It’s been a few days since I posted Part 1 of AMAL, my little exercise or experiment or hmmmm…my dance around the outskirts of writing adult contemporary romance.
In other words, my book about humans.
Sexy, smart humans.
Sexy, smart humans living in NYC, bumping into each other, and of course at some point, fucking each other.
Ready for Part 2?
CHAPTER ONE – AMAL
“Miss?” the salesclerk stared at me like I had three heads, her eyebrows raised in slight irritation, “do you have two cents?”
“What? Oh yeah, sure, hold on,” I stuttered, gathering myself and my bearings as I dug into my wallet for two pennies and handed them over, “sorry about that.”
Something told me the stranger was smiling, I could feel his eyes all over me, their amusement like a soft kiss to that special spot on my neck.
Stop it, Amal
I grabbed my books and my wallet and side-stepped, away from his heat and his scent and his everything, without looking back or thinking twice because somewhere deep inside, I knew.
I knew he was nothing like the cursory assumptions I made about him. I knew he was nothing like anyone who’d crossed my path. And I especially knew he was nothing like Jackson.
So when his scent caught up to me outside the bookstore on 112th Street, I don’t know why I didn’t keep it moving, and when he stepped into pace beside me, I don’t know why I glanced his way. And when he spoke, I don’t know why I stopped walking, turned to him, and smiled.
But I did.
I did all of those things.
And he wasn’t blonde-haired and blue-eyed like I suspected, he wasn’t wearing a button-down, and he wasn’t perfectly manicured. The Upper East Side of my assumptions was in fact much more downtown than I could have ever imagined. He was tall and lean, with tatted arms and a skateboard in his hand, dark hair that needed a cut and eyes that stripped me naked with a glance. Coupled with that low voice full of gravel and smoke, he was sex personified. The kind of man that made your breath hitch, your nipples peak, and your pussy drip without doing anything but existing and holy fuck did he exist.
“Your syllabus,” his lip quirked as he handed me the stapled list, “you left it back there,” and suddenly he looked almost shy and a little nervous and not so super-confident-sex-on-a-stick-like and I relaxed and breathed deeply, because suddenly I felt able to handle him and his scent and his everything.
“Thanks,” I returned his smile as I shoved the papers into my bag.
He watched me for a second, a slow and curious curve to his lips that was so sexy I found myself fantasizing about those lips all over my body. Instead, I held out my hand, “Amal Warrier Naipaul.”
He glanced down before reaching for what I assumed would be a hand shake but turned into something wholly different and raw as he bent low and pressed a kiss to the sensitive skin of the inside of my wrist. I gasped and a slight moan escaped my lips as he held onto my hand a beat longer than appropriate but after that kiss, it hardly mattered. “Amal, it’s a pleasure,” and I didn’t make him release my fingers, at least not right then.
“Well, thanks for this,” I recovered and backed away from him while patting my bag where I placed the rescued syllabus and he smiled and studied me and said, “Amal,” like he was practicing, then added, “god, you’re stunning,” and the Amal I knew would have instantly recalled her boyfriend – Jackson – and their love and their together-foreverness and all of their you-belong-to-mes, but around him – tatted up, skateboarding, wrist-kissing sexy stranger on the street – I remembered nothing of the sort.
Instead, I smiled and reveled in the attention.
Then like a light switch being turned on, I saw Jackson and his smile and and I took off down the street, very fast and very far away from that man and his tatts and his skateboard and all of his fuckery.
So there’s your second snippet of Amal and Jackson and Andrew. Thoughts? Comments? Want some more? Or could care less? Because ugh…humans…they’re so boring.