Flash Fiction: “Winter”

Posted on January 6, 2017January 6, 2017 by Jade A. Waters

This winter will be a cold one, she thinks.

She pulls the covers up to gather the thick layers of down beneath her chin. Once, she threw back these covers even on the coldest of nights, because she needed them aside to draw him into her arms. The two of them would curl up together so that the touch of their bodies could fight the chilly winter’s embrace, letting the heat between them grow forever hotter, and deeper.

frosted window image by Вадим Захарищев ©123RF.com

Вадим Захарищев ©123RF.com

Here though, now, the chill suffuses her lungs and heart. It drains out into her veins in sharp bursts of ice, consuming each organ, every cell. When she exhales, she swears she can see the puff of air against the stillness of her room. The blinds are open, the sun beyond her view, but the glimmer of its light reveals the frost covering the glass and the snow-tipped trees outside. The sight makes her shiver, the cold bone deep when she thinks of him.

It was so much warmer with him here.

She clenches her eyes shut and tucks her face under the blanket. It doesn’t feel as secure when she expels breath after breath to warm her naked flesh. Security was the trace of his fingertips over this skin to fill her body with fire, and her heart with love. When his arms held her tight in the cold of this room, she never felt a chill. The blackness behind her eyelids is fitting for winter and still, such a contrast to what she knew before, with him. She knew lightness. Pure lightness. Joy. She imagines his smile, hears his laugh. Feels the trace of his breath over her ear before he whispers into it.

I love you, he says.

The memories flow fast through her as she breathes, and breathes again. She tries to channel them into heat, replaying them like a dream she needs not to end. She recalls his kneel over the broken couch he fixed for her, and the grin he kept flashing her direction as he did. She holds her belly at the thought of the endless dinners he made for her, the easy scoop of her hand into his, or his gentle brush of her hair off her neck before he kissed her. She pictures the messages he’d send to cheer her on the worst of days, and his amusement when she stroked his thigh in her quiet listen to every little word he had to say. She remembers how hard they’d laughed midway through fucking on the kitchen table after a chair fell over to scrape her wall, a staggering interruption to one more blissful, earth shaking moment shared between them.

Since he’s left, she’s stared at that scrape one hundred times. Each time, she imagines his kisses. His thrusts. The laugh echoed throughout her kitchen like the cold does in her bedroom now. She craves the sound of his voice again. She aches for him, close, once more.

She knows that she needs him more than anything—the weight of him above her, the press of him inside. His arms, his heart, his love, and the fleeting memories that try to slip from her like the air coming from so deep within her chest. It’s cold and heavy to remind her this winter will be a long one, and this bed has never felt so alone.

When she tugs the blanket over her head, tears sting her cheeks like the ice freezing her heart. She pulls her knees into her arms, knowing, somewhere inside, that spring will come. She only hopes it will come faster to light her world in the blossom of their love.

But for now, she merely thinks it again.

Winter will be a cold one this year.

*

Erotic Fiction: What I Want

Posted on July 26, 2016December 26, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

I don’t know him yet, but I want to.

I want to know how his chest feels pressed against mine, naked. How the rake of his hands will feel over my breasts, and how deep he’ll thrust his cock inside. I want the breath that plays over my face now to spill over me, raspy and hungry, as we fuck together somewhere seedy and dark—our bodies colliding with the desire we’ve felt since we met here, not a word needing to be said because the way we danced said it all.

At this moment, he clutches me to him. His fingers laced into my hair halfway through the last song, and I can feel the bulge he’s been harboring in his jeans for the better part of our dance. We haven’t broken apart since we gelled together, and this panting between us has nothing to do with the rhythm of our dance. It’s the beat of our longing, pounding and deep, filling us as we barely drift across the floor and I roll up my hips to feel him closer. I am wet for him, wet since I saw him at the bar, and I want him to know what that feels like, what indulgence he’ll find in me, needing and hot, waiting for when we will leave here.

B/W man's hands clutching breast of half clothed woman

Dmitrii Kotin ©123RF.com

As the next song starts, he kisses me. I still don’t know his name. In a past life, I wouldn’t want anyone to know that I’d come here to find someone, something, the perfect match for my lust in this moment. I wouldn’t want anyone to label me a slut, or any of those other words that drip from the tongue with so much scandal, even now. But to say I care about these things would be a lie, because my wants are mine to fuel, to breathe, to live. The touch of his tongue to mine is like fire, an inferno drawing us nearer, making the will to stay on this dance floor a quiet voice I cannot hear over the sound of my heart.

“You want to go somewhere?” I ask.

He nods; he is like me. His body knows what needs to happen, knows desires are the essence of life and meeting them, when they’re right, is what should be. And so we slip out of this place and away in a cab. We direct the driver to a shabby motel not five minutes away while we toy with buttons, zippers, and hems. We are silent as we take the hallway down to the room the receptionist granted us, a near closet at the base of the stairs that neither of us really glances at after we switch the lamp on inside.

Once the door snaps shut, I push him back against it. His fingers find the edges of my panties, shoving inside me while I bring my lips to his face. His kiss back is greedy, wild, his tongue so far in my throat I am gasping, my hand sliding against his belly and into his briefs. He is full and hard, throbbing against my touch, and his fingers in my cunt make it difficult to breathe. He lets me go to grab my shoulders, and he steers me to the bed. Then he sits me on this frumpy mattress while I unzip his pants and take him into my mouth. He moans when I swallow him deep—but this is just the start of it, what I want. I claw my fingers over his hips as I suck harder. Once he pushes me back and down, he climbs over me as I envisioned when we danced. His fingers are quick beneath my skirt, slipping past the soaked barrier of fabric to plunge into me, over and over, making me cry aloud.

“I want to fuck you,” he says, and I fumble for my purse, writhing on his fingers as I fish the condom from inside. I hand it to him in a frenzied squirm because the craving inside me is so intense and hot. I don’t care anymore that we’re still clothed, that he is in me and thrusting deep before I take a breath, that I am moaning at how good this feels, at the rough scrape of his chin on mine when we kiss. He slides his fingers under my shirt, digging them into my sides as I draw up my knees, and I let him all the way inside. When I touch myself, he drives faster. The motion is hard enough to move me up on the bed, our sweat drenching our clothes and the tremor inside me becoming whole. Real.

It is the very thing I’ve wanted since we crashed together on that dance floor.

“Yes,” I moan, because it is washing over me, racking me. He bites down on my lip when I jerk up, coming so hard he must feel me squeezing him inside, urging him to join my bliss. He slides his hands around my shoulders, and he clutches me as he groans against my mouth.

“Fuck, yes, yes!”

When he comes, I suck in air, his air—the raspy, hungry breath I craved. And once he rolls away, we lay there, our bodies numb, our throats dry. Both of us are spent with the wants shared between us.

I feel him peering at me after a few minutes, his cheek on one hand while the other grabs my thigh.

“Was that good for you?” he asks.

“Oh, yes.”

Then I turn to him and smile.

“But I’ll want more.”

*

You Say You Want to Cook for Me

Posted on May 24, 2016December 26, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

You say you want to cook for me.

You say it while we lie there, naked, your body wrapped around mine and your fingers coasting along my forearm. Your lips are buried in my hair, and you’re breathing me in, quiet. You’re hard behind me, nudging up against my cunt. I want to cook for you. Light up your face with something good, tasty.

You say you want to travel the world together, to venture places you’ve never been. That I’ve never been. We can see every sight there is to see and discover things together. We can get lost in the Bermuda Triangle. Your fingers lace with mine, your breath heavier now. I want to see the world with you. Disappear with you.

I want to make you happy, you say.

Later, you’ll roll on top of me, body heaving over mine, lips pressing, suffocating. Rough. You know I like it like this, the way your entire body can shift me up, how you can bury yourself so far in me I think I’ll break. I want to make you come. I want your sighs, your shudders. I want you, always you. When you finish and I’m trembling, you’ll shove your fingers in your wake, thrusting them in the heat of your come to fill me against walls too tender and weak. I’ll be moaning, whimpering. I want you to come for me, forever. I want everything you have.

I want to own you, you say.

When I have surrendered, exhausted, blissed, you’ll curve your fingers around my neck. Your eyes lock with mine, two dark holes staring over me. I want your life. I want you. You are mine.

I’ll fight you. I always do. I’m twisting, writhing, crying against the novelty of our crimson, satin sheets. But my body is caught up in you, in the fingers of your other hand slipping inside every hole. Your teeth gnash my breast, and your inhalation reminds me who you are, what this is. Who I am.

I am yours.

You will fuck me like this until I come again.

On the balcony, you open up my robe. Your prying fingers are in my slit, with the neighbors right there on their adjacent patio. I don’t want them to see, don’t want them to hear how you speak to me. Not when you’re like this. But I want them to know how you love me. I want them to know I own you, body and soul. I’m quivering at the press of your fingers, hating that I love it when you do this. Hating you.

Shadowed image of naked woman curled in ball

Belikova ©123RF.com

Besides, don’t you want them to see you happy? you say.

After dinner, you brush aside my hair. Your fingertips graze the curve of my shoulder. When you kiss the back of my neck, it is warm and gentle. Tender.

But you are none of these things when you bend me over the oven. Your nails scratch at my thighs before your fingers dig inside.

Why do you make me crazy like this? you say.

I can hear your words over my utterances. They are raspy, angry things that make it hard to believe your fingers still feel this good. This is our once-whispered vacation—you inside me. My skirt is over my ass and you are fucking us away. Thrusting deep enough to push off my sanity, to make me forget.

I want to love you, you say. I want to, but I can’t when you’re difficult like this.

There are tears in my eyes when I come. You’re finished not all that long after, your semen dribbling along my thigh. I can feel it tracing an ugly path down to the inside of my knee, but I don’t move—not when you’re like this. Not as you button your pants, and wander off to grab your keys.

I think I want to leave you, you say.

I still haven’t moved once I hear your car, a rumble off and away in the distance. My fingers grip the burners on the stove, and I watch the white of my knuckles spreading over the flush of sated skin. Your come has made its way to my ankle, now, and I keep wondering if this could have gone differently.

If maybe I’d never said yes when you said you wanted to cook for me.

Friday Flash Fiction: “The Wait”

Posted on April 22, 2016April 22, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

She waits for him outside the bar. It feels longer this time, a slow crawl up a steeper slope. Above her, the neon sign glows like a halo she doesn’t deserve—an interrogation lamp under which she omits something, as easily as “Cocktails” flickers on, off, on… It’s a faint buzz trying to be there, but not quite. Another man asks her for a smoke; she shakes her head, because she can hardly see him.

It’s hard to see anything when she waits for him.

The bouncer nods at her, mouths, Coming in? She isn’t ready. Not yet. They’ve been here one thousand times before. Everybody knows them, their laughs together. They talk secrets of the world, and anecdotes from here to the galaxy over so many drinks and smiles. Those smiles she always sees: in her dreams, in the songs she writes. In her heart.

She can’t quite get him out of her heart.

This, she knows, is the problem. It’s the reason she stands here now, though there’s so much more to it—the way he speaks to her, often, or answers the phone to be sure she’s all right. It’s how he looks at her like she’s his comfort and the answer at the end of a hard day. Like she’s the one he’s been waiting for this long.

Too long.

The air feels colder tonight, but it often does before he comes. It’s not right that he can warm her through with the sound of his laugh, or the bite of his lip while he ponders a response to some moralistic question in the middle of their third round. She thinks of this now, the bite of the lip, how he does it without realizing the catch of her breath, and she crosses her arms over her stomach, waiting. Waiting. Why is nothing more important than him?

“Hey.”

He’s behind her, fingers sliding through the strands of her hair in a gentle caress over her neck. She wonders if he sees the flutter of her eyes when his skin meets hers, if he hears her sharp inhalation as he leans into her ear. His is an aura of confidence and love, and that scent he always wears, making her wish she could tilt her nose against his chin to breathe him in, feel the stroke of his fingertips up her thighs or over her naked back like she used to. His body is firm and protective. Close—before he remembers maybe he’s not supposed to touch her like this. His fingers slip from her skin, taking with them everything that makes her heart skip.

The “Cocktails” sign flashes on again. It lights their faces, and the ring on a finger almost tucked in his pocket when he comes around to face her.

“Have you been waiting long?” He gestures toward the door, and she shakes her head.

“Nope. Not long.” She smiles. He smiles.

Bites his lip.

Once they go inside, their bodies are close.

*

The above flash story was inspired by lovely F. Leonora Solomon’s “Friday Flash—Cocktails” meme. Click on the badge below to read other stories inspired by her fabulous photo!

Erotic Fiction: Fishnet Queen

Posted on April 13, 2016December 29, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

We called her the Panty Princess.

Every party we held, she’d show up with that huge smile on her face, wearing an adorable little frock that skimmed the tops of her thighs. She was a costuming fiend, really, because Laney loved any opportunity to dress up. And whenever she had the chance, she’d flash us the panties she’d made that afternoon, or the weekend before, or any old time—she had a gift with lace and bows, satin and cotton.

I know everyone else loved her attendance at our costume parties for her sweet words and the quick glimpse beneath her skirt, her sex adorned so tastefully by her latest creation. No one noticed the marvelous thighs and hips she had around that panty peek, nor the way she dressed them beneath the black strip of velvet draped over her nakedness, or the pink swatch of silk clothing her mound. But for me, that was the true show. She bundled herself in two layers of tights, the bottom one nude and constricting, and the top a coarse fishnet mesh that hugged her legs. Along the trim of her panties, the tights teased me, taunted me, and every time she’d lift her skirt and show us her ingenuity, I’d feel a rush of arousal claiming my groin.

Laney knew this too, I think, her smile greeting each of our friends at our monthly club gatherings in the woods before she settled her gaze on me.

Image of woman playing with panties over fishnets

Denys Siryk ©123RF.com

“Do you like them, Archer?” she’d ask.

Our friends were generally too busy commenting on her masterful use of thread to notice that, or the fact that she always wore her panties on top of her tights to better showcase them.

“You’re such a Panty Princess, Laney!”

“How do you make all of these?”

“Make some for me!”

“And me!”

But her eyes were locked with mine, always, with mine.

“All of it,” I said, my voice a hiss broken by the surge of longing that swarmed my limbs, “is lovely.”

And Jesus, it was. She was.

Tonight’s party had gotten a bit rambunctious—twenty of us frolicking and dancing, drinking like the idiots we were to celebrate nothing in particular except our hedonistic desire to run about the woods. The crisp night air bit at me, urging me, and Laney twirled around with all of our friends, her skirt lifting to show the crescent of an ass cheek.

They loved the panties she flashed, but I couldn’t stop staring at those fishnets.

Eventually, the wind shifted. Laney paused her dancing to grab a beer from one of the coolers, and I spun to watch her go. She didn’t stop at the cooler. Instead, she grinned back at me and lifted the edge of her skirt. She was forever the tease—no one to my knowledge had ever taken her out here, only gossiped like schoolboys and girls over the endless flashes of those panties and how good she would feel beneath one of us some night—so I held firm in my stance.

But then she beckoned me with her finger. Her coquettish grin turned higher, and she lifted her skirt to reveal the top of one round, perfect ass cheek held firm beneath a layer of tights and fucking fishnets.

“Come play,” she mouthed.

There are moments in your life when you’re faced with a split second decision, the outcome of which you may remember forever.

This was mine.

I followed Laney into the woods, leaving the wild calls and frenetic dancing of our group behind. The moonlight was dim enough that I could only make out her shape—the short dress curving along her body, then flapping over her ass. All I really saw were her legs cupped in tights and fishnets. Each time she wore this same combination, the tiniest mesh weave in the darkest nude, kissing every inch of her thighs and knees before disappearing into her knee-high, lace-up boots.

“Hi,” she said. The word was a gasp of air as she fell back against a tree. One single word of invitation, and in the darkness I made out the gleam in her eyes.

She fingered the hem of her skirt. Lifted it. My breath lodged in my throat. I eyed the v that covered her tights before focusing on the stretch of fishnet from her hips down her supple, curvy legs.

“Is this an invitation?” I asked. Two years of watching her, of ogling those fishnets, of seeing the smile on her face when I stuttered.

Laney swayed her knee back and forth. She hooked a thumb under the top of the panties, pulling them down a few inches on the side to reveal she wore nothing but tights beneath. Tights that rested directly against her cunt, which I wanted to bury my fingers in.

She raised her eyes as the panties fell to the ground.

“What do you think?”

The fabric mashed her lips, the tights and fishnets clutching her pussy.

I might have been panting.

I put my hands on her thighs, the rough threads grating like sandpaper. Laney nodded as I ran my palms up to her hip, then back down, over and over again.

“You like the fishnets.”

“They’re so rough.”

“Dancer’s tights,” she said. She closed her eyes as I slid my hand to her crevice. The fabric was soaked there. I followed the curve of her mound, front to back, the pads of my fingertips rolling over the rope-like fishnets and the slick, gritty tights beneath. My cock lurched in my jeans.

I hooked a finger in the netting and yanked, and Laney’s eyes popped open.

“I paid a fortune for these.”

I slipped the fingers of both hands between her thighs, ripping the hole wider. Rubbing against the wet gusset of her under tights. Laney moaned and tilted her head back against the bark. I could have kissed her then, but we both knew what I was after.

I dropped to my knees. I tore a hole in the bottom layer of tights, exposing her to the air. She smelled of roses and musk. I curled my hands around her thighs again, savoring the friction of the tights. I ran my tongue up her left thigh, then her right, and I groaned at the numbing, chafing fabric. Then I stared at the hole I’d made at her crotch. The edges of the fishnets were like a broken grate, no longer shielding her from me. Runs split the tights beneath and stretched down her thighs in long, jagged streaks.

“You owe me twenty-five bucks, Archer,” was the last thing I heard her murmur when I snaked my tongue between her legs to taste her swollen, sweet clit. I kept my hands gripped tight on those fishnets, caressing the fabric while I delved my tongue inside her, then back up to her clit. Soft whimpers spilled from her throat and her torn fishnets grazed my cheeks.

In the distance, our friends danced around the woods, their voices traveling on the breeze while Laney clutched my head and drew me closer. Her moans became cries as I lapped at her, my hands fondling her thighs, numb from the rub of those fishnets. And when Laney came for me, she blinked with the most startled of expressions on her face.

“Holy shit,” she whispered.

She was the Panty Princess no longer.

She was my Fishnet Queen.

Erotic Fiction: This is Love

Posted on March 22, 2016December 29, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

I can remember, sometimes, how we used to kiss. The look in your eyes when you stared down at me, your fingertips sliding around my neck, and up into my hair. Pulling. That I remember well. There was a tension at the base of my skull, almost as hot and heavy as the pound of my heart, the throb of my cunt. Then the way you’d pitch toward me—slow, slow, tiny, quiet ticks of the clock passing by faster than we ever could, because all that mattered to us was this. The weight of the air around us, the press of our lips to come. Sometimes, you whispered my name. Others, you held me, still. But always, I felt it: me, bound to you. Then. Now. Forever.

It felt like this because I loved you.

Couple holding each other as morning light streams in window

Arturkurjan ©123RF.com

When we moved together, it was the shock of waves, tectonic plates shifting in violent bursts, ruining the surface of everything around us. We were the only force that mattered. We were the lightning, the storm, the crest of fire blazing across the distant horizon.

We were one.

Mouth to mouth, we lingered. Breathing fast. Bodies close. When our lips parted, I let you in, let your tongue find mine, dance with me. And we swayed like this, hungry and lost, but as easily found in that electricity between us, in the clutch of our bodies, in the gentle hum bursting out to silence anything, everything.

Everything that wasn’t us.

I’d say it was longing, but it wouldn’t be enough. If I called it lust, that wouldn’t be right, either. We were the joining of cells, the collision of atoms, the combustion of two solutions that never quite fit. We were amazing, too. Planets, stars, comets, sun—we were all of it, a galaxy of feeling swirling round us, enveloping us in the way we kissed. In the hold of you to me, and me to you, chests heaving in the blackest night before the rustle of morning wind blew us all apart.

But I know why.

And so do you.

It was all because you loved me, too.

*

Erotic Fiction: “Words”

Posted on February 2, 2016December 29, 2016 by Jade A. Waters

“Your personality is like a raging hill fire, swarming the skies in red-orange intensity as you barrel down to consume the valley below.”

This is what he says to me with a tremor in his voice, his eyes lit up with hope that I will approve.

It’s good, I admit, but I have to make him work harder for this. Always, always harder.

I drag the chair across the carpet, centering it in front of him. He’s on his knees, his cock grazing his belly since long before I bade him strip his clothes in the cold air of our bedroom. I told him to kneel, which he did promptly. I didn’t need to cuff him this time because immediately, his hands were behind his back, clutched together in his frenzy. I’d hit the record button on his phone right there in front of his eyes, reminding him in the gesture that I expected him to play all of this back later in preparation.

“Pretty good,” I say. “But you can do better.”

I plop down in the chair, naked save for my boots. I press my knees together. Randall is panting. The head of his shaft swells as I slide my hands down my thighs. I cock my head, then trail my fingers over my stomach and around my nipples.

“You may speak.”

He bites his lip, thinking. He’s so jumbled up in his head. Wordsworth, Coleridge, Eliot, Poe—masters of the language he’s studied for so long, intimidating him in his anticipation.

“Your body is a mystical ice storm, chilling and stunning, freezing me to the core in my—”

“Nope,” I say. I slip my fingertips between my knees, deliberately parting my legs. The vinyl of my boots has tacked together even in that short window of time, and it makes the sexiest unsticking sound as I spread myself in front of his face. Randall stares at my pussy. I am dripping onto the chair. “You just called me an ice queen. Does this look icy to you?”

His eyes widen. I can practically see the words assembling themselves in his mind. We’d scrimped for a while, sending him to retreats and conferences for almost a decade to study this stuff, and I know he has all the words he’s looking for despite his temporary block.

B/W image of calligraphic pen resting on handwritten note; Steve Collender ©123RF.com

Steve Collender ©123RF.com

Randall hesitates.

I move both hands between my thighs, dragging my fingers along my folds. Swiping at my juices so we can both hear the squishing sound.

“Again, Randall.”

His cock leaps.

“Your sex,” he says, gathering steam, “is hot as the ash of a molten volcano.”

I nod. “Oh, I like that.” I glide a finger inside, pushing it all the way in. Randall shudders. I use my other hand to part my lips so he can see each thrust of my finger. When I slip in a second one, he gulps so hard his Adam’s apple bobs up like a flotation device from beneath the water.

I am close to coming, but I can’t tell him that.

I remove my fingers, then scissor them in the air between us. They shine with my dew under the lamplight of our bedroom.

I turn around. I keep close to his face, watching over my shoulder as the beads of sweat break along his hairline.

“Well?”

“Your cheeks are like two glowing orbs of—”

“Tsk. Cliché!” I crawl onto the chair and stick out my ass. The stiletto heels of my boots are less than an inch from his chin. He flinches as he stares at them, but he’s captivated as I grab onto the back of the chair to balance, then shove my finger in my mouth to suck it.

Randall has only two hours until his seminar.

I curve my hand over the round cheek of my ass, cupping it for him. He is mesmerized as I wedge my fingers into my crack, then push the wettest one against my tight opening.

“This?” I ask.

I loosen my muscles and sneak my finger inside. I don’t let him see my excitement, but it’s making it hard to keep a straight face.

In, out, in, out. I pulse my finger in my asshole and Randall squirms on his knees.

“Your ass is a sanctuary. Dark, hot, bliss.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“Is it, now?” I waggle my hips, the strokes of my finger making my pussy impossibly wet. I get so into the motion that my breasts slap against the back of the chair.

Randall groans.

“Give me something really good, baby,” I growl. I pull my finger out, smacking my ass. His eyes flutter. My poet and his goddamn stage fright are so incredibly hot for me.

I switch hands to improve my balance on the chair. It’s sturdy, but I’m shaking hard enough I might fall off. I angle my fingers better and slide three of them inside. He stirs again, his dick swelling larger. I moan as I shift my fingers, banging them high and rubbing against my sweet spot so hard my climax is threatening to take over. Randall notices.

“Please, Emily. May I?”

“I’m still waiting,” I say. I clench my teeth. This has to wait.

He grumbles. He can do this. Over one hundred presentations of his award-winning poems and they want him all over the nation to teach his art.

He frees his tongue.

“My want for you is the silver-tipped crest of a tsunami’s wave, splashing over the world to drown everything out, away. Through this, I swim to you—my shoulders weak, my arms limp, my cock a titanium rod desperate to feel you inside.”

I break into laughter. This is good.

“You can fuck me now, Randall.”

He jumps up from his crouch, positioning himself behind my ass. His hands roam my hips like a whisper. When he guides himself against my slick, damp folds, both of us moan.

“Your cunt…” he mutters.

He plunges deep without finishing.

Because both of us know actions speak louder than words.

*

“Missing You” is Part of Tamsin’s Superotica Advent Calendar!

Posted on December 9, 2015December 8, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

It’s a very special time of year—and for those of you not in the know, Tamsin Flowers hosts the hottest advent calendar in town. Each day until Christmas, she features stories from a bevy of fabulous authors that will definitely get your pulse racing. This year she kicked off with part one of a beautiful piece of her own called “Fallen,” and she’s featured so many other delicious stories too, from the likes of Lana Fox, Rachel Kramer Bussel, Katya Harris, and many more.

Today, Tamsin has kindly asked me over! She’s featuring a short and sweet flash piece of mine called “Missing You,” one I wrote a couple months back with an image of that achy feeling you get when the one you love is just too, too far away. So, with that in mind, I hope you’ll head over to Tamsin’s place to give this new release a read…

Once you do, be sure to keep an eye not only on all the other advent calendar stories, but Tamsin’s site, too. It’s a smokin’ hot destination!

Special thanks to Tamsin for hosting, and to you, readers, for checking out “Missing You“! 🙂

XX,
Jade

“Toys” for All!

Posted on November 19, 2015November 15, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

Early last year, I had the honor of having a story included in Violet Blue’s Best Women’s Erotica 2014. The story—“Toys”—was one I’d penned when I first started writing erotica, and I was over the moon to have it land in such an amazing anthology.

“Toys” is a story that’s still rather dear to me. It’s about a woman who has amassed a collection of sex toys so large she’s nervous about introducing her new boyfriend to it—but it turns out, he’s not only a fantastic new boyfriend, but also extremely open-minded. The story is one of my more playful ones—and today, I’m delighted to let you know it’s available, for free, for you to read over at the Glass Dildo Shop. (You can find an excerpt here if you’d like a preview!)

I’ve previously narrated this story on Molly Moore’s “Storytime” KissCast episode—but for those of you who prefer your words on the page rather than in the ear, I hope you’ll check out “Toys” online.

A special thank you to the Glass Dildo Shop for hosting it, and happy reading, everyone!

XX,
Jade

Erotic Fiction: “Everything”

Posted on November 3, 2015November 3, 2015 by Jade A. Waters

He was everything. Everything. The flight of my soul, the fire of my heart.

It’s all I can think as I bury my head in his shoulder, bearing my teeth to his skin, feeling the wild bursts of his pulse as I rock above him. His breath tumbles out into my hair, quiet gasps that tell me how much he needs this. How much he needs me.

Just as I need him.

“You,” he says.

The word breaks on his lips as I arch, sliding farther in his lap, taking him deeper into me. There is no sound in this room but ours, no thought between us but this, no awareness of anything beyond the sweet thrust of his cock as his fingertips dig into my back and steer me closer, like he’s never forgotten me.

I trail kisses up his chin and over his mouth. He sucks my lip between his teeth, his eyes open as he thrusts once, then again. That look, that one, says I will never leave you again. I will never let you go. I can feel it inside as I whimper and slide against him, feel it in my heart as his fingers tease their way up my flesh. He’s so deep inside I swear he’s penetrating my very soul, and I tilt back my head with a throaty moan.

I close my eyes then and he twines his fingers in my hair, staying deep despite his movement to lay me on my back. Our bodies are one on this mess of sheets. He wasn’t supposed to come here again, but then our life together had always been a disaster of shouldn’ts and shoulds.

But deep down, we knew what it was supposed to be.

“You,” he growls.

His kisses find my face as he presses closer, and our stomachs grow slick at the meshing of our bodies. The sway of our hips amplifies, a rapid pounding so intense I couldn’t see straight if I tried. And it’s with this motion—teeth locking on my earlobe, fingers clawing at my breast and down between us, grazing the swollen nub of my clit as he drives inside—that I can feel myself flying like I did, then. He leans back, watches as I gasp and moan, my lips numb as the spasms tear through me, making me shake uncontrollably as he continues to thrust, and thrust.

To love me like only he can.

When I finish shuddering, he releases the loudest groan. It’s the surrender that tells me he needed me then, now, forever. He comes inside, filling me with heat, and as we lay there it’s clear we’ve found our peace again.

“Always, you,” he pants.

His kisses are soft like raindrops from the corner of my eye down my cheek.

“And you,” I say.

Because he’s everything.

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