Thursday, March 31, 2011
Morning, morning. Here we go. It's raining and I'm tired and all I want to do at the moment (thanks to the Top Chef finale last night) is sleep. But instead, here I am, clutching my coffee cup in hand and putting up the latest bit of Really and Johnny. Oh yeah, and I fed the kids too. They made me...
By Sommer Marsden
This title is part of Amazon's lending library for the time being. Please visit amazon.com for more details...
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Here is my offering for Aisling's Weekend Writer challenge. 500 word flash fiction. I must clarify that the face to me was a theatrical mask. I could be wrong. But that is the reference I used. It was that or an alien and I went with the first thing I thought of when I saw it. Beyond that, the rest of the items are self-explanatory!
Wherever You Like
By Sommer Marsden
It was easy to imagine trolls under the bridge, Friday thought. She smiled and when he turned suddenly, crowding her, she stopped short.
“Here,” he said.
“This is where you’re taking me?” she laughed.
Todd had said he wanted to take her somewhere special. This was it? The rickety bridge that connected on half of campus to the other.
“Did you expect a hot air balloon?” he teased.
“As if you could get me up in one of those monstrosities.” Friday rolled her eyes.
His hands settled on her waist and she felt that ripple of excitement that always traveled through her whenever Todd touched her.
“Were you expecting a fountain and swans? Maybe a violinist?” He traced her lips with his fingertip and she heard a soft pop as she let her mouth open.
“I hate swans. They scare me,” she said.
He leaned in to kiss her and the lust she felt for him left footprints up her spine. Her need bled like an ink stain under her skin.
“A movie maybe? A play? Comedy or tragedy or a chick flick—perish the thought.” He grinned.
Todd pushed his hands into her hair and tugged her head back for a proper kiss. His lips were warm and soft and his tongue pushed gently into her mouth. She opened for him. When he released her, she was breathing hard. Her vision narrowed and sharpened and she saw as small greenish-brown turtle meandering below the bridge.
She turned her back to him and he leaned against her. His body pressed hard to the back of hers. His arousal evident.
“No. No movie,” she said and her voice was shaky. “And I hate tragedies.”
“As much as swans?”
“Almost,” she laughed.
“What time is it?” Todd asked over her shoulder. He cinched his arms around her waist, holding her tight.
Friday reveled in the feel of a moment and then checked her watch. “Four o’clock.”
“Count it with me,” he said. He turned her and she saw a sly happiness in his green eyes. As always she noted the hazel ring around the very center that she so loved. If eyes were windows to the soul, then Todd’s soul was a gorgeous and wild thing.
“Count what?” But she watched him measure each second that ticked past. At 4:01 he said, “Happy official birth-minute, Friday.”
She grinned at him. “Thank you, sweet man.”
“Welcome to the special place.”
“I still don’t get it.”
“This,” he swept his hand grandly as if he were in a drama or a tragedy, “is the place where I tell you for the first time how very much I love you. More than all the world. Forever.”
She swallowed hard. “I love you, too.” She said it because she did.
Todd kissed her again. “And now,” he chuckled, “I can take you wherever you like.”
She leaned against him and let him wrap his arms around her. “Let’s just stay here. Just for a bit longer.”
Here we are, dear readers, with part 15. Oddly enough, Wanderlust has hit almost 18K. We're creeping up on roughly a third of a standard length novel. Freaky deaky, yes?
I went through and tweaked some of yesterday. I read it last night and was LMAO from some of the typos. I'd either lacked sufficient coffee or accidentally ingested some crack because I had about a dozen when all was said and done. Good thing I'm learning how to let stuff like that roll off my back (read as am *trying* to learn).
Anyway, I hope I did better today! And thanks for showing up to read. For some reason when I post my piece of the puzzle and then y'all show up to read I feel...Well, as Jamie Oliver says "then you're smiling!". I am. I am smiling :)
by Sommer Marsden
This title is currently part of Amazon's lending library (for the time being). Please visit Amazon.com for details...
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Monday, March 28, 2011
Forgive this formatting, dear reader, if it's ALL HOSED UP. It has realigned itself three times so far this morning. So any issues that are not urgent are staying. Because if I get it up (heh) straight, it's staying up (heh again).
Today is the last day in the BIG DAY PARADE that started last week. Tomorrow, I put my head down and do four days of writing. I've managed 1-2K each day these past few, but in my head I have a lot more than that to process. So you know where I'll be tomorrow. Ass in seat, banging out Johnny, zombies, and I think a haunting story. Ole!
Happy Monday. More coffee, please!
by Sommer Marsden
This item is currently part of Amazon.com's Lending Library. Please see Amazon.com for more details...
Sunday, March 27, 2011
Morning, all! I'm off to the store soon to get stuff for tomorrow night's big dinner. Then home to bake a cake. I swear, Tuesday I'm going to sleep allllllll day. It's been a busy week, but then again it's been nothing but good stuff, so I really can't complain now can I?
Happy Sunday. Why not have a cuppa, put your feet up and read installment 12?
by Sommer Marsden
Normally, I’d have let him fuck me. If he had it in his mind to fuck me, that is. It seemed he did. But there was something else. Something that might squash the worry that had risen up my chest this morning. I lurked on the periphery of my mind until I decided to pay attention to it.
I’m not one for blow jobs. Not normally. I see them as a means to an end. An appetizer to a good meal or an amuse bouche before the feast. I never really got the whole blow job thing or women who had sudden urges to do that for their men. Until Johnny.
I dropped to my knees in his shower—noting in that odd OCD way of mine that it was extremely clean for a bachelor—and he twisted a finger into my bangs.
“Hey, there. Why don’t you—“
I hushed him once again and his mouth shut and he cocked head watching me. He was hard already. Cocks have a way of assessing the situation and rising to the occasion despite the gut feelings of their owners, I think.
“I want to,” I said. And I did. The knowledge was startling, but I would examine it later. I could wait to probe my own psyche until I had done what I intended to do.
I licked the shower water from his skin. Tasting heat and salt and warm male skin. Tasting—still—the dark and spicy scent of myself on him— our coupling. I licked up the back of his cock and he pressed one big hand to the black and white tile to steady himself. The water rushed down over me—a lukewarm baptism. I sucked harder, cupping his balls in my hand, squeezing just enough that I felt him grow tenser. His breath caught in his throat.
Pulling back, I kissed his hipbones, tracing my tongue along the hard ridges of bone under flesh. I kissed above his pelvis where the dark hair curled the thickest and his palms settled on my hair. He kept his hands on my head, neither pushing nor pulling, simply touching my wet locks. It was a priestly gesture and I wondered if in some odd way, Johnny Rose was blessing me. Giving me a new beginning—a fresh start. Absolving me of my sins.
He didn’t try to argue with me but he did try to tug me up again and I felt a smile split my face. It was almost like I was fighting him to allow me the pleasure of sucking his cock.
He caught the smile. “What?” he growled.
“Nothing. Let me, though,” I whispered, barely audible above the hiss and pop of the water falling all around us. “Please.”
I got it. He wanted to fuck me. He thought I was fragile or broken or…something. He figured the blow jobs could hold off until I was less so. But he was wrong.
“Please,” I said and he heard it in my voice then. Because I did, too. The naked plea to just fucking let me. Let me do it.
He nodded and pushed both hands to the wall this time. When I sucked him in, he propelled his hips forward just a touch so that he drove down into my throat. I made a noise in my chest. There was no pretense or let’s pretend. I was not trying to sound sexy or turn him on. I was simply doing something I had an overwhelming urge to do for him, for me. And that was the sound that came out of me. It was a blatantly honest sound—almost embarrassing.
Johnny started to thrust with a little more force, so that he filled me and cut off all my worry and most of my air. I held his thighs in my hands, the water turning cooler and raising goose bumps on my back. I sucked him hard and then soft and then hard again and he fucked my throat, breathing like a man on the edge.
When my hands found his balls again and I stroked him, cupped him, simply touched the warm skin under my fingers, he came with a grunt. His fingers flexing on the tile, grasping nothing but water and whiteness.
I surprised myself when I sat back on my haunches, water streaming all around my eyes so I had to keep blinking. I surprised myself big time when I looked at him and licked my lips and said “Thank you.”
He cooked me eggs and sausage while I toasted English muffins.
“I think you killed them,” he laughed. He looked manly and safe in his faded Levi’s and work boots. A black tee advertising some bar in St. Louis and a fresh plaid flannel, this time a green plaid.
“I like them crispy,” I said.
He grabbed a half and banged it on the counter where it tap-tap-tapped loud enough to make me grin. “Crisp?”
“Seriously. Try it. Put a shit ton of butter on there and eat it and tell me it is not the best way to eat it,” I argued. I did just that and when I bit into the English muffin I groaned. It was almost as good as an orgasm.
“Shit ton? Just a surprising phrase from someone like you.”
The bread got wedged in my throat and I tried mightily to swallow it. “Someone like me? What am I like?”
He shook his head, his blue eyes darting away from me. He realized his mistake. He realized the wound he had just inflicted and I almost felt sorry for him.
“I mean someone who has come from your background. I know that your daddy and his money and all that is not you, Really. I know you are you. Don’t pick a fight because I didn’t say the right word.”
Well, that shut me up. Usually, I was capable of picking apart a man’s words and nailing him to the wall with them. It was one of my many talents and something I found a sick amount of comfort in—being able to call someone on a verbal technicality.
But he’d shut me down. Which oddly made me want him that much more. His ability to extinguish my fiery rages before they even started. Talented man.
He pulled me toward him by the front of his own flannel—that I had, okay, let’s tell the truth here—stolen. He kissed me, licking a small bit of butter off my lip. “Don’t do what you do so well to me, Snowflake. Be real with me.”
I shook my head, looked away. “Right. Shit ton. Something I heard from college peers. Something that I like to say. Something that means a lot, indicating a large amount,” I said, trying to laugh.
I wanted to ask him about the pictures. I wanted to ask him about the little sneakers and the little box of treasured things that he’d hidden from me. But I’d just gotten here, hadn’t I? I was new and an intruder and probably just a good lay for a few days.
I wanted to ask him, but I didn’t…
Saturday, March 26, 2011
Here's part 11. Can't believe I pulled it off. However it was on the fly and I didn't get to read it through as many times as I prefer, so if you see a boo-boo, let me know-know. Just be nice-nice! ;)
Over and out.
by Sommer Marsden
this title is currently part of Amazon's lending library (for the time being). Visit amazon.com for more details...
Friday, March 25, 2011
by Sommer Marsden
This item is currently part of Amazon's lending library. Please see Amazon.com for details...
Thursday, March 24, 2011
Thanks to all who are reading. It's awesome to see you showing up every day!
by Sommer Marsden
His apartment was the top floor in an old building adjacent to an old church. The front window looked out onto the steeple. “Wow, is this why you rented? I mean, you’re huge and you can hardly stand up in here.”
“That and the bedroom view. You’ll see in the morning.”
He took my arm and tugged me up from the sofa where I’d been sitting. Johnny pushed my long hair back off my face, held the bulk of it at the base of my neck with his hand and kissed me.
“Wait, what’s your name?” I said, pushing my palms flat to the hard expanse of his chest.
“Johnny,” he said, and cocked that half-grin at me.
“Johnny what.? You know that I’m Aurelia Blake. Who are you? Johnny…”
I snorted and rolled my eyes but he amused me for sure. “Try again.”
I shook my head. “Come on. Tell me.” Anxiety had wormed into my belly at the lack of knowledge. They say knowledge is power, I liked to be the one with the most toys in any given situation. I liked to know everything about everyone. Call it a character flaw if you must.
As a teenager I had gone to the ocean and wandered off to a hotel with a boy. I hadn’t told my friends his name or where I was going. I’d simply decided to go. Instinct had stopped me half way down his hotel hallway and when I told him that I’d changed my mind he’d called me a cunt. My instinct had been that the night would end badly and I had listened. His reaction had proven my fears true. Sudden anger and raged had bubbled out of him and he had stormed toward me so intently that I ran. I’d often wondered what would have happened had I gone back to his room and he’d had me alone.
My instinct told me that this night would end a way I liked. Really liked. Possibly too much for comfort. I needed to know his name as silly as it was.
He studied me intently. Holding my chin in his hand, he tipped my head back and stared at me so hard I felt like he could see into my bones and all the way down to my soul. “John Rose. That’s my name.”
“You want a drink?”
“No. No drink.”
“No.” I put my hand on his cock—still hard, still long, still very there under my hand—and I squeezed him.
His arms closed me in on me. Grabbing my ass, he lifted me so that I straddled his waist. I wrapped my legs around him, caught his neck up in my arms and pulled myself close.
“What do you want then, Really?”
I had a choice, I knew it—I could feel it. I could tell him the God’s honest truth, that baldly raw bit of myself nestled way down. Or I could lie to him, feed him some line of greeting card bullshit. The stuff that women’s network movies were made out of. And then I could fuck him and sneak off in the middle of the night like a thief or a whore or a liar.
“I want you, Johnny Rose,’ I said. I kissed him, bit his bottom lips so hard he hissed and his hands gripped my ass tighter, squeezing forcefully enough that my heart seemed to stagger drunkenly at the cross stimulation of pleasure and pain. I bit him again and he growled—the noise set all of the tiny hairs along the nape of my neck on edge.
I shivered like a feverish woman and grabbed his head in my hands. The stubble on his cheeks bit at my fingertips. Would he let me shave his head? Would he let me put shaving cream along it as I sat naked—draped over the old fashioned tub I’d spied through the open bathroom door—and shave his head smooth? Would he trust me with a razor and his skin?
“Do you know? Are you sure? I’m not an easy guy to be around. I tend to alienate people.”
“I don’t see it. I don’t feel alienated at all, Johnny Rose. I don’t need a babysitter.”
“No?” He walked me back to the counter of his tiny kitchen. He slammed my ass on the ugly green Formica and pinned my hands to the sides of my thighs and kissed me hard. His hands tangled in my hair again and when the kiss deepened, he yanked.
“I don’t need a nursemaid or a girlfriend or a business partner.” I was babbling.
“Good,” he said. He pulled my sweater over my head and unhooked my bra and tossed it. His mouth closed over my nipple and he sucked, the tug of his mouth drawing an invisible line of need from my tit to my cunt. “What do you need, Snowflake?”
His huge fingers—looking so clumsy but being so nimble—settled on my button but then stilled. I waited, watching his hands, willing them to move.
He smiled and his face was dark and beautiful, beat up and perfect. He was magnificent. Gorgeous and frightening all in one blink. “Yeah?”
“I need a good long fuck. From you. I need you to fuck me, Johnny,” I said, the words felt weird coming out of my mouth but they burst out almost of their own accord, like spitting out little bits of dandelion fluff.
His laughter was smoky and mildly unsettling and he grabbed me up in his arms and moved toward the back room that I knew to be his bedroom . “Done,” he said.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
by Sommer Marsden
This title is part of Amazon's lending library for the time being. See amazon.com for more details.
Tuesday, March 22, 2011
Morning, all! Happy reading...
by Sommer Marsden
This title is currently part of Amazon.com's lending library. Please see Amazon.com for more details...
Monday, March 21, 2011
Photo credit is moi. That is our crazy ass moon Saturday night. Pretty, yes?
Good morning all. Um...happy...Monday? Well, Monday either way. Good morning.
by Sommer Marsden
I wasn’t going to go—no way. I fingered the matchbook—black paper with a neon green name and phone number “Mooney’s”. Sounded like a corner city bar. A place packed with patrons who started drinking with their dipping eggs and smoked inside despite the new laws and settled issues and arguments with their fists. I’d done my share of “slumming” in college and could shut my eyes and imagine the inside of the bar. Probably brickwork on the walls, low ceilings—pressed tin, most likely—and bar stools patched with duct tape.
“I’m not going,” I told the matchbook and stuck it in my pajama pants pocket.
Jackson was reading in bed and I was restless. We rarely roosted for the night together—ours was not that kind of cardboard cutout marriage.
I put a movie on cable, poured myself a drink, but drank seltzer water instead. I flipped through a really good book I’d been reading that was now really boring. I tried to watch the horror movie and on the fifth loud shriek from the actress, turned to a cooking channel.
“I’m not going,” I told my seltzer water.
Jackson was snoring sitting up when I snuck in the bedroom. I slipped through the narrow opening in my closet door. I’d left it ajar and for that I was grateful. In the semi-dark I found a pair of faded jeans, a black sweater, a black pair of flats. Dressing as quietly as I could, I told myself I was going to tell Johnny to back off. That I wasn’t interested. That I was married and sane and had no interest in anything more than a brief fuck. And since he had already made it clear that he was not one of my ‘napkin boys’—someone I could use and then beat feet. There were plenty of pretty boys more than willing to simply have some sex in a coatroom and call it a day.
“Because you are so very special you can fuck with no feeling.”
It hit me that I’d said that aloud and my heart quickened. My stomach felt sick. My vision sparkled with tiny dots of light even in the darkness.
I pushed out of the closet and tiptoed past my sleeping husband. He turned at the last minute, settling on his side and when I started to push the door shut behind me he whispered “Say hi to the new guy for me, Really.”
I pretended not to hear.
The drive to Mooney’s was windy and cold, the fat moon peeking out from behind thick but shifting clouds. I wished I’d worn boots, a coat—fuck—underpants. If wishes were gumdrops we’d all be fat. That’s what my father always says, bastardizing the old saying for his amusement.
I didn’t wish often. Maybe that’s why I forgot to eat lunch and often punished myself by not eating food I wanted and remained perpetually thin. I refused to wish.
But I wished—hoped—that Johnny would still be at Mooney’s when I showed up.
And then I felt like a shit for wanting it.
The inside of Mooney’s made a liar out of me. It was painted brickwork, thank you very much—painted a cream color to lighten the space. The ceiling was pressed copper instead of tin and the window in the front was full of plants. Plastic ones, but still…And I only spotted one barstool patched with duct tape.
Beer signs over the bar threw neon splashes on the patron’s bellied up to the long shellacked length of wood. On closer inspection, beer coasters had been sealed under a protective layer. Johnny sat at the far end, his shorn head dripping in neon blue, his face bent over a paper. It was folded into a neat rectangle. I expected him to be doing a puzzle or something, but he was simply reading an article about neighborhood cleanup. Go figure.
He raised his head as I approached, almost as if he sensed me even in the small cluster of regulars and slumming college kids from the local campus.
“Snowflake, you made it.”
My belly dipped at the rich, gruff texture of his words. It was like being touched with language. It made no sense but it made all the sense in the world.
I nodded but said nothing, pulled out the stool next to him and dropped on to it. My legs weren’t feeling too steady at the moment.
“Didn’t think you would,” he said, raising a finger to the bartender. He pointed at himself and then at me. The bartender gave a nod, his hands dipping into the cooler.
Two Belgian ales were placed in front of us—lacy white heads and a slice of fresh orange clinging to the glass. I’d be a liar if I didn’t admit I was surprised.
“Sláinte,” he said.
“I’m whatever I want to be.”
He grinned and I was grateful to be sitting. He didn’t smile much, it seemed, so when he did, it had a magical quality to it. Something you felt the urge to pay attention to because you had no idea when you’d see it again.
“So you didn’t think I’d come,” I said. I sipped my beer, liking the sweet bite of the orange on my tongue.
“Nope. Well, maybe a bit. But I was pretty sure about an hour ago that you’d decided you didn’t want to be around the likes of me anymore.” He shrugged, his big shoulders looking much more at home in an open flannel shirt with a dark blue tee under it.
Those surreal blue eyes, that I’d almost—almost—forgotten about, settled on me. “Figured I didn’t give you what you wanted.”
“I don’t know what I want,” I said. It felt good to just say it out loud. To just tell the truth for once.
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“In my world there is everything wrong with that,” I laughed. I downed half my beer in three swigs.
He looked impressed and I couldn’t help but grin.
“I like not knowing what I want at any given time,” Johnny said. He pushed a bowl of pretzels to me and I tried to remember the last time I’d eaten. I couldn’t remember so I went ahead and popped a few in my mouth. They were good and salty and I washed them down by swishing beer around in my mouth like a kid trying to liquefy Jell-O.
“Must be nice.
He nodded. “But right now I know what I want.”
“To do this.” His big fingers snagged the front of my sweater and I watched—mildly stunned—as he twisted the fabric around in his hand and yanked me.
I sort of fell-leaned-careened forward and when he kissed me, I opened my mouth, letting his tongue slide over and around mine. He yanked me in just a little more so I had to splay my hands on his thighs to keep my balance. He kissed me until I felt like I was floating and then he kissed me a little more.
Sunday, March 20, 2011
That's your review update for the month or so-ish.
Back tomorrow with part 6 of Wanderlust. Ole!
Saturday, March 19, 2011
by Sommer Marsden
“There was really no need to behave that way,” Jackson said. He cleaned his glasses as he watched me undress. I didn’t like when he watched me. I didn’t like that I could feel his gaze on my skin.
“What way? Like someone who’d rather chew off an arm than stay there any longer?”
We’d managed to extricate ourselves from daddy’s shindig by pleading a migraine for me. At first my father had bucked the excuse, but once I threw in the word nausea it was a done deal. Nothing would mortify my father more than his daughter vomiting in the middle of new clients and investors. He let me go with a wave of his hand.
I had been hoping Jackson would stay but no such luck.
“Yes. You need to show a certain sense of decorum.” He untied his blue tie and draped it over an armchair. Jackson undressed in the same way he did everything—slow, measured and deliberate.
“Not screaming at the top of my lungs and punching anyone was me showing a sense of decorum. I really don’t like those things, you know. Everyone spouting off about deals, investments, mergers and all that jazz. It’s about as appealing as seeing a bunch of men slap their dicks down and measure them. It’s the same thing. Just with money.”
He shook his head and pulled on a pair of pajama pants and an old college tee. The closest thing that Jackson got to casual wear. “Scotch?”
“Ick. Every night it’s a no. Are you expecting one day I’ll wake up and magically love that stuff. Or maybe you’re hoping for amnesia.”
He shook his head. “Merlot?”
He paused on his way out of the room. I was standing there in just my panties. Panties that probably still smell sweet and musky from my Johnny-coaxed orgasm. “What happened to us, Really?”
“What do you mean?”
There was a certain amount of emotion swelling up in me and I didn’t like it. My throat grew tight like I might cry. Once upon a time Jackson and I had been friends. We had laughed and gotten along and attended a few classes together. I knew that he sang karaoke when drunk enough, loved marshmallow candies and bought them by the case at Easter so they’d last the year and that his favorite song ever was Bernadette by The Four Tops. I also knew that the moment we’d gotten married, he’d become my father’s soldier in my eyes and I had turned on him.
Maybe that was wrong, but it was true.
“We used to be close. We used to be friends. I may not be the love of your life, Really, but you used to at least like me.”
I shrugged. I truly didn’t want to answer him, because when Jackson was this way—buttoned down and softly spoken, I remembered why I’d agreed to do to in the first place. He was the only one I could imagine it working with—which was why daddy had picked him. But it hadn’t worked.
He watched my face. “So?”
“So what?” I dropped the panties and stood there naked.
“So what did I do?”
“You said I do,” I said and turned my back on him.
* * *
The frosted glass door growled in its track as Jackson pushed it back. “Your wine.”
I sighed. “It can wait.”
“Take a sip. It’s the 1997 Cab.”
“I thought you were giving me Merlot.”
“We were out.”
I didn’t want to break it to Jackson but to me wine was wine. Box, bottle, a homemade copper still from your back garden—I didn’t much care. I was raised to care about all that shit. Maybe that’s why I refused to.
I took a sip and handed it back. “Thanks. Now go.”
He shut the door but I could see his frosted distorted form on the other side of the glass. I knew what was coming but I started to wash my hair anyway. The door slid back again and there he was, naked and erect.
“Come on now, I don’t ask often. Is it that hard to do your wifely duties?”
Guilt flooded me and I washed the lather from my hair. Hot water kissed my skin, beat over my scalp, heated my body. “It’s just—“
“I know you don’t love me.”
“Jackson—“ He knew under my bitch-shell I carried around enough guilt for ten people. He knew that if he hit the right buttons I would cave because it wasn’t his fault. It hadn’t been a shotgun wedding. It had been a business relationship.
“I know you don’t even lust after me.”
I sighed, stepping back further to let him in all the way. He slid the door shut and trapped us away from the rest of the world. The water and heat and muted light let me forget all of it. The party, Johnny, my excitement mixed with fear. All of it.
He traced my nipple with the tip of his finger and the dusky pink flesh knotted up and grew pebbled under his touch. A simple chemical reaction. A physiological chain of events. Nothing more.
He dipped his head and sucked it into his mouth—the heat there rivaling the heat of the shower. “I know, however, that I am decent at sex and that you come when I fuck you.”
Hearing Jackson—white wine with fish, keep track of your mileage, no white after Labor Day Jackson—say the word fuck was enough to turn me on. “I never said you weren’t good.”
“So is it so hard to do your wifely duties, then? Just once in a while?” He pushed a finger into me and I was still wet and plump from earlier. More confused and aroused by this whole fucked up scenario, too. And he had me right there on the head of his little pin of guilt, spinning like a top with the whole wifely duty shit.
I sighed out as he kissed me and he swallowed my sound. His fingers flexed deep and he triggered all those little nerves in my cunt that made me grab his shoulders to steady myself.
“Turn around,” he said, voice low and gruff and so un-Jackson-like.
I had never hated him until he married me. I’d even had a few fun nights with Jackson before daddy had claimed him as one of his own. I turned, spread my legs when he nudged me. I even arched my back to take the fingers he pressed into my pussy, flexing them just right so I felt my body ratchet up another notch—ready, willing and able to do this.
He pushed the head of his cock to my entrance, tapped me gently so that I had to anticipate when he’d enter. If he’d enter. And when I splayed my hands on the wet tile he thrust deep, the water impeding him for just a moment, but then my body opened, took him and I was wet enough for the both of us.
He gripped my hips, bent to lick my shoulder blade and fucked me in slow even strokes. Very measured, very Jackson.
“It’s okay that you’d don’t love me and that’s okay. But I love you, Really. So just once in a while, act like you like me. Okay?”
I nodded, his fingers stroking wet circles over my clit as he held me tight and almost painfully hard with that other hand.
“Aurelia…Really,” he said over the white noise hiss of the shower.
He groaned and pressed my clit and I came with him. My forehead had joined my spread hands on the tile wall. I forced myself back on the last few thrusts, welcoming him into my body and taking him deep.
It was the least I could do.
Friday, March 18, 2011
by Sommer Marsden
This title is part of Amazon's lending library for the time being. See amazon.com for more info.
Thursday, March 17, 2011
Wednesday, March 16, 2011
by Sommer Marsden
We had to pass the coatroom and a bank of restrooms. My father only rented the best establishments for his little shindigs. Apparently, his coat check person was out catching a smoke, though, because I saw nothing racks and coats, hanging like husks of people on the fancy wooden hangers.
“The wine is in a back room,” he said. His voice was rough and dark. It made me think of fist fights and poker games—running down back alleys and drinking things from brown paper bags. It basically made me feel that sting and bite of youth. The feeling of being a renegade—a rogue.
“I’m right behind you, Johnny,” I said. I tripped then, not the most graceful rich girl in the world. My black sling back heel caught on shredded lip of carpet and I staggered.
It was easy to catch myself on someone as big as him. I simply grabbed his shoulders on my way down like a woman snagging a buoy after falling off a ship.
“Fuck,” I hissed. “Sorry.”
He turned fast and plucked me from my bizarre posture of almost falling but not quite. “No problem, Snowflake.”
I looked at him. “Snowflake?” But something in me thrilled at a pet name. Even as I pushed away the thought that that’s what it was.
He grinned, but it was one of those half grins that would look stupid on most people. “I don’t want to call you ma’am. Or Aurelia. Or even Really. Snowflake works for now. Until I can call you something more intimate.”
He had righted me—but he couldn’t manhandle the fluster out of me. His big hands still gripped my upper arms. A completely harmless touch, but the way it affected me he might as well have had his hands in my panties. Or my body.
“Pretty. Cold. One of a kind,” he said and turned his big back on me.
“Cold,” I growled. But deep down I knew what he meant, knew what he was observing. Waves of frosty indifference flowed off me on a regular basis. I really couldn’t blame him. Being married to a man you don’t love—hell, barely like—because Daddy maneuvered you into it doesn’t really make you a warm fuzzy person. The trick to living a life that you don’t want to claim as yours is insulation. Shut everything out, freeze it off. Live in your head.
We walked into a small cool room past the kitchen. Johnny leaned up against the wall while my eyes scanned the walls of wine bottles, all sectioned off into their tiny cubbies. Reds, reds, reds as far as the eye could see.
And truth be told—I didn’t give a shit if he brought me a glass of jug wine. It had only been an excuse to get him alone and his body language said he knew it.
“I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said, smirking.
This was not me surprising some intern by kissing him in the coatroom or getting him to fuck in in the copy room. This was a man who’d seen a lot, I thought. I suddenly felt naked and stupid and maybe scared.
“It’s fine. I…it’s really no big deal. I don’t…” I shook my head. The words in my head were getting jumbled en route to my mouth.
“I mean, I don’t mean to offend the boss’s daughter. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
There was barely controlled amusement in his voice and I randomly grabbed a bottle of wine and thrust it at him. “This is fine,” I said. Now I just wanted to leave. He’d called me on my chilly little ways and I felt really stupid and something I rarely felt lurked under it—embarrassment.
“This is white, Snowflake,” he said.
I grabbed the bottle back and shoved it in its tiny little nook. “Never mind. I don’t want wine. I just want to go home.”
I turned on my heels, momentarily remembering the feel of his broad shoulders under my hands as I’d fallen. The way he’d righted me as if my weight was no more than the weight of his jacket. My nipples pebbled and my pussy went wet and I shook my head. My body was betraying me. He’d made me feel silly, I wanted to hate him. Shut him off. Freeze him out. This wasn’t so much fun now that I was the one feeling like prey.
“Isn’t this the part where you kiss me?” he asked.
I blinked at him, my fingers curling into my black silk skirt, bunching the fabric like a security blanket. “No,” I snapped.
“Are you sure? It thought that was where we were going, Really.” The play on my name was not new, but it sure felt odd coming from a stranger who had me on edge. A stranger who—let’s face it—I could fucking fire if I chose to.
And yet…I stood there.
“I’m sure,” I said, finally. I sounded anything but. “You should get back to work.” I turned my back to him, intent on leaving, and his hand shot out—big, rough, intimidating as hell. It closed around my wrist and the fine bones there groaned with the pressure.
“I think it is,” he said, reeling me in. Johnny hauled me back and turned me and though being manhandled, though angry, annoyed, terrified and a million other things, I was also so turned on my heart was racing.
“Let me go.”
“In a minute.” He jostled us, wedging me between the monolith that was him and the wall of bottles.
“Now. Please,” I amended. Maybe this was where manners counted.
“In a second.”
“Now,” I breathed. I sounded like a woman breathing her last breath.
He closed me off from everything with just himself and pressed his mouth to mine. Those full lips almost too pink to belong to a man. He pressed them to my lips, forced my mouth open with the wet tip of his tongue and kissed me. Brutal hands on my timid skirt. His huge self pressed to the front of me. The front of me that was responding with a million different signals to give him anything, everything he wanted.
Right then. Right there. Anything.
Tuesday, March 15, 2011
That's what Wanderlust will be. This is my little book. Written on the fly. Piece by piece. In between all the craziness of life.
I hope you'll come along. There's only one rule. You must be patient and kind. If for some reason I can't write...well, you'll have to wait. If i have typos and tiny mistakes, well that happens when you're working 'live' as it were. You may tell me if you find errors, in fact I want you to, but be kind. Remember. I'm doing this right before it posts. So, I'll not finding anything out much earlier than you. We're spying on these characters together.
Are you in? Gosh, I'd love to have you. Here we go...
This title is currently part of Amazon's lending library. Please check Amazon.com for more details...
Sunday, March 13, 2011
p.s. the spotlighted book BASE NATURE is currently a giveaway on Goodreads. Look to your right for more info~~~~~~>
Friday, March 11, 2011
Hope your weekend is fab. I might lay on the sofa, do my impression of a carrot and watch movies.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
They asked short and sweet questions, I tried for short and...well, I gave them short answers. Check it out. :)
Monday, March 7, 2011
Sunday, March 6, 2011
Wish me luck with my big medical adventure...(O_O)
Saturday, March 5, 2011
First, these gorgeous copies of Nice Girls, Naughty Sex...
And then a whole box of my newest novel Learning to Drown.
Hmm. I typed boxy the first time. Must be a hybrid of sexy and box. A boxy bunch of books!
Friday, March 4, 2011
Thursday, March 3, 2011
Now my baby is #11 in erotica on Fictionwise with some nice ratings. I am stoked! Happy! Thrilled! Psyched! And other things that end with !!!!
Wednesday, March 2, 2011
But I held out. However, it bothered me that people take the time to read and review me and I can't even give them a woohoo! I did reviews for About.com a million years ago, and if you are a good reviewer, it takes time to write a review. I know this.
So...happy medium. Every once in a while, I'll go ahead and post them. All at once. All in one fell swoop. So that readers can skip the post if they like and the blog won't be clogged with me-me-me-ing but actual blogs about actual things.
This one is actually a picture file sent to me by my UK publisher for my just out paperback Hard Lessons. Click it. It gets bigger. heh ;)
Here are four and a half(!) cherries from Honeysuckle at Whipped Cream Reviews for Dirty or Die. She is too, too kind to me. :)
This one is for 4 stars from Manic Readers for my handsome angel Alex Church...yum. Angels.
And the final one for this murder of reviews is from The Readers Roundtable: 4.5 crowns for my shifters in Allure. May has done me proud, that spunky little bobcat.
Okay! Done! Ah, that felt good. I have posted links to some fab reviews by some fab reviewers and now I don't have to me-me-me myself (oooh, dirty) for a while. Tada!