An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 3

love-triangle

It’s day two of NaNoWriMo and I’ve got to get started on my daily goal of 2000 words, so I’m going to make this short and sweet: here’s part three of AMAL, my experiment in writing an adult contemporary romance.

Hope you enjoy.


CHAPTER TWO – AMAL

“Amal! Come on, babe. Let’s do this already.”

I rolled my eyes as I studied my reflection one more time. Hair, check. Mascara, check. Cherry chapstick, check. I pressed my hands to my waist, sucked in for a second, then followed the line of my hips, wishing they were a little smaller, knowing I would never be white-girl skinny.

“Amal! Stop pining for thighs like a white girl. Let’s go!”

Jackson.

Always reading me like a book. I headed downstairs, amused and annoyed at the same time, trying to remember the moment he learned me so well, wondering if I could do the same. He was standing at the foot of the stairs, all six feet five inches of his gorgeous brown perfection. Something about the moment reminded me of the first time I saw him naked – the bulging veins running up his arms, the six pack abs, the V of his narrow hips, and his huge, gorgeous, rock hard dick. 

“What?” he turned my way, catching my wild eyes and was momentarily thrown, slightly unmoored. And he kind of recovered, because he was Jackson, and he was perfect, but he also kind of didn’t.

“Holy fuck. You. Are. Magic.”

I stopped on the stairs above him and smiled, letting his words and his voice and his everything kind of sink into my soul and make me feel beautiful. Not that I needed his validation, but it sure as hell was nice. The way his eyes drank me in, his breath kind of caught in his throat, and that sexy smile curved his lips. You try being on the receiving end of that gaze and tell me it doesn’t make you feel all hot and bothered. 

“Shut up,” I purred as he headed up the stairs in my direction, “I’ll do no such thing,” he reached me easily, pressing me into the wall, a mischievous look in his eye.

“I thought you said we need to go,” I laughed low as he leaned close and brushed his lips along the shell of my ear. 

“We do need to go,” he kissed my throat and I sighed, “just as soon as I fuck you against this wall.”

I pushed him aside and headed down the stairs, away from his dangerous hands and wicked mouth, “Jackson Davis, I know you don’t kiss your mama with that mouth.”

“I don’t kiss anyone with this mouth but you,” he came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me close, “so please, let me touch your pussy.”

He knew how to get his way with me – nasty shit whispered in my ear, even nastier shit done to my body. 

“No,” I closed my eyes and groaned, parting my legs even as the word left my lips. 

“Please,” kissed into my skin, as his hand inched up my skirt, his fingers skimming the damp of my panties.

Against my better self, I arched into his expert touch, my suddenly throbbing clit needing something, anything from him. 

“No,” I insisted as his finger circled me, under my skirt, over my panties, “because then I’m going to want to put my mouth all over that dick of yours and we’ll never make it to the party,” I grasped his wrist and moved his hand, stepping away from all of his sexy and settling myself, “and your dad will hate me more than he already does.”

Without turning around, I knew Jackson’s face was contorted into some version of a grimace as he contemplated the best denial of my statement. I prayed he kept it simple as those lies were the easiest to ignore.

“Babe,” he reached for me as I opened the door to our apartment and headed for the elevator, “I’m sorry.”

I glanced back at him, his words throwing me off-guard, caught his smirk and punched him in the arm. “You’re definitely not touching my pussy now.”

Jackson wrapped his arm around my neck, kissed me, and laughed, “you know my dad loves you, he’s just shy.”

Doctor Jackson Rashard Davis II hardly loved me. I was not a member of the Davis family inner circle, he did not know my people. I was too free-spirited and earthy, I hated wearing panties, I loved attending protests. Tattoos decorated my arms, I wore a nose ring. I took photos of naked women, I directed videos of naked men. 

Not really, but hot damn if I didn’t want to. 

I wrote nasty, filth-filled stories for my creative writing classes and recited erotica at open mics around the city. I was all kinds of things Dr. Davis never envisioned for his son but more than any of that was the simple, undeniable fact I was not Black. 

I was Indian, from a family of world-famous Indians who did great things to improve the plight of the poor in war-torn regions around the world. For generations the brown folks of my family tree spent their vast wealth helping those less fortunate. It was what us Naipauls did. 

And it mattered little to Dr. Davis. 

“Naipaul,” I would never forget Jackson’s dad rolling my surname around in his mouth, “like V.S.?”

“More like Ravi and Sneha,” I replied with a smirk, hardly knowing back then where the conversation was headed, “surgeons, not writers.”

“You mean Indians, not West Indians,” he replied, a hard look in his eye. 

“Who cares, dad,” Jackson cut in, desperate to shift his dad’s attention away from anything having to do with me and my background, “it hardly matters.”

“It matters.”

The good doctor glared at me that evening, refusing to engage me further, continuing his pleasant and loving ways three years later. 

“Shy? Hardly. Asshole? Totally,” I countered as we walked onto the street and Jackson hailed a cab, “so promise me no more touching my pussy and whispering dirty shit in my ear.” 

A yellow sedan cut across three lanes of Amsterdam Avenue to pull to a stop in front of us. Jackson opened the back door, leaned in, and gave the driver our destination, then turned back to me with a satisfied look on his face.

I raised my brow and joked, “look at you, Black man, hailing a cab like a white boy.”

“He smelled your pussy and couldn’t help himself,” Jackson whispered all low and shit as he cupped my ass, pulled me to him, and let me know he was going to talk all kinds of dirty as much and as often as he liked. 

With laughter on my tongue and moonlight on my lips, I kissed him long and deep as we sped away from campus and into the night. We made out in the elevator on the way upstairs, smoothed our clothes into place as the doors opened and chuckled low, then put on our game faces and entered the fray. 


And there you have it – part III of Amal and Jackson and Andrew. Thoughts? Comments? Want some more? Or could care less? Because like I said before, ugh…humans…they’re so boring.

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4 thoughts on “An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 3

  1. Reblogged this on Write Bitches and commented:

    And now Part III of that time I tried writing a book about regular people falling in love and having sex and messing with each other…without any magic, dragons, or poison-tipped blades…that piece of adult contemporary romance also known as AMAL

  2. Pingback: An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 5 | Madhuri Writes

  3. Pingback: An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 7 | Madhuri Writes

  4. Pingback: An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 8 | Madhuri Writes

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