Loving Mr. Daniels (45 page)

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Word Play

By Amalie Silver

Prologue

Michael Rourke

Jasmine whimpered, gripping my hair and pulling my mouth to her drenched pussy. Her fingernails desperately scratching against my scalp, combined with the heady aroma of coconut and the ocean, held me prisoner in a foggy desire.

She could’ve asked me to do anything and I would’ve been happy to oblige. The woman was perfection. Not in the conventional way, but in the exotic and mysterious way that had me coming back to her again and again. These past few weeks in the Caribbean had surely worked me over, as I had been trying to find some way to keep her on this island, keep her here with me.

“Por favor, Armond,” she whispered as I traced my tongue along her inner thigh. Knowing that I’d won, my smirk escaped. For weeks I’d coveted this siren, determined to put a smile across those dark, sexy, full lips. I’d imagined what her plea would look like: her legs spread out before me and her long black hair curtaining her pillow, the sheets, one breast, and her arms reaching for me.

“Not yet, Jazzy,” I countered. “You’ve been teasing my cock for weeks. It’s time for a little payback.”

She huffed and threw her head back to the satin pillow, causing her breasts to ripple with the motion. Her hands flew over her head as she settled into the sheets. Closing her eyes, she grabbed a firm hold of my hair with one hand and began moving her hips.

I swept my tongue over her clit momentarily and buried my nose into the tuft of hair on her pubic bone, taking in her scent. “Oh, sí, sí, mi Armond,” she murmured breathlessly.

I dipped my tongue into her pussy, licking from her entrance to her clit. My tempo quickened as my tongue danced along her lips, sucking and nipping but not giving any satisfaction to any particular area. I sucked her dry, taking in every last drop of moisture she’d given me until I could no longer taste my sweet Jasmine.

Her flavor alone had my cock twitching and heated. I’d jerked off to this very thought a dozen times in the past week that I was surprised I hadn’t blown my load before now. I trailed my tongue from her clit to her navel, pausing only briefly before reaching her nipple.

I checked myself, the throbbing now almost unbearable. Oh, yes. I was ready. Palming my hard cock, I began a rough torture on her dark areolas, causing the peaks to rise and fall in both pain and delight.

Her nipple hardened under my teeth as she cried out. But the satisfied grin on her face urged my will to briefly continue. “You’ve been a bad girl,” I whispered, looking out through my dark lashes.

I thrust my stiffness against her and she gasped. “Sí,” she murmured back.

“I don’t think you should get off that easily.” I scooped my arms around her and quickly flipped her to her stomach. I can only imagine that the slippery sheets were a welcome ease under her swollen and sensitive nipples. Pinning down her wrists, my back in an exaggerated arch, I glided my cock against her backside. Whispering softly into her ear, assuring that I had deep hot breaths between each word, I said, “Jasmine. Tell me to fuck you.” I thrust again, feeling her arousal glide against me. Her legs parted slightly, allowing for me to nestle between them, and I thrust again.

“I want you to fuck me,” she said in her sexy little accent.

I smiled and thrust again, feeling the wetness increase. “I don’t hear the conviction. Say it again.”

“Por favor, Armond. I die here. I die.”

I spread her cheeks, my tongue gliding across the dark pink line from her entrance to her asshole. And I slapped.

“Ow! Mi Armond!”

“Have you enjoyed strutting this ass around, teasing me?”

I slapped again, delighting in the light pink flesh I’d created on her perfectly bronzed backside. She brought her stomach off the bed and leaned back, putting her pussy at my eye level. Two perfect folds of slippery urgency, her entrance constricted, squeezing out another drop for me to taste.

I got to my knees and shoved her hips against me as we both grunted. I slid my dick up and down, allowing for her natural lubricant to coat us. Twisting her hair into a ponytail, I yanked, and her long neck strained backward. The mirrored headboard gave me a perfect view of her entire body, squirming and writhing for my touch. “You’re mine,” I growled.

And she was. If even for only the next hour, I’d fuck that woman until she was weak—so that when she suddenly turned to pick something off the ground tomorrow or went to one of those damn yoga classes, she could still feel the effects of this. I wanted her to feel me days from now.

“Sí. Mi Armond. Take me.”

I released my grip on her hair and crashed into her. The force I had even surprised me, as I’d never needed a woman as desperately as I did Jasmine. Her small tits recoiled with each thrust, and her slick opening constricted, anticipating my next blow. Again and again, I crushed myself to her, hoping I’d reach some sort of voice inside her, helping me convince her that this could be forever. I’d make love to her, fuck her, please her any way she wanted for the rest of her life—if she’d only give me that chance. I’d studied her body to the point of nausea for a month, and I already knew what she needed and how she needed me to give it to her.

“You like my tight little pussy, Armond? Tell me how I feel.”

“Fuck, Jazz. You’re exquisite. I love watching your tits bounce,” I said, reaching one of my hands around her torso to take her nipple between my fingers. Her hand reached down between her legs as she began to pleasure herself. And I fucking lost it.

Back on my knees, I grabbed her hips again, watching her mouth open and close with the overwhelming sensations filling her lustful needs. My cock. Her fingers. Watching it all in the mirror. It was dangerous—sinful—like we were doing something dirty and wrong. And loving every fucking second of it.

It started in my thighs, and weakened my sensibilities. Feeling the orgasm build, I increased my thrusts rapidly. The tip of my cock throbbed, and the feel of Jasmine’s tight pussy—constricting, getting wetter, so close to her own orgasm—left me begging for it. My sack slapped against her, making a glorious sound—one reserved for only this kind of fucking.

She pushed her backside up a little further, changing the feel entirely. Even more snug now, she knew I was ready to explode. The slapping sound increased as I realized she’d adjusted herself so that my balls would slap against her clit. As soon as she braced herself back on all fours, I stared at her deep brown eyes in the reflection of the headboard as a smirk rose to her face.

“Come for me, Armond.”

The words were my undoing. I thrust twenty times, so hard that I thought I’d break her. And I swear I must have come over a gallon. Just as I thought I was done, my cock tensed again, alerting me that I still had another thrust left. And another. “Fuck. Holy, fuck. Jazz. Fuck. Fuck!” And another.

“Don’t stop! Holy shit, mi Armond!” And my last ten thrusts were solely for her. I had the pleasure of seeing the look on her face when I made her come. Her forehead was covered with a fine sheen, and she bit her bottom lip so hard it drew blood. Her dark areolas were shriveled up, her nipples now erect; I felt her canal envelop my cock, milking me for any drop I had left.

I exited her with a gasp from both of us and she lay flat against the sheets, remaining on her stomach. The after effects of her orgasm were still showing as she lay down against a pillow, parting her legs slightly, moving against it. She continued panting and rubbing against the pillow, whispering my name.

“Mmmm, Armond.”

After catching her breath, she turned to me, her eyes just a little lighter shade of brown than when we began. “Do you always fuck like that?” Fuck if that accent didn’t grab my cock’s attention again.

“If you let me, I can.” I wiped the small drop of blood from her lip, slowly replacing my finger with my lips.

She rose and threw a red satin robe around herself. Once she reached the bathroom, she turned and lifted her hair out from her back. “Promise?” She winked, and I lay back down on the bed with a smile on my face.

The End|

I watched the cursor blink behind the ‘d,’ mocking me. And I privately cursed myself for selling my soul to the devil, no matter how many bestsellers lists that damn manuscript would appear on. Taking another swig from my whiskey, my eyes rolled back into my head and I passed out before my torso hit the floor.

~ ~

I hit the
New York Times
and
USA Today
bestsellers lists with Jasmine and Armond. The cover—insisted by my agent—had teal waters surrounding a tropical island with a needful couple embracing in the foreground. Her dark, cascading hair covered his bare chest, and his arms gently wrapped around her waist. The first mockup had a fucking waterfall on it, but I’d made them Photoshop it out.

I didn’t do this by choice; my true passion was for mysteries, crime, and mob stories. I loved coming up with the chase, the hints, and puzzling the reader in their need to continue turning the pages. I’d never suspected I would succumb to the demands of the industry just to get a paycheck.

But after my first two flopped, I didn’t have much of a choice.
Fifty Shades of Grey
and
Twilight
stole the majority of my sales—pretty sure they stole everyone’s sales. Women that once had a passion for the sleuth characters I was inclined to produce wanted sparkling teenaged vampires and gray-tie-wielding gentle monsters. I had a small following, but it wasn’t anywhere near what I needed to pay my rent.

My bank account was running dry and I sure as hell wasn’t going to move back in with my parents at age thirty-one. So I began drinking,
logically
. I read both of the aforementioned series within a matter of a week, and sat down to pen my first erotica novel.

I chose the pen name Christoph Strong in a drunken stupor. I don’t think I had slept much that night, and my agent was pressing me for a decision on whether or not I wanted to publish under my real name. At the last minute, I hastily decided that Christoph (the surname of the first girl I fell in love with, in middle school) and Strong (the pots of coffee I’d made to get me through my mornings) would do just fine.

Great. So I’d hit the big time. My ‘name’ was known around the world as I quickly became an international bestseller. I paid my rent on time and was able to keep my electricity from shutting off. Unfortunately, I couldn’t share my fame with my friends and family. It should’ve been a time of celebration; I should’ve been able to rejoice in my small claim to fame and tiny piece in the history of American literature. But there were only two people on Earth that knew my real name—Michael Rourke—and that was me and my agent.

My plan was to keep it that way—keep my twitchy erotica hand a dirty little secret. I’d insisted that Christoph Strong was going to be a one hit wonder and that any name I’d made for myself through that genre would die once sales did. But within six months, it was time to pay rent again. Sales were still steady, but any intentions I had on quitting before that time were stifled once I realized how much money I could make writing the second book in the Armond series.

I wrote the second and had it in my editor’s hands within four weeks. That was three months ago, and sales were presently leveling out at their climax – they were only going to go down from there.

I was running out of options.

Falling Back Together (Crashing #2)

By: Kristen Hope Mazzola

Prologue: Walker

Red Georgia clay turned into gravel of a familiar road as it crunched under the tires of my beat-up Ford pickup. The night air was speckled with stars blanketing the rolling hills of my family’s damned homestead. 
I never thought I’d come back here.
As I off the gas and gently pressed the brake in, my vehicle came to rest just about a mile away from their double-wide trailer. I started to feel the panic settle into my chest again.  I knew that leaving her had been the wrong move, but I’d had no other options. 
Fucking chicken-shit.

Slamming my palms onto the steering wheel, I let out a load, broken scream.  My skin burned from the scratches and bites, my eyes burned from the tears, and my throat burned from the pleading.  All I wanted was to turn around.  Run back. Turn back time.  Explain. Love her.  The sight of rage on her face was enough to keep me put—staring down the life I never wanted to return to, like a damn loaded gun pressed right down the throat of my sanity. She hated me, and I’d known it right when I saw that journal gripped in her beautiful fingers. I’d crushed her with all the words I’d been too scared to let leave those pages. How else was she supposed to freaking act? This was for the best.  Being out of Margret McManus’s life for good was something that needed to happen.  Not for my sake, but for hers.  I’d destroyed her.  The one person I truly loved and who truly loved me back… Her pain was completely my fault.

There are only so many lines a guy could cross without tempting fate, and I wasn’t the kind of man to play with that kind of fire. Mags was Randy's and I was gonna have to deal with that in my own way.
Here goes nothing. It’s time to pull this trigger.