An Experiment In #Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 9

I woke up yesterday morning to an empty, freezing house. Empty because The Kid was at his winter dance last night and spent the night with friends. Freezing because my heat never came on. Because my furnace was acting a fool. A fact I discovered when my parents called and convinced me to get out of bed – something I had not done because it was too damn cold –  to see what was going on.

What was going on was that the automatic low-water gauge on the furnace was getting stuck and either not feeding the system enough water or feeding it too much, so it was switched to manual. Meaning I had to feed the system myself. Which I’d been doing the last couple of days, but when I came home Friday night, I forgot to check it and the water level must have gone too low for it to click on in the morning.

Hence the lovely inside temperature of 53 degrees my thermostat relayed when I finally crawled out from under the covers and ventured downstairs. I fed the beast some water and got it back up and running – and the service guy came out to fix the automatic gauge so the manual bullshit could end – but my house is all big windows and old drafty spaces and for real, it was COLD AS FUCK in there  yesterday.

Of course, that would happen on the coldest weekend of the season because isn’t that the best time for a furnace to start being funky? I started drafting this post, seated at my kitchen table, wearing a scarf and gloves, freezing my ass off, thinking maybe a little Amal and Andrew up on that terrace would warm things up a bit…at least for y’all.

Me? I resorted to the fire place. It’s difficult to type when you’re a popsicle.

Oh, and here are parts  ONE TWO THREE FOUR FIVE SIX SEVEN and EIGHT for any of y’all newcomers to my messy love triangle. And speaking of love triangles – which I rather abhor – but of course am writing because what better way to test oneself – I just saw this today and had a good chuckle:

okay, enough goofing around – here you go – part 8 of AMAL…


I jerked to my right at the sound of his voice and there he stood, leaned against the building, hidden amongst the greenery – Mr. Downtown. Without hesitation, I moved in his direction, wanting to be wrapped in all of his everything, cognizant of nothing but him and me and the thrum of desire coursing through my veins. I reached his space and stopped, so close our feet almost touched and waited, my breath trapped in my chest, my skin sensitive to the slightest sensation.

The air between us felt charged and electric, it crackled with desire and lust and all things unspoken. My entire body hummed with a need unlike any I had ever experienced, my reaction to standing so close to that man, that stranger, palpable. He didn’t move a muscle as he watched me and I wondered if my nearness affected him at all, was he as close to coming undone as I? Or was all of this – the smack talk and innuendo and dirty invitations – in my head? Incapable of putting coherent sounds together to relay my worries, air my concerns, give credence to the voices in my head, I did the only thing left to do and the one thing I sensed he would not: I reached out to touch him. And with that small gesture, that breach of space between us, I violated promises made to another.

But I wasn’t thinking about any of that – the reality of my everyday existence, the fact my life was very much interwoven with someone who was not this man – because right then on that darkened roof, high above the city and Jackson and everything, all I was focused on was the odd and intriguing pull of a stranger. 

Mr. Downtown closed his eyes and sucked in a breath as my hand rested on his chest, right above his heart where I could feel it race, that rapid thump thump, and it struck me – he had been waiting. This beautiful man who could have any woman he wanted had spent the last hour and nine minutes waiting for me. He opened his eyes and met my stare. So much unsaid, unspoken, everything and nothing and more than one could imagine passed between us in those seconds. Then his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile and I knew I was fucked.

“Are you always such a bad girl?” he leaned close and whispered in my ear, his breath a warm tease of my senses, “or is this behavior saved just for me?” his full mouth passed close to mine, teasing my lips apart, eliciting a low moan as he ghosted his breath everywhere, making it difficult for me to think, impossible for me to speak.

“Answer me Ms. Naipaul,” he demanded then stepped back and waited.

I wanted to cry out and grab him to me. His heat, his almost-kiss, him, all of it frustrating and exhilarating and dancing along some edge I’d never before dared cross but now, could think of little else worth doing. And even though I knew answering his question, engaging him in any way, was not the smartest thing to do, it was too late – we were way past the point of intelligent action.

“Just you,” I replied, my voice a hoarse whisper of crave and sex and want.

“Lucky me,” he said with a smirk as he studied me and I couldn’t help but wonder what we were going to do to each other, the thought flooding my pussy, leaving me a useless puddle of dirty thoughts and bad intentions. I watched him watching me and thought back to that afternoon in the bookstore, when he stood behind me and did unspeakable things to me without touching me at all and I wondered if this – the party, him, the roof, us – was inevitable and if so, what the fuck.

And if so, could he just touch me already.

“Please,” the word escaped my lips before I could reclaim it and landed in the air between us, a request for so many things all at once. A request I never intended to make and yet there it was, out in the open, waiting for him to make something of it. He laughed and for a second I regretted ever letting him see how much I wanted him. Then he licked his lips and ran a finger down the line of my throat and I forgot every regret I’d ever imagined when it came to him me us.

“So you do have some manners,” he smiled and I smiled because he and I both knew I had no manners whatsoever, “unfortunately, they’re not going to help you tonight.”

He ran his hand up the back of my thigh and over my ass and I never considered telling him to stop because I wanted his hands everywhere.

“Ms. Naipaul,” he cupped my cheeks and squeezed.

“Mmmmm,” it was all I could muster as his hands moved across my skin, our breath tangled around one another, and my body became his to do with as he pleased.

“I had such grand plans for you and your pussy when I invited you to join me in the bathroom,” he said with a smile and I knew he was smiling because I could feel the curve of his mouth against the shell of my ear. He cupped my ass and I lost myself in all of him – his touch, his smell, his goddamned growl of a voice – then without warning, he lifted my skirt and landed a sharp smack on my soft skin, so hard and painful I cried out.

“Shhhhhh,” he whispered into my ear as he rubbed the sting and everything, the pain, the heat, all of it felt so fucking good, “you’ve given me little choice but to teach you a lesson,” he continued as he landed another smack on the same spot, this time harder. My head tossed back as I moved with the pain; my pussy swelled and flooded with pleasure as my brain registered all kinds of shock and what-the-fuck. I had never been treated this way, no one dared command me to do anything, and I’m sure as shit no one ever spanked me as punishment.

But it mattered little.

My body hungered for this man’s touch, both the painful and the tender, I wanted all of him and more. My mind craved his confidence and command, his I-know-what-you-need-right-now-better-than-you. And even though I balked at the idea of anyone telling me what when how to do something, I loved that he did so anyway. I got off on the fact he took control of the situation and expected me to follow his lead. A total stranger knew what I needed without knowing any of my fine details, those little quirks and flaws that made up Amal Warrier Naipaul, and as thrilling and intense and sexy it was, something about it also scared the shit out of me.

Another smack, the sting so sharp I felt it everywhere – my fingertips, my nipples, my thighs, the soles of my feet – brought me out of my thoughts and into the moment. He captured my cry of pain with his mouth, his lips so gentle and tongue so sweet as he caressed and soothed my sore spots, his touch like magic. He broke away from my mouth and I felt him watching me but I wanted to live in that dichotomous moment of pleasure and pain, command and obey a bit longer, so my eyes remained closed as I reveled in the aftermath of everything he created and stirred and stimulated.

“Amal,” he whispered as he ran his thumb along my jaw, speaking my name with such reverence, touching me with such tenderness, all of it sending me into sensory overload, “you still with me?”

I opened my eyes to meet his dark stare, seconds earlier full of fire and lust, now concerned and almost worried, perhaps wondering if he had stepped over some imagined boundary of mine. I smiled – I couldn’t help myself. This man was oblivious. Completely. He had no idea that what just happened between us was something I’d wanted to happen for years.

Needed to happen for years.

“Yes,” I replied, noting how he even affected my answers, drowning out the usual snark that escaped my lips, “I am most definitely still with you.”

He smiled, his eyes flashed all dangerous again, and my pussy quaked as a moan escaped my lips, so low and so goddamned desperate. I wanted him to touch me, kiss me, command me. I wanted everything he offered and then I wanted more.

“Spread your legs, hotness,” he licked the shell of my ear as his voice growled through me and my body responded without consideration of anything or anyone else – that moment was all about him. I did just as he asked and spread my legs as his hand moved up my thigh and my pussy dripped and the air around us smelled of lust and desire and sex.

He trailed his lips along the line of my throat as his fingers grazed the satin of my soaked and useless panties and he sighed.

“God, you are heaven.”

Amal is totally going to fuck Mr. Downtown.

She better fuck him.

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