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About the author:
I’m all about INKing stories with LOVEABLE characters, riveting PLOT, and STEAMY SEX scenes. Other tidbits about me: I’ve got a degree in biology from UC Berkeley (Go Bears!), I’m a certified massage therapist, and a licensed bartender who hasn’t quite mastered the art of getting drunk. I’m mother to two wonderful pit bulls, and I’m currently working on the design for my next tattoo.
What inspired you to write your book?
The pacing here is much different than my other work, and I went back and forth over what to change and where to speed up. But Roz wouldn’t budge, just kept doling out act after act in a very deliberate and unapologetic manner. Ultimately, I’m so glad I didn’t change anything because I think the story turned out stronger for it.
Here is a short sample from the book:
I guide Jackson down into his plush leather chair, sink to my knees on the floor before him. This is a difficult achievement, the narrow skirt doesn’t afford much movement, but he likes it this way. Likes seeing the form fitting costumes that hug the curves of my hips and ass.
He unbuckles his belt and unzips his suit pants, freeing his sizeable cock. I let him do the liberty with the condom. He prefers to stroke himself stiff while I watch with greedy eyes, and then, when I’m salivating for a taste, he feeds his dick in measured bites into my waiting mouth.
Though the location has changed, the scene’s been like this the entire time this affair has endured, and I imagine it will continue in the exact same vein for a long time to come.
With sultry eyes I watch him unroll the latex down his shaft; watch him fist the heavy rod in one hand while the other grips my hair. He slowly eases just the head of his dick onto my tongue. I lick it lightly, round and round the outside with the flat of my tongue, laving at the crown before my lips cover it whole.
He groans, feeds me a little more.
This game of hide-the-cock continues slowly with Jackson setting the pace. Each time I take more of him in he pauses to savor the sensation at the new depth. Finally, when he thinks my mouth is full, he begins to lift on my hair. I stop him, clenching my hands on his thighs and forcing more of him into my throat. He knows I’m going to, I know he wants me to, but he’s too much of a gentleman to do it himself.
Know your cue…
I pull back and push forward again, encouraging him with moans of appreciation for his massive dick. It throbs in my mouth like it has a heart of its own—thump, thump, thump—eager to drop the load he’s been carrying.
His hips move, just a tiny bit, and I bob a little faster before releasing him with a wet pop. Hand wrapped around the base, I stroke up on the shaft and bear down with my mouth. Jackson loves it; his hands rake through my hair and force my head down. He moves me faster, my hand moves faster, the slick, sloppy sounds of my mouth and soft little hums of delight spurring him on. He grows harder, is right on the verge of exploding, almost—
“Mr. Temple, line one.”
“Uhhhhh…uuuhhhhhh…” he grunts, ready to jet.
I release him from my mouth, thumb and fingers grip tightly just beneath the engorged reddened head. When he comes he’ll be focused on nothing else but the velvety feel of my warm mouth on his dick.
Jackson slaps the intercom, barely able to control his anger. “I said hold ‘em.”
“It’s Darla.” Eva’s voice comes nervously through the speaker.
His hand chafes his jaw, frustrated, torn.
Clearing the desire from his throat, he lifts the receiver with surprising calm. “Hey, sweetheart, I’m in the middle of something. Can I call you back in a few?”
He listens to the reply from the other end; my hand starts to move. His abs clench and brown eyes glare down at me.
“Sure, I’d be happy t’…have your parents st-, uhh, with us…for a whi-….”
Jackson bats at me, tries to make me stop. My lips return to his cock, kissing the root, licking up his veined length. He fists my hair in his hand, tries to yank me off, but I shove him down all the way to the back of my throat, stuffing him in with an audible gag.
“Fuuucck.” His hold loosens. “No, not you Da… somethin’s goin’…hey, baby”—I bob faster, his body jerks—“Really gah!-gotta call you back.”
The receiver crashes into the cradle, and he grips my head with so much force I think he just might crush it. Standing quickly, he grits out, “Naughty bitch.” His hips thrust, forcing his dick into my mouth.
“Mmm hmm,” I hum in agreement, head moving busily. Love when he talks like that. It gets me so hot I can feel the wetness pooling between my thighs, my nipples pebble to rock hard points against my bra. I snake my hand between his legs and massage the velvety sac. Not lightly—Jackson does not like his balls played with lightly. He wants to know I’m there.
“Fuck, Roz,” he breathes, still pumping, still fucking my throat, until hot cum gushes from him, filling the condom. I suck him off through the grunting orgasm and right on through the afterblow, his body twitching and jerking before collapsing again into the chair. He’s quiet as the intensity of the release passes through him before, “Damn, you got a mouth on you, sweetness.” He catches his breath, strokes my hair gently. I lap at the skin of his inner thigh, inhale his masculine scent. “That was a dirty thing to do, Roz. While I’m on the phone with the wife?”
“Aww,” I purr innocently, bat my lashes. “Let me make it up to you, Jackson.” One long lick of my tongue over his hypersensitive head makes his dick jump. Leave your audience wanting more….
“Not twice.” He chuckles, absently shakes his head. “Twice and I won’t get through the day.”
I press my lips to the head of his cock, kiss it goodbye for now.
Some people need their Friday morning coffee to function, for Jackson it’s a Friday morning blowjob. He told me before that his Darla doesn’t do this for him. His Darla, his dearest possession, cannot see fit to give him head. Pity she doesn’t. He’s got a beautiful cock; thickly veined and long. I sometimes wish one day he’d ask for more than a BJ just so I can feel that impressive monster inside me. But it’s not in the script and Jackson’s not much for ad libbing.
His breathing slows to its regular pace; the condom is balled into a tissue yanked from the box on his desk. He drops it into a nearby trashcan then tucks himself back into his smart clothing.
Jackson stands again to help me from the floor. Gentlemen are all around in this kingdom.
Stolen moments in his bathroom let me brush my teeth, reapply makeup, fix my hair. My lips are a little puffier than what I walked in with. It can’t be helped.
Back on stage, I find Jackson in his leather chair, rocking back indolently, the black handset of the desk phone at his ear. My eyes are drawn to the curled tether he winds compulsively around his finger while he and his Darla discuss plans to have the in-laws come visit:
“The kids will love having their grandpar—The zoo? Perfect.”
He’s looking at me and talking to her. I can feel his hot gaze caress my skin while I busy myself with collecting the messed pages of my folder, a thick manila envelope slipped surreptitiously into a pocket.
The price of admission.
Another purposeful bend props my ass in the air while I return the first file to its place in the storage bin, the strangled breathing of my costar evident between the snippets of idle chatter.
“Chicken Florentine, was it?”—a shuddering exhale—“Uh huh…”
From the other side of the desk I face him again, reach for his folder, dipping lower than necessary and revealing the swell of my cleavage through the deep plunge of the blouse. I mash my chest to the surface, and at his inhale I pause, look up at him from beneath my lashes; let my tongue do a measured pass of my upper lip. His eyes darken as they follow the motion, stopping on the sight of the wet cavern of my mouth open in invitation for another filling.
The grimace on his face is that of a man struggling with temptation; very close to exchanging his not being able to get through the day for another visit to paradise. His cheeks flush, nostrils flare, breathing thickens.
Come on, Jackson. Ad lib