A Little Piece of “Paradise”

Hey everyone! I’m excited to tell you that I have a short story out this week in an anthology that’s slipped its way into the world a touch early—hurray! On Fire: Erotic Romance Stories is out now on ebook with the paperback version available in just a few days. This lovely collection from Cleis Press houses both the sexy and the sweet, and since it’s edited by the fabulous Rachel Kramer Bussel, you know you’re in for something great!

I’m so pleased to share that a tender little old story of mine, “Paradise,” is included in this anthology. The story centers around Justin and Anna, a couple who are rekindling a long lost romance on Anna’s trip to Justin’s now island home of sunny Puerto Rico. This story is particularly dear to my heart, and I’d love to tell you why. See, I started this one quite a long time ago, after my own real life love affair with a man I’ll call G., who was in the military (and who very much inspired Justin’s character). I didn’t get far in my writing because I was more invested in the real life romance, which, sadly, didn’t last all that long after G. moved away. While we did attempt—and fail—at our own rekindling on a trip I took to Puerto Rico years later, we fortunately had a charming run-in years after that in San Francisco. 😉

Now, in real life, G. and I realized we would never work long term, though we both looked fondly on our earlier romance and all the intensity that comes from distance, oh so much distance…and that tension struck me as the sweetest basis for an erotic romance story when I saw Rachel’s call all those years later. So, I pulled out the two or three pages I’d written a decade before, added some details of my actual trip to Puerto Rico—because holy moly, that place is beautiful—and imagined what would happen if the couple was, say, more meant to be than G. and I were. The story found its way into Rachel’s hands a while back, and now I’m delighted to share it with you!

To celebrate On Fire’s release, I’ve got a little piece of “Paradise” for you to read below. And, to set the tone, two of my favorite pictures from my trip to Puerto Rico. One is from the island of Culebra, a short boat ride from the main island, and the other a splash of all the greenery you can find on the island itself. I hope you enjoy both pictures, and also the following story excerpt…

From “Paradise”:

I admired the view while Justin stroked his fingers over my hand. The water beyond the sand glistened like polished glass, a topaz field of wetness beckoning us to swim in it.

“It’s beautiful,” I said. It was this same vast ocean that had kept us apart for so long, and I frowned. Justin stepped closer, his flip-flops slapping on the tile until his chest hovered a couple inches away. Against the cherry-colored walls of the room, he looked out of place—a southern gentleman turned beach-boy who yanked me hard enough that I collided into him.

“No, you’re beautiful,” he said. He slid his hands to my hips before lowering his mouth to mine again. I felt numb, content to be with him, here, but my vision clouded over as delighted tears rushed into my eyes. Justin noticed and swiped his fingers in long, tender strokes beneath my eyelashes. “Hey now, sweetheart. What are the tears for?” He said it softly, his twang making me giddy. His own eyes glistened and I laughed, shuddering as more tears, happy tears, fell to my chin.

“I’ve just…missed you,” I said.

Justin shook his head, then kissed my cheeks. He whispered, “No tears. We’re here, together now. No more waiting or wondering.”

I nodded. “I know.”

He snaked his arms around me, both of us hobbling back and forth while he nudged me toward the glass doors. His lips grazed my ear as he looked between my face and the ocean outside.

“You know, for three years, I’ve been out here thinking of you, Anna. I’ve been in the water, on the beach, living in this beautiful place, but…” He ran his fingertips through the hair at my brow, then used his other hand to pull me close enough to feel the hard bulge in his shorts. “None of it compared to seeing someone as beautiful as you.”

My knees grew weak. Those words, those sweet sentiments—the firm wedge of his cock rising to meet me—God how I’d missed them.

“Kiss me,” I said.

He did.

This time, the kiss was heavier—less desperate to close the distance, only eager to rekindle our fire. I melted into his lips, heat coiling through my body and sending tingles along my limbs as he plundered my mouth and took my tongue into his. When I nibbled his lip, he paused. He swooped me up and I gasped, mesmerized by the man who cradled me in his arms and carried me to the couch.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve dreamed of you?” he said. I laid my head back on the cushions as he sat beside me on the floor, then trailed his lips over my hands. “I should offer you a meal. A shower. More to make you comfortable, Anna, but all I can think about is making love to you.”

Culebra

He grazed my neck with his fingertips, his roughened skin sending trembles through my body again, and I swallowed.

“Then do.”

Justin grinned. He climbed beside me on the couch, sinking his hip against my thigh and running his hand along my leg beneath my shorts. He traced his fingertips over my knees, then down to slide off my sandals.

“I’ve always loved how blatant you are, darlin’.” He circled my ankles with his hands, caressing them like he used to, like every inch of me was a temple he worshipped. I reminded myself to breathe, the longing to feel him after such an extended time taking over my senses. He folded over me, sneaking his hands across my belly, then under my halter top, and when he slid them over the cups of my bra, our lips locked tight.

“Justin…” I muttered, loving the way his tongue moved so aggressively in my mouth while his hands made the gentlest of strokes over my breasts. He skimmed his fingers over my nipples, rubbing the tender peaks until I moaned. When he slid his lips to my neckline, he spread slow, soft pecks between the panels of my shirt, flicking his tongue in quick lashes over my skin. A blush filled my cheeks at the touch, a reminder of the way he used to kiss my sex for hours before ever driving into me.

“God, I’ve wanted this, wanted you…” he said. He unhooked the few buttons holding my shirt closed, our kisses growing more frenzied as he laid himself over me. Our hips were together instantly, both of us grinding against one other as I grabbed the hem of his shirt and yanked it over his head. He kissed me harder, his pelvis crashing against mine as he dragged his hands straight into my hair, then gathered it behind my head and yanked it tight just like I loved. I mewled.

“I want you too, Justin. I’ve missed you.”

“Oh…” He pulled back to look over me, keeping his fist in my hair, using his other hand to tease my nipples through my bra. His gaze was lost, hungry, lustful, his hands over me desperate and skilled. He pinched my nipples and I arched against him, ready for the wait to end.

“Please,” I growled.

***

There you have it! Some of your own “Paradise” to enjoy before you get your hands on On Fire, a delicious new erotic romance anthology available now. Pick up your copy on Amazon or at any of the buy links below…

Amazon (print)

Kindle (ebook)

Amazon UK

Amazon Canada

Bn.com (print)

Nook (ebook)

Powells

Books-a-Million

Happy reading!

XX,
Jade

 

A Recipe, An Excerpt, and A Giveaway!

It’s that time of year—and Christmas is nearly here! Can everybody feel it? I don’t know how it is for other people, but living in the San Francisco Bay Area, we don’t get what one tends to call “winter weather.” I know many a Californian who will tell you it’s damn cold up here this time of year, however, having spent the first 13 years of my life in Nevada—Sparks, Reno, Gardnerville, and Tahoe, to be precise—I have experienced some actual winter weather. I was even quite the young snow bunny in my day (yes 21st place out of 250 kids is bad ass in my mind, thank you very much). But, since I’ve been here in California, I have to say I definitely don’t get that winter feeling at Christmas time anymore.

Truth, though? I don’t miss it. Not one bit! I’m a fair weather kind of gal, so I appreciate the sun and a little warmth outside making chestnuts not roasting on an open fire not a problem for me. Part of it is that I don’t connect winter weather to Christmas cheer. In fact, reflecting on what actually makes it feel like Christmas for me is a very specific and short list: time with those I love and cherish, the smiles on my niece and nephew’s faces during gift time, and, without a doubt, baking.

Yes—to me, Christmas translates into mad baking!

I’m going to go ahead and blame this one on my dad—he’s a brilliant cook and also the crafter of some wickedly delicious cookies, and I can’t tell you how many holidays I’d watch him take over a kitchen to bake cookies for a bunch of people at his work…and wouldn’t you know it? Somewhere in my twenties, this became a thing for me, too. Whenever Christmas time came, my brain automatically reprogrammed for a kitchen takeover in the form of insane baking sprees. And since I’ve always been an overachiever, I couldn’t just make one batch for each recipient. No, no, no, that would never do. I’d make at least five types of cookies (hitting as many as ten one year, I’m not even kidding) and then go and spread that love to upwards of two dozen people. I loved it…all the way through the entire weekend I’d spend living in an apron and considering eating nothing but cookie dough at every meal.

That is, until, I messed up a wrist and wasn’t able to bake one year. That was a funny experience—because all of a sudden, I learned out how calm my life got when I wasn’t making 8,000,000 cookies around the holidays. Go figure.

Still, on occasion, and for super special people, I’ll make a batch (or four). Today, in honor of Blissemas at my place, I thought that since I can’t exactly make a batch for you, I could at least pass along one of my favorite recipes. I got this easy one off the back of a butterscotch chip bag once upon a time, and have been using it ever since. Brace yourself. This is a good one!

Heaven Help Us We’re Going to Pay For It Devil’s Food Chocolate Butterscotch Cookies
(Aptly renamed years ago by me.)

Ingredients:

One boxed package devil’s food cake mix
2 eggs
½ cup vegetable oil
One package of butterscotch chips

Steps:

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.
Mix together cake mix, eggs, and oil. Add chips.
Plop those babies in tablespoon sized dollops onto ungreased cookie sheets.
Bake for 8-10 minutes.
Enjoy.

Yum. Oh, I should make those right now. So easy, and so good!

Speaking of right now, the holiday is a fine time for some new reading and book buying, in my opinion. While my new release, The Assignment, doesn’t take place during Christmas, I can tell you that you’ll find some holiday cheer in the next installment of the Lessons in Control series, The Discipline. For now, though, I thought I’d leave you with a spicy excerpt to complement the sweet recipe above, and after, a chance to win your own copy of the book. How’s that for Christmas spirit? 🙂

Let’s start with an excerpt from The Assignment:

I fetched two glasses and the pitcher of water I kept in the fridge, and Dean followed. He remained quiet as I poured the water and replaced the pitcher on the shelf, but when the fridge door shut, he sidled behind me. It took less than a second, the heat of his chest jolting my core.

Dean hooked his hands on my hips and rested his chin on my shoulder, then he pressed his lips to my cheek and inhaled. “You smell like pussy. Musky and sexy.”Cover of The Assignment by Jade A. Waters

He wrapped his hands around me, bearing against my stomach and pulling me back into him. The thick bar of his crotch nudged high on my ass. Most of the near-orgasmic haze I’d felt in the restaurant bathroom had subsided in our ride, but Dean roamed his hands up my belly and over the silk covering my chest until my body filled with need. He cupped my breasts, and after pinching my nipples through the fabric, he wedged me against the fridge.

“Your reward has two parts.” The words came out a rumble through the strands of my hair, and he yanked the skirt of my dress up around my ass. The stainless steel of my fridge fogged with my breath, and I shuddered when he guided his hand between my thighs. Having handed over my panties, I had no barrier to stop the greedy search of his fingers. Dean slid his fingertips along my crevice, and I gasped. “Christ, you’re wet.”

I bowed my head, the thrum of excitement pounding through me. He took away his fingers and left me empty. “Dean—”

He whipped me around and slammed me back against the fridge. I cried out in surprise, but he dropped to his knees. He hitched my dress up with both of his hands, his eyes glazing as he buried his face in my cleft.

I moaned, my pleasure racing back with the hungry licks Dean made at my folds. I dropped my hands to his head and closed my eyes while he licked at me then sucked hard. My legs began to shake. It was impossible to stand in my heels and I sank down, desperate for his tongue all the way in.

Dean responded. His fingers slipped deep to reach the bundle of nerves inside me. He stroked in and up, his tongue wild and skilled, bringing me ever closer.

“I’m going to come,” I growled. Dean pummeled me with his fingers, lapping at my juices. “Oh, God!”

I fisted his hair when release tore through me. He groaned as my spine bowed, his mouth latched on to me no matter how vigorously I bucked against his face. I shrieked, my legs threatening to give, but Dean didn’t cease. He swiped at my clit with his tongue, his fingers working through the contractions inside me.

“Stop, please.” I peeled open my eyes, my body heaving. The denial at the restaurant, the tense hold on the dance floor—all of it had brought such intensity over me that I started to collapse.

Dean shook his head, his tongue gliding back and forth. “That was part one,” he said.

I tried to scoot away but he nibbled on my clit. I shoved back his head. “Stop!”

“Feisty girl.” Dean leaned away, his face bright with amusement. “Too much sass for one girl.”

My breathing wavered. I squinted to clear my vision, my body too overstimulated for him to continue. “I need a break, please. I can’t.”

Dean planted one last kiss on my mound, then tongued the crease. The moment I thought he’d pull away, he sucked my clit back between his teeth and murmured, “Your break is as long as it takes me to set up part two.”

*

Mmmm. Feeling your naughty and nice yet? I sure hope so!

To pair with an extraordinarily easy cookie baking recipe I am naturally providing an easy way for you to win a copy of The Assignment for the holiday. You’ll simply need to comment below with your favorite type of holiday treat by the end of the day (December 16, 2016, 11:59 pm PST), being sure to leave your email when you register the comment. Do that, and boom! You’ll be entered to win. I’ll put the email addresses of all comments received in a hat (Santa hat, even?) and draw one winner for a mobi file copy over the weekend. It could be you!

So, after scribbling down the recipe above that I know you’re going to try for yourself, please be sure to comment below with your favorite holiday treat. I will announce winners in the comments after the contest has closed and will be notifying this person as soon as I draw.

However, if you’re itching to get your hands on The Assignment today, please do so at any of the following locations:

Amazon US     Amazon UK      Barnes & Noble      Google Play      iBooks      Kobo

Until then, thanks so much for stopping by my site for Blissemas, and please keep on following the fun right here.

XX,
Jade

Cover of The Assignment by Jade A. Waters

The Assignment Blog Tour Begins—In an Interview with Rose Caraway!

Oh my goodness, everyone, I’m so excited. Today it begins—the official blog tour for The Assignment! Yessss! I could not be more thrilled not only for this tour to start, but for The Assignment to be in your hands in eight short days when it’s released on December 12th. Woo hoo!

And, on top of that, I am over the moon to get to launch the tour in such a marvelous way today: with one of my favorite people, the incredible Rose Caraway!Cover of The Assignment by Jade A. Waters

You may recall Rose Caraway interviewing me on The Sexy Librarian’s Podcast before, and she’s even narrated some of my short stories…but now, she’s paid me the honor of launching the tour with an interview in her studio! We shared such a fun time at her place yesterday, starting with Rose surprising me with treats and wine to celebrate the book’s forthcoming release—such a sweetheart!—and then moving us into our in-studio interview. Rose asked all sorts of questions about The Assignment and the Lessons in Control series as a whole, and I am so glad you get to listen in on it. Plus, Rose’s stop is extra special because she gave me the opportunity to record a sexy snippet of The Assignment, right there in-studio! That’s right—you’ll get to hear our interview as well as me reading a scene from the book. I hope you enjoy listening as much as I enjoyed participating!

To listen, please hop on over to The Sexy Librarian’s Podcast. And, as we continue the tour through December 23rd, filled with back info and details on the book, interviews, guest posts, excerpts, reviews, and giveaways, please keep checking back to the Official Tour Page to find each stop along the way.

For now, enjoy stop one—an interview between the fabulous Rose Caraway and me about The Assignment! I hope you enjoy it!

Be sure to pick up your copy of The Assignment, available for pre-order at…

Amazon US     Amazon UK      Barnes & Noble      Google Play      iBooks      Kobo

Happy reading!

XX,

Jade

Cover of Rachel Kramer Bussel's Begging for It Anthology

About Those “Apple Thighs”

Like many women, I’ve long harbored nagging body hang-ups. I’ve heard we all have at least one thing we wish we could change—weight, breast size, hip width, nose length, belly roll, ass curve, etc., etc. I’ve certainly had my fair share of these “one things,” things I either wished to vanquish or worked ridiculously hard to at least adjust somehow. I remember a multi-year stint as a child convinced I would get a nose job when I was 18, but it turns out, I was destined to grow into the full-sized nose I had from birth. I hated my hips for the longest time because I was born with those, too (really), and I spent a lot of my teen years with bruises on them from bumping into things since I somehow didn’t grasp how wide they were. Both these features have since balanced out, and while they’re no longer issues, certain “one things” have persisted over the years. The big one, no matter how fit I am or what I do, is the hereditary trait most of the women in my family share: the “dreaded apple thighs.”

Apple thighs, I’m sure you’re thinking. What in the hell are those?

Apple thighs, you see, are very distinct in shape. They’re not quite like their oft-dwelled upon cousin, thunder thighs, but a round, fleshy version that tapers at the knee. This taper is what resembles—in some odd way that my mother explained to me when I was a wee little girl—an apple. And we of the women in my family are doomed (yes, doomed) to have these cursed apple thighs, no matter if we are thick or thin, short or tall, curvy or straight. Those fuckers just happen, and despite this, in my family, they get a lot of negative attention and commentary. As I have learned, apple thighs are bemoaned and bad, and as beautiful as one of us may be, we’ve still missed out somehow by having these big ass curvy thighs.

Now, I’m going to be extremely straight with you today: I’ve worked with some real body image issues over the years, which ebb and flow and for which I’ve even sought a little counseling to better deal on occasion. I’m all over the #allbodiesarebeautiful movement because I believe in it through and through, and though I have my wavers in spells, deep in my heart, I know these apple thighs are part of me and something that, most of the time, I’m okay with. But when I have my doubts—about them, or any other part—I have to think about the whole picture. I have to come to terms with who I am and love me just as I am.

That’s why, of all the stories I’ve released into the world, “Apple Thighs” is one of my most cherished pieces. It’s out now in Rachel Kramer Bussel’s Begging For It: Erotic Fantasies for Women. I wrote it one night after a particularly grueling day having heard another family member snigger at those “pesky apple thighs”; I’d come home and taken a peek at them in passing, and I thought the poor things needed a break, once and for all. I’d already had a few years in the circus, where I loved to dress up wearing leotards, tights, and thigh-high stockings—which I intentionally used to flash my thighs—so I’d had a good wave of embracing them. I’d even discovered how handy they were in my pole classes (because grip, hello). Still, I felt like this positive acknowledgement of their existence needed to be more drastic.Cover of Rachel Kramer Bussel's Begging for It Anthology

I needed to write a character who recognized her body for what it was and not only accepted it, but learned to love it, right there in the course of the story.

From that, Cassie and her post-counseling bus ride was born…and I went one step further, too, not dooming her with my apple thighs—but giving them to her as a gift.

Cassie is a bit down on her luck when we meet her, but on her bus ride—with the perfect co-passenger—she has that moment I think all women with that “one thing” need: the epiphany in which we realize that yes, we are who we are, and yes, we are just perfect as is.

So without further adieu, I’m delighted to share an excerpt of “Apple Thighs” with you:

Cassie pressed her palms onto her thighs. She’d been blessed with smooth, unblemished skin most of her life, so even stocky as they were, her thighs had the consistent, unmarred fair coloring that covered the rest of her body. As the bus continued its roll down the city streets, the flesh of her thighs shook. She had thin calves and narrow knees, but above them her legs curved out to a substantial width. In truth, she had a lot of muscle in those thighs from years of dancing and running, but they were definitely the outliers from the rest of her body.

She pursed her lips and ran her hands back and forth, grazing her skin. She could rest on her tiptoes to keep her legs up so that her thighs didn’t appear so wide, like two sturdy pancakes smashed out on the seat. But she kind of liked the way they looked. They carried her. They made her womanly. Plus, she was able to outrun all the women in her former running group—big, strong apple thighs and all.

Cassie fanned her fingers over her thighs and rubbed her palms along their length again, sighing. Her skirt caught on her wrists as she glided her hands up, crumpling it at the top of her thighs. She peeked at the seat across from her. Two older women sat there, the one by the window staring out and the one on the aisle reading a book. They didn’t notice her. No one in front of her would see what she was doing, either. She turned her head, checking out the seat behind her at a diagonal. No one there.

But the man behind her cleared his throat.

Cassie flattened her skirt and shoved her hands to her knees, her face burning as she whipped it forward.

Oh, fuck.

Had he seen what she was doing, mindlessly stroking her thighs?

More importantly, was she insane, rubbing her thighs like that in public?

As if in answer, the man lifted himself in his seat. Cassie held her breath. The entire bus was frozen in time, the driver watching the road, and the other occupants reading books, listening to iPods, or chattering about the news. But this man slid around the seat and sat beside her, not a word coming from his mouth as he peered forward.

She turned her head slightly, examining him from the corner of her eye and realizing she’d seen this guy before. She’d even smiled at him once, the last time she’d been stuck on this bus. He was handsome, his face peppered with the tiny hairs of one who didn’t shave everyday, and he had hazel eyes that shimmered thanks to the sun streaming through the window beside her. When she saw him a few days ago, he’d been wearing a baseball cap—but now his sandy blond hair was loose around his ears, making him look a tad older than he once had. Mid-thirty, late thirties…Cassie couldn’t tell. But she could tell that he was some sort of painter, his tee shirt and jeans always speckled with dried paint. Today he wore a spot of fuchsia on his right thumb and a streak of red along his left wrist.

She straightened her head again, her nerves on high. Had he seen what she was doing?

She felt his scrutiny on her then, and a chill fogged her body. When he spoke, his voice came out a deep bass that prickled her skin.

“Do you mind if I sit here?”

Cassie shook her head, her fingers latched around her knees. Her legs suddenly felt hugely exposed, though she did choose to wear this skirt in public, and apparently had no problem touching her thighs a minute before.

Idiot.

“It’s a better view,” he said.

Cassie bit down on her tongue.

Maybe he meant the window. Or being one seat closer to the front of the bus.

Or maybe she really was an idiot.

“Yeah,” she said, her heart racing. “Sunny outside today, isn’t it?”

The man raised an eyebrow and smiled. Cassie broke out in goose bumps. She hadn’t made an ass of herself on this bus, had she?

She willed herself to look back at him, wondering if her thighs had turned as crimson as her face—because wow, was she blushing, her cheeks burning with embarrassment. The sensation ran the entire length of her body in under a second.

“It is. But that’s not what I was talking about.” He gazed directly at her thighs, then back to her face. “Please don’t stop on my account.”

Cassie didn’t move.

The man kept grinning at her. She was surprised she didn’t find it uncomfortable, or awkward. In fact, she shifted slightly on the bench, keenly aware of how hot it was at the apex of her apple thighs.

“I…uh…”

Cassie pinched her lips together. Great, now she sounded like an idiot, too.

The man scooted forward in the seat, enough to block her from the view of any other passengers. He was tall, and with the muscles in his arms alone, it was clear he was strong beneath his jeans and tee shirt. She could do whatever she wanted right here in this seat, and no one would be the wiser.

Cassie shook herself. Was she actually thinking about this?

The man put both hands on his thighs, then tilted his head toward her legs before dragging his hands in an upward motion.

He was modeling what he wanted from her.

Her stomach knotted but her heart thumped in her ears. His smile was so sweet, so warm. So encouraging.

She slid her hands up her legs, halting them mid-thigh. Her fingers were shaking.

Now the man cupped his thighs, and Cassie did the same.

Beneath her panties, her groin swelled with heat. The flush running through her body was like a teasing caress, and she gripped her thighs again. He met her eyes and nodded.

“May I?” he asked.

***

I hope you enjoyed that teaser of “Apple Thighs,” included in Begging For It, Erotic Fantasies for Women. You can find out more about this anthology from Cleis Press on its Tumblr Page. It’s edited by the fabulous Rachel Kramer Bussel, and is available now in paperback and in a few more days on Kindle. I hope you’ll please check it out!

Happy reading, and may you love your apple thighs, too. 🙂

XX,
Jade

Sharpie on thighs "I want to feel you here"

On Skin Writing

I have loved skin writing for as long as I can remember.

When I was a young girl, I was the one constantly scolded by teachers and parents for inking up my skin. I’d spend half an hour drawing an elaborate sketch on my thigh beneath my shorts while I learned algebra, or I’d doodle all over my forearm while I gabbed on the phone. There was a combination of factors that appealed to me when I did it—from the glide of the pen over my skin to the unique words, image, or design I’d set out to put there for whomever to see. I liked the look of ink on skin, and the way people told me I wasn’t supposed to do it. It was more appealing to me than a tattoo, because I could change it to fit my mood, and scrub it all away for a new blank canvas if I didn’t want it to endure. Then, skin writing was just a thing I liked to try; but later, it would turn into a huge turn on for me.

When I was 18, I saw The Pillow Book at a small theatre in my hometown. It was the first erotic movie I ever saw, and everything about it excited me: a writer heroine, her discovery and search for sexual experiences, sexy images of flesh, calligraphy against skin, Ewan McGregor, full frontal male nudity, pure devotion, and a Romeo and Juliet style twist. I left the theatre moved by the story, but more by how exotic and erotic the look of all that calligraphy had appeared on the flesh. I’d had a tattoo in mind for a couple years by then—one I swore I’d get after the publication of my first book, which is indeed going to happen—but even that didn’t strike me as much as this story’s concept had. When Ewan McGregor ripped open his shirt and said, “Use my body like the pages of a book…of your book,” I had a whole new notion of what skin writing could do. It was the using of someone’s flesh in creation of a story to be read and understood—and I craved this, someone else using my skin like I had all those years.

The thought mostly buried itself over the next decade. I had a professional career and didn’t usually have time to doodle on my skin, but sometimes, when I was bored, I’d Sharpie a word or symbol on the bottom of my foot. Later, this transformed into a love of henna. Whenever I could, I’d henna the entirety of a foot and all the way up my calf with some new design I liked. When I went on vacation, I’d mark up my hand with something to catch the eye. It still wasn’t the same as what had roused me in that flick, though—it was done by me, for one, and the henna lacked the same appeal.

Of course, that didn’t stop me from convincing an artist I dated in my late twenties from coming over to henna the entirety of my back. We’d shared a bottle of wine before I’d stripped down to my panties and stretched myself out on the living room floor. He’d squealed over the canvas of my back—literally squealed, because he was an exuberant, lively, playful man—and I clearly remember him sitting on my ass for a long time, waiting while he looked over my naked back and breathed these heavy, deep breaths.

“Anything? I can draw anything?”

“Yes, anything,” I’d said. He’d stared over me for what felt like forever, then spent the next forty or so minutes dragging paintbrushes and fingers across my skin to create whatever henna design he had in mind. He told me how he was playing along with the lines of my back, and not only did I love that what he was drawing was a mystery I couldn’t see, but that as he shifted on my ass to work, we both grew breathless until he called it done.

“Is it weird that I really want to fuck you right now?” he’d said. I’d shaken my head so fast, confessing I felt the same—and we’d fucked right there on the carpet, me flat on my belly and him trying his hardest not to wreck his design. Sadly, it rubbed off a little on his stomach (we might have gotten a bit into it), but nonetheless, I was still tickled to flash him what was left over the next few days.

After him, the urge quieted again. Henna seemed the answer, but my life was too busy to sit down for a session. Occasionally, I’d write memos with ink on my palm, even if I had a perfectly good post-it stack, or phone to jot a note in. Years later, though, I’d have the sexiest relationship of my life, where everything was an option, and want—pure want, desperate, vocal, speak it out loud want—was the name of the game.

I miss you, I’d told this lover via text. I want you, now.

I want you too. Now. Soon. How would you have me?

This picture is what I sent him in response.

Sharpie on thighs "I want to feel you here"

Needless to say, we found a way to get together soon after… But until then? I refused to wash off the words. I loved that I could pull down my pants in the bathroom at work and find that level of want scrawled on my thighs. That my chicken-scratch handwriting revealed my desperation on my very skin, and that he was making his greatest efforts to come strip me down to find it.

I told him later I wanted him to Sharpie all over me, call me names and scribe his lust for me on my flesh. He loved the idea, but our relationship was, unfortunately, fairly short-lived after that. So, I tucked the urge away for many more years.

I nearly forgot about it.

But one night, not all that many months ago, it flared up again. It was a coincidence with a friend, but it suited exactly what I’d always wanted—someone else writing on me, using my skin as he saw fit. We’d gone out to a party and both of us were dressed to the nines, and after a few drinks, he’d wanted to make a list but had no paper. I’d offered up a pen and the entirety of my thigh, and though he thought I was kidding, I soon arranged myself as best I could in the front seat of his car, the entire event furthered, somehow, by my efforts to not flash everything up the skirt of my sassy dress. There was something blissfully erotic in him gripping my leg, writing his message on my bare skin—especially as dressed up as I was. I remember holding my breath, because the combination of his own breath over my leg and the scratch of his pen turned me on more than I could ever admit to this friend. Well, that, and not knowing what it was he was writing in his hunch over my leg.

His scrawl ended up being a childish, silly note—but from that experience, I finally knew what about skin writing made me tick, and what elements, exactly, I was after: my skin, offered up for him to write whatever he pleased; him, shifting me about to scrawl on the curves of my body; that pen, marking me up in a gritty, vulgar way that completely contrasted how glammed up I was right then. And even though what he wrote ultimately irritated me, I still felt the burn of it when I tried to wash it away in the morning, and the memory of being used for whatever he wanted to write. That’s what I loved the most.

Skin writing has so much potential to it, whether it is done in a beautiful way as in The Pillow Book, or in a purposefully crude way like that memorable note on my thigh.

Which is why one day, I hope I’ll get all the elements just right—because it is truly a turn on for me.

Click the lips for more Kink of the Week…

Picture of feet sticking out of car window, parked to watch sunset; Ammentorp ©123RF.com

We [Were] On a Break!

I am the worst at taking a break. I’ve been this way my whole life—relaxation is a thing I enjoy, but most of the time, there has to be something else going on simultaneously. Hell, it wasn’t until recently that I took up watching some TV before bed while needing to talk myself into lying still on the couch (because, sadly, reading revs me up and makes it impossible to pass out). I have a friend who describes me as being incapable of slowing down, but I often correct him to say that I can, I just prefer to have my wheels spinning at all times, if not in person, then at least in the back of my head.

The slowing of the wheels is something I’m actively working on this year. I’ve been going through a lot that I’ve mentioned on the blog, but there’s been other off-site stuff, too, which has made my series-writing ride quite the adventure. Add to this that moderation is a concept lost on me (just give me a pile of candy and I’ll blow your mind, swear), and the fact that I’m still pretty good at pushing past pain…well, put all this together, and you’ve got a flashy sports car that eventually has a major break down and stops working.

Obviously, that, in the middle of a 3-book series, simply will not do.

Picture of feet sticking out of car window, parked to watch sunset

Chillin’. Ammentorp ©123RF.com

Which is why I’ve set up various rewards to honor the need to slow my roll in this already unique process. Since I just typed “The End” and closed off the draft for The Discipline, book 2 in the Lessons in Control series, the one I greet you with today is a deal I made with myself long ago: two full weeks off! This is a time for me to not only not think about the book while it simmers, but to essentially take a mini-writing-pseudo-vacation. Yes, writing is my passion, my sustenance, my love—but revisit that moderation in all things clause, and eventually, one can overdose in love, too.

Plus, a “vacation” always brightens the landscape of pretty much anything, so here I am, taking one!

What does this mean? Save for the potential of my copy edits showing up during this rest time, I’m not doing a lick of writing beyond a blog post or two, and maybe even a little revise of a poem and a piece of flash I wrote a while back, since it’s high time I get some fiction up in this joint. But beyond that? I’m practicing chilling out interspersed with moments of handling a short To Do list I avoided while staying focused on the series. This last weekend, for example, I swapped between bills, taxes, and major social time with friends. I even kicked off Saturday morning with pancakes, bacon, and a coconut milk latte in front of a TV show while still in my robe. Guys, this sort of thing hasn’t happened in years. And you know what? It felt pretty good.

There are other cool things happening in this two-week break, too. One, I’ve got a slew of awesome social encounters I’ve delayed: karaoke, luncheons, dinners, happy hours, and, hell, I might even take myself dancing and then sleep in this weekend! Whoa! Also, I’m finally reading a book. I know this sounds like a no brainer—but between being all up in this series and not being able to read before bed lest it keep me awake, I’ve pretty much been catching only blog posts here and there, and thus haven’t touched a book since, oh, late August (shameful, I know, but it’s the truth). Oh and extra chill-worthy: I’m rewatching Fringe from start to finish. This is my favorite series of all time, right before the wicked tie for second between The Tudors, Dexter, Friends (bonus points if you caught the show reference in the title of this post), Grey’s Anatomy, and the first six seasons of The Vampire Diaries (don’t even talk to me about the current season). I have tons of other good things planned for this time, too, but let it be said: there will be some real relaxation for me. I’m excited!

On top of that, I’m not going to feel guilty. Not at all. I know my lovely little characters can wait for me, and everything—life, series, etc.—will return to normal when I’m back.

We are, after all, on a break. 🙂

XX,
Jade

B/W still vintage image of typewriter

THE Process

Okay, here’s the deal: I kept fooling myself into believing I have a systemized process, and it’s become abundantly clear I’m full of shit.

As some of you may have noticed, I’ve been fairly quiet on both this site and my poetry site. For the most part, I’ve had my head down working on the Lessons in Control series. I’m getting more and more excited to talk about it as we get closer to launch in December, but for now, I’m tied up (heh) in edits for The Assignment (book one), the drafting of The Discipline (book two)—and later down the line, the drafting of The Reward (book three).

The process has been thrilling, shocking, and terrifying, all at the same time. My editor, Rhonda Stapleton, has been a dream through the work we’re doing on book one—but alongside that, I’ve had a hell of a journey on book two. Whatever “process” I swore I had for writing books has been, well, doctored.

B/W still vintage image of typewriter

Dmitriy Cherevko ©123RF.com

Let me give you a little background. The first real book I wrote (because I’m excluding the fictional biography I wrote at 11 as well the YA horror I wrote at 13) was a romantic fantasy that took me 17 years to complete, and at the end of it, I learned one very important thing: I’m neither a fantasy writer OR a strictly spec fic writer. I love sexual content, and I love dripping that all over the pages of whatever the hell I’m writing. So for my next book, I opted to write a comedic memoir about the year and a half I semi-intentionally stopped having sex. (True story!) Turned out, for a book about not having sex, it actually had a lot of sexual content—but it was also about healing from heartbreak, finding oneself, and a bit of ridiculousness that happened in that period, among other things. Honestly, I haven’t talked a ton about this thing since it’s shelved in lieu of what I currently love writing (that would be erotica in its various forms), but, the point is that it took me about three years to write, the end confirming that (1) I needed to write more because it was my life blood and (2) I was capable of finishing things faster than I thought.

Next came a bunch of short stories. I had a spec fic writing mentor at the time who suggested what I needed was to start and stop over and over again, so I could feel more confident in the process before I took on another book. Whoa nelly, did that turn out to be a boon: I wrote something like two dozen short stories in a few months. Plus, I wrote them fast. 4-6k in a couple hours? No problem! I had become a binge writer who also learned the skill of drafting without backtracking, because one can always chop and revise later. I was pretty sure that nifty trick would carry with me for life.

Flash forward to the recent past, and there came The Assignment. I’d been plotting and stewing about how I might be able to write an erotica series for a couple months, and, meanwhile, had an extremely transformative relationship that sparked all sorts of ideas in my head. Then…we broke up. Okay, in actuality, I had to pry myself away because the entire thing was about to ruin me, but a well-timed vacation and a keen interest in the “do not disturb” function on my phone created utter magic. Even through my devastation, the plot of my story became clear and I proceeded to channel all that breakup energy into writing The Assignment. That book—which I am seriously excited for you to read when it comes out in December—took me a whopping week and a half to outline, and right around one month to draft.

For realsies.

And suddenly—I knew my process: outline, speed draft without editing, let it breathe, go in and proceed to smoothe. Check! Oh yeah. It was that simple, and it would be, forever. Right? So while the final version was off wandering the world for a home, I proceeded to start another book—but the entire time, I couldn’t figure out what had happened to my process because I seemed to be going in circles…for almost eight months.

I’d just upped my speed and written a book in a month. How on earth did this thing take so long?

Then came some real life chaos that fucked with me. It took a while for me to get a clue on how to handle it, but when I did, I opted for a book break. I spent a couple months writing shorts and reworking my confidence, so that when The Assignment found a home at Carina Press and they wanted the entire series, I was both giddy and ready to write book two. Except, not so much. I was still contending with the residual chaos that culminated in the attack of the chronic migraines while also struggling to realize this was in no uncertain terms affecting my process. I drafted about 30k. I got migraine sick. I drafted 10k. I was still migraine sick. I tore up 20k. Edits for book one came. I finished them and then drafted 20k. But again, I was really sick and had to straight up stop. When I was migraine-free and ready to go again, I not only cut out about 15k, but completely replotted the rest of the book.

Ha. Take that, process!

Oh, and my binge writing tendency in that entire time period? M.I.A. 1-2k became a good day! But I plodded along, accepting that I would produce, delete, rewrite, break, etc., until somewhere around December when—while setting my 2016 goals—I took a step back and thought, hmm, maybe I should just write the damn book however it comes out, and stop being an asshole to myself because the process happens to have changed from what it was before.

Amazing concept, right?

I have to say—since then, things have continued to be pretty good over here. I turned in another round of edits on book one, and when I sat down to begin the final chunk of the book two draft this last weekend, I didn’t even bat an eyelash at the fact that the first thing I did was replot the last 20k again.

Go figure.

So, ladies and gentlemen, it’s safe it say: I have discovered the real process! It’s good, and I’m going to share it with you. You should grab a pen. Go ahead, I will wait. *Taps foot.* I know you want the Secret to the Writing Universe I discovered over the last few months, and now, I’m going to give it to you!

Okay, you ready?

Here it is.

The official process is…

Whatever fucking works.

Yep. That’s it. (Did you write that down?) 🙂

I have no idea if my process is “no process” because of life things, or just because that’s the truth of the matter, but I’m pleased to have established this riveting…process. Also, I’m curious about everyone else—what’s your process? I’d love to hear in the comments.

For now, though, time for me to get back to work.

It’s a process. 😉

XX,
Jade

 

Man and woman in sensual embrace about to kiss.;Sean Nel ©123RF.com

The Kiss

When I saw the Kink of the Week theme this time around, I knew I had to join in—both because the kiss is one of my favorite acts, and because I’ve been so lucky to have had many wonderful kisses. What I love most about the kiss is its variation; in one moment, it can be soft, sensual, and sweet, a tender caress between lovers. But in the next, it can be rough, wild, and hard, a battle of tongues that signals deep desire, given as easily as it can be taken away. The kiss is as intimate as it is a tease, and as passionate as it can be purposely cold. “It’s all in the kiss” is a phrase that often holds true—if for no other reason than it might, potentially, provide a glimpse of what lay ahead. Sloppy but given with gusto? Rough and taken with a trained gaze? Soft and peppered with whispers of yes, more, yes…? There is certainly much to be drawn from a kiss.

Man and woman in sensual embrace about to kiss.

Yes. This moment. Sean Nel ©123RF.com

Kisses are also as memorable in their fails as they are in their successes—those bad ones have the tendency to stand out all on their own. My first kiss was a silly thing, a peck on the lips I gave a fellow 7-year-old on a dare in the middle of an elementary school field. It was an all eye-open, quick lips, what-the-fuck-is-this-thing-we’re-doing kind of kiss. (Okay, maybe more for surprised him than me.) My first mutual kiss came six years later with my first boyfriend, and it was another awkward, mouth-closed, eye-open (him) disaster that left me pining. Even some of the ones I shared with my high school sweetheart later on live in this funny Bad Kiss Memory Land for his apparent desire to swallow my face whole—which admittedly, was as endearing as it was absurd.

Fortunately, beyond those experiences, I discovered many beautiful kisses. A heavy, sensual kiss that happened in the middle of a rainy afternoon remains the one I consider my real first; it was slow initially, hands slipped into hair, breaths whishes of sound between us as if to signal how closely we were about to connect. Much later, I experienced kisses so heavy and intense they felt stolen in the dark, but so delicious I would have given anything to have them stolen all over again. Later still was an insanely memorable dance floor kiss—a slow-build thing that seemed like it would happen the second we met, and yet didn’t all through the two solid hours we swung ourselves around, lips near and smiles wide…until the kiss itself made it feel like time stopped. There was another kiss with someone else that merged sweet with seductive while we swayed half-clothed in a living room, where curious pecks and nibbles of each other’s lips soon blurred into a meshing of tongues so combustible it was hard to believe we’d done anything more than kiss. And far later, I’d swear I found my kissing soul mate, with whom kisses were desperate, deep, and in sync, sparking almost as much electricity in the tension before our lips met as when they actually did. (Of course, it didn’t hurt that he would turn out to be alarmingly good with his mouth in every other way, too…) 😉 To this day, that lips nearing, eyes locking, breaths speeding come-together is as much one of my favorite moments in fiction as it is in real life—because goddamn, that build has the potential to make an actual kiss so much hotter.

One of the other joys of the kiss is that it is built to travel. It can graze the swoop of a shoulder just as easily as it can tease an inner thigh, and it can also transform into anything: the suck of a nipple, the nibble of a finger, the taste of cunt or cock. But after this transformation, it can always come right back up to where it started—sealing the moment as a quiet end to a beautiful, luscious storm.

So in case it was at all unclear—I’m a big fan of the kiss.

What about you?

XX,
Jade

Want more kisses? Click on the lips… 

“Will You Be the Lucky One?” – Interviewed on the KMQ’s!

Hi everyone!

Cover of Libidinous ZombieA couple weeks ago, the wonderful Rose Caraway released her dream project, Libidinous Zombie, out into the world. As I mentioned in my post on the book, this anthology is a tremendous one, both for its roster of talent (editor included!), and for its exploration of the erotic horror convention. I am still so grateful Rose invited me to join the project, and then that she and the awesome Big Daddy were so excited about my contribution, “The Lucky One.”

As if all that wasn’t enough of a thrill ride, Rose invited me to join The Sexy Librarian’s Podcast today. She’s interviewing all the authors in this book, and I’m delighted to have gotten to share more of the backstory for “The Lucky One” in the process. In the interview, Rose asked me a little about my new book deal and karaoke antics, so, if you’d like to find out more, please hop on over and check out the interview right here.

If you haven’t already started listening to The Sexy Librarian Podcast, or Rose’s main podcast, The Kiss Me Quick’s, be sure to check them out! I have no doubt you’ll enjoy every word.

Thank you so much for listening!

XX,
Jade

N.B. You can also catch my last interview with Rose about my contribution to The Sexy Librarian’s Dirty 30 right here, or listen to my stories, “The Doll” and “Soundscapes,” as featured on The Kiss Me Quick’s Podcast. All podcasts are free for your ears! 🙂

List of Authors

Image for "The Lucky One" curtains with "Welcome to the Night Show. No regrets."

“The Lucky One” is Part of Libidinous Zombie – Out for Halloween!

Happy Halloween! Today, I am thrilled to announce the official release of Libidinous Zombie—a phenomenal new erotic horror anthology edited and narrated by the brilliant Rose Caraway!

For those of you who haven’t caught on to Rose’s incredibly enthusiastic promotion of this book through #LZ and #8authors all over Facebook and Twitter, the project is more than just a concoction of sex and gore. Rose and Big Daddy had a vision with this one—and it’s all aboLibidinous Zombie Coverut the darkness within each of us. I think Remittance Girl nailed it with her post about the release of Libidinous Zombie, in which she said, “Both erotic and horrific, the libidinous zombie that lives inside all of us is only really addressed at the intersection of horror and eroticism.” That’s the real kernel in this awesome new release, and it’s why Rose has said again and again that this is her special dream project.

And I am honored to be a part of this spectacular, spooky dream!

So, to celebrate release day (and Halloween), today I’m going to tell you about my story, “The Lucky One,” and I’m giving you a snippet of the story itself. I’d also like to encourage you to check out The Sexy Librarian’s Blog-Cast, where Rose has already started interviewing each of the authors included in this anthology. There, you can hear more about them, their writing, and their thoughts on the marriage of erotica and horror! (I’ll post a link to mine when it comes up, soon!)

For now, let’s start with a little back-story. “The Lucky One” ventures into my past…when a long time ago, I wrote a story about a stripper werewolf that was so titillating I realized that what I really longed to write was erotica. See, when Rose sent out her call for this anthology, I knew that story—that freakish, dark carnival ground, and the roguish werewolf I’d once envisioned thriving there—needed to come back to life. Except this time, the tale belonged to someone else, an adventurous young woman named Claudia, who snuck in to a special night show she should never have seen.

Because from that night on, her life would never be the same…

Excerpt from “The Lucky One”:

I swiped at a bead of sweat rolling down my cheek, surprised that what should have been such a ridiculouWelcome to the Night Show.s act was so clearly turning me on. But then, nothing in this show had been what it seemed—it kept swinging from one extreme to another so fast, like that moment when the rollercoaster’s about to drop—a blend of excitement and shit, get me off this ride.

The music’s tempo changed again, and the dancers cruised off the stage, each of them picking an audience member to dance with. The buxom woman headed straight for Rusty. I’d never seen him beam so bright. He shot me a delirious grin once she drew him up from his chair, and as I cheered in encouragement, she led him onto the stage. I couldn’t stop giggling as she laid him down and crawled all over him, sniffing at his neck, his chest, and his crotch like the wolf woman she was supposed to be. The whole audience was hollering and cheering, and clothes actually started coming off—not just with the dancers and their respective partners, but from random people in the audience. It was like the heat in the tent had made everyone crazy, or maybe it was the scent of the mist raining down on us.

I glanced up, curious, but a hand slipped under my chin.

“Hi there,” Sergi said. His warm fingers and husky voice sent a pulse up my spine. I swallowed hard, because this close, I smelled on him what I’d noted earlier, but stronger. It was the scent of man, of sex.

Of desire.

I was fangirling. Hard.

“What’s your name?” he said.

“Claudia,” I whispered. Sergi straddled my knees, and the rollercoaster began again, trapping me between arousal and shock. The most delicious smile crossed his lips as he dragged his fingertips over his hips, then trailed them to the button of his leather pants and snapped them open.

I heard a groan from the stage and looked past Sergi’s pelvis, spotting Rusty fully naked with the woman grinding all over him. Sergi steered my gaze back to him with the grasp he still had on my chin, and then he bent down so his face lined up with mine. “I wouldn’t worry about him, Claudia.” I tried to breathe, and he continued. “You’re a pretty little thing, aren’t you?”

He slid his hand into my hair, tugging it slightly, bringing a moan to my lips. When I cocked my head he flashed his smile again, and all I knew right then was him.

I’ve told you, I wish I could explain all this better. The way, out of nowhere, his body made me ache, or how the look in his eyes grabbed ahold of me, yanking something up from inside. Sergi leaned closer, tipping his lips toward mine, and my heart thumped in my chest.

“May I kiss you, Claudia?” he asked.

That voice filled my head, swimming in my thoughts, consuming every logical answer and leaving me with the one I muttered then.

“Yes.”

Sergi ran his fingers down my neck and pressed his mouth to mine. Our kiss was deep and so hot, our lips parting wide as our tongues tangled. I gasped when he slipped his hand down and cupped my breast, but when he lifted me out of my chair I fell into him, feeling the steel of his chest, and the hardness of his cock through his pants. He scooped me into his arms and I didn’t even protest, letting him carry me onto the stage not ten feet from Rusty and the other dancer, where they fucked hard and loud. It was strange to see Rusty like that, but my nipples tightened at the view, at the sounds, before Sergi laid me down and kissed me again. His hands ripped open my shirt. I touched his face as he gazed into my eyes, and tingles shot through my arms and legs.

I wanted him like I’d never wanted anyone in my life.

“This isn’t a strip show,” I murmured.

Sergi slid his hands between my thighs. He strummed me through the fabric, his words hot against my face.

“This isn’t a strip show, no. Much, much better.”

***

Libidinous Zombie features every horror you can imagine merged with sultry, erotic storytelling that is sure to terrify you and turn you on. With tales by Allen DuskRemittance Girl, Malin James, Tamsin Flowers, Raziel Moore, Janine Ashbless, Rose Caraway herself, and me, I’ve no doubt you will find yourself looking inside to the deepest, darkest corners of your soul…where pure primal fear meets intense, heart-pounding lust.

Now the question is—are you brave enough to join us?

XX,
JadeList of Authors