So, yes, I'm a woman of color. And, as I live in an area--a
country--of great diversity, I've dated and loved people of all different
races, backgrounds, and cultures.
feel privileged to have done so. To have been able to know and be
known by those people and to not have felt limited in who I could befriend,
date, and love. It's why I make an effort to portray as many diverse characters
and relationships as possible.
I am so proud of
how far we've come and look forward to us continuing to make strides toward
equality in all its forms.
I started it and...it wasn't for me. Wasn't my type of story. Wasn't my type of writing. Wasn't my type of romance, sex, play, or kink. No matter how I tried, I just couldn't get into it.
Which makes me an oddity--or so anyone who hears I'm kinky and/or write erotica thinks. It's inevitably everyone's first question when they hear that I'm in any way part of the literary kink scene, have I read this series yet? It's become, for better or worse, the public image of a world that, for the vast majority of us in the community, had been kept very, very, very private.
Whatever one thinks of the book, it's had an effect on the industry and the art. It's changed the way we do business. It's opened doors, opened eyes, and opened discussions that had been closed for so long. I, for one, know--without doubt or question--that I owe some of my sales to James and her books.
And, as Thanksgiving is fast approaching, I'd like to say that--though the book may reflect a lifestyle and a world that I, as a kinkster, cannot relate to--I'm very grateful that it's, in its way, allowed me the opportunity to present a book that does. So, while this is one thanksgiving that I'll spare my family as we gather around the table this year, it's a thought I felt ought to be shared with you.
LOOSE-LEAF STORIES: Carey & Danielle: - Have Yourself a Kinky, Little Christmas - Tugging Reins - - Part One - - Part Two - Fantasy First Time - Make Me Believe - - Part One - - Part Two
Lyndsey & Porter: - #NotAllMen, #YesAllWomen - A Short Story - - Maybe Because - Riding You Hard Leaves Me Wet - Full-Scale Fantasies - - Part One - - Part Two - My Mistress's Masterpiece - A Poem - - Landscape - Toying With the Mile High Club - Full-Upright Position - - Part One - - Part Two
Oh no. That was so much more than a drink. More than watching some
pseudo-anonymous couple publicly wank.That was
crossing a line. “I’m not sleeping with you,” she said automatically, her voice
breathy with offense and something else—like shame with a sliver of
excitement—that she couldn’t quite name. She was not taking off her clothes for
this man, much less her underwear. That was not part of the deal.
He sighed and looked at her wryly, the way one would look at an
unruly child who was dragging her feet. “Again,” he said dryly, “I haven’t
asked you to.”
Not yet, anyway, she read in the predatory gleam of his eyes as clearly as if
he’d said it. Her knees quivered, then clenched tight. “Then my panties aren’t
any business of yours,” she said just as wryly, stepping back as he pushed up
from his perch to stand straight.
“I disagree,” he said casually as he stepped away from his desk
with a lithe, languid lope. “While removing your panties isn’t necessary,” he
said as he gave her a wolfish grin, “there are a great many ways I can give and
gain pleasure that have nothing to do with sex—in its strictest definition—but
are better accomplished without barriers in the way.”
sex with you,” Max repeated stubbornly, “not by any definition.” So her panties
were staying on. And that was that. End of discussion.
“So you’ve said,” he said, stepping closer and closer, forcing her
to step back further and further. “Many times.”
Max inhaled sharply as her eyes widened, watching him stalk toward
her. She felt foolish stumbling backward like some horror-movie bimbo, but she
couldn’t stop. Stopping meant he’d move close to her—much too close. She needed
distance, needed a wall of space separating them. So though she knew it was
irrational and useless and tritely girlish, she continued to back away.
“It occurs to me,” he said, continuing his slow but unwavering
pursuit, “that we haven’t discussed the terms of our deal in detail.”
Max winced as she hit the corner of some piece of furniture with
her elbow. She knew that she should turn around—should look where she was
going. But, if she turned, she’d have to take her eyes off of him and she
couldn’t. She just couldn’t do that.
“Let me do so now,” he said, his voice a low, rumbling sound in
the tense silence of the room.
Max felt trapped in that silence, in the charged air of his
office. His eyes—the intensity in the unnaturally blue depths—frightened her,
even as they entranced her. Though she wanted to—though she knew that she
should—she couldn’t break that hot, hungry contact, couldn’t stop that wildness
within him from sinking deep inside her and stealing a bit of her will.
No! she thought as her back slammed up against a wall. She shut
her eyes and wrenched her face to the side, breaking the gaze. She wouldn’t
give into him, wouldn’t give him that part of herself.
She would not submit.
Even with her eyes closed, she knew the moment he stepped toward
her. She could feel—in that innately animal way—the moment he was no more than
a breath away. His heat, his scent, his presence surrounded her—drowned
her—making the simple act of breathing a challenge.
“Look at me,” he said, his voice soft but commanding.
She opened her eyes.
Inhaling sharply, she felt his piercing gaze as it hit her,
penetrating her defenses more thoroughly than a touch. “I will never exchange
any part of this file for any kind of sexual touch,” he said, making it sound
less like a promise and more of an accusation. “I don’t have to pay for sex,
not with any currency. You’re not a prostitute and I’m not a john,” he told her
in an unquestionable tone, “and that isn’t what this is about.”
“What is this about then?” she wondered aloud.
“Opening your eyes,” he said, his voice softening as he bent his
head as if to kiss her. She shut her eyes, waiting. “Letting you look and see
without prejudice or bias.”
But he didn’t kiss her. She blinked back up at him, feeling
ruffled and ridiculous. “How selfless of you,” she snapped.
He smiled. “Don’t misunderstand me,” he replied, his breath warm
and musky against her lips, the earthy scent and heat making her lightheaded.
“I like to look too. And, believe me,” he said, as his gaze roamed her face and
his voice gained a husky timbre, “you’re a pleasure to watch, Max.” His gaze
dipped lower. “Generous curves. Great legs. Firm ass. Weighty hips.” He
grinned. “Miraculous breasts.” He looked up again. “Sinful hair. Strong will.”
His hand lifted, to hover over her cheek. And though he stopped just short of
touching her, she could feel him. Felt the phantom stroke his fingers would
make along her sensitive skin. “The fine, light lines around your eyes and
mouth that speak to your determination, your devotion, and your deep sense of
joy.” She felt her heart drop as he lowered his hand and stepped back. “You are
a study,” he told her.
She blinked blankly at him, feeling disoriented and muddled. He
found her laugh lines—her wrinkles—sexy?
“Take off your panties.”
She looked at him as he moved to lean against his desk, his long,
powerful arms stretched back to lazily lounge against the strong, wood piece.
She stared at his smile, smug and assured, as if he knew he had her just where
he wanted her, as if he knew how primed—how hungry—she was. Because of him.
And he did have her where he wanted her. He did affect her. Arouse
her. Make her wet.
And he knew it.
She knew it too.
And it pissed her the fuck off.
Hehad her where he wanted. He’d had her,
melting and swooning, in the palm of his hand. He was playing her! Moving and
manipulating her like a goddamned chess piece. Making her feel unsettled, out
That ended now.
She wasn’t a woman to be toyed with. She was Max freakin’ Wells.
Straightening her shoulders and setting her suit right again with a determined
tug, she stepped away from the blindingly blue wall. Lifting her chin
defiantly, she said, “What if I’m not wearing any?”
“You are,” he said simply.
“So sure, are you?” she said just as simply.
He chuckled and shook his head. “You’re not the type to go
bare-assed into work.”
“You could,” he granted, “but you won’t.” He reconsidered.
“Wouldn’t,” he amended.
But before she could so much as wonder what he’d meant by that, he
crossed his arms over his chest in deliberate challenge as he said, “I’d be
willing to wager the entire file—every page, digital and printed—on the fact
that you’re wearing panties.” His gaze dropped and centered on her hips—or more
pointedly, on their apex, making her want to squirm under such scrutiny. His
eyes glazed a bit, as if he were imagining her naked beneath her skirt. Or
perhaps just naked all together. “Prove it to me,” he said, his voice a gritty
growl, “and you can have the whole file right now.”
She panted, her breath short and shallow, as her eyes hit hard
against the dare emitting from his. Unconsciously, her right foot slipped back,
squaring her stance, as her fists clenched tight.
“You can’t,” he taunted, the corners of his smug, tilted eyes crinkling,
The smirking, mocking, egomaniacal chuckler!
He’d painted her into a corner. He was giving her the perfect way
to end this ridiculous mess all in one, if not simple, than certainly quick
sweep. There was only one problem.
Damn it, she was wearing panties.
She wasn’t the type of girl to go without. The whole idea of going
commando had always reeked of messy, unsanitary male fantasy, another way to
reduce her down to just her pussy—just another ready hole. Panties, like her
business suit and shoes and makeup, were a part of her armor against the world.
Without them, she wouldn’t be just naked. She’d be exposed.
And, the fact that the idea didn’t immediately disgust and horrify
her around this man—the fact that, in conjunction with him, it titillated her
in a small, minute, infinitesimal way—only worried and angered her more.
She shook her head. No, she would not let him get to her like
this. Wouldn’t let him make more out of this than it was. It was a basic
business deal. A simple transaction. Tit for tat.
So the guy got his rocks off by thinking of her panty-less. So
what? It was just a scrap of cloth, relatively worthless and easily
replaceable. If he wanted to attach more meaning to them than that, what did
she care as long as she got what she wanted?
“Fine,” she said as nonchalantly as she could manage. Bending at
the waist a bit, she reached behind her, beneath her skirt. Grabbing the back
of the elastic waistband, she pulled the bit of cloth down. She shivered as she
felt the plain cotton slide silkily down her behind and along the length of her
thighs. She paused as the elastic got caught on her stockings’ garters.
Fumbling a bit as she imagined his silent smirking, she disentangled herself,
unsnapping her garters angrily. As she raised first one leg and then the other,
she pulled them off completely, careful not to catch them on the pointed
stilettos of her kitten heels.
“There,” she said, clearing her throat as she straightened her
skirt and garters again, sure that he’d caught no more than a brief flash of
her thighs. There. That was simple enough.
She balled them up in her fist before throwing them at him. “Happy
She watched the cloth hurtle and fly toward him, the light,
sky-colored cloth blooming and blossoming in the air, before striking him in
the chest. He caught it against his dark suit with a hard hand, fingers splayed
across the flimsy fabric.
She stopped, stunned as she saw his stark stare still
stuck—centered—somewhere near the hem of her skirt, even as his fingers
clutched the scrap of cotton across his chest.
Strangely satisfied, she straightened her shoulders, her thighs
quivering with a sudden, reckless, naked feeling. “May I have my page now,
please?” she asked, her voice soft with a saccharine slice. Her smirk spread. “Sir.”
Looking much like she imagined she had only a few moments
before—disoriented and disconcerted—he shook his head, trying to collect
himself. Shutting his eyes, that interesting shade of blue disappearing behind
sensuously long lashes, he bowed his head and plucked the cloth off his suit.
Taking a long moment, he neatly folded the delicate triangle
before tucking it into his suit jacket like a pocket square, the point peeking
just above the tight woolen weave, bringing her attention back to the hot,
slick, uncovered bareness between her legs.
Without looking up at her, he sniffed. “You lied to me,” he said
stiffly. “Tried to renege on our agreed-upon deal. Why would I reward such
behavior?” Tugging at the sleeves of his jacket fastidiously, he added, “If
anything, I deserve some kind of recompense.” He looked up at her, the heat of
his gaze scalding as an uncontrolled fire left to burn. “Lift your skirt.”
Another shudder shot through her, stiffening her spine and
stealing her breath. “Nice try, counselor,” she said through a casual smile.
“But I didn’t lie. I simply posed a hypothetical.” She forced her body to
relax, deliberately dropping her shoulders and unclenching her hands. Twitching
her hips audaciously, she said, “I don’t owe you shit. Sir.”
Her heart pounded as she saw his eyes widen—the flames burning in
the blue flaring. “But you’ll lift your skirt anyway,” he said, certainty
lacing that gravelly sound.
“I will?” she asked, letting a laugh lilt her tone. “Why would I
“Because I want to see you,” he said, swallowing hard as his hands
gripped the edge of his desk and his gaze zeroed south, “and you want me to see
“Do I?” she asked, the coy sound coming out throaty and hoarse.
“Yes.” It was a hiss.
She studied him. His tanned face was flushed, a ruddy, ready slash
of color staining his angled cheeks, making his expression dark, needy, almost
angry. She watched his nostrils flare with each deep breath and she wondered
what he smelled. Her gut clenched and thighs tensed as she wondered if he could
scent a scene like a bloodhound. She inhaled sharply as the tip of his tongue
slipped out to slide along his thin lips as if imagining a taste, honeyed and
thick, sticking to his skin.
His posture—usually so straight and superior—was slumped, hunched
over as his hands fisted over the desk’s rigid edge. His weight was grounded
over his toes, like a sprinter’s or swimmer’s or some shifting, sinuous beast’s
set to strike. She felt his hungry gaze like a touch—like a sensual
stroke—against her skin.
She fancied she could almost see the shade of a societal leash,
holding him back, holding him tethered to that office desk. She imagined wispy
ties of proprietal control restraining his heaving body down. “Lift it,” he
said, the sound a snarl. “Show me.”
It made her feel—perhaps foolishly, certainly recklessly—daring.
“You know you want to.”
He was right. She did.
She grinned, feeling so very unwise.
Knowing she was going to provoke the beast—was going to test its
chains—she turned on her heels and flipped up her skirt, flashing her now bare
ass at him as she swaggered out of his office, her hips swaying with sass.
It was a long, silent walk, but just as she threw open the door,
letting her skirt once again fall demurely into place, she heard him laugh.
“Don’t you want your pages?” he called after her.
She paused. She did, but it would ruin her exit. She bit her lip
before turning to breezily toss over her shoulder, “My lunch break is almost
over and I have phone calls to make back at the office.” She sniffed snootily
as she stepped through the doorway. “I’ll be back for them after work.” She
shot him a cocky glance, letting her gaze traverse his tense form lazily. “I
know you’re good for it,” she said just before she let the door shut behind her
with a definite click.