#TuesdayTeaser – AMAL

First off, this teaser is not for a book called Amal since I’m not writing a book called Amal. What I am writing is a book with a character named Amal and since the book itself has no title as of yet, for the time being, Amal it is.

This is the book that’s been in my head for years, but because it doesn’t involve dragons or swords or warriors, and instead centers around three, regular people, I’ve been somewhat uneasy about putting it down on paper. But lately it’s been very demanding and rather bitchy, so about a quarter of it has made the jump from my brain to the page.

I’m still rather freaked out by the prospect of writing a straight romance, or I should say straight smut, but am having fun with my characters and the story is flowing so for the time being, I’m going with it.

Anyway, here’s a sneak peak at Amal, Jackson, and Andrew – it’s raw and unedited but gives a hint of all three characters so take a read and let me know what you think.

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Three years of dating Jackson Davis meant I had three years under my belt of lavish parties, red carpets, award shows, and all kinds of other trappings of the rich and famous. Three Oscars and seven Emmys made for some serious swagger and Dr. Davis threw it around like the best of them.

For a girl who avoided her own family fundraising events on the Hamptons and Lincoln Center like the plague, the fact I attended much of the same shit with Jackson was an irony not at all lost on me. In the beginning, I did it because I loved him and he was beautiful and there was nothing more I wanted to do than go everywhere together. But as we settled into the comfortable spaces of our union, I balked more often than not at the invites and entreaties, prefering my laptop and camera, the beautiful solitude of my imagination, to the Tribeca lofts and glittering soirees.

So as we stood on the precipice of the first party together in almost half a year, laughing and touching, licking and sucking, I couldn’t help but feel a sudden need to catch my breath and prepare myself for the bullshit on the other side of those doors.

“You’ll be fine,” Jackson squeezed my hand and kissed me, “because you’re goddamned brilliant and every man and woman in that room is going to be putty in your hands,” he kissed my fingers and licked the shell of my ear, soaking my panties for the umpteenth time that evening.

“If I give you the look, will you fuck me in the bathroom, no questions asked?”

“Amal Naipaul, I will fuck you any time, any place,” he smirked and pressed me to him, pushing his big dick into my body, letting me know he was not playing. Jackson then released my waist, interlaced our fingers, and opened the door.

Music, laughter, the tinkling of glasses and ice, a host of party cacophony greeted us as we entered the room. The perfect couple, impeccably dressed, him in Hickey Freeman, me in Burberry Prorsum, gorgeous smiles, firm handshakes, genuine laughter. We worked half the room side by side in seconds flat, then split to joke with friends, rub shoulders with actors, talk politics with directors. It was the shit I hated, but Jackson excelled in these moments. Smooth and sexy, gregarious and charming, he was a wonder to watch, a force of nature to be reckoned with, every so often glancing my way, tossing me a conspiratorial smile, touching the small of my back, letting me know he knew.

“You good? Because you look goddamned edible,” he whispered to me as he crossed behind on his way to greet his grad school advisor, “I am,” I smiled and winked, “edible, that is.”

Jackson’s eyes flashed dangerously for a second and I knew if we were near the bathroom, we would have fucked each other stupid. Instead, I settled for his warm palm on my ass in plain view of everyone in the room, heating my blood and making my nipples hard.

“Stop it,” I laughed as he glanced at my chest and smirked, knowing his affect on my body and mind, “never,” and then he was off, so serious and studious, pulling his advisor into his magnetic web, impressing the woman, probably making her wish she could do a little more than advise him.

I turned to catch up with a Los Angeles writer I knew, smiling to myself about Jackson and his everything, when out of the corner of my eye, a hint of black stopped me in my tracks, breath hitched, feet frozen. The party raged around me but I hardly noticed, oblivious to most everything but a waiter floating by with a tray of Old Fashioneds and that hint of black. Grabbing a glass, I tossed back the drink in two gulps, then went for another, my sobriety be damned.

I squeezed my eyes shut, breathed deeply, then searched and found Jackson across the room, needing to ground myself in the familiar, in the norm. He and his advisor huddled close, laughter on his lips, a smile curving hers. She wore her age well, striking and regal, a mixture of good genes and good luck wrapped in Victoria Beckham, bejeweled in Chopard. I wondered whether Jackson ever thought of her as he fucked me and just as quickly I realized I would love to watch Jackson fuck her and just as quickly, I knew I was drumming up all sorts of ridiculous fantasies to avoid that hint of black glimpsed seconds ago from the corner of my eye.

Him.

The man from the bookstore all those months ago with that voice of gravel and smoke and those eyes that stripped me naked and fucked me blind without touching me at all. The man I wondered about at the most random moments. The man I hoped never again to see because the fact remained, he did things to me.

He wore a suit and I could only see his back, but the touch of ink peeking out from his shirtsleeves and the way he stood, as if he should have a skateboard in his hand instead of a lowball, told me all I needed to know.

The wrist-kisser.

Mr. Downtown to my imagined Upper East Side.

“Amal! Oh my goodness,” warm arms surrounded me as my cheeks were kissed, not once, not twice, but three times, “my smutty little filth-monster. Look at you, lovie, studying that very bad boy over there. Thinking up another one of your tales of sex and bondage?”

Reena Amado, my godsister and freak of nature, with her ass that stopped traffic and waist I swear I could put my hands around if she would let me try. My godparents and Jackson’s parents were friendly enough that bumping into her here was not a surprise, caught ogling another man certainly was. My cheeks flushed pink as a vehement denial played along the tip of my tongue, but before I could make any excuses, tell any lies, Reena waved me off with her perfectly manicured, delicate caramel hand.

“He’s gorgeous,” she whispered for my ears only but before she could say anything more revelatory, I hushed her.

“Stop. Don’t do it.”

Reena leaned away and gave me a once-over, a wicked gleam in her eye, before moving close and whispering, “don’t do what, sweet girl?”

I glanced at Jackson again, still wrapped up in whatever his advisor had to say, then returned my gaze to the tall tatted man in the perfectly fitted suit, the man who haunted my most private thoughts and filthy desires, the man I needed to keep at a distance. “Don’t tell me his name,” I finally managed to utter, my breath trapped in my lungs, my voice sounding more plea than demand.

Reena raised a perfectly shaped brow in my direction and kissed my cheek, a certain understanding flashing in her dark eyes, then continued as if our exchange never occured, “like I was saying, he’s stunning,” and we both glanced his way, admiring him from behind as he chatted with a woman as aesthetically gifted as himself, oblivious to our attentions, “and a total whore, but aren’t we all? They call him one of the most eligible bachelors in the city, so you can imagine the pussy coming his way, from all directions. He has two older brothers, lawyers,” and here she rolled her eyes because Reena hated lawyers, “and his dad, CEO of some shipping company. His mom was a professor at Barnard, but she passed away when he was a teenager, which gives the mothering types total girl wood, thinking they can fill some feminine void in his life.”

Reena laughed and elegantly swiped a glass of champagne off a passing tray, looking impish and sexy and chic all at the same time. “That man has no voids in his life, just look at him,” and we both stared again, watching as he moved towards two model-types and a politician. He seemed genuinely interested in their conversation and I briefly wondered if he was more Upper East Side than he let on. But when the waiter came around with a new tray of drinks and everyone’s attention was turned, he quickly glanced at his watch and grimaced and I knew: downtown all day.

“Nobody who looks like that has voids in their life.”

I pushed Reena like I used to when we were kids and she was talking nonsense, “stop being so superficial,” then I pulled her close and rested my hand on her ass.

“I knew you would cop a feel. I was just wondering what took you so long,” she joked and I kissed her and we laughed, so comfortable in our bubble of sisterhood, so loving and true.

“I’m glad you’re here tonight,” I whispered and she kissed me again, “me, too, baby girl.”

We joked and talked shit about everyone at the party until both of us were nicely drunk, highly amused, and fit to outbursts of silly laughter. And when the woman with ebony skin and eyes like fire caught Reena’s attention and held her stare for two beats longer than most, I knew my godsister was gone. Reena squeezed my hand, whispered something incredibly dirty in my ear, kissed my neck, and moved through the crowd towards her conquest for the evening, leaving me alone with my giggles and Old Fashioned.

“You surviving?” Jackson’s voice caressed my ear as he slid in next to me, a smile on his lips as he cupped my ass, “because if I don’t fuck you soon, I’m going to die.”

I leaned into him and brushed his lips with mine, “I have been told my pussy is deadly.”

He groaned and I knew he was imagining me pressed against some wall, skirt hitched around my waist, my peaked nipple in his mouth while he big-dicked me fast and hard and like we both liked it. “Worth dying for every goddamned time,” he whispered and squeezed my ass before moving towards his aunt and father and someone else they wanted him to meet. I had already suffered through our awkward hellos, there was no need to throw myself at their feet again, so I stayed put and watched their faces light up as Jackson approached.

God, he had that affect on everyone, I thought to myself as I sipped my drink and watched him in awe. I relaxed into the sounds of the party, the constant chatter and laughter and underneath all of it, a steady beat maintained by the brilliance of Thelonious Monk. It sunk into my soul and made me forget most everything but that beat.

Until.

“Amal Warrier Naipaul, have you fucked your professor yet?”

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3 thoughts on “#TuesdayTeaser – AMAL

  1. Pingback: #TeaserTuesday – AMAL | Write Bitches

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