Word Play

Prologue

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, I smirked. For weeks I’d coveted this siren, determined to put a smile across those dark, sexy, full lips. I’d imagined what her submission would look like; her legs spread out before me and her long black hair curtaining her pillow, the sheets, her breasts, 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 on 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. It 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 silken sheets were a welcomed ease under her swollen and sensitive nipples. Pinning down her wrists, and my back in an exaggerated arch, I glided my cock against her backside.

Jasmine. Tell me to fuck you, I whispered in her ear. I thrust again, feeling her arousal 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 accent.

I smiled and thrust again, feeling the wetness spread.

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, enjoying the light pink flesh blossoming 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 this 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.

Si. Mi, Armond. Take me.

I released my grip on her hair and crashed into her. I surprised myself with the force. I’d never needed a woman as desperately as I needed Jasmine. Her tits bounced with each thrust, and her slick opening constricted, anticipating my next blow.

Again and again I crashed into her, hoping to speak to that place inside her that wanted me as desperately as I wanted her. I need to 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 obsession 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 the way your tits move, I said, reaching one of my hands around her chest 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. My cock. Her fingers. Watching us 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. My thrusts increased rapidly, as I felt the orgasm build. 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 sac 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 headboard, as a smirk rose to her face.

Come for me, Armond.

The words were my undoing. I thrust over and over, so hard and fast that I thought I’d break her. And I swear I must have come over a gallon. Just as I thought it 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 few 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 of sweat, 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 on her stomach. The after effects of her orgasm were still showing, as she lay 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 a lighter shade of brown than when we began. Do you always fuck like that? Damn if that accent didn’t grab my cock’s attention again.

If you let me, I’ll fuck you like that for the rest of your life. 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 off 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 best sellers lists that damn manuscript would appear on. Taking another swig from my whiskey, my eyes rolled back and I passed out before my head hit the floor.

~ ~ ~

I hit the New York Times and USA Today best sellers lists with Jasmine and Armond. The cover—at my agent’s insistence—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 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 mother at the age of thirty-one. So I began drinking, logically. I read both the aforementioned series within 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 I wanted to publish under my real name or not. At the last minute, I 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 best seller. 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.

I’d always thought that my biggest concern after hitting the lists was whether to choose Michael Caine or Nicholas Cage to portray the hero (after HBO or PBS bought the rights to my work); becoming nationally acclaimed for my brilliant use of the written word—or at the very least, have a few GreatReads stalkers or women to party with on Friday nights.

But, erotica? The best shot I had at getting an Armond and Jasmine television series would be something on the Hallmark Channel Sunday matinee. The type of trite fodder that truly gives the Premenstrual something to bleed about.

No one was going to find out who I really was. My reputation depended on it. And 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.

The publisher had made an offer for a sizeable advance if I made it into a series. Sales for Armond & Jasmine were steady, but any intentions I had on quitting before that stifled once I realized how much money I could make if I made it a trilogy.

I wrote the second book and had it in my editor’s hands within four weeks.

That was three months ago; sales were presently leveling out at their climax, and were only going to go down from there.

I was running out of options.

rue·ful (′ro̅o̅-fəl) adj.

1. Inspiring pity or compassion. 2. Causing, feeling, or expressing sorrow or regret.

Michael

Cheers! My agent, Coral Pfiefer, raised her flute and tapped the rim of the crystal with the back of a spoon. I want to congratulate the very talented Christoph Strong on all the success we’ve had with Jasmine and Armond. The gathering of agents, their spouses, and a handful of editors and proofreaders raised their glasses.

It’s been a year since he published, and the sales only continue to climb as we tap into the erotica markets across the globe. She brushed her long, blonde-gray strands from her shoulder and paused. After clearing her throat, she continued. As many of you know, our agency had seen its share of hard times. The rent for that small office space we had downtown last year was high, and was about to go unpaid. I’m sure most of you know the kind of panic Nancy and I were in when Christoph came to us with his fresh manuscript. But after the publisher picked it up, we reformed that first draft into an international best seller. Twice! A round of applause roared through the conference room as Coral gave me a quick nod and a wink. And now, after selling the rights, we own our very own building in the heart of uptown. Not only should we give ourselves a pat on the back for a job well done, but we also owe a debt of unwavering gratitude for our very own Christoph Strong!

Another round of applause ensued as people hollered Cheers! The corner of my mouth turned upward, grateful for Coral’s kind words. But the whole event she’d put together tonight—the cake, the hors d’oeuvres, the little multi-colored napkins with matching paper plates and Congratulations smattered in bold lettering across the surface—wasn’t something that I could take pleasure in saying I’d earned. All of this was luck. Sure, we’d worked hard—all of us—but the majority of my success was due to timing: if we would’ve released a week earlier, or later, there’s no way it would’ve caught fire like it did.

In every industry there’s intense competition. For erotica, the list was short but fierce. In the Top Ten sat Betty Black. A real ball buster, Betty seemed to be magically aware of every release, she had the top blogs begging for ARCs (advanced read copies), and her street team was relentless. They’d given away paperbacks, e-books, bookmarks, postcards, and every other possible kind of swag you could think of. During her latest release two weeks ago, they’d even shipped out over a thousand condoms with her book title printed on the foil package. Careless Endeavors.

Condoms + Careless Endeavors. Seems a bit oxymoronic to me, but no one’s asking. At least they didn’t put a waterfall on her cover.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not judging. I’m sure that her marketing team scoured their research to find that condoms would be shocking enough to see a jump in sales. It really was quite genius. But Betty Black didn’t need any help getting her name out there. She probably had enough Faceplace creepers to form their own support group. The woman crafted a story unparalleled to any other in the industry.

Or so I’d been told.

My sales halted last week the minute her new release went live. I quickly went from Number One—on the major retailers’ sites—down to Number Seven. Even I one-clicked her book, but hadn’t taken the time to read it.

We were selling an image. For all I knew, Betty Black was a man in his mid-fifties who wore women’s underwear and jerked off to Bukake porn. The nice thing about Faceplace—and all the other social media sites—was that you could get away with using your newest book cover as your profile picture.

I knew this all too well. My picture was of a man’s jaw line, his tongue licking the inside of woman’s toned, tanned, thigh—about two inches from her lace underpants. All I had to do was write a line or two of erotica as my daily status update, and I had women swooning and smeeping.

The term ‘smeeping’ was something that was coined by Monica Singer, one of the top bloggers in the industry, over her excitement for one of Betty’s books.

I nudged my chin toward Coral as we made eye contact. She meandered through the crowd, holding her head high and her posture rod-straight. One by one, passing her team of devoted employees and shaking the hands of their spouses, she made her way to me.

The shoulder of her gray suit brushed against me as she leaned in toward my ear with her arms folded over her stomach. Hey, Mike, she whispered, gently elbowing my side. You could at least try to appear like you’re having a good time, she murmured, taking a sip of champagne.

I shrugged, unfolding my arms from my chest and slipping them into my jeans pockets. A small smile played on my lips.

She sighed and looked down to my shoes. I see you dressed up for the occasion, she quipped playfully.

I’m sorry, Coral. You know this kind of thing isn’t me. As it is, my eyes are still trying to adjust to the sunlight after spending the past five months inside my apartment.

You mean that cave of a dwelling you call your home? The same one where the stench of whiskey and a grown man too preoccupied to shower lingers in the air?

I laughed. Yep. That’s the one.

Well, you’re going to have to buy some sunglasses then. The Houston convention is this weekend. Did you get the plane ticket and hotel reservation Maggie—

Yeah, yeah, I interrupted with a wave of my hand. Don’t worry, I’ll be there.

Good. She gave a tight nod. The publisher’s creative team finished your brand this week and your new placard is printing as we speak. It will look beautiful on your table along with your books. Her hands stretched out as though she was envisioning the table in front of us. They’ve also printed business cards, bookmarks, and key chains for you to give away at the signing. This is the big one, Mike. You’re gonna be rubbing elbows with some of the biggest names in our business.

Our business. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t remove the bitter taste from my tongue at the thought of the romance genre being my business.

It’s all about appearances this weekend. I want you to shave, leave your glasses at home, and for crying out loud, buy some aftershave or some of that Axe body spray. Your man scent is overwhelming.

My eyebrows shot up. Man scent?

She laughed. You’re the writer, not me. It’s not bad, it’s just strong. It comes off you in waves. I’m surprised I don’t hear more about women throwing themselves at your feet. Then again, the country hasn’t had the privilege of seeing that gorgeous little face of yours. She pinched my cheek and I flinched. With another lighthearted chuckle, she continued, "As it is, half the women—and about a third of the men—in this room alone are dying for a chance to be alone with the great Christoph Strong."

I looked around the room. One woman, dressed in a skirt way too short and tight for her frame, stared back at me, taking a slow sip from her glass and making sure I’d notice how her tongue flickered against the rim. Another woman, Jan—a proofreader, I think—was in her late forties. She sat down at the conference table and opened her thighs briefly, never breaking eye contact, just as she crossed her legs with a wink. Evelyn from Promotions was bending over to pick up a piece of invisible paper on the floor and peering over her shoulder. And lastly, a tall gentleman dressed in khakis covertly adjusted his package when we made eye contact. He licked his lips as he trapped the bottom one between his teeth.

But it was all about the image. I could’ve been a fat, hairy-chested, balding ginger. The fact was that my books had made them think I was some beautiful beast on the brink of my own sexual exploration. My words elicited a response that caused their insides to quiver, their hearts to pound, and their minds to race. All these people—and all my readers—thought that I was the great Armond: a one-dimensional, well-endowed, vulnerable, fit, slightly stalkerish businessman in his mid-twenties who was a master of seduction hovering somewhere between the mainland and the Caribbean Ocean. And this weekend would be the first time I’d be showing the world my face.

This was my life.

"In order for women to throw themselves at my feet, I’d need to admit that I am the great Christoph Strong, Coral."

Her perfectly arched eyebrow rose as she snuck a sideways glance. "That’s what this weekend is for. Press will have limited access, so I’m sure you’ll be able to keep a low profile and stay off the font page of Sunday’s paper. But perhaps you should use your fame for, um… some wild, erotic, no-strings-attached research for book three, she whispered, smirking. Deadline is in eight weeks."

Patting my shoulder, Coral turned her attention back to her room full of guests. Oh! She whipped around to face me again. I believe Betty Black will be there this weekend. Make sure you let me know whose line is longer. She winked. Call me if you need anything, darling. Make sure to email.

~ ~ ~

I returned home a few hours later as Coral insisted I stay until all the guests departed. I threw the keys to my Chevy on