. Good thing she’d kept at it, or her comeback to the scene might not have been so easy. All things considered, it wasn’t going too bad.
But “easy” was a subjective term, really. None of what Rosie was doing was easy. Not emotionally anyway.
The patrons went a little nuts as she spread her legs wide while suspended upside down. Rosie gazed out over the crowd before righting herself and sliding to the ground. Making a dramatic show of every movement, she cocked her head to the side and tugged open one button of the shirt. Then another. Rosie teased, popping her shoulders and revealing a bit of her cleavage before she let go of the blouse and moved her hands to her hair, shaking out the long length. It felt good, casting her spell on the crowd, the energy from them filling her insides, fueling her to take it another notch higher.
Shifting, she changed the position of the split and arched backward. In that position, she undid the rest of the buttons on the shirt and peeled the two halves open. With her top discarded, she bent forward, rolled over and up to her feet.
She’d had just enough cash left to go and buy a black, strappy bikini-style top and matching G-string. The skirt and dress shirt, she’d already had.
She’d worn them to her husband’s funeral.
How apropos she now wear them to make a living—a living Joey had never had a problem with. He’d liked the money too much. Selfish bastard! Not like he had a say anymore. Years ago, he was the reason she’d quit. She’d done it to spite him. Now he was the reason she was back on the pole.
Rosie shoved the thought aside and strutted, slow and easy, down stage and right to a group of men waiting, dollar bills in their hands. Her ass might be hanging out but she hadn’t removed her bra-top yet. And already she was making money. Relief washed over her as she turned and squatted down in front of the small group and let them tuck the money they held in the side straps of her G-string. “Thank you.”
Rising, she smiled over her shoulder and shot them a wink before stepping away to the other pole. She gripped the steel in both palms, swung her body and flipped herself upside down. As she rotated, Rosie hooked a knee around the bar and let the momentum of the movement spin her.
Keeping her arms out to accentuate the motion of her body, she completed a few more revolutions before rising and righting herself once more.
Godsmack’s “Keep Away” began and as Rosie allowed her body to slow in its revolutions, she extended out of her position until once again she was on the floor. She pushed up off the ground and moved center stage. Rosie scanned the crowd, searching for him again. And found him. He hadn’t moved, and he was still watching. Good.
In the next moment, she unhooked the back clasp on her bra as she scooped up the skirt she’d discarded earlier with her free hand. In one seamless motion, she slipped off the strappy top and slid the black skirt in front of her bare breasts.
Rosie teased the crowd. As she’d always done. As dancers were meant to do.
That was the whole point of a striptease, wasn’t it? Maybe she’d shown him that. She sure as hell did the crowd. Whistles sounded from the club floor and more patrons lined the sides of the stage—dollar bills at the ready.
Still on her knees, she spun away, giving them her back, but then arched backward to lie on the stage. With one hand tangled in her hair, the other still holding the black fabric to her chest, Rosie undulated her hips, her long legs extended in the air.
After twining them together at the knee and then apart a few times, she slammed the soles of her feet down on the ground, raised her hips high in the air and tossed the skirt aside. Rosie rolled backward, her legs coming over her body as she pushed herself over and up to her feet.
Adrenaline pulsed through her, and her body hummed from the energy in the crowd. With her hair hanging over one eye, she turned and faced the crowd, finally giving them what they wanted: her bare body. Bare except for the strappy, black G-string.
Rosie walked forward, stopping to roll her head, swinging her long hair around. She’d missed this. The show. The response from the crowd. The high that came from gaining their attention. All of their attention. The feeling was unexpected but no less true. With a bounce and pop of her hips, she swayed in time with the hard beat of the song before moving to each customer lining the stage. As the song played out, she let the searing sound of the guitar and the deep tone of the singer’s voice roll through her as each man at the edge of the stage tucked dollar bills in the straps on her hips.
When the song ended and the deejay announced the next dancer, the crowd clapped and whistled right over the top of him. They clapped, for God’s sake! Loudly and with vigor. Yeah, she’d missed this. Unable to stifle the pride that automatically rose in her belly, Rosie gave herself a mental pat on the back and gathered the additional dollar bills that’d been tossed onto the stage for her performance.
The next dancer mounted the stage and just as Rosie was about to step down, she glanced over her shoulder.
His eyes were still locked on her.
But now she could clearly see, he wore that same hardened stare she’d been subjected to that morning. And just like earlier, she felt it like a physical touch. The tingle she’d experienced came right back, too, skittering down her spine. Titillating. The same as it’d done that morning.
And Rosie didn’t like it. Not at all.

Tuesday, August 2, 2016

Stripped Bounty Chapter One Excerpt

Coming: 8/9/2016

Amazon | Barnes and Noble | iBooks | Kobo 

Three months later…

“No Colors or Weapons Allowed.”

Rosie Santini read the sign mounted on the brick exterior wall of the establishment. Shaking her head, she opened the solid wood front door and stepped out of the Phoenix hundred-and-four degree heat and into the dimly lit, air-conditioned strip club.

Back in the day “colors” meant a biker’s patches—as in motorcycle club patches. Commonly found on the back of a leather or denim vest. Considering there was a pack of Harleys parked on the sidewalk out front, Rosie figured in Arizona that’s exactly what the sign referred to. Plus, as she’d learned pretty quickly after arriving in town, barring having a criminal record, people could carry a gun in AZ right out in the open for all to see.

She took a moment as her eyes adjusted, no longer sure if this was such a good idea, and looked around. Type O Negative’s “Christian Woman” blared from the speakers as Rosie walked forward on the old green and white—or gray, rather—linoleum-tiled floor. A small birdcage-style stage sat empty off to her left. To her right, the mahogany bar, with its large mirrored backsplash and various bottles of booze, stretched along the whole wall. In the center of the large space sat a collection of small round tables, a tealight candle atop each one, with two pleather chairs arced around them. Doing a quick count, around twenty or so customers occupied the bar. Not uncommon for the middle of the day in a strip club.

Ahead of the tables was the main stage in the shape of an upside-down T. Mirrors lined the back wall with red curtains draped theatre style at their edges. White rope lights ran along the edges of the narrow stage leading down to the wide part, which held a pole on each end. There was also a spinning wheel mounted on the ceiling near center stage; she hadn’t seen one of those in years. And finally another pole, near the mirrors along the back wall.

Two girls had the big stage, clad only in their G-strings and stripper heels. One circling a pole, the other on her hands and knees as a patron stood behind her, dollar bill at the ready. Rosie shook her head. Dancers these days barely danced—hardly did anything to put on an actual show or striptease. That was the whole point, wasn’t it? At least back in her heyday it was.

She drew in a deep breath and blew it out. Deuce’s Cabaret wasn’t seedy…necessarily. But it wasn’t plush, either. More that it needed a face-lift. Desperately. Not her first or even fourth choice for employment. But it’d do. At least the music was good.

Rosie circled in place, scanning the corners of the club, looking for cameras. And there wasn’t a single one to be found. Anywhere. Hopefully they had good bouncers. She’d spotted at least two of those throughout the space.

Hiking her big pocketbook a little higher on her shoulder, Rosie blew out a breath and stepped to the bartender. “Hi there.”

The big man, clad in a black T-shirt, turned from the cash register and faced her. Rosie lost her breath when she caught sight of his face but managed to get a grip on herself as he walked toward her. He dipped his chin, cocking his head to the side, as he wiped the bar top directly in front of her with a white bar rag. “You lost?”

Rosie swallowed past the layer of glue that’d suddenly appeared on her tongue. Jesus, he was breathtaking…speech-taking, too. Perfect nose, full lips, the bottom one a tad fuller. Incredible bone structure. Freaking guy could be a model. He was huge, too—muscular and at least six one, maybe taller. She blinked a few rapid blinks and glanced away from his piercing light-brown gaze.

In an attempt to gain some control of her thoughts, Rosie plopped her pocketbook down on the closest barstool and, after a breath, looked back to him. “No. Not lost. Are you by chance hiring?”

He crossed his muscled arms, his biceps bulging, testing the limits of his T-shirt sleeves. “Bar or stage?”
“Bar.” She managed a smile.

“Nope.” His stare didn’t waver and Rosie took in the small lines around his eyes, but also his strong jaw, partly hidden by a goatee and way-more-than-five o’clock shadow. Yeah, definitely a good-looking man.

“What about waitress?”

“Nope.” He dropped his arms and turned his back.

Wow! Had he really just dismissed her like that? What the hell. Rosie faced the stage, and the dancers again. The Pretty Reckless’s “Make Me Wanna Die” played now. She hadn’t been onstage in about two years, and it was the last place she wanted to be again. But she was broke. Getting across the country from Connecticut to Arizona had cost Rosie more than she’d thought. She hadn’t anticipated the freaking car dying. Twice. She hadn’t anticipated her husband dying, either. Jerk. Rosie would never forgive him for putting her in this position.

Biting the edge of her barely existent thumbnail, she turned back around and faced the bartender. Desperate times called for desperate measures. “Okay fine. Stage?”

With his back still to her, he glanced up from the bottle he was wiping down and caught her gaze through the reflection in the mirror. “You sure about that?”

Was she sure? Rosie’d already been to six other bars that day, and three the day before. No, she wasn’t fucking sure, but she needed a goddamn job. “Absolutely.”

He turned, stepped to the bar top and rested both his hands on the edge. Did a muscle in his jaw just tick? Again he dipped his chin and cocked his head to the side—almost as if he was sizing her up and judging her abilities right there on the spot.

A beat of nervous energy rolled through her. Talk about feeling like a bug under a microscope. Jesus, she was uncomfortable. Rosie crossed her arms and jutted out her chin. The guy might be hotter than hell but the last thing Rosie needed was bullshit from some stranger right now. 


He pursed his lips, his firm gaze steady on her for another few moments before rubbing his palm along the side of his whiskered jaw and letting out a sigh. “Far side of the stage. Follow the hall to the back. Evie’ll help you out.”

“Oh.” She cleared her throat. “Okay then.” Rosie shouldered her bag, feeling a bit like she’d disappointed him. Which was pretty weird considering she didn’t even know him. “Thanks.”

Turning on her heel, she stepped away from the bar. He was still staring at her. She knew it. Rosie could feel his gaze like a physical touch, skittering down her spine and over her skin as she made her way across the club in the direction he’d sent her. The screwed-up thing was, rather than creepy, the feel of his eyes on her was titillating.

Considering she’d only lost her husband three months ago, her body’s reaction made her feel even more uncomfortable than she’d felt standing in front of him. Shrugging all of it off, Rosie walked through the narrow doorway in the far corner of the bar and down the empty, almost sterile hall.

And back into a world, she hadn’t wanted to ever visit again.


Badger shook his head as he watched the tall, slender brunette with the sad, dark-brown eyes walk toward the back hall. “Shame.”

“What’s that, Badge?” Deuce came up to the bar.

Badger glanced over to him. “Fresh meat.”

The owner took a seat in his spot at the end of the bar. “Fresh meat’s always good in my book. Nothing shameful about that.”

Badger grunted and reached for a fresh glass. “You want something?”

“Eh, just a seltzer water. Evie’s been nagging me about soda.” Deuce clasped his hands together on the bar top and looked toward the stage.

Badger filled the glass with the clear carbonated fluid. “Hate to break it to you, boss. But this is soda.”

“Like hell it is. It’s water with bubbles in it. Smart ass. Now, grab me a lemon.”

Badger chuckled and placed a lemon wedge on the edge of the glass. “We’re fresh out of umbrellas.”

“Kiss my ass.” Deuce chuckled and sipped the drink.

“Maybe later.” Badger grabbed the clipboard from the side of the register and went back to taking inventory.

Didn’t matter what the boss said, pretty girl like that one ending up being another stripper was a damn fucking shame. No two ways about it.

For a minute, since she’d asked about tending bar or waitressing, Badger thought, or maybe hoped, she might not be another pole jockey. So much for that. She had to have been on stage before. Sadly, you could take the girl out of the strip club, but eventually they came back. Especially if they still had some looks and a body. This one had both…in spades. Her eyes had gotten to him, though.

Badger looked up from the beer cooler to see her walking back across the bar toward the exit. She glanced over at him but quickly looked away before stepping out into the bright Arizona sun. Yeah, eyes were always a weakness or a warning for him. Hers were sad, like she’d seen some hurt in her days. But they were skittish, too. The skittish smacked of more than hurt in her past.

Regardless, he didn’t mess with the strippers anymore. Those days were long gone. But even if she hadn’t turned out to be a dancer, Badger would’ve steered clear anyway. There was enough “more” behind those sad and skittish eyes of hers for Badger to keep his distance. He didn’t need the drama or the headache that came along with that amount of luggage.

The front door opened again and the weekday bartender, Wendy, walked in. “Hey, Badger.” She waved as she passed by him on her way to the office, as if she wasn’t over thirty minutes late for her shift.

“You’re late and I got shit to do besides cover your ass behind the bar.”

She spun around, facing him, and shrugged, arms out at her sides. “Sorry. I had a flat.” She continued walking backward before turning again and disappearing down the hall.

Badger grunted before staring down at the clipboard in his hands again. Damn bar staff were just as bad as the dancers. It wouldn’t matter so much if he wasn’t always the one on point to cover until they brought their asses in. He was supposed to just run security, not the bar staff, too, but the lines tended to blur.

Mostly because Badger had a tendency to blur them.

Not that he’d admit that to Deuce if his life depended on it.

“You got some bounty hunter work to attend to?”

He glanced over at Deuce and nodded. “Yeah. Got a lead this morning on a skip I’ve been tracking.”

His boss looked at his watch. “Good luck. See you back here ’round eight?”

“’Course.” He set the clipboard down and jerked his chin at Deuce as he stepped out from behind the bar. “Earlier if I can. Order’s ready to go. Don’t wait up, honey.”

“But, darling, we haven’t had any quality time together.”

“Yeah, yeah.” With a wave over his shoulder, Badger chuckled and headed for the same hall he’d sent the brunette down. As he passed the dressing room, he gave a nod to Evie, Deuce’s old lady. After a quick stop in the office to grab his gun, he stepped out into the daylight, lit a cigarette, and made his way to his pickup.

It was time to give his other career a little attention.

Monday, May 16, 2016

Stoker Con - 2016

Stoker Con - 2016 - Held in Vegas baby!

This past weekend I had the privilege of attending Stoker Con.

Now, as you all know, I am not a horror writer...although there was this one time that I wrote a short erotic horror story, and the awesome Ray Garton critique'd it for me and told me, that I was in fact, a horror writer.

I told him he was f'ing crazy.
He thought that was funny.

But I digress...

I went to a horror writers convention this past weekend to see friends. Specifically to hang out with one of my best friends, NYT best selling author of romance and erotica, Megan Hart. Megan also writes YA horror under the pen name Em Garner.

But I also went to hang out with other horror authors that I've become friends with over the past few years. Brad C. Hodson, being my number one! (No kidding, I adore this guy, truly! Right, BLAINE?!) Bryan Shane Best, another friend I made in NOLA two years ago. I adore him and we've stayed in contact via FB since then. I even got to meet his wife, who's a total sweetheart.

I got to know, Eric Miller - I do believe we'd met before but this year we spent a decent amount of time chatting about all things books! I got to see Craig DiLouie again, which was awesome and also got to meet his gorgeous girl, Chris Marrs. John Palisano was a total sweetheart and we bonded over our mutual publisher woes.

But wait, there's more!

Andrew Wolter, a friend I'd made at least 5 years ago, who I also hadn't seen in 4 years, was there too! I ran into him walking down the hall heading to an event and stopped dead in my tracks! Andrew used to come to Sunday dinners at my house and then we'd hang on my back patio, writing and talking--okay, mostly talking, but still.

Bottom line: I love reconnecting with old friends! And I love making new ones!

Speaking of new seems Megan and I always manage to form a little con posse where ever we go. This time the two new victims were Rob E. Boley and Kerry Lipp. A couple of awesome horror writers, and all around fabulous guys!

BTW: Kerry is a saint for tolerating my grumpy, and sometimes pushy self. And said, on FB, that he'd "follow me into hell."

Here's the proof of that. Wonder if he really means it?  
Hehehe...Buckle up, Kerry!

Anyway...when I sit back and think about how awesome my life is, and how blessed I am to have such incredible people in it, I'm just in awe. Truly.

This is my life, and I get to have it. How freaking cool is that? I don't know why I get to have it, but I do know I cherish every single minute of it.

This was my 3rd horror writers convention in the past 4 years. What the hell is a romance author doing at a horror convention? Well, life just works out that way sometimes. But I have to say, I'm starting to feel the itch to maybe write some horror...

Who knows, right?
Why not, right?
We shall see what the future holds.

If anything, that little short I mentioned, titled Bed and Breakfast, will definitely be self published to Amazon in the near future, so stay tuned for that. I'll let you tell me whether or not you agree with Ray Garton's assessment. =)

For now, enjoy a little video slide show I made of the random, and a tad bit wild, pics taken over the weekend with old and new friends in this fabulous genre!

Wednesday, June 15, 2011


He was perfection.

I saw him across that crowded bar. The walls were paneled in a light wood, tinted darker now from the years of cigarette smoke that coated them. He was someone I would never have bothered to look twice at. Too young, too pretty and yet when our eyes locked, the air between us crackled with electricity.

Something so strong passed between us in that moment. Everything around us disappeared and all I could see was him. Time had stopped and we were alone in that crowded bar, among all its patrons and their cigarettes and drinks. When he approached me and we began talking, I knew that I never wanted to stop talking to him. A bond formed in those short hours we spent, making mostly small talk, that would withstand much more than either of us ever thought possible.

And so, it began. Our greatest fantasies and our worst nightmares came true.

In spite of the intense sexual fire between us, the first touch of his tongue to mine was shy, sweet and yet still, pure heat. His hands explored my body, as if he already knew exactly what it needed. I bet he still does. I knew him as well. I still know exactly what to say, how to touch him, how to make his body ache for mine. I became his, without him ever having to ask, and he became mine.

Hours upon hours of mindless, earth shattering sex. His naked hips pressed against my backside as he bent me over my desk. Hands, rough from his work, sent tingles along my spine as he dragged them down my back. He would tangle his fingers in my hair and tug my head back as he pounded himself into me. “Such a dirty bitch,” he’d say and my body would sing in release for him. Always for him. Later he would settle between my thighs, poised above me. Our bodies were slick with sweat, a consistent result of our love making. I would wrap my legs around his hips, holding him close to me, my arms encircling his neck. “I love you,” I would whisper. A kiss, eyes wide open, staring into each other’s souls and drinking in the depths of bliss that hid there. Those slow moments of passion that lingered between us branded our hearts as he entered me. Time would stop.

With so much passion and intensity of course, there was always the fighting. A perfect mixture and it seemed we reveled in it, soaking ourselves in a desperate pool of jealousy and retaliation. Anger boiled to the surface in place of understanding and the gloves would go on. Round after round we would battle. It became our form of foreplay. After all, what’s better than make-up sex? Fucking and fighting. The best of both worlds, it was unavoidable. The fight would happen and my body would burn for him. He told me once that it was like that for him too. That I made him beyond angry, hateful even, and in those moments, all he wanted to do was fuck me. Sometimes he would. Sometimes he wouldn’t and it was the latter that would leave me with an ache in my chest that equaled the ache between my thighs. Madness.

Naturally, living together proved disastrous, another failed attempt to “make it work.” We fooled ourselves into thinking that living together would somehow make it better, easier. I’d push, as was always my nature to do, for more. Always more. “Pay attention to me!” Or “Where have you been? You’re never home with me. Fucking be here. Be with me. Choose me or fucking leave!” I would scream. He would dig his heels in and refuse to fight, which would make me crazier. Then he would just walk away. Leaving me there in my misery and seething hatred, only to come back because he couldn’t stay away. That damned connection, like some invisible tether drawing us back together. Always there. Always. As if we had no choice. No say at all in the matter.

Baffling. We had created such a warped and beautiful form of love. I loved him with all my heart, every part of my soul, and he loved me. He told me every day that he did. “Baby, I love you. End of story,” he would say. He never thought I believed him. I was so sure that we would find a way to sort through it all. To make sense of this thing between us that just wouldn’t go away, that wouldn’t die. Soon enough though, I watched him walk out the door for what would be the last time. He turned a blind eye to my tears and a deaf ear to my pleas to stay. The white paneled door of our apartment slowly closed. Its audible click rang in my ears and vibrated through my body to the soles of my feet.

Steeped in heartache and misery, I let him go, I had to. I refused to beg him to stay. Blessed anger reared its ugly head. Fuck him. Fuck the- I love you’s. Fuck the promises made. Fuck everything. I’ll live with it. All the pain, all the misery, all the memories and the God forsaken fucking ache!

Time is supposed to heal all wounds, but in my case it did not. On occasion I’m forced to see him. Our paths cross and he pretends as though he doesn’t see me. I pretend, too. I quietly watch him play at that same bar where we met. The same walls, paneled in a light wood, tinted even darker now from the years of cigarette smoke that coat them. Who is the next one in line for him? Who is the next on his list? It doesn’t really matter, they aren’t me. I realized long ago that there is no one like him. Try as we may, what we had can never be replaced, nor repaired.

In truth, he disgusts me now. When I see him flirting with another woman, or see that look he gets in his eyes that is supposed to only be for me, my anger rises and bile burns the back of my throat. That ever present heat begins between my thighs, again. Thunder booms in my chest and I am ready to tear into him. Tell him to go fuck himself and whatever floosy he’s slipping his dick into tonight. Then lightning flashes and all I want to do is fuck him, feel him fuck me like he used to. I have often wondered if he still feels like that, too. I think he would rather die before he ever admits he does.

At home, alone in my bed, my insane fantasy begins. I see it, ever so clearly, as I slip my fingers between my slick folds. If he ever dared to approach me, what would I do? My body aches at the prospect as I probe my channel, then rub my clit. I would slap his face. Yes. I’d revel in seeing the fire erupt in his eyes, knowing that his cock just got hard, for me. Always for me. I’d take his hand then, and lead him to my car, or my bed. Fuck, even a dark corner would do.

The pain would be worth it. Touching him again, feeling him slide inside me. Always had been, hadn’t it? It would destroy my very soul and yet, I’d fuck him until he screamed my name and…

For us. Always for us. We would start our madness all over again.

Because we were perfection.

Friday, March 18, 2011

Watch Me

Tell me, how do you devour me within your mind?
When you’re alone, can you feel your skin against mine?
I can sense you watching me as I dance.
I often wonder what stops you from making your move.
What keeps you rooted in your seat?
That’s it, lick your lips. Yes.
Is your mouth watering too?
Do you crave just one little taste?
I’m sweeter than a peach, some might say.
I want to know, does that make your cock ache?

Am I the star in your private fantasies?
You’ve been starring in mine for quite some time.
Center stage, it’s always the same.
You’re larger than life, settled between my welcoming thighs.
Hot lips rest on the bend of my neck.
Little nips of your teeth.
Your tongue soothes the welcome sting.
Finger tips trace designs over my flesh.
My nails dig in, tearing lines down your spine.
A low moan, yours or mine?
Your body arches and you enter my heat.
Thick and long, sinking deep.
Wrapping my legs tightly around.
Pulling you close, holding you inside.
Begging you.
Harder, harder please.

That’s it, shift in your seat.
Does your skin itch to feel my touch?
For now, watch me dance.
But tonight when you’re alone,
With your cock thick and throbbing in your palm,
Stroke it slowly, thinking only of me.
Grip it tightly, thrust your hips.
Imagine it’s my heat swallowing you deep.
When you come, scream my name.
And know, that it’s me
Who owns you.