I love contemporary romance – shit, I love ALL romance – I read it all the time, I was raised on it, I’m just not very good at writing it, hence my use of the word “experiment.” And I’m not good at writing contemporary romance because like I’ve said many times before, humans bore me.
But sex does not bore me. At all.
Nor does romance.
And so I created Amal and Jackson and Andrew. To push me out of my writing comfort zone and into something altogether new and challenging and where I might not do that well, but am giving it a shot anyway because this life is all about growth and what better way to grow as a writer than to work on something difficult?
It’s fun and a little scary and kind of crazy but so is anything worth doing.
I spent my New Year’s Eve alone with my laptop, writing myself into 2017. It was wondrous and empowering and felt the most magical way to kick off this year’s journey of words. AMAL is one aspect of that journey – a journey filled with love and sex and poetry and magic and strong-willed women and mayhem and filthy words and vulnerability and murder and Debussy and heartbreak and dirty-mouthed men and warriors and Nina Simone and poison-blades and nine lives and romance romance romance.
Because for real, in my world, it’s ALL about the romance.
CHAPTER SIX – AMAL
“Oh fuck,” I moaned as his fingers traced circles under my skirt, over my panties, against my pussy. My fingers tangled in his hair, as I pulled him closer, needing more, wanting everything.
“I still don’t know your name.”
CHAPTER SEVEN – AMAL
His fingers kept working me, that soaked slip of my panties, circling my clit, touching me just like he promised, just like I loved.
“My name’s Andrew,” he kissed me as his fingers slipped inside my panties and traced up and down my swollen lips, “Andrew Maynard, if you must know, Ms. Naipaul.”
I opened my eyes and met his stare, watching him as he worked his wicked magic on my body, making me forget everything, and I mean everything, but him and his fingers. He moved up my pussy nice and slow, his fingers drenched with my desire, his breath kissed along my skin.
“We’re back to mizz, are we?” I gasped as he flicked my clit and made me see stars. God, this man played my body like an instrument he studied for years.
“We are,” he dipped his tongue into my mouth, fucking me slowly, then pulled away and smirked, “because I’m still not certain your punishment is complete.”
He rubbed my clit and slipped two fingers inside me, working my pussy on that dark terrace while a party raged inside, and it took everything in my being not to cry out his name at the top of my lungs, his hands felt that good. His everything felt that good – his voice, his confidence, the way he demanded my attention, commanded my every thought. Without knowing me at all, he waltzed in and shook my foundation, unearthed all I had become accustomed to, and offered everything I had ever desired but was too afraid to acknowledge. With him, I didn’t need to acknowledge anything because he knew. He took one look at me, understood the situation, then claimed me as his.
It was dangerous and terrible and unforgiveable and still, I couldn’t say no. I didn’t want to say no. Instead.
“Oh god, don’t stop,” I begged as my legs shook and I leaned into the wall for support as he obliterated my senses with his perfect fingers, each one pressed and thrusting in just the right place, at the perfect tempo, with the sweetest touch. My blood heated to fire and everything tightened and I was going to come everywhere, all over him, hard.
“Do not come on my hand, Ms. Naipaul,” he growled in my ear as he continued working my pussy, his exquisite touch torture, my heaven and hell wrapped up in one tatted, taut, beautiful package, “I’m still not sure you learned your lesson.”
And then he stopped touching me and all the molecules that made up a very horny, just-on-the-cusp-of-coming Amal Warrier Naipaul screamed no, goddamit, no. I opened my eyes and met his mischievous smirk, a snark-filled comment on the tip of my tongue, ready to read him the riot act for taking me all the way to the edge of my orgasm and then leaving me dangling the way he did.
Then I remembered.
“You waited for me,” I whispered when I was somewhat settled and able to speak again.
He twisted a curl of my hair around his finger and almost-smiled, “I did.”
“Why?” I dared ask, afraid of his answer and what it could mean.
He cut his eyes and broke our stare then smiled, “If nothing, I am a man of my word. I told you I would be in the bathroom.”
I studied him as he stood there in the near-darkness, really seeing him for the first time ever, unafraid to let my eyes linger on every detail of him, drinking him in like a woman denied water for days. His dark eyes danced with lust and confidence and a touch of je ne sais quoi, his hair needed a cut to seem more respectable but I hardly doubted that was a concern, and his mouth. Fuck.
I reached out to run my fingers along his full lower lip, wanting nothing more than to stand on my toes and kiss him when he caught my wrist in his grasp and shot me a dangerous glance. That simple movement, so fast and direct, made my skin flush and my pussy swell. He sucked on the finger that just seconds earlier traced his mouth then began pressing a slow trail of hot, wet kisses down my arm, beginning at the sensitive skin on my wrist. I pressed myself into the wall, needing to ground myself somewhere stable while the rest of the world flipped upside down before entering full topspin.
“Andrew,” I moaned, his name crossing my lips for the first time, marking a distinct space in the timeline of my existence.
“Say it again,” he demanded as his lips pressed to the inside of my elbow and his voice tickled my skin.
“Andrew,” I hissed, more demanding and urgent because while he played my body like his favorite instrument, a work of art he knew intimately, everything felt more demanding and urgent. My mind raced with a million sensations but also felt completely blank and focused on nothing but his beautiful face and his goddamned mouth. My body felt ready to burst at the points where his lips met my skin but also between my thighs as I longed for his hands, his mouth, his anything. And my heart twisted and turned, so tormented by everything happening and not happening and would be happening if I had just listened to him in the first place and taken my ass to that goddamned bathroom.
And just like that I froze.
What the fuck, Amal? Since when do you listen to anyone but yourself? Even more to the point, since when does some man, a stranger really, have the power to make you do anything?
“Hey,” he moved into my line of vision and spoke, but I wasn’t focused on him because all I could focus on was myself and the realization that yes, up until this moment in time, this smouldering and sensual and incredibly hurtful and deceitful moment in time, I listened to no one but myself. And then he spoke, Mr. Downtown, Andrew Maynard, spoke up and claimed me as his, for how long and for what reason, I had no idea, but he did it and I loved it, I needed it, my mind and body craved it.
“You still in there somewhere?” he touched my chin and searched my eyes and for two beats of a second, I could swear all of this mattered to him. I wasn’t another pretty face in a sea of pretty faces offering themselves to him, no questions asked, no promises made. For two beats of a second, he saw me.
That sound on the terrace right then, that loud thump. It was my heart, landing at his feet.
“Yeah,” I replied after several long moments of losing myself in his stare, “I am absolutely still here,” and I touched his hand that held my chin and guided him back underneath my skirt, up my thigh, and pressed him into my wetness.
His eyes heated and he hissed in a breath as my fingers guided him, never breaking our stare, so deep in it with each other we moved as one.
“I’m sorry,” I closed my eyes and gasped, our fingers drenched with my desire, “but if your punishment includes not touching my body a second longer, this is me letting you know I can’t take it, I need you to touch me, Andrew. Please, touch me.”
“Good god, Amal,” he kissed me hard as he moved my hand and continued trailing his fingers through my slick lips, parting them and finding my clit, rock hard and throbbing, “open your eyes,” he demanded, the certainty of his voice making my body heat as I arched into him, leaving myself completely open and at his mercy. He continued his slow and purposeful dismantling of my defenses, spreading me wide, commanding my every move, “Amal, look at me.”
I met his stare while I grabbed his wrist and my body shook, “I’m going to come, oh god, Andrew, fuck, I’m going to come.”
He circled my clit and fucked me with his fingers as his voice rumbled through my body, “you are going to come, Amal,” he smiled and looked so fucking ravishing and deadly, “and you’re going to do it all over my hand.”
“Fuuuuuuck Andrew,” my body tightened as the most intense orgasm built in my toes and worked its way to my pussy, to his fingers on my clit and inside my pussy, to the tiniest point in my body that felt ready to explode everywhere, “I’m going to come,” and it was going to be all over the hand of a man not named Jackson Rashard Davis and it was going to break my heart into a million tiny pieces and I didn’t know how I was going to repair the damage but it didn’t matter because all that mattered at that moment was Andrew and me and our bodies doing things that felt so fucking good on so many levels.
“I’m coming,” I cried as he watched me and I watched him and I came undone everywhere, my body bucking against his hand as I lost myself and closed my eyes, “oh god,” I sobbed as wave after wave of pleasure and pain rolled through me, pounding every atom of my being, pulverizing me into submission to the hundreds of sensations and emotions coursing through my soul, “oh my god, Andrew.”
It was only when he kissed away my tears and wrapped me in his arms that I realized I was crying.
I firmly believe every woman should be finger-fucked to orgasm by a sexy man on a dark terrace. That said, I also firmly believe Amal is in a bit of a pickle after that little rendezvous.