24 Inches: A MFM Romantic Comedy

by Alexis Angel

  The woman lets out a nervous giggle, but I watch her face flush as she closes the distance between them, and runs her fingers across his chiseled stomach. Her fingers dip in and out of every ridge, slow and careful, as if she's milking every minute of this.

  As she's doing this, a whole new crowd of women approach, each one begging to put their fingers on Logan.

  I shake my head.

  I've had enough of Logan. If I have to stand next to him for another minute, I might quit. So I decide to step away from our booth and take a walk.

  Just as I'm walking past a row of rainbow-colored vibrators, each blinking brighter than a nightclub, a woman taps me on the shoulder.

  "Anders Carter?"

  "In the flesh," I smile.

  "Oh my God! I'm such a fan! You have no idea. I mean, every time I see you on the cover of a Naughty Angel's book I have to instantly buy it," she gushes.

  "Thanks gorgeous," I smile, pulling up my shirt from the waistband of my pants and flexing my abs for her.

  "Oh my—you are even more gorgeous in real life!" she squeals.

  I sign the book she's holding, and then continue on my way. If I don't leave now, this woman will keep me glued to this spot all day. And that's not in my contract.

  As I continue to make my way past the booths, other women approach me and I give them all the same act—rippling my abs, flashing them a bright smile, signing their books, and even posing for selfies, but I make it a point to move on quickly.

  I love my fans. I really do. But the industry has left me feeling jaded.

  "Anders?"

  I hear my name again, and turn around, expecting to lift my shirt for another fan, but instead, I see an entirely different kind of woman.

  "Hi, I'm Lana Hartley," she says, offering me her hand.

  I give it a firm shake. It's soft, manicured, and delicate. "Nice to meet you."

  There’s something about this woman that's different. And the way she tucks her hair behind one ear is fucking cute.

  "Good turnout, huh?"

  "What?" I ask. I realize I'm so taken aback by this woman that I completely missed what she just said.

  "Oh, I just said that there seems to be a good turnout at this year's convention," she says.

  "Yeah, not bad. Lots of fans. Lots of publishers," I say. "It's a good year."

  She nods, but she isn't smiling. There seems to be sadness in her eyes, and I can't quite put my finger on why. I look down, noticing that she's holding a stack of papers.

  "And what do you have there?"

  "Just some writing," she shrugs.

  "A full manuscript?"

  "Close to full, but it doesn't matter. Apparently, the market's moved on."

  "What's the problem?"

  "I've been shopping it around to traditional publishers—Abby, from Naughty Angel Publishing suggested I do that—but no one seems to want to take it," she says.

  "Can I read it?" I ask, and she seems to perk up at the offer.

  "Really?"

  Fuck. She's really cute. "Sure, I'd be happy to review it. I've been on dozens of covers; I think I'm a pretty good judge of these things," I say, winking.

  "Good point," she laughs, and there's innocence in the lilt of her voice that's hard to ignore.

  Just as she hands me the manuscript, I look over and see Logan getting pulled into a room by some woman, but before I can worry about what he's getting himself into now, I flip open Lana's manuscript.

  And I'm immediately sucked in.

  It's good.

  Really fucking good.

  5

  Logan

  I can’t say no to a fucking pretty lady.

  Especially when she presses her tits against my chest and whispers indecent words into my fucking ear. Words like ‘I need your cock right now’. I just can’t fight that kind of shit, you know?

  Thing is, that’s exactly the kind of shit that happens to me all the fucking time… And now more so since I’m at the MaxSex convention, showing all my adoring fans my impressive wall of abs.

  “Come with me… I really need that cock,” the woman I’m with whispers again, running one hand down my naked chest and taking it all the way to my crotch. Yup, I’m getting really fucking hard right now.

  “Lead the way,” I tell her with a wide grin, allowing her to grab my hand. With a foxy smile, she starts walking down the main floor of the convention hall as if she owns the place, and I trail after her taking deep breaths, trying hard not to show everyone in here the gigantic boner inside my fucking jeans.

  I walk slowly, strategically allowing her to walk in front of me. You see, this way I can have a nice view of her ass. And what a fucking view! She’s much shorter than I am, a brunette with wicked eyes … but really, her greatest assets are her fucking rack and her curvy ass. I just want to run my hands up her skirt and take her ass cheeks into my hands.

  “Here,” she says, looking back at me over my shoulder. She has led me down a stairwell, and now we’re walking down a corridor that looks eerily deserted. She stops in front of what looks like a service door and, showing me one lustful grin, she chuckles lightly and then pushes the door open.

  We step inside what looks like a storage room, cardboard boxes piled everywhere around us, but I don’t waste any time taking in the scenery. No, I just close the door with the tip of my feet and go straight for her; placing my hands on her hips, I force her to turn on her heels and press her against the door.

  “Now, what did you say you needed?” I ask her, locking my eyes on hers and finally allowing all that boiling blood to turn my cock into a fucking slab of concrete.

  “That cock,” she whispers, reaching for my crotch and giving my member a hard squeeze. “And I need it right now,” she continues, unbuckling my belt in a fury and pulling my zipper down. Wasting no time, she sends my pants and boxers down to my knees and then starts stroking me, her hand flying back and forth over the length of my cock.

  “Fuck, you’re in a hurry, aren’t you?” I laugh, tangling my fingers in her hair and making her throw her head back. I lay my mouth against her neck, kissing her skin fiercely, and then allow my hands to trail down the side of her body. Resting my fingers under the curve of her ass cheeks, I pull her up and into me; she reacts fast, lacing her legs around my waist, and I spin around and press her body against the wall. I feel the tip of my cock brushing against her wet panties, and I react without even thinking twice.

  Sliding one hand under the hemline of her skirt, I flick her panties to the side and move my hips forward, the tip of my cock now brushing against her wet naked pussy.

  “Do it,” she moans, digging her fingernails into my back and bucking her hips at me.

  “Right away,” I chuckle and, with that, I thrust. I feel her inner lips parting, and then her inner walls are wrapped tight against my cock as it slides deep inside of her. She moans louder now, her fingernails crisscrossing over my shoulder blades, and I start fucking her with the kind of raw intensity women love.

  “Oh, fuck, yeah. That’s so… so GOOD!” she moans, her lips looking for mine as she says it. She crushes her mouth against mine, and starts swaying her hips fast, driving me completely fucking mad.

  “Fuck,” I groan as I ravage her pussy, my tongue dancing around hers. I’m thrusting so fiercely now that my muscles are tensing up in a hurry, beads of sweat pooling on my forehead.

  “Harder! Harder! HARDER!” she moans and shouts, her voice a crescendo of ecstasy. I oblige happily, giving her pussy all of my pent-up lust. After spending a couple of hours showing women my naked chest, and feeling the way they fuck me with their eyes … well, let’s just say I really needed to unwind.

  “I’m gonna --” she starts, but then her voice fades into a faint whisper as her inner walls tighten up around my cock, her fingers on my back turning into claws.

  I keep fucking her as she comes, and it takes just a couple of fucking seconds for pleasure to overtake me. Closing my eyes, I allow my cock to
start pulsing hard inside her pussy and, a heartbeat after that, I’m gushing my load into her aching pussy. Ah, fuck, this feels good.

  Then, I hear the sound of the door swinging open in a hurry, and it sounds just like thunder. I look to the side, surprised, and I see a man in a dark suit stepping inside the storage room. He’s thin and pale, and his hair looks too perfectly combed for my tastes.

  “Hello, there,” the guy says, his voice like fingernails being dragged over chalkboard, and I notice he’s pointing his cellphone at me and the woman I’m with. He clicks his phone and then the flash lights up the whole room.

  “What the fuck?” I groan, putting the woman down and sliding my cock out of her in a hurry. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  I pull my pants up in a hurry and then start closing the distance between that pale motherfucker and I. Meanwhile, the woman I was with is looking from me to the newcomer and, apparently wanting to have nothing to do with the two of us, she just fucking bolts.

  Yeah, thank you for the fucking support.

  “Stop right there,” the guy hisses as he notices I’m getting dangerously close to him: as I approach him, I realize I know who he is. Of course, with a fucking grin as sick as the one he has on his face, who could it be but that fucking asshole Grady, the CEO of Bad Boy Publishing?

  “What the fuck are you doing here? I’m not going to ask you again,” I growl, balling both of my hands into fists and staring him down.

  “Do you know who that woman was, Logan?” he merely asks me, ignoring my question.

  “Does it fucking matter?” I shoot back, realizing that I didn’t even ask her name before I slid my twelve-inch cock inside of her pussy. In my defense, she was in such a hurry to feel my cock that I didn’t have the time for it.

  “Oh, yes … it matters, and it matters a lot. Her name is Carla, and she’s the wife of the Writers Guild of America's CEO,” Grady tells me, and I can tell by the tone in his voice that he’s quite pleased with that fact.

  “So? I didn’t know she was fucking married,” I shrug, although I’m starting to feel as if there’s quicksand under my feet.

  “So? You’re not that dumb, are you?” he chuckles, waving his cellphone in front of me. “I now have proof that you engaged in sexual intercourse with the wife of one of the most powerful men in the industry. And now, if you want to keep on working in this industry… You better do as I say, Logan.”

  Oh, fuck.

  I take one step forward, trying to reach for his phone, but he just takes one step back and his grin becomes deeper and evil.

  “You can take my phone. But it’ll do you no good. I’ve already uploaded the photos to a private server. There’s nothing you can do now.”

  “What the fuck do you want from me?” I ask him, fully knowing that I’ve just become trapped by one of the most sleazy bastards in the industry. Ever since Naughty Angel overtook Bad Boy Publishing, Grady has devolved into quite a fucking asshole. That’s why I never accepted any gigs coming from Bad Boy Publishing.

  “It’s quite simple, Logan. There’s a manuscript floating around Naughty Angel Publishing. It’s a new romance novel, written by a Lana Hartley.”

  “What’s that gotta do with me?” I ask him, although I can already feel where this conversation is heading.

  “I want you to make her sign with me. I want Lana Hartley to sign with Bad Boy Publishing,” he lowers his voice now, and I can’t help but feel a shiver running up my spine. And I also can’t help but laugh.

  “You want one of Abby Cleveland’s developing writers to sign with you? Good fucking luck with that,” I tell him. If he really wants that to happen, he has totally lost his mind. No one working at Naughty Angel Publishing would sign with Bad Boy Publishing. And forget about all the hatred between these two companies, changing from one to the other, it’s a total downgrade when it comes to a writing career.

  “Well, Logan. That’s what I want. And you’ll make sure it happens. Or else you can say goodbye to your career,” he finishes, placing his phone into his breast pocket and turning around to leave.

  I say nothing as he leaves, realizing that I’ve got no other choice.

  “Fuck,” I whisper to myself, feeling the shadows around me growing longer. “Fuckin’ Grady.”

  6

  Anders

  I slam Lana's manuscript down on the coffee table, and sink back into the leather of my sofa, lifting my feet up. I shake my head in disbelief, folding my arms behind my head.

  It's unbelievable. I'll be honest. My expectations were low.

  Jaded? Definitely. But it's the truth. So much is pure crap out there, and few manuscripts stand out to me.

  The kind of manuscript that sparks, sharp and fast as flint. The kind of manuscript that moves you.

  Let me ask you a question. Have you ever read a book that changes you?

  That changes your perspective?

  That makes you feel something you never thought you could feel?

  That blows your mind because it feels real? It just feels so authentic that it might be happening to you, or someone you know?

  Well, that's what's happening to me right now. I'm serious.

  I feel like a changed man. That's not even an exaggeration.

  No joke.

  Lana Hartley's manuscript, The Virgin Market, has fucking changed me. I feel like my eyes have been opened.

  Jesus fuck.

  I mean, it's like I've got a new lease on life. That may sound dramatic, but do you know what I mean?

  If you don't, let me explain it another way for you.

  One minute, I'm floating on a sailboat, in the middle of a windless ocean, and the next, I feel like a huge gust has just blown across me, filling my fucking sails and making me fly. I have new direction.

  That murky mud puddle of life isn't sucking me down with that lipless mouth.

  I'm a new fucking man.

  Reading Lana's The Virgin Market manuscript has made me realize that I've been a jaded person for so long. Too long.

  The industry that I had appreciated for so many years was devoid of any fucking color to me. It was like living in a black and white world. I had been walking around in some dazed stupor, bored, and uninspired, and cynical.

  I'd sooner smirk at a book, than feel inspired by it.

  But now? Right now, my world has gone full fucking color. Funfetti style.

  Glitter on top of glitter on the floor of a New Year's Eve party. Get the picture?

  What? You think I'm exaggerating?

  With as many bad stories as I've read, I know a good one when I see it.

  Lana Hartley is good. Real good. And she hasn't even landed her first book deal yet.

  She's a natural, and she deserves to be published. That much I know.

  It's hard to believe that not a single publisher has bid on her manuscript.

  Are they not paying attention? Why don't they see what I see?

  Who the fuck cares about market trends?

  If a story is good; it's good. And this isn't just good; it's excellent.

  It takes you into a character's head, and enables you to stay there—explore the landscape, so to speak.

  It's of the highest fucking caliber. Trust me.

  But now I need to find Lana. I have to tell her what I think before it's too late. Before she feels like throwing it into a fire or something.

  I know she's feeling like the book was an epic waste of her time, but I believe she could have a best seller on her hands.

  Correction. I don't believe. I know.

  But fuck, I don't have Lana's number. That's one thing we failed to exchange during the MaxSex convention. What was I thinking?

  Clearly, I wasn't.

  We were both too busy eye-fucking each other.

  Logan—I bet he has her number. There isn't a single woman in NYC who isn't in that guy's contacts list. You think I'm joking? That guy gets around.

  I scroll through my phone, find his numbe
r, and call him up.

  He picks up on the second ring. "Miss me already?"

  It's still morning, and he sounds like he's been drinking. Or fucking. Or maybe both.

  "Funny. Look, I need a favor," I say.

  "Well, well, well … look who gives me a call when he's in a pinch," Logan laughs.

  "I'm serious. I need to get in touch with Lana Hartley. Could you give me her number?"

  "Lana?" he asks, his tone suddenly serious.

  "Yeah, she gave me a manuscript to review at the convention and it's fucking amazing. Grade-A stuff," I say. "I want to help her."

  "Is that the The Virgin Market manuscript?"

  "You've heard of it?" I ask.

  He's silent for a moment, and then continues. "I think I overheard Lana talking about it at the convention … or something."

  There's something about Logan's voice that's strange, but I ignore it. I'm on a mission.

  "Anyways, can I get her number?" I ask, bringing him back to the point of my call.

  "I don't have it," he says flatly.

  "Bullshit, Logan! C'mon man. I just need this favor," I plead, trying to not sound desperate.

  "Sorry, I uh—I—really don't have it," he says, his words coming out in short, halting bursts.

  We hang up, and I can't help but think that Logan is hiding something from me. But why? Why would he care if I talk to Lana? Is he fucking her or something?

  I ignore that thought. I can't worry about what's going on in Logan's life. Not now.

  I find Lana's website, and click on her contact link, writing her a quick message and being sure to include my phone number. After I send it off, I think about her manuscript again.

  The thought of it makes me shake my head.

  I think back to the books that have jaded me, and after reading Lana's manuscript, it dawns on me. I realize why I got into this business in the first place.

  It was never about the money.

  It was never about the fame; I never did it for vanity, or status.

  It was never about the pussy (even though there's a lot of it).

  No, none of that.