Tuesday, January 15, 2013

A sample from my new 8,700 word erotic fiction story, strangely titled Jane Smith Divorced

When Martin stopped only a few steps in front of me, I realized the stranger was smarter than me, at least hornier. She was thinking ahead; when you want to throw yourself at someone, the less space between you the better.
His shoulders were relaxed. He was staring back at me plainly, not a nervous bone in his body. He had no idea what I was thinking.
But did he really have no idea?
Say something, Jane. Ask him some stupid question about moving.
But my eyes studied what I wanted and no question came to mind. Not that day. I couldn't lie. I was nervous and panicked, my legs shaking, heart racing, pussy wet and aching and I was enjoying every second of it.
It was completely wretched and wonderful. 
“Do you like the house?” I asked.
“Great house,” he said. “Shame it had to be sold.”
“It didn’t have to be,” I answered, admitting that I was rich enough that I didn't have to sell the house. I was a babbling goddamn fool and looking back, I wouldn't trade it for anything, although I do wish I had never admitted that I had money to Martin so early on. But I wasn't thinking on it then because my mind couldn't get past the lust. Sheer lust. I was like a panting dog. The answer to my mother’s question, how often was I having sex with my ex-husband, was not often. I would say ten times in five years and none of those were in the last two years. The urge to have a man and his dick inside me hit me like a hammer. The divorce was final.
“You probably had a good reason,” Martin said, eyeing the room, which I knew was empty enough not to warrant some idiotic question about moving.  
Fuck it, I thought. He can just turn me down if he wants; no harm done. 
In some wild stroke of confidence, I locked onto his deep dark green eyes, held them, and with my heart rattling my ribcage, I took a step forward.
He blinked in confusion.
But he was still staring at me, still calm and collected. And most importantly, he hadn’t taken a step back.
Christ, I thought, he’s so goddamn good-looking; he probably gets this all the time.
You’re a fool, Jane. A goddamn fool. 
And the stranger chimed in with a question: “Do you really care if you’re a fool?”
I took another step closer. His expression changed. If he didn't know what I wanted, he knew now. A boyish grin crept into his hard, even sinister features. It was the smile of a boy excited at the prospect of playing a long, complicated game.
A kiss can’t hurt, I thought.
Kisses never do.
I was lying to myself wildly. Kisses are always trouble. That’s why everyone loves them. 



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