An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 8


There is a serious funk going around that has managed to get its nasty long fingers all over me. I’ve been fighting it all week because for real – I never get sick – and although I’m keeping it at bay, I’m sure as hell not succeeding in making it creep off into the sunset and leave me the fuck alone.

I tried sweating it out in a hot yoga class and a spin class – no luck. I tried drowning it in bottles of DayQuil – no luck. I even tried being nice to it and feeding it spice tea and bourbon.

Maybe that’s why the motherfucker doesn’t want to go anywhere – that tea and bourbon is really really good.

Woke up this morning to The Kid and The Pup lying on top of me, and still sick. Thank goodness fighting slimy nasty decrepit germs has not been the sole excitement of my week.

I’ve also been editing book covers for DUTCH and JUMA – yes, you read that right: I’ve seen drafts of my book covers from St Martin’s Press and to say I’m a little excited would be the understatement of the year – and drafting blurbs for the back covers of the books.

This is really happening, y’all. My books are being published. Dutch and Juma – they are coming. Very very soon.


And on that note, how about some more AMAL?

Here are parts ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX and SEVEN in case you need to catch up on the sexiness.


“That is precisely what I plan to do to you, Ms. Naipaul,” he replied, his voice a low growl that robbed me of breath and essence and left me pooled somewhere at his feet, begging for whatever he offered, incapable of putting my desperate need into words, so confused and shocked by it, “but first I’m going to make you come using my voice and the barest of touches.”

“No,” I stated firm and short, suddenly cognizant of what he intended and how it could not happen, in this lifetime or any other.

“Yes,” he whispered in my ear, his breath hot on my skin as thoughts of his lips pressed along the curves of my body filled my brain.

“You’re going to meet me in the bathroom in the back of the library so I can run my fingers all over your pussy and tease your clit until you come everywhere. Then you’re going to watch me suck every last drop of your desire from my fingers.” 

I groaned despite myself, aware the words that fell from this man’s lips were wrong. 

“That’s what I’m going to do to you right now, Amal Warrier Naipaul,” he stood and straightened and buttoned his jacket before his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smirk.

“I’ll fuck you later.”

His words, his tone, his confidence, every aspect of his person at that moment honed in on me and my body and mind and I reveled in all of it, all of him. I thrilled at his control of the situation; his sheer will overpowered my senses, and for the first time in forever, I gave myself over to another.

“Close your mouth, hotness,” he winked, “folks will stare,” as if he hadn’t just told me he wanted me to ride his fingers to oblivion.

“I’m not following you anywhere.”


I almost gave myself over to another.

“I don’t even know your name.”

He laughed and even though it was at my expense, the sound was sexy and delicious and shot straight to my pussy. 

“Knowing my name hardly makes a difference when I have you pressed against the wall, my hand up your skirt, my fingers under your panties.”

I licked my lips and wished I was alone so I could touch myself as his filthy words washed over me, finding places to burrow into my soul, tempting my darker selves, turning me on in ways I had never experienced.

“But if you insist,” he said with a smirk as I watched his mouth and wondered how his lips would feel pressed along the inside of my thigh.

“I do,” I replied, probably a little too fast and a touch too eager, but I had to maintain an ounce of control over the situation.

“You do?” he cocked his head and asked.

“I do,” I repeated after a long pause where I studied him and me and considered what the fuck we were doing to each other and why we were doing it in a room full of hundreds of people, and he watched me watching him and had we not been studying each other as intently as we were, I would have never seen him shift, but I did and he knew I did. I relaxed a bit and smiled because goddamn if just then I didn’t manage to wrest a little control from him.

“Well, that is too bad, because I don’t,” he recovered and seemed not at all thrown off kilter by our madness, “nothing about your orgasm requires my name, all it requires is my hand.”

Then he turned on his heel and departed. 

I watched him take a few steps without looking back, so confident that I would follow, so certain of himself and myself and that thing happening between us. 

My hand works just as well,” I couldn’t help calling out to him, one final demand he acknowledge the power I wielded in this bizarre back-and-forth. 

He stopped and considered my words, his jaw clenched and eyes dark, all of him a little wild and I flooded with a need so carnal I could barely contain it. I crossed my legs and his jaw twitched and I knew he was thinking about my pussy and his fingers all over my swollen lips, drenched in my desire. I certainly was. His eyes darted back to mine and he smiled, but it was full of danger and dare.

“Miss Naipual, do not even think about touching yourself,” he growled and then vanished into the crowd.

I watched him leave as thoughts of his hands under my skirt, over my panties, under my panties, inside me, fucking me slow while he rubbed my clit clouded my brain and left me a hazy, heated mess of need and desire and despair. I couldn’t want him – I was a good girl with an even better boyfriend – but at that moment there was nothing I wanted more than him. A perfect stranger who spoke dirty to me a couple of times, who demanded I give him control – something I never gave to anyone – who filled me with fire so consuming I feared if anyone touched me they would come away scorched. 

“He got under your skin,” Jackson slipped in beside me, handed me a bourbon and sipped his scotch, brow cocked and an amused gleam in his eye.

Jackson knew I needed a drink right then and there because he knew me inside and out, through and through, oftentimes better than I knew myself. I sipped my drink and touched my throat, as random words spoken like smoke and gravel accosted my senses and made my blood simmer.






“He was hardly worth my attention,” I met Jackson’s stare and replied, “but knew just what to say to get me all hot and bothered.”

My play on words went over Jackson’s head but settled right between my legs, stirring up heat and desire all over again. 

“Let me guess,” Jackson shot me a look as he placed a hand behind my neck and pulled me close to whisper, “he didn’t share your love of pegging?”

And just like that, he distracted me from Mr. Downtown.

Of course, he did. He was Jackson and he was perfect.

I snorted in amusement – I couldn’t help myself – listening to the word “pegging” fall from Jackson’s lips, the same lips that recited Whitman and Hughes, sang Charles and Holiday, argued international human rights law and the politics of the personal, always amused. I even gawked a bit – Jackson Rashard Davis was the ultimate Renaissance man. Da Vinci couldn’t hold a candle to him. 

“What?” he asked, “am I wrong?” and he kissed the top of my head as I laughed.

“He absolutely did not share my love of pegging. I fear I shall never meet a man who will let me peg him,” I pouted.

“Do not even look at me with those eyes, Amal,” Jackson replied and leaned away from me, as if I might try something dirty with him at that very moment.

I batted my eyelashes and pleaded my case, “please, baby, I promise it’ll feel really fucking good,” and Jackson groaned because he was thinking about all the wicked shit I had done to his body over the years, each time swearing to him that it would feel really fucking good.

“I see my mom waving me over,” he changed the subject, his eyes full of laughter, and kissed me. Then slick as shit, Jackson angled our bodies so no one could see what he was doing and brushed his fingers between my breasts, the touch such a  surprise I gasped.

That is what really fucking good feels like, Amal,” he whispered in my ear as his fingers teased my nipple until it was peaked and rock hard, “really. fucking. good.” 

Then he released me and was gone. Swallowed by the crowd. 

I watched him for a second and breathed deeply before I downed the remainder of my bourbon in one gulp, collected myself, and mingled. It was expected of me and I worked the room like a pro – I could do this shit when I had to – and as much as it displeased Jackson’s father – I could feel his eyes on me as I moved from conversation to conversation – I hoped Jackson noticed and appreciated the effort. 

I also hoped loads of mindless, pointless conversation would distract me from the very distinct void in the room, that absence of heat and sex and danger that lingered and clung to Mr. Downtown. That distinct scent of tobacco and soap with a hint of bergamot and a touch of grass. That low growl of a voice. All of it painfully missing and most likely to remain that way since I wasn’t going to meet him in the bathroom and apparently, he wasn’t going to return to the party. 

I pushed any shoulda-woulda-couldas out of my mind, because the fact remained there were no shoulda-woulda-couldas that needed to take place between myself and that dirty-mouthed stranger, and headed for the solitude and fresh air of the terrace, somewhere I could clear my head and gain some perspective. I stepped into the quiet night, closed the door behind me, and let the fall chill seep into my bones. The air was clear and crisp and up this high, almost still. I closed my eyes and inhaled as my arms goose-bumped and the cool of the night slipped under my shirt and up my skirt and everywhere around my body that needed to chill. 

I sighed and rubbed my neck, the sound almost mournful in the darkness of my solitude.

And then it happened. 

“Ms. Naipaul, you are one hour and nine minutes late.”

I know folks love Jackson, but I’m rather partial to Andrew and his dirty mouth…

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