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I Left My Heart in Chicago by Megan Morgan (@morgan_romance)

tourbutton_onenightinchicago

I live in Cleveland, Ohio but my favorite city on Earth is Chicago—I want to live there someday, as long as the Universe cooperates. So of course, when I wanted to write for the City Nights series I chose Chicago as my setting.

Chicago is a six-hour drive from Cleveland and a lot of people here visit it regularly. Some people even run businesses here and live in Chicago, commuting back and forth. A six-hour drive or a one-hour plane trip—not so bad, really. Cleveland is a small city and Chicago is a huge metropolis, so the two are very different and the lure of Chicago is tremendous.

The first time I went to Chicago, I took the Megabus (a cheap no-frills bus service between various US cities) overnight and stepped off the bus at dawn, right next to the Sears Tower (now Willis Tower), the tallest building in the US. I was instantly in love. I’d fallen in love at my first glimpse of downtown from the Skyway as we approached. Despite being exhausted from my trip, I immediately wanted to go see every tourist attraction in the city; unfortunately, it was only six a.m., so I had to wait a bit!

During my first visit, I went to three of Chicago’s must-see attractions: Navy Pier, Millennium Park, and the top of the Sears/Willis Tower. My characters visit all these spots in One Night in Chicago. I’ve been back to Chicago numerous times since and seen many other parts of the city. My most recent visit was in January and I would love to go again later this year.

I love to write about Chicago. My urban fantasy series from Kensington Books is also set in Chicago. I hope I do the city justice, since I can’t call it home yet. Like me, in One Night in Chicago, my characters don’t live there but visit the city because they had an amazing romantic weekend there early in their relationship. They’ve decided to break up, but intend to have one last good time together—but perhaps instead, the Windy City will remind them why they fell in love in the first place.

I hope you’ll enjoy Chicago virtually through my writing as much as I do in real life!

 

One_Night_in_Chicago_by_Megan_Morgan-200Excerpt:

She bought a shot glass, some postcards, a pen, and a keychain with her name on one side and the Chicago skyline, lit with little lights, on the other.

She dangled the keychain in front of Malcolm’s face. “Come on, this is a work of art. Look at the lights.”

“They’ll burn out in two days.” He batted it. “You’re the worst impulse shopper I’ve ever met.”

“Some of us like to have fun.” She strolled to the windows. “Just because you’re a boring old man doesn’t mean we all have to be.”

“I’m far from boring. I would think after four years you wouldn’t use that word to describe me.”

“You can be overbearing, sometimes.” She pulled her phone out of her purse. “A wet blanket.”

“I’m reasonable. You can be a bit of a child, if we’re gonna go there. Sometimes you don’t think about the consequences before you act. You just jump in.”

“Don’t worry, after tomorrow I won’t be your problem to babysit.”

He sighed. “I don’t think of it as babysitting. I just thought…maybe after four years we learned something from each other. You know, you help me loosen up, I keep you grounded.”

She took a picture out the window with her phone. “I guess not.”

“You don’t think we’ve rubbed off on each other at all?”

She turned and snapped a picture from a different angle. “It doesn’t seem like it, does it? I mean, here we are, still arguing about the same crap.”

“Surely we’re taking something good from this.” Malcolm followed her as she moved along the railing. “It wasn’t all bad, was it?”

She turned to him. “No. But when it was bad, it was really bad. That’s why this is happening.”

“You’re supposed to say I made you a better person.” Forced humor tinged his voice. “That you’ll always be grateful for the things you learned from me.”

She dropped her phone back in her purse. “Is that all you’re concerned about, that I ‘learned’ something from you?”

“No. But I was hoping we changed each other for the better.”

“Are you changed for the better?”

“I am, actually.”

She gazed out the windows, across the vast expanse of water.

“I feel like I’m not the uptight jerk I once was. Like you taught me how to have a little fun.”

“Yet, you’re still a workaholic.”

“It’s my job! Tay, it’s okay to have fun, but you gotta put in some hard work to have good things. You know that better than anyone. You’re gonna have to work hard in California. Your dream will still take time.”

Anger tightened her chest. “I know that.”

“But it’s okay to dream. It’s okay to look forward to the day when everything you want comes to you.”

“If it does, right?” She snorted. “This could all be a losing game. Why, I might be back in New York and in your arms again before the end of the year.”

He turned toward the window, placing his hands on the railing. “I want you to have your dreams. I wouldn’t mind if you were still in my arms.”

 

Blurb:

Breaking up is hard to do, especially after four years together.

Taylor Middleton, a singer striving for her big break, and her boyfriend Malcolm Darling, a mover and shaker in the music business, have decided to call it quits. Taylor wants to take her onstage persona—Gracie M—to LA, where she hopes bright lights and big dreams await.

But before they break up, the two decide to spend one last night in Chicago, the city where they once shared a passionate, romantic weekend, in hopes of preserving some good memories. In Chicago, Taylor realizes she’s not so sure about taking her talents elsewhere, as Malcolm reminds her why she fell in love—and lust—with him. Taylor may soon discover the right man, like music, can set her free and make all her dreams come true.

 

Purchase at:

Kindle USKindle UK, Smashwords, AppleKoboNook

 

authorpicAuthor Bio:

Megan Morgan is an urban fantasy, romance, and erotica author from Cleveland, Ohio. Bartender by day and purveyor of things that go bump in the night, she’s trying to turn writing into her day job so she can be on the other side of the bar for a change. She’s a member of the RWA and author of the Siren Song urban fantasy series from Kensington Books, as well as numerous other shorter, sexy, smutty works.

Website: http://www.meganmorganauthor.com
Twitter: https://twitter.com/morgan_romance
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/megan.morgan.author
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/meganmorganauthor
Email: meganmorganauthor@gmail.com

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Sex and Truth in Story

The most freeing experience for me as a writer was when I wrote my first sex scene. Oh, I’m not talking about the ones I Bernini Hades and Persephone close uptumblr_lg4h59T3z31qe2nvuo1_500imagined, or the ones I might have scribbled on a page in a notebook only to rip them out and tear them into shreds before I tossed them, wanting to make certain no one ever saw what filth came from my mind. I’m talking about the first sex scene I wrote for publication.

The actual including of graphic sex in a story I’d written was both terrifying and freeing. It was terrifying in that it was a very difficult letting go. I’ve never had trouble actually writing sex. The writing has always come easily, but I doubt very much if there’s a writer out there who hasn’t written a sex scene and wondered if her readers would see her in it and think that she had either done what her characters were doing. Or perhaps they would wonder what kind of a filthy mind would dream up such smut. Of course now that I’ve written more than my share of sex scenes and done lots of promoting, I know that it does happen. We all get asked if we’ve done the things we write about. We all get the giggling responses from people who aren’t quite sure how to handle sex uncovered, aren’t quite sure how to handle someone actually saying, ‘yup! I write it. Yup, I’m proud of it.’

Other people’s opinions aside, there’s a much more personal connection that one feels when writing a sex scene than when writing almost anything else. I think it’s the vulnerability, the letting ones guard down and the becoming honest with our characters. That also means becoming honest with ourselves as writers – knowing when to leave the bedroom doors open, knowing when sex matters to the reader and when it only slows the story down. But all of those technical aspects of story, all of the finessing of sex in a scene can only happen when a writer is brave enough to put sex on the page for everyone to see and do so realizing that while the reader may question how much said sex scene speaks of the writer, if the writer chooses to leave it out, she will be cheating her reader out of a better view of her characters or an important movement in the story. By the same token, gratuitous sex diminishes both the character and the story. If the writer chooses to put sex in when it’s not necessary, she’s cheating the reader with lazy writing by using sex to titillate instead of good writing and gripping story to keep the reader engaged.

It took ages before I could let the characters speak to me through their sex lives because I was so afraid anyone who read those sex scenes would associate them with me personally. Imagine my fear and trepidation when I released The Initiation of Ms Holly out into the world! Imagine my feeling of exposure. For months before the book came out, I feared that connection, that visceral connection, that I as a writer would be viewed as the sum total of the sex scenes I’d written, in spite of the plot that was moved by the sex, in spite of the characters said sex revealed.

One of the major battles young writers face, in my opinion, is becoming comfortable with writing sex and with being able to separate themselves from what their characters need to do in order for the story to unfold, in order for the reader to be fully engaged. That battle is a double-edged sword in that basic psychology would say everything we write is, on some level, the unfolding of our own story, the way we deal with our personal journey. Let’s face it; writing can be great therapy, if it’s not totally messing you up in the process.

Still, there’s a level of unselfconsciousness that each writer must reach in order to tell the truth. Truth in story carries much more weight than truth in the real world because it’s a multifaceted mirror, not only for the writer, but when done right, for the reader as well. Truth in story is archetypal and touches nerves that anything less real could not. In fiction, denial drops away and the naked truths of the characters and their story become larger than life reality checks that bring us up short and cause us to reflect on our own realities. If the writer can’t be honest, in sex as well as in every other aspect of story, then the reader will know, and if the reader doesn’t trust the writer, then she won’t read what’s been written.

Sex can and should be one of the most honest, most vulnerable places in which the reader encounters character and plot. It can also be the cheapest possible way to bullshit a reader into reading something with no substance. Once the writer is brave enough to let the characters have sex out in the open before god and the reader and everyone, then the writer must also be very sure that it’s the characters and the plot that the sex drives and not a cop-out for lazy, Sleeping woman reading181340322466666994_IswNAb85_bdishonest writing.

Twelve novels and multiple novellas and short stories later, and I still feel vulnerable every time I write sex. Every time I write sex, I find myself in a position of mutual respect. I have to respect my characters and the story that they need to tell, including the sex acts that involves enough to be honest, and I have to respect the intelligence of my readers, who are on the journey with the characters. Sex is a powerful tool. Sex is the true magic of the biological world, and if anything it’s even more powerful magic in the world of story. But like any powerful tool, it can and often is abused to the detriment of the writer and the readers.

In The Flesh Part 2: A FREE Story in Progress. Enjoy!

If you’ll recall, a few months ago, I posted a promise to myself to have more fun with my writing. As a part of psyche_et_lamour_327x567keeping that promise, I started a new online serial last week called In The Flesh. Today I’m very happy to post Part 2 of In The Flesh. I said last week that one of the things I love to do most on this blog is share stories that you won’t find anywhere else. Writing stories for my blog rather than just sharing observations or navel-gazes always feels much more personal, and much more like I’m sharing more of myself with my readers. Plus, it’s just flat-out fun for me!

In the Flesh is a dark and sexy story that has had several incarnations in its shorter form, but never quite worked because it needed space to grow. I couldn’t think of a better place for it to grow. In the Flesh is a blend of paranormal erotica and almost, but not quite … okay, quite possibly … horror. What I’m sharing with you, this version, is an expanding work in progress. You get it just shortly after I write it, and as far as what happens next, well … we’ll see.

I hope you enjoy it! 

KDG/GM

 

 

Follow this link to Part 1 in its entirety  

 

 

In the Flesh: Part 2

“He knows everything, Susan. He knows what we’re saying now, what we’re thinking, what we’re feeling.”

“What the fuck is he, a mind reader?”

In the growing gloom, she seemed as unsubstantial as the plastic on the altar. She pulled the blanket close around her with tightly fisted hands, knuckles chalk pale. “Susan,” her voice was a thin whisper that I might not have heard in a place less silent. “This is going to sound completely barking, but I think he might be God.”

We sat for a long time, me waiting for the punch line, or for some comment about the size of Shag Boy’s cock. When sherose images said nothing, I felt obliged to fill the silence. “Most men want you to think they’re God,” my voice echoed nervously in the empty transept, “but the first time he forgets to put the toilet seat down, you’ll know it ain’t so.”

I suddenly felt as though someone was breathing softly against the back of my neck. My skin prickled and went cold. The odour of burning garbage was consumed in the scent of jasmine. And just like that, Annie was fast asleep.

I didn’t want to wake her. She seemed so exhausted, and as uncomfortable as it made me, I would just have to wait until morning to hear why my best friend thought she was shagging God. Surely she was just having a laugh.

Alone, and with nothing to do on what I thought would be a girl’s night out, I opted for a good wallow while I finished the rest of the chardonnay. The last group that had used the church before it was deconsecrated was evangelical and believed in adult baptism by immersion. They had installed a large bathtub in what had been a storage room between the two toilets.

A quick check through the cupboards revealed no bubbles or bath oils. I found it hard to believe that Annie, the spa queen, wasn’t taking full advantage of such a tub. But other than washing up liquid and my shampoo, there was nothing, and the dust in the bottom of the tub was proof Annie wasn’t using it. Undaunted, I cleaned it and filled it with water up to my chin. Then I lay back, wishing I’d thought to bring my rose bath gel.

The combination of wine and warm water was just beginning to relax muscles that had been clenched tight
since my arrival at Chapel House when the room was suddenly awash with the scent of roses. I opened my eyes with a start, certain I’d caught a glimpse of a reflection flashing past the steamy mirror above the sink.

“Annie? Is that you?”

leda Cornelis_Bos_-_Leda_and_the_Swan_-_WGA2486There was no response. I sniffed the air. Perhaps there were roses in bloom somewhere close by. The whole evening
had made me jumpy, and though living in a deconsecrated church suited Annie down to the ground, it didn’t make me feel great. I’m a writer, my imagination was far too vivid to want to stay in a place with a back garden that had been a churchyard from which who knew how many bodies had been exhumed and reburied. Annie had told me that with the twisted smile of someone who happily watched horror films alone with a big bowl of popcorn and a bar of chocolate and thought nothing of it. I, on the other hand, felt even the air around me crawl over my skin and threaten to crush the jackhammering of my heart as I saw ghouls and ghosts and serial killers in every corner. That was only while I was awake. When I managed to sleep, IF I managed to sleep, the real fun began in the dream world.

The creep factor aside, I couldn’t keep from wondering if Annie had shagged lover boy there on the altar. Annie was just irreverent enough to do such a thing. Maybe she’d even asked him to pretend he was God and she was his sacrifice. I sipped my wine, then closed my eyes again, settling back into the silence.

The scent of roses grew stronger. I arched back against the tub feeling warmth flood my torso. Gooseflesh spread down my chest tightening my nipples and tracking a heavy path low over my belly. With a sigh, I shifted my hips and opened my knees, feeling the warm, liquid caress as I sank lower into the tub, into the heat rocking slowly, rhythmically against the resulting ebb and flow of the water as the space around me contracted into a tight embrace pulling me downward and away from myself.

With a little yelp, I jumped and opened my eyes, splashing water onto the tiled floor and barely avoiding a
mouthful. I must have drifted off to sleep and dreamed, though I couldn’t remember what. I could only recall the rise of goose flesh beneath a feather touch, the exhalation of humid breath whispered against my ear, but if there had been words, I didn’t remember them.

Bernini's Hades and PersephoneI lay there in a rising cloud of steam, holding my breath, listening, trying to hear something other than the hammering of my pulse. The scent of roses receded and with it the urge to linger. Suddenly I felt tired. I dried myself and stumbled to my makeshift bedroom. Barely noticing that there was no sheet on the mattress, I fell into bed and was instantly asleep.

 *****

In the morning I awoke to the smell of a fry-up, which was a good thing, because I was ravenous. I dressed quickly and found Annie in the kitchen looking fragile, but better.

She smiled up at me from cooking eggs. “Good morning. Sorry about last night. I forget sometimes how much stamina it takes to…” She blushed and returned her attention to

the eggs.

“Quite an animal, is he?”

She chuckled softly as she scooped breakfast onto plates and brought them to the table. “Let’s just say he’s…”

“Insatiable? I mean last night you said you thought he was God, so I figured he must be really amazing in bed.”

While I shoveled down my breakfast, she only held her tea mug between cupped hands and smiled down into the steam. “I said that?”

“Don’t you remember?”

She didn’t answer, only clenched her jaw and stared into her cup.

Annie was the queen of too-much-information when it came to her love life, and her reluctance to talk frightened me, St Teresa BerniniEl-extasis-de-Santa-Teresa4so I quickly changed the subject.

“What’s the plan for today? Retail therapy? I hear there’s a handbag sale at Debenhams.”

She picked up her plate and scraped her untouched food into the rubbish bin, careful to avoid my gaze. “Susan, I honestly don’t feel up to going out today. I just really need to rest. Would you mind going without me? I’ll be alright,” she added quickly. “I’m just tired, that’s all.”

By the time I finished my breakfast and was ready to go, Annie was already fast asleep, curled in her nest at the foot of the altar. Outside, the smell of burning rubbish stung my eyes and the back of my throat.

I had little enthusiasm for the handbag sale, nor for lingering at the make-up counter. Instead I found myself at an internet café researching God’s love life, which turned out to be a long history of seducing humans.

Zeus visited Danae in a shower of gold. He seduced Leda in the form of a swan. Eros came to Psyche in the dead ofnight forbidding her to look upon his face. Hades dragged Persephone down to the Underworld. The Virgin Mary was impregnated by the god of the Bible. In the New Testament, Christ is the bridegroom, and the church his bride. And the list went on and on. Perhaps even the indwelling of the Holy Spirit was just another way for divinity to experience flesh.

I had always loved mythology, and I’d read all these stories before. I’d just never put them together to get the whole picture. And though I was seeing an aspect of divinity that I found rather disturbing, I couldn’t help feeling there was still a piece of the puzzle missing.    I suppose I should have felt relieved. Annie wasn’t as unusual as I’d thought. God was the ultimate stalker, and he didn’t seem to be very faithful to his lovers. Just Annie’s type. I tried not to think about the implications of my experience in the bath last night. After all, it was just mythology, and I’d had a lot of wine. And there’s never any accounting for my vivid imagination. After all, I was a writer. I made my living as a teller of tales.

“What are you reading?”Graveyard angel 1

I jumped at the sound of Annie’s voice and quickly minimized the page. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

“I’m feeling better.”

“How did you know where to find me?”

She leaned down and whispered next to my ear. “My lover’s God, remember? You can’t hide from him.” I barely had time to register shock before she reached down and restored the page.

“Trying to learn a little bit more about him, are we?” She smiled at the monitor and nodded knowingly. “None of this does him justice. He’s the Hound of Heaven. He’s always pursuing those he loves, and there’s no escaping. Once he’s set his eyes on you, he’ll do whatever it takes to make you his own.”

I suddenly felt cold.

Rescuing Cinderella

I’m thinking about Cinderella today, oh I know there’ve been lots of face-lifts to the story to make it more modern, andCinderella dorecind I know the original fairy tale had some seriously dark stuff in it. The old Russian version has the evil step sisters cutting off their toes to try and fit their enormous feet into the dainty glass slipper! And the evil toe-cutters are exactly my point.

I’m thinking about how often women are portrayed in pop-culture as either wanting to or NEEDING to be willing to cut off their toes to spite their feet in order to be worthy of a Prince Charming to come and rescue them. I’m also thinking about how often that perfect beauty of tiny feet, tiny waists, big tits and gorgeous face are the main characteristics of the damsel Prince Charming rescues. In fact, they’re quite often the ONLY characteristics of the damsel in need of a romantic rescue. Sadly, we’re encouraged not only to read about that vacuous blank canvas of a damsel, but we’re expected, likewise, to want to BE her. That dream of being rescued by the prince on the white horse will surely become our reality if we can only cut off out toes and be Cinderella!

Okay, if I’m honest, at every single one of the difficult points in my life I would have been more than willing to be rescued from the struggles, or even at times I would love to be rescued from my ordinary life and brought into something more exciting. (That’s always a very dangerous thing to wish for!) And who hasn’t spent serious time ‘looking for a hero,’ even if it’s just in a really juicy fantasy.

Most of the time, though, we don’t get rescued. We have to do that ourselves, and we’re all the better for it. In the best situations, and in the best stories I’ve read, the hero and the heroine rescue each other, and they’re both worthy of the rescue.

I suppose the need to be rescued is archetypal, just as is the need to go on a quest, which is often only an elaborate way of rescuing ourselves. But the makings of a fictional hero and a heroine these days seem to have more to do with fat bank accounts and chaining virgins to the bed in an expensive dungeon and less about the journey that risks everything.

Oh, did I mention the journey? Right! The rescue, the quest, they always go hand in hand with the journey. And this is why, for me, Cinderella is one of the weakest tales. The journey is the leaving of our comfort zone – quite often screaming and kicking every step of the way. In that respect, no doubt Cinderella was outside her comfort zone at the ball, but in most journeys, there’s no glass slipper, no prince charming, and no fairy godmother dashing to the rescue. There’s much fear and trembling and digging deep. THAT’S what makes a book nail-biting and un-put-downable (there! A new word) It’s when chaos springs from the mundanity of order that heroes are made. And the resulting Writing pen and birds 1_xl_20156020quest, the resulting journey is usually at least as painful as having toes severed to fit into glass slippers.

We rescue ourselves on a daily basis. We find within ourselves the makings of the hero, and we push forward. That little seed of the hero’s journey exists in all of us, and it’s never a matter of sitting in the ashes by the fireplace and waiting to be rescued. It’s a matter of getting muddy and mucky and taking risks and moving into the places inside us that terrify us, but that pull us like magnates, nonetheless. We are our own heroes, and our stories – those of us who write stories, come from the deeper places in our selves – or at least they should if they’re ever to matter much.

Am I being judgmental? Quite possibly. I never claimed not to be. But I know my own journey, and I know when I sit in front of the computer and break into a cold sweat because I fear the place I see myself heading, because I know I have no choice but to go there if this story is to be born, then I know that no one will rescue me but me, and I have to go deep into chaos to come out the other side as my own hero.

New Release – Fall (Natalie’s Edge #2) by R.B. O’Brien #EARTG #BDSM #romance #erotica

nataliesedgeseries

Blurb:

At the edge of trust often lies a little betrayal…

As Shakespeare wrote, “The course of true love never did run smooth,” and the love between Michael L. Black and Natalie Smith is no exception.

Having fallen deeply in love with one another, Michael and Natalie’s passionate and, at times, tumultuous relationship continues to teeter on the edge of happiness as they explore their deepest and sometimes darkest desires of games, bondage, and sex. Michael’s dominant tendencies thrive as Natalie craves to submit her body and mind to him, bringing her to sometimes excruciating pleasure. Love never felt so right.

But their relationship will be tested. Truths are hidden. Secrets are revealed. And when Michael’s insecurities inflame his penchant for control and punishment, all the trust and love they have worked so hard to build dismantles itself within one split second. Will they forgive and trust one another again? Or will the betrayal leave them on the edge of devastation?

Buy Links:

Extasy Books
Amazon UK
Amazon US

 

fallEXCERPT:

He crouched over me, like a lion over its prey, his eyes burning holes into my body, looking me up and down, undressing me, and fucking me with his now black eyes. I couldn’t help but moan, losing any anger I had towards him. Only lust remained as I squirmed under his gaze. He rolled onto his side.
“Stand up. Take off your costume, Natalie. Let me look at you. And do not hesitate, do not overthink this, or become shy, or let your guilt take over. Obey me this time, would you? I want to see your body. You’ve teased me enough with this outfit tonight, don’t you think?”
Oh my god. I had teased him? What? To think that I had some effect on him, the way he affected me all the time, was liberating, empowering. I slowly stripped as he stayed lying down on the rug, head propped on his elbow, staring up at me. I was embarrassed at how quickly I had lost my anger, how quickly I always lost my anger around him. Only moments earlier, I was ready to tear into him, give him a solid piece of my mind. Now, I was dripping wet and at his mercy. I liked obeying him. Plain and simple. It turned me on.
“Wait. Leave on those tiny, taunting panties of yours, and put your pointe shoes back on. Get up on your toes, Natalie, and stay there for me. Let the fire warm and illuminate your beautiful body.”
My empowerment was lost, replaced with an uncomfortable embarrassment, but I did exactly as he asked. I finished tying up my pointe shoes, got on my toes with my back facing him, the fire warming my front, and looked over my shoulder at him shyly. He just stayed there, staring at me, for what felt like an eternity. But god, I wanted him more than I ever had before. “You are so frustrating,” I whispered. “I was so mad at you.”
“Sssh. No talking,” he said darkly. “Stay right there. Do not move a muscle. Or I will punish you.”
I obeyed, staying on my toes, tightening the muscles in my legs, my ass. It was beginning to hurt.
“You’re beautiful,” he said simply, barely above a whisper.
“Michael. It’s starting to hurt. I can’t hold it much longer.”
“Good. I want you to hurt for me. I want you to feel what I felt earlier.”
I could feel my body weakening. I began to shake. I looked back at him, pleading with my eyes for him to stop, and yet, I loved his control. I had a sick desire to obey him at all turns. Pain and pleasure always felt right with him.
Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore, he finally said, “Good girl. Come over here.” He smirked at the power he wielded over me. “Lie down next to me on your stomach. Spread your legs. I am going to grant your wish.”
I held my breath, as again, I did exactly as he asked, lying down on my stomach, inches away from his body. The cramps in my legs slowly subsided. He turned my face to the side to force me to look at him. “Breathe, Natalie,” he instructed as I exhaled into his now probing mouth. He flicked his tongue and sucked my mouth. I moaned and began to grind slightly into the soft, plush rug that tickled my body underneath it. He kissed me and kissed me and kissed me. There was no other contact between us. I wanted his cock in me.
“Fuck me,” I begged again.
“Yes,” he said, but did nothing but continue to kiss me, holding my swollen mouth to his with his hands tightly gripping my hair. I could barely breathe. I couldn’t move.
“Michael…”
He released my hair. I felt the heavy pressure of his lips against mine. He began to lightly flick his tongue on my tongue, teasingly, sensually. He was dripping in confidence as he smiled and licked me endlessly. I had never been turned on like this from mere kissing. My pussy throbbed, lying on my stomach, waiting in anticipation for him to fuck me.
He stopped all contact with me and stood up, slowly removing his jeans to reveal his throbbing cock. He smoothed a condom over it and saying nothing, he stood over me, removed my soaking wet panties, and spread my legs wide with his feet until I was sprawled out completely in front of him, flat on my stomach. I wiggled my pussy into the rug, and he still said nothing. He didn’t tell me to lie still. He didn’t tell me to be quiet. He just stood there, agonizingly, over me, as I lay there, feeling exposed and helpless and full of want and need.
Slowly, ever so slowly, he got down on his knees and again, just stayed there, tracing his fingers over my pointe shoes, up my calves over the ribbon laces, as my breathing quickened and my chest rose and fell in heaving anticipation. I was starting to lose my mind, panting, squirming, and wanting.
“Please,” I begged.
He slowly rubbed the tip of his cock up and down my slit, exposing its wetness and I moaned, lifting my ass a bit in the air to reach his cock. Again, he said nothing, but he thrust his palms forcefully on my ass and lower back, pressing me into the soft fabric of the rug again. He held me in place, legs spread wide, as he tickled my pussy and clit with the light stroke of his cock. I moaned and started to grind against his cock and he slammed it into me, startling me.

Author Bio and Links:

I can’t remember not reading.  Even now, I constantly toggle between two to five books on my Kindle in all genres.  But I have always been drawn to the more taboo side of storytelling, even as a young adult, from hiding books from my strict Catholic parents as a tween, to getting lost in the erotic section of my favorite bookstore for hours as a college student, discovering such greats as Henry Miller and Pauline Réage.

In my own writing, which I can’t describe as anything but a “trance-like compulsion,” I like to explore the darker nature of relationships, those riddled with the reality of insecurities and human folly.  I am drawn to expose the vulnerability, emotional turmoil, and occasional pain that can come from losing oneself in the heat of passion.

I hold a degree in English literature and happily reside in the Northeast. I teach English and Shakespeare by day and write erotica every other chance I get. My writing comes from some hidden, unrecognizable place, very different from the reality of my waking world.  I am in love with E.E. Cummings and try to embrace the philosophical idea of “Since Feeling is First” when I write my stories.

Email:  rbobrien120@gmail.com
Websitehttp://rbobrien.weebly.com
Twitterhttps://twitter.com/rbobrien120
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/rbobrien120
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/25542300-fall

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