by Karina Halle
“My hero,” I tell him as we step over the fallen, writhing soldier.
We give each other the nerdiest smiles, and my heart feels like it’s a big, bright balloon, too large and grand for my chest.
“Hey, is that Ana?” Blake says as we approach the bar.
I look over to see her putting blue body paint on some buff, half naked Avatar. She’s giggling and he’s flexing, and it looks like she’s having the time of her life.
“Is that Kevin and your dad?” I ask, because further down the line of people who want Ana’s face slash body paint, there they are. “I didn’t know your dad was coming.”
“Neither did I,” Blake says. “Just as well. Now we can enjoy these beers.”
We find ourselves a spot at a picnic table between some wenches who are completely hammered and Neo and Trinity from the Matrix, and we drink in the sunshine, talking and catching up over everything that happened during the last week, from family, to our new fame, to book world drama (there’s always book world drama).
Two beers in though, and we’re both feeling pretty loose.
“Hey, come with me,” I tell him, grabbing his hand and leading him from his seat and out of the beer garden.
“Where are you leading me, my queen?” he asks, playfully smacking me on my ass.
“It’s a secret,” I tell him, glancing up at him over my shoulder. “You know how to keep those now, don’t you?”
He rolls his eyes in response.
I take him over to the white cloth tent that Zaphod mentioned earlier and cautiously pull back the curtain. It’s empty inside except for an inflatable couch covered with faux furs and royal banners that say Senate of Calgon hanging from the ceiling. I’m not that surprised to find that the place doesn’t look used at all. Seems no other maidens have fallen for his proposition.
“Where are we?” Blake asks, his horns nearly grazing the top of the tent.
“The Senate of Calgon,” I tell him, leading him over to the couch. “Or the site of every nerd girl fantasy.” I sit down and stare up at him, opening my legs wide.
His eyes nearly fall out. “You have a hole in your suit.”
“I know that,” I tell him. “And I’m not wearing underwear.”
“I can see that,” he says, practically salivating. “Was this all for me?”
“You get panty lines if you don’t go commando,” I tell him, beckoning him down with my finger. “And this is a full bodysuit. I’m not taking the whole thing off every time I have to pee.”
“Right,” he says, not even hearing me anymore. His eyes keep roaming from my bare pussy, over my spandex covered breasts, to my lips and back down again. I feel like he’s going to have a convulsion just standing there. “This is seriously the hottest thing I have ever seen in my whole entire existence.”
“It’s about to get hotter,” I tell him as he drops to his knees and runs his hands up my inner thighs, squeezing as he goes, his eyes burning and locked on mine. He’s about to dip his head, but I reach up and grab his helmet, taking it off before the horns spear me.
I put the helmet to the side and out of the way. His hair flops forward on his forehead. “Not up for the horns?” he says with a grin.
“Maybe later.”
He lowers his head between my legs and I lie back, the sun streaming in through the parting in the tent door. Out in the distance the battle cries go on, but in here there is nothing but Blake’s tongue on my clit, tentative at first, then his mouth opening right over it, gently sucking me in.
I feel the air sucked out of me.
His tongue runs down me in broad, warm licks and I raise my hips, wanting more purchase, more tension, more relief, more of everything.
He places two fingers inside me, holding me open, while his tongue still works, alternating between gentle sucks and languid laps. His teeth raze me at some point and I cry out loudly but the pain has never felt sweeter.
“Come inside me,” I whimper as I feel myself getting close, my hands gripping his hair. “Please. I need you. I need to feel you again.”
He pulls back, breathless, his mouth red and wet, and looks down at his costume. “You’re lucky these are pants, otherwise I’d need a hole too.”
“I’d cut it out with my teeth,” I tell him.
He gives me an odd look. “I’m not sure if that’s sexy or not.”
“Shut up and fuck me.”
“Yes, queen,” he says, bringing his cock out. He moves his body on top of mine and I relish his weight as his elbows plant on either side of my shoulders, pinning me between him. There’s little hesitation before he pushes his cock in and I stretch around him, feeling impossibly full. There’s nothing else like this. Nothing at all.
I roll my hips under him, pulling him even deeper, causing him to gasp. I’ve missed those sounds of his. I’ve missed everything.
We are immediately lost in the silken push and pull of each other, our bodies joined, our souls grappling in lust.
It’s so easy with him.
So easy.
He groans and slowly pulls out before sliding back in to the hilt. I close my eyes, pleasure curling down my spine, my legs opening wider.
“Is this a bad time to tell you I’m in love with you?” he whispers against my mouth.
My heart stalls.
I open my eyes and find him gazing at me, his stare so raw and smoldering, like he’s giving me all he has, all that he is.
“I suppose there could be worse times,” I whisper right back, running my hands through his hair and holding on. “I love you too, you know.”
“I didn’t know,” he says, breaking into a beautiful smile, the dimples deepening on his cheeks. “But I know now. And I won’t forget it.”
I grin, digging my nails into his ass and shrugging him forward, his cock sliding in deep.
“Take me to Asgard,” I cry out. “Or Ragnarok. Or pleasure town, wherever.”
“Anywhere you want to go, my peach,” he murmurs. “But we’re going together.”
Epilogue
Amanda
One year later
“Hey, you should sign it Tits McGee,” Blake whispers in my ear.
I pause just as I’m about to write my own signature. My eyes slide to him. “What? How did you know about that?”
“Oh, I’ve learned about a lot of things since your newfound fame,” Blake says, leaning in closer. “That your high school nicknames included Tits McGee, Lord of the Geeks, and Sir-Pukes-a-Lot. The last one was pretty explanatory. You know, considering.”
I look up at the young woman standing on the other side of the table, waiting eagerly for me to sign her book. I flash her a nervous smile.
This is our first book signing. Blake’s father agreed to hold it at Crawford’s Books. The store is doing really well now thanks to the new store manager they were able to hire. Plus there’s the celebrity aspect of it all since everyone knows by now who Blake Lovecox really is.
But they also know who Blake Crawford is, just as they know who Amanda Newland is.
It’s been a year since Falling for the Secret Male Stripper came out. Since then, we’ve released ten other erotic novels, with one of them, Slammed by the Single Dad, hitting the New York Times’ list. You can bet Rio thinks she can add that title to her name as well. She’s teaching English in Japan now, but she says she introduces herself to people as a New York Times’ bestselling influence, which is kind of true when you think about it.
It hasn’t been just smut though. True to our hopes and wishes, writing and selling the kinky stuff and finding success in the genre has opened a world of possibilities for us. We both have agents, and we both have our own novels out. The Land of Tears and Bone—now retitled Phenelope—was just released this month by a major publisher. Blake’s sci-fi horror, Blood Aurora, was published by a small press two months ago. It’s already been optioned for a film, the lucky bastard, even though they say that’s never anything to get too excited over since options rarel
y amount to anything.
But it’s hard not to get excited these days. Things are falling into place.
And every day I’m falling more in love with him.
I mean, he’s still the man who holds my hair back when I vomit.
Which I did on the way over here this morning, as we walked from our apartment. Right as tourists in a horse-drawn carriage were wheeling past. I think they got photos.
Who knew your first book signing would be so nerve-racking? I was so worried that no one would show up, and then I started worrying that everyone would show up. What if I spelled someone’s name wrong? What if someone told me they hated my work? What if I farted? All valid concerns.
But so far it’s been going okay, except I almost wrote Tits McGee in this person’s book. I slide the open page over to Blake, glaring at him. “If you talk to me while I’m signing, I will seriously write down all the wrong things.”
He just flashes those dimples at me and writes down his name in his usual chicken scratch handwriting. At least I’m known as the “neater one.”
Even though the signing is only for a few hours, it seems like everyone I know has come in to get something signed at some point. The show of support is amazing, albeit surprising. Sarah and her new husband David stop by, as does Miss Dumas and Heath. Kevin and Angelica briefly pop in on their way to Butchart Gardens for a fun day together.
Though the divorce is old news and she and Blake’s dad have gone their separate ways, Angelica and Kevin never ended up moving away. In fact, they moved to a modest house closer to us and even Fluffy is allowed back home. The four of us (minus Fluffy) spend a lot of time together when Angelica isn’t working, and we bond over our love of Benedict Cumberbatch. At least, everyone but Blake does.
Speaking of moving on, Blake’s dad is also here, putting his disdain for smut aside to watch the money roll in. And let’s face it, I know he’s proud of his son. But he’s not alone. Ana is with him.
Yeah. I guess sparks were flying that day at the LARPing event because when it was Kevin’s turn to get made over by Ana, she and his father started talking. Next thing everyone knew, the two divorcees were dating. They can’t be more different, and I have no idea what they have in common, but somehow they make it work. They’re both happy, that’s the important thing.
“I didn’t know your parents would be here,” Blake says to me as I’m signing another book.
I look up to see my mom next in the line, my dad hovering in the background, talking to Blake’s dad. My mom gives me a sheepish wave.
“Mom,” I say, not expecting them to be here either. My parents and I have gotten closer over the last year, even though it took a good three months of keeping our distance before we could start again. Now they treat me like an adult (mostly) and I try and act like one (mostly). It’s not always easy but it’s working so far.
My mom has a copy of our latest erotica, Sex Bomb, in her hands and shyly slides it toward me. “It’s for your Aunt Sylvia,” she explains. She leans in closer and lowers her voice. “You two don’t have anything female on female do you?”
“Mom,” I admonish her. This is so sweet, incredibly touching but also majorly embarrassing.
“I had to check,” she explains with a shrug.
I sign it to Aunt Sylvia and hand it over to Blake to sign.
She hovers at the table. “How about you two come over for a celebratory dinner tomorrow night?”
“If crazy Aunt Sylvia is there, I’m in,” Blake says. He looks at me and explains, “I feel she might have some good stories for our next book.”
I wrinkle my nose and he gives her the book back.
“We’ll be there,” I tell my mom. “I’ll call you about it later.”
She walks off to join my dad and they both wave at us.
“Well, that went well,” Blake says with a sigh after the last of the attendees have been pushed through. “Better than I expected.”
“Yeah, well, you got that one woman crying over meeting you,” I joke. “And then you had to sign that pair of underwear. And the condoms. And that other lady’s breasts. So yeah, it went quite well for you.”
“Don’t be jealous,” he says to me, giving me a cocky smile as we get up and slowly make our way across the store, stretching our cramped hands, arms, and legs. “The time will come when you get to sign breasts too.”
We pause among the stacks of books and a thrill goes through me that our own books are in the store here. It never gets old.
But neither does being in love with Blake.
He grabs my arm and spins me around until I’m pinned back against the bookshelf. He brushes his fingers through my hair before placing a soft kiss on my lips.
“What’s next, peach?” he asks me softly.
“You mean story idea-wise, or about life?”
“Both. What’s our next chapter?”
I link my hands behind his neck and gaze up at him, the love of my life.
“I guess we’ll have to keep writing and see,” I tell him.
He grins, grabbing my hand, and we walk out of the store and into the sunshine.
THE END
I hope you enjoyed reading Smut! If you’re in the mood for another romantic comedy from me, I would suggest the following books to make you blush, giggle and swoon:
- NOTHING PERSONAL
When her ex-lover and ex-worker, Kessler, ends up being transferred to her office in Honolulu, Nova has to deal with the fact that the very man who broke her heart is now her boss.
- BAD AT LOVE
Marina and Laz, two best friends who are bad at love and relationships, decide to date each other as an experiment to see what they’re doing wrong.
- THE ROYAL ROGUE
When Princess Stella of Denmark succumbs to a brief affair with the devilishly handsome and arrogant Prince Orlando of Monaco, a man she loves to hate, the last thing she expected was to end up pregnant with his baby. (Coming September 29, 2019)
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Acknowledgments
I’ve been wanting to write a book about writing since, well, I started writing. And then definitely once I started publishing, either through the magic of self-publishing or through my traditional publishers, Hachette and Simon & Schuster. There’s a reason why Stephen King (all hail the King), writes an awful lot about writers—it’s what he knows. And it’s hard not to write about what’s going on around you. Ironically, I’ve written about a lot of things I didn’t know much about (drug cartels, ghost hunters, rugby players) but this (along with Love in English, Where Sea Meets Sky, and Racing the Sun) was so easy to do (in some ways, tough in others). Because I live it (and I live on Salt Spring Island, near to where the book is set). I finally had the chance to write about being a writer.
But it’s not just about the highs and lows of the craft. There’s an entire world that most people aren’t aware of, a crazy, fucked up world of romance authors. I started out writing in the fringe genre of horror romance (The Experiment in Terror Series, go check it out), so I wasn’t privy to this world until later and then once I was
in it, I was in it.
The world of romance authors, bloggers, and readers is equal parts maddening and amazing. It’s an underground bubble with daily drama, strife, revenge, pettiness, jealousy, shady tactics, marketing ploys, screenshots, vague-booking, and those fun things that come along with any counterculture (I cut my teeth on Mike Patton fandom, so I know crazy). But it also has the kindest, funniest readers, supportive authors, and passionate bloggers that balance out all the nutty stuff. In the end, these people are my people, and I’m lucky to be part of a world where I get to meet people from all over the globe, where I get to travel for a living, and make long-lasting and very dear friendships.
One thing I have noticed though, and one thing that unites us all, is the label of Smut. Now, “Smut” by definition is a fungus. Not very appealing. It’s also the term loosely applied to romance and erotica across most art forms. It’s not supposed to be a good label; in fact, most people who throw the term smut around do so in a derogatory manner. But regardless, there is a stigma against romance writers that I was never aware of when I was dabbling in horror romance (or even suspense).
Though this was intended to be a silly, light-hearted read for all intents and purposes, one of the many points of the book was that romance and erotica are nothing to be ashamed of. I’ve read some erotic novels that are exquisitely layered with beautiful prose and tragic characters (The Siren by Tiffany Reiz, go read it now), that are not taken seriously because of the genre. I’ve also flipped through some poorly-written, here-to-make-a-buck, trope-exploiting smut, and you know what? There’s nothing wrong with that either. Whether you’re reading to be changed and challenged or reading to escape for a few hours, get off, and maybe make good with your husband, who cares? No one should be judged for what they read, nor should authors by what they write (WHY they write? Well, that’s a different topic for another time. I’m not so naïve to think that all writers are in it for the same reasons). Regardless, there is an influential world out there filled with very passionate people, and a little more passion in this world can’t be a bad thing.
