My Favorite Poem



I cannot look upon you
without seeing poetry
it cannot be helped
even when I don’t
want it to happen
it does
the most beautiful rhythms
and movement
of words and meaning
in a perfect
thump thump
like the beat of my heart
when your lips
trace the curve of my throat
and touch my soul
in tenderness and heat
the poetry of
love and touch
you and I
wrapped around each other
you are my poem
an endless amalgam
of all that is
good and
bad and
everything I love
the bits of you
I hold close
when we’re apart
the seconds I count
until we are
your name dances along
my lips
curves around my waist
and kisses my toes
you thrum a beat
in my blood
that words try to capture
but only my heart
truly hears
you captivate me
blushed remembrances
of words shared
promises made
my favorite sounds
uh-huhs oh yeahs
please don’t stops
live within your fingertips
your smile
in your presence
poetry becomes vivid and
where all I crave
is to find meaning
in the magic of us
the words
I cannot look upon you
without it happening
you are
my favorite poem

The pieces of poetry on this blog and Write Bitches are works of fiction, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. And my unending love for all things romance.

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DreamSeries: Author Reading with @madhuriwrites – June 21st – NYC

That would be me.

This Wednesday, June 21st, I’m teaming up with Julie Young’s DreamMaker 3D and 3.1 Phillip Lim to read from DUTCH and JUMA, books I and II in The Keeper Series.

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The fun begins at 6:30 at Lim’s showroom in NYC at 48 Great Jones Street with FREE cocktails and discounts on the gorgeous clothing.

The reading begins around 7, to be followed by a Q&A with Julie, and a Kindle giveaway to one lucky soul who buys copies of the books.

So if you’re in the area and love some paranormal romance, or even just love some free alcohol, stop by the showroom, grab a drink, say hello to me, and maybe stay for some words.

*please RSVP your attendance to


#Writing Contemporary Romance: AMAL, Part 12


The previous post in this serial was an introduction to Andrew.

Andrew, Andrew, Andrew.

I kind of love him.

I love Jackson, too, mostly because he’s based on a guy I dated and loved in that way you love someone when you’re young and free and full of fire.

But Andrew is the person you meet when life gets interesting. Meaning, it starts getting complicated and too fast and you either let the madness swallow you whole or you meet it head on. And deal.

Andrew is all of the fuckery, tatted up, sexy, and smart AF, coming at you full speed ahead.

And to that, I say bring it.

All of it.

Or should I say, all of him…


I saw her long before she saw me, mostly because I was looking, completely incapable of casting my glance anywhere but the door every time it opened.

Dax was right. Even from across the room, Jackson Rashard Davis was a force to be reckoned with, stealing the show the minute he and Amal crossed the threshold and entered the party. But she was just as brilliant, maybe even more so in her slight hesitance and discomfort with the introductions and salutations. She smiled and laughed and charmed everyone Jackson knew, but here and there her jaw would clench or she would glance around as if somewhat bored by the fuss. It was in those moments I knew she and I were somewhat alike. Both of us here, at this party for people we loved so much, we slogged through the inanity of the bourgeois because it mattered to them. 

I wondered if Jackson knew what a lucky fuck he was?

Maybe he did, but most likely he was past the point of such ruminations. I did my research, Amal and Jackson had been a couple for more than three years, with some slight breaks here and there, but always coming back to one another. So yeah, I’m sure once upon a time he viewed her through the same prism as I, but based upon his body language with the attractive older woman who couldn’t stop touching him and fawning over every word he uttered, I gathered Amal was no longer the center of his everything. Not that Jackson didn’t love her, but he probably loved himself a little more. 

Just my two cents.

“Has no one ever told you it’s incredibly rude to gawk at another man’s woman?”

Laughter and a smack on the back brought me face-to-face with one of my oldest friends, Philippe Narcisse, Afro-French beautiful bastard but for the gash running down the side of his face, care of a terrible childhood car accident. We met during a skateboard camp in London the summer we turned twelve and had been thick as thieves ever since. While I was busy learning the ropes at Maynard Brothers, he was running one of the most successful custom tailors in the city. Bespoke was that motherfucker’s middle name. 

“Fuck you,” I tossed back the remains of my whiskey and set the glass down on the bar. 

“You mean fuck her,” Philippe laughed and ordered a scotch. “And if you don’t, goddamn, I will.”

I raised a brow and shot him a look.

“You’re taken,” I informed as I brought another whiskey to my lips, “and last time I checked, so is Ms. Naipaul.” 

“Yes, yes, so I’ve heard a million times since she walked into the room,” Philippe cast a glance Amal’s way, his eyes resting on her ass because seriously, how could they not. “Apparently, she doesn’t do these things. Ever. But she’s here tonight and for some reason it’s a big, fucking deal.”

Philippe laughed mischievously before adding, “I don’t care why she’s here, I’m just glad she is because fuuuuuuck, that ass makes me think some wicked shit. I’m not even an ass man and she’s got me wanting to put my face all up in it.”

“All right, all right,” I glared at my friend and he grinned. 

“I knew it, Maynard,” Philippe tossed his head in Amal’s direction. “Spit it out. I know you, motherfucker, and I know you know her.”

“I don’t know her any more than you do.”

“You cannot bullshit a bullshitter,” Philippe insisted. “I want the story, with all the juicy bits, like how that ass feels when you’ve got your hands all over it.”

“Fucking christ, man,” I laughed. “Ease up.”

Philippe leaned back on his heels, studied me for a second, then burst into deep peals of laughter, so loud several heads at the bar turned our way, curious as to his amusement. I tossed back my whiskey and ordered another, delighting my friend even further. He smacked me on the back again and kissed my cheek, long and loud and sloppy.

“Come on,” I pushed him off me, “control yourself.”

“I believe one Amal Naipaul has gotten under the skin of New York City’s most eligible bachelor,” Philippe said with a grin. “So as much as it pains me, in respect to you and because I love you like a brother, I shall cease making vile cracks about her splendid ass.”

“I’m certain the very lovely Sylvie,” I raised a brow in Philippe’s direction, “who last time I checked, remains your very devoted and stunning girlfriend, would love to hear all the filth escaping your lips concerning a certain derriere.”

Philippe stole another glance at Amal and sucked in his breath. “Mais oui, Sylvie would love to hear it and then join in my admiration, being the ass woman that she is.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. He was incorrigible. 

“For the record, her name is Amal Warrier Naipaul,” I tipped my drink in his direction and smirked, “and she is the most stunning woman ever created.”

Philippe let my words sink in for a second, took a sip of his drink, and shook his head while shaking a warning finger in my face. I pushed his hand away and waited for whatever advice I knew my friend could not help dispensing. 

“Did you fuck her, Andrew?”

“Nah, man,” I shook my head. “Not at all.”

He squinted his eyes and waited, as if by doing so he could tell whether or not I was being truthful. “Did you think about fucking her?”

“The second I saw her and every second afterwards,” I admitted to him and myself, “until I learned of Jackson. And then I forgot her.”

“Now you’re lying, Maynard,” Philippe squeezed my shoulder affectionately. “No one forgets an ass like that. But if you didn’t fuck her, what’d you do? Dinner? Drinks? Spill it.”

“Just a chat, and if I’m being honest, it probably didn’t last longer than five minutes.”

“Longest five minutes of your life, my friend,” Philippe noted, “that much is written all over your face.”

I started to protest when long, lean arms circled my waist and warm lips pressed to my neck. Sylvie. Only Sylvie could make the simplest hello so goddamned sexy. 

Mon cher,” she whispered in my ear as she ran a perfectly manicured hand down Philipp’s arm. “My two sexies. The things we could do together,” she whispered as she slipped between us and settled herself onto Philippe’s lap. He pulled her close and sucked on her ear while Sylvie practically purred in delight. It was sensual and endearing and so very Philippe and Sylvie. 

“Get a room,” I groused.

“With Amal’s name on it? Happily,” Philippe joked and immediately pricked Sylvie’s interest, something I knew he intended.  

“Amal?” Sylvie’s eyes widened as she played with the rim of her champagne flute, “as in Naipaul? As in Doctors for Hope?”

“As in Jackson Davis’s girlfriend,” Philippe added with a laugh. 

Sylvie rolled her eyes as she kissed his cheek. “Ignore him, Andrew, he’s a horrible gossip and probably loves the fact you haven’t been able to take your eyes off that woman all night.”

And now it was Sylvie’s turn to look rather impish and incorrigible.

“Fuck both of you,” I replied and they laughed as Sylvie pulled me close for a kiss.

“She is lovely and her behind has me captivated,” Sylvie whispered in my ear, “but she is very taken and Jackson is very tall and incredibly strong and impossibly fuckable. Just please watch your heart.” She kissed me again before leaning back into Philippe’s embrace. 

I touched her furrowed brow as if to smooth it out and smiled. “You have nothing to worry about, Sylvie. My heart is as cold and dead as ever.”

She smiled sadly and kissed my hand. “Well, in that case, my concerns are all for naught, mon cher.”

We chatted a bit longer before Sylvie begged off due to an early-morning photo shoot and Philippe happily trailed after her, thankful for the excuse to leave the festivities. 

“Don’t shut the bar down, Maynard,” he smacked the back of my head and disappeared into the crowd, leaving me to my whiskey and thoughts. 

Which explained why, when I saw her sitting all alone, I couldn’t resist the temptation. I came up behind her, leaned close, and paused. Not because I intended to but because she smelled like heaven and I got lost in her for a second. Recovering before she was any the wiser, I held my breath and took a leap of faith.

“Amal Warrier Naipaul, have you fucked your professor yet?”

Andrew knows better, he just can’t help himself. Amal is all kinds of magic. Happy weekend, gorgeous people.

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Five Stars for JUMA


The first review of JUMA is in and it’s kind of stellar:

5.0 out of 5 stars – WORD LOVE
By CScole on June 9, 2017
Format: Kindle Edition

The author has the ability to craft exquisitely formed sentence, that I found myself mouthing the words to see if the motion felt as beautiful in action as they were to read, and think. The story is a complex mosaic of characters and positions, but at the same time is very basic, raw, and primal, lust, love, need, want, and violence.

Juma is wonderful character simple, vulnerable, fearful, and yet forced to become strong, violent, and fearsome. Dutch is beyond complicated a man of words and a multitude of thoughts and less action, while Juma is all action and a single thought. At 90% I found myself looking at the percentage screaming in my head no it can’t be near the end, every page I looked at the percentage thinking there has to be more needs to be more, right until the end.

I was given an ARC in exchange for my honest review.

Yea Juma and all her fierce magic.

I love that badass woman.


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Buy links for DUTCH:

HERE for Amazon
HERE for Kobo
HERE for B&N
HERE for iBooks
HERE for Google Play

Buy Links for JUMA:

HERE for Amazon
HERE for Kobo
HERE for B&N
HERE for iBooks
HERE for Google Play

Two Days Until JUMA



Forty-eight hours.

Two thousand eight hundred eighty minutes.

One hundred seventy two thousand eight hundred seconds.

And more of this will be coming your way…

I spoke those words knowing da would hear them differently than intended, but fine with such a misunderstanding. Now was hardly the moment to explain my true self to him, now was hardly the moment to tell him I died thirty years ago on a gurney in Grady Memorial from a gunshot wound to my tiny throat, now was hardly the moment to explain that life and death were more fluid than he could ever imagine.
Now was the time for bigger things.

— Juma, The Keeper Series Book II

This book is love and magic and reckoning.

And it’s almost here.

I cannot wait.

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Buy links for DUTCH:

HERE for Amazon
HERE for Kobo
HERE for B&N
HERE for iBooks
HERE for Google Play

Pre-Order Links for JUMA:

HERE for Amazon
HERE for Kobo
HERE for B&N
HERE for iBooks
HERE for Google Play

A Writer’s Running Log, Days 8 and 9

I don’t run. I do yoga. And yet…

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Random Thoughts While Running
day 8 – 3.4 miles
day 9 – 4.0 miles

  1. My day 8 run was so annoying because I cannot figure out how to get my Strava app to talk to me. This after complaining the apps are mocking me. But still – I need to know how far I’ve gone and how fast I’ve done it. And I need to know this information WHILE I’m doing it, not afterwards.
  2. I love running in the rain. I learned this on Day 9’s run. I was soaked to the bone and thrilled about it. Easily my favorite run.
  3. There is a point in my run through West and South Orange that I use as a marker of sorts. It lets me know where I am and how I should pace myself. This morning – Day 9 – maybe because of the rain – I was so into my run, I completely overlooked the marker. Ran right past it. And only thought about it maybe a mile and a half later.
  4. I averaged a 10:16 mile on Day 9’s run, but was on pace to break the 9 minute mark until it happened. The Tourists. Motherfucking tourists in the ‘burbs, I kid you not. At least they weren’t psycho killers or sex traffickers or something, which was what I thought at first when they followed me at a snail’s pace in their creepy white car. For a good three minutes, I kicked myself for not turning on the Beacon on my Strava app, especially when dude stopped the car and got out. But I’m here, typing this post, so obviously they didn’t kidnap me. Still. They ruined my time…jerks.

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7 Days From Now…JUMA

I died twice. The first time, when I was five, at the hand of a stray bullet, and then again when I was thirty-five, of my own volition. Neither death prepared me for the random and brutal agony of living.

And so begins JUMA, book two in The Keeper Series trilogy, available for download in seven days.


This book is poetry and death and love and sex. It is blood and sweat and tears on the page. It is raw and honest, gorgeous and brutal. And Juma is just goddamned magic. I don’t know how else to describe her.

And I don’t know what else to say except that I cannot wait for its release. If you haven’t done so already, sink into DUTCH and then get ready for the dark magic that is JUMA.

She is coming.

And trust when I say, you won’t know what hit you.

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Buy links for DUTCH:

HERE for Amazon
HERE for Kobo
HERE for B&N
HERE for iBooks
HERE for Google Play

Pre-Order Links for JUMA:

HERE for Amazon
HERE for Kobo
HERE for B&N
HERE for iBooks
HERE for Google Play