Today’s #WriterWednesday #WIPWednesday contribution is an excerpt from my urban erotic romance, In Her Closet. AVAILABLE NOW!
Kindle US: http://www.amazon.com/dp/B005208EGA
I bit back a scream and clutched my naked breasts. “Holy fuck!” I cursed, turning around to find Julian leaning against a pillar at the center of the room, naked as the day he was born. He was surprisingly tall, much taller than he seemed last night, but that might have been because I was wearing skyscraper heels. The morning sun adorned his copper skin in a way that made him look like an Adonis, but those brown eyes gave away his youth and innocence no matter how big and manly he was physically.
And he was oh-so-big and oh-so-manly.
Why am I rushing off again?
“Good morning,” he said again. His voice was soft and deep with an island accent. I remembered that from last night, too. The way it murmured and moaned in my ear, telling me how good I felt to him. He grinned at me with a smile as sweet as plantain, and I had to cross my ankles to keep my knees from falling open.
“I w-w-was l-looking for my dress,” I stammered. My eyes fixed on his semi-erect cock. Part of me knew it was counterproductive to stare at his cock, when I knew I needed to get to work, but…fuck…it really was lovely.
“I can’t say I approve of dat. Kinda like ya in this right ‘ere,” he answered, his eyes on my tits.
Hmm…I wasn’t the only one feeling a little distracted at the moment.
“I’m sorry…” For him and for me, but mostly for me. “But I’ve gotta get going. I have to be at work in an hour or so. Have you seen it?”
“Yeah… but things got a lick’il reckless last night.”
I loved the way Jamaican accents mutilated the English language, making little sound like, lick’il and reckless, like something everyone should do at least once. I could listen to him talk all day. Except I didn’t have all day.
Julian turned and headed back into the massive bedroom and walked right up to the huge bed. “I’m sorry, star,” he said picking up a shredded heap of black fabric tangled in the sheets. “Ya dress didn’t survive the tussle.”
“Oh no!” I gathered the shredded remnants in my hands. The side was ripped straight down the seam. I couldn’t wear this home. I wasn’t even sure if it could be mended.
“Sorry, star,” he said again and brushed my hair off of my shoulder. “Was it ya favorite or something?”
“Not my favorite, but pretty expensive.”
“Lemme give ya somethin’ so ya can replace it—”
“Don’t be crazy. It wasn’t your fault.” I stood up and shook it off. Or at least I tried to. Damn, my first and only Diane and she was gone. “But I do need you to give me a shirt to wear, so I don’t have to ride the train home like this.”
Julian’s eyes dragged up the length of my body. “What if I don’t have anything that will fit ya? Will ya stay ‘here? In my bed?” He slipped his hands around my waist. “Surely, you can call off of work for one day…”
He leaned in and kissed me, and I swear I tasted the word yes on his tongue. Yes, I will get back in bed with you. Yes, I will fuck you all morning…
Yes, I will get fired if I don’t get my ass to work on time.
I pushed him away as gently as possible. “Listen, I would really love to but…”
He placed another soft peck on my lips.
“Wait…what was I saying?”
“Some foolishness about how ya got to work,” he mumbled against my mouth.
“Yes…work…work!” I away from him. “Fuck! I really, really have to go.”
“Oh,” he said and backed away, looking like I’d stolen his bike. Clearly, he saw my need to maintain employment as some sort of rejection. Silly boy.
“Just over dat way,” he said, pointing to his left. “There are towels and washcloths in the cabinet next to the sink.”
“Thank you.” I stepped around him and made my way toward the door he’d indicated. Once inside, I turned to survey a room that was roughly the size of my entire fucking apartment.
“Jesus,” I muttered under my breath.
The cabinet he spoke of was large and hand painted with a crazy amalgam of beautiful nudes, twisting and turning over each other until their skin, hair, eyes, limbs, and bodies created an abstract landscape. The bottom right corner of the cabinet was signed with his name.
Holy shit. This was Julian Webster’s loft. I was in Julian Webster’s loft. How the fuck did I, out of all the women that crawled all over him last night, actually end up in Julian Webster’s loft?
Last night, Julian was part of a group show at a small, exclusive gallery in Old City. As the lifestyles and entertainment writer for the moderately prestigious Philadelphian, I was charged with attending and writing about what was quickly becoming Philly’s most talked-about young artist. Barely twenty-four and a prodigy among his peers, Julian’s contemporary nudes echoed a more stylized Gauguin with the sensual, erotic aesthetic of Klimt. He was also a broody, reclusive type that made him damn near irresistible and pretty enough to make you stare. There was something to be said for a man brave enough to go completely bald. That smooth skin practically begged for the palm of my hand. He also sported what I liked to call the oops!-I’m-sexy-beard: just enough scruff to remind a girl that she was kissing a man, not a boy. Every woman in the room had ogled him last night, but somehow I ended up in the corner, chatting him up. Later, we wound up at a reggae club called The Dip, where I proceeded to get drunk off Jamaican rum and to wind my waistline to some dancehall. After that, we—well, I had to stop thinking about what happened after that. If I started down that path I would never make it to work on time.
I looked at my reflection in the mirror. The mass of dark brown hair that I had styled so carefully before going out last night was now all over my head. My large, honey-brown eyes were only slightly bloodshot. My lipstick had been kissed off, leaving my lips bare and looking thoroughly abused.
Morning after sexy—nailed it.
Hope you enjoyed it! Happy Hump Day!