by Roxy Sloane
EXPLICIT
Roxy Sloane
Contents
Copyright
Also by Roxy Sloane
About
Praise for EXPLICIT
Dedication
Epigraph
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Epilogue
Afterword
KINDLE FIRE GIVEAWAY!
About the Author
Also by Roxy Sloane
Teaser of Teach Me
Teaser of Sordid
Acknowledgments
EXPLICIT
ROXY SLOANE
Cover Design: Regina Wamba, Mae I Design and Photography
Photographer: Regina Wamba
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Created with Vellum
Also by Roxy Sloane
THE SEDUCTION SERIES:
The Seduction 1
The Seduction 2
The Seduction 3
The Seduction 4
THE INVITATION SERIES:
The Invitation
The Invitation: Surrender
The Invitation: Release
THE SUBMISSION SERIES:
Sweet Submission
Wild Submission
Total Submission
Perfect Submission
THE EXPOSÉ SERIES:
The Exposé 1
The Exposé 2
The Exposé 3
The Exposé 4
THE SCENE SERIES
The Scene 1
The Scene 2
The Scene 3
About
"I’ve told you I’ve fantasized about you. So, tell me the truth. Do you fantasize about me?”
Bestselling novelist Jackson Ford is arrogant, exacting, and relentless on the page and off. His irresistible new editor, Ellie Parker is smart, headstrong, and not intimidated by Jackson's attitude - or the way he turns every exchange into a filthy seduction.
There isn't a thing these two can agree on, except their intense attraction. But with Jackson's deadline looming, can they stop fighting long enough for him to deliver the hit she needs?
The relationship between editor and author has never been so intimate or so explicit…
Praise for EXPLICIT
"Wickedly sexy and downright dirty, Jackson Ford is Roxy Sloane's hottest alpha yet!"
— Laurelin Paige, New York Times Bestselling Author
"Sinfully sexy and addictive, Explicit will leave you begging for more. One of my top reads of 2016!"
— Ella James, USA Today Bestselling Author
“Oh. My. God. This book! Explicit is just that... explicit, sexy, and a roller coaster ride of emotions!”
— Jen McCoy, The Literary Gossip
“Sloane’s best book yet!”
— Candi Kane, Dirty Laundry Review
“Sit back, relax, and get ready for a lust filled, emotional thrill ride!”
— Shayna, Shayna Renee’s Spicy Reads
Thank you to my readers for all your love and support. There isn't a day that goes by that isn't made better by talking to you, laughing with you and just being together. You amaze me. Own your sexy power, and unleash it on the world.
You rock. XXX
“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” –Ernest Hemingway
1
The long-awaited and much-anticipated manuscript had finally arrived. It was downstairs in the lobby of the Denton Rifkin offices, the messenger patiently awaiting my signature. To the annoyance of my assistant Carolyn I’d been asked to sign for it personally, so after the messenger refused to hand it over, I found myself riding the gleaming steel and glass elevator down eleven long floors as the rain tapped against the glass, blurring my view of bustling New York City below.
My heart was doing a little dance in my chest, and I tried to push back my nerves and focus on the big picture: this was it, my big chance to prove myself, to prove to my bosses that they’d made the right choice in giving me this huge, momentous, incredibly important project. No pressure. Just the expectation that it would hit the New York Times Best Seller List and make us a shit ton of money, the kind of money that Denton Rifkin relied on to stay afloat. No big.
After scribbling my signature and grabbing the package I immediately tore open the envelope, pulse racing as I pulled out the manuscript and read the title page: Untitled by Jackson Ford.
Yes, that Jackson Ford. Creator of Garrett Addison, arguably the best spy character since Jack Reacher, and author of my all-time favorite spy thriller, Lions and Lambs. The man behind a dozen novels, four movie adaptations, and a hundred ‘Page Six’ listings. That Jackson Ford. My newest author.
If I was honest with myself, I’d always imagined Ford a little bit like his James Bond-ian main character: sexy, commanding, capable of anything. . . and really good-looking in a suit. But I wasn’t going to let that get in the way of our new professional relationship.
Believe me, I was as shocked as anyone when Louise Hayden called me into her office to announce that Jackson’s former editor, Sol Braunstein, was retiring and that I’d now be editing Ford. This was either an opportunity to join the literary big leagues, or to fuck up royally.
“Thank you, Louise,” I’d said when I regained language. “But, why me? There are six other editors who’ve been here longer, who are better suited—”
“Ellie,” she’d interrupted, “there’s no one better suited to Jackson Ford than you.”
I’d taken her word for it.
Yet that morning, as I paged through the first three chapters of Ford’s latest, still-untitled work, I wasn’t so sure. It had none of the emotionally engaging storylines, pulse-pounding action sequences or fast-paced, full-of-banter dialogue that had launched Jackson Ford into the literary stratosphere a decade before. It was more of the same formulaic, overblown ‘super-villains and sex kittens’ crap that Louise and Solly had been allowing him to produce for the series’ last few installments.
“Oh God,” I sighed, as Carolyn entered my overflowing office with my Earl Grey. “This is not even physically possible! At one point he has Addison jumping from a private jet onto a speeding train!”
“Does his shirt get ripped off?” Carolyn asked.
I sipped the tea and willed my voice to remain steady. “By an astrophysicist. With double Ds.”
“Ouch. I’m sorry, Ellie,” she said when she stopped laughing. “Too bad you can’t do anything about it.”
For a moment we were silent, as the rain drummed gently on my office window.
“Why can’t I?” I challenged.
“Come on, El, get real. Ford is DR’s cash cow. No one wants to mess with that.”
“But his numbers are declining,” I reminded her. “That means he’s losing steam. Maybe it’s time to change direction.”
>
“Yeah, but even his declining numbers pay half our staff’s salaries.”
I leaned back in my chair, mulling it over. “I’m thinking just an email, to suss him out. This man is capable of brilliant work,” I said. “We can’t let him become a parody of himself. This is a chance to create something great!”
My enthusiasm was met only with silence and an almost-pitying smile.
“Listen, Ellie,” she said, carefully measuring her words. “He was with Sol Braunstein for ten years. You’ve been his editor for like, two minutes. You haven’t even had a proper sit-down. He’s probably pretty skittish. And need I remind you, there are plenty of other publishers who would love to have Jackson Ford on their list. So I’m just saying, tread lightly.”
“Yeah. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” I turned back to my computer and tried to bury myself in work, the easy kind that didn’t involve authors with egos big enough to drive a Mack truck through.
The truth is, I value Carolyn’s advice. I really do. So the whole day went by and I didn’t send that email. But later that evening, once she and most of the other employees had gone home for the night and the halls were quiet, I gave it a second thought. And I took a deep breath and then wrote him:
Evening Jackson. I’m so excited to be working with you. I had a chance to look at the first three chapters of your manuscript this morning, and I see a lot of potential in the draft so far. It’s a good beginning, though I think it could benefit from some of the nuance and depth of Lions and Lambs. Additionally, the action sequences strain believability as they stand now, but this can be addressed in the next round of edits. Also, I felt that the female characters are somewhat underdeveloped. This is most evident in the sexual encounters—they don’t reflect reality. In general, the balance between fantasy and reality needs a rethink, but I’m confident we can get this manuscript in shape soon. I look forward to working with you to reinvigorate the brand.
Warm regards, Ellie
And I hesitated. I understood Carolyn’s caution, but this was my first interaction with him about his work, and I wanted him to know I wasn’t going to settle. I wanted his best. I knew it was a risk, but has anything great ever come from playing it safe? I hit send.
A half-hour later, as I was skimming a pile of agent submissions, my computer pinged with an incoming email.
Congratulations, Ellie! You work fast. You’ve been my editor for less than a month, and you’re already qualified to tell me how to write a novel. But what do I know? I’ve only sold 400 million books over the past ten years while you were learning how to operate the Nespresso machine. But I know I’m in good hands because now I have an editor who speaks for all women. What a bonus!
Maybe you don’t understand the women in my books because you’re nothing like them. The women I write about are willing to take risks to be with a man because they value physical pleasure. They know that a great fuck—sex that leaves you sweaty and panting and completely alive—that kind of sex gives a woman power and energy. And peace. It’s what the human body is for.
But you don’t understand that, do you? You don’t understand how the full exploitation of the senses can affect your ability to enjoy life, to laugh, to connect. For you it’s all about the brain. You need to stop thinking and start feeling.
Do you even fantasize? You have to be able to imagine it to do it.
The hair stood up on the back of my neck. What a dick.
I’m fantasizing about you right now. We’re alone in the elevator at DR. You’re wearing a skirt and blouse, no bra or panties. I know you did that for me. I press the ‘stop’ button. Put my hands on your face and kiss your lovely lips, the hunger building. My tongue enters your mouth, and at first you hesitate, but then you let go and our tongues explore each other’s mouths. Now I know you’re ready. I unbutton your blouse—fast—and I groan when I see your gorgeous tits. I need to taste your nipples; now I’m biting them, losing control. I turn your body, a bit too rough, shoving you against the glass wall of the elevator. A shiver goes down your spine as your hot breasts press against the cold glass. Now you’re exposed for all New York to see, dirty girl. I press my incredible hard-on against your ass, grinding against you. Now I reach down, fumbling to free my cock, to yank up your skirt. I’m biting your neck as my fingers enter your wet pussy. I rub your juices over my cock, lubricating it. I’m rock hard. Your pussy is aching for me but I know what I want. “I’m going to fuck your ass,” I say. Then I position my cock, and with a few desperate thrusts I enter your ass. It’s so tight. You cry out, over and over, as I fuck you. Your breath ragged as you beg me not to stop. I reach down and my fingers gently stroke your clit, making you climax. And I fuck you and I fuck you till I can’t hold back, my cock pulsing inside your tight ass.
“What the fuck,” I whispered. What made him think he could talk to me like that?
Of course I’d seen Jackson Ford, at book launches and readings. With his god-like physique and those blue eyes, it’s kind of impossible not to stare at the man. He looks like an older, more rugged Ryan Gosling, with dirty blond hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He radiates intelligence. Jackson Ford is commanding, charismatic, and totally GQ, but still.
What was he thinking? Writing something so explicit to a colleague? Did he think himself untouchable, with his money and his influence? How could I ever work with this man?
Suddenly I began to panic. Was he firing me? I reread the email, assessing his tone for clues. He was arrogant. And inflamed. But also passionate. “I’m fantasizing about you right now.” That was surely a fabrication. A provocation.
“I’m your editor, not a fucking groupie,” I said aloud. I paced back and forth in front of my bookshelves, rubbing my temples and trying to keep my head from exploding.
Finally I sat back down at my desk, hit reply, and began to type.
Jackson,
Congratulations to you. There is more passion in the email you just sent than in your last three books. Perhaps the lack of emotion in your recent writing is the reason your female audience has declined 17% since 2013. But that’s just one woman’s theory.
I’m unafraid of you.
I want to make your work better than it has ever been.
If you want the same thing—and you feel you can work with me—let’s have a sit-down Monday at 8:00 a.m. Just tell me where you’d like to meet.
All the best, Ellie
And I hit send.
Then I printed all three emails before deleting them from my hard drive. I packed up my things. On my way out, I stopped at the printer on Carolyn’s desk to retrieve the copies I’d made, noting the tremble of my hand as I slipped the pages into my bag.
2
I checked my phone every five minutes as I walked to Columbus Circle, but there was no response from Jackson. I was meeting my friends downtown, and as usual, I was running late. I texted Bianca: “Just left work. So sorry. There in 20.”
Bianca, Maggie, and I meet every Friday for happy hour at Amelie in the Village. As I descended the subway stairs, Bianca’s reply came through: “No worries. Mags drove in. She just walked through the door.”
The A train was packed, but after a couple of stops I collapsed into an empty seat, and I couldn’t help but replay his email in my head. You’re nothing like them. Do you even fantasize? How obnoxious. I’m fantasizing about you right now.
I realized I’d been shaking my head, probably sighing too, when I looked up mid-shake to find the elderly woman across from me kindly waving a folded paper in my direction. She smiled as I accepted her pamphlet, but she didn’t let go till I met her eyes.
“‘The breaking of the wave cannot explain the whole sea.’ Do you know who said that?” she asked.
“No,” I admitted.
“The writer Vladimir Nabokov,” she replied. “Don’t worry, honey. It’ll be okay.”
I sat there holding the pamphlet in one hand and my phone in the other until she exited at Fourteenth Street.
&
nbsp; Happy hour was over by the time I reached the restaurant, but Bianca had already ordered me a nice red. I sank into the booth beside Maggie, placing my phone on the seat next to me—just in case. Bianca was talking about the sculptor whose show was about to open at the gallery where she worked. The artist, Rogier Veld, was a young guy from Amsterdam who sculpted in rebar and she thought his work was phenomenal.
“The opening is the seventeenth,” she announced. “And you both have to be there!”
“Can I be there?” A slightly drunk guy with wavy black hair and amazing lips approached our table, his eyes on Bianca.
This happens a lot. Bianca’s gorgeous; she looks like a younger Heidi Klum, but she’s actually pretty shy. She didn’t seem excited by his attention.
“Actually,” I said, going into full-on wingwoman mode, “I hate to disappoint you, but she dates an offensive lineman for the New York Giants, and I don’t think he’d like that. He’s a little overprotective. Just thought you should know.”
I smiled sweetly. There was a moment when you could see the guy wasn’t sure if I was kidding or not. But he must have decided I wasn’t bullshitting because he headed away, muttering, “Have a nice night,” a bit unsteady on his feet. After a few steps, he turned back to us and asked, “Can you get free tickets?”
The three of us just laughed. I glanced down at my phone, my pulse picking up, but I had no new messages. I took a deep breath and a gulp of my wine.
Once the handsome guy disappeared, Maggie, who makes women’s shoes—and I mean makes them; I’m talking by hand, using only natural materials and dyes—pulled up a picture on her phone of a pair of espresso suede boots she’d just made. They were knee-high with a carved wooden heel. Totally awesome. I’ve known Maggie since elementary school, but her talent still floors me.
