By Reading any further  you are stating that you are at least 18 years of age.

An excerpt from BLUE JEANS

copyright (c) TUESDAY MORRIGAN, 2008

All Rights Reserved, New Concepts Publishing

PROLOGUE

IN THE NAME OF THE FATHER, IN THE NAME OF THE SON

His black watery eyes stared at the fire raging in the fireplace with barely leashed control. He did not see the thick, red flames that licked at the ancient stones. He did not feel the heat that struck at his skin with wilting intensity. He was too consumed with his thoughts to see what was before him.

Years of fury and pain filled his chest to the boiling point. But he was without the strength to be angry. Vengeful, yes, but angry no. Fat tears leaked from his cold eyes. He wanted to die; he was even ready to die, but not yet. No, not quite yet. He still had things to do. Wrongs to right. The anger within him had consumed his whole life, and he had nothing to show for it.

A chill broke out along his pale skin. He had nothing but anger in his life. Beautiful, titillating, hot rage. He did not even have his children. They had deserted him. The flaming anger brewing in his heart had frozen his soul. He was unable to love. No, he had been unwilling to love. He could only hate. It was all that he had wanted. Soon they had come to realize he was not like other fathers. They had known something was wrong with their father even though they couldn’t quite name it, and so they had left. They had left him with nothing but his all consuming rage.

Watching the blackened shadows drift across the darkness in which he shrouded himself was the only thing he had energy for. Yes, he was depleted, but he was not quite done.

Years of painful diligence had taught him that his death would not be without reason. In death he would be avenged. When his curtain fell the real show would begin. He only wished he could see her face when the final act closed.

Visions of her beautiful face contorted with rage filled his blackened soul with glee. A sharp bark of grim laughter cut through the darkness.

I shouldn’t have done that, he thought, as a dry whimpering cough broke through the silence of the night.

His heart skipped and stumbled. He took a deep breath and found himself lacking air.

The dark man had come for him.

He took another deep breath, but all he heard was a wet wheezing sound leak through his clenched lips.

The man in black had come for him. He could feel his long fingers reaching out to grasp him.

Large fleshy hands reached out and behind to connect with his spine. Three heavy whacks dislodged the congestion that had clogged his chest.

He had no time for anything else. He could not fathom waiting to take a decongestion to relieve the ache in his chest. The best he could do was try to ease his pain, the pain of death. He had no time.

He only had a month to live.

One month. He had known he wasn’t feeling up to par, but death had not seemed around the corner.

Just goes to show you old man, he thought as he lifted the legal pad from the desk drawer, you know nothing. The cherry desk groaned as he slammed it shut. The force of his action vibrated throughout the heavy wood desk. Apparently he still had some strength in him. Maybe he could fight off the imminent.

Maybe you could get two months instead of one.

He laughed at himself. He always was a greedy bastard. He couldn’t ask for six weeks. No, he had to request double what was expected.

He knew his request had been denied. He had never been a choirboy. He doubted God had even opened his ears to his pitiful, selfish plea. With his past transgressions, he would probably have better luck if he prayed to the devil. Now there’s the being who owned him.

No time for foolish thoughts he thought. He could feel old man Reaper coming to visit. He had precious few moments. Moments he shouldn’t be wasting making stupid jokes and foolish wishes.

He picked up the ink pen that sat upon the cherry finished desk top without realizing it. He looked down at the item that had caught his attention and felt his fingers clench in anger. Maxwell Phillips it read. That was his name. That was who he had once been, but Maxwell Phillips was a man dying slowly, crawling to the edge of his grave.

One month.

He had little time to ponder his life. He had to write. Many letters had to go out tomorrow. The sooner, the better. He wasn’t even sure if he would have the full month. God had a habit of working on his own time.

One Month.

He had so many things to do. He had to make sure that his son never forgot the man his father was. He had to make sure that he would always be remembered. He had to make that bitch, his wife, regret the day she had married him.

He had to take away the one thing she loved.

CHAPTER One

DREAMS, BETTER THAN THE REAL THING?

Him

He sprinted down the white marble library stairs desperate to get out of there as soon as possible. The steps were perilous, unwilling to let him pass in speed. He slipped, caught himself, and thought only of getting home. The sooner he got home the better. He had not decided if it was a smart or foolish idea to stop at library before rushing home, until he held the copies of the stories in his hand. Only then did he feel secure. The uneasy feeling in his stomach had finally subsided so that it was now only a slight burning sensation. It was no longer the chest consuming ache it had been that first time. That first time he had read the book. The stories had agitated him, igniting the feeling of restless loneliness he had tried so hard to deny.

For the first time since reading the first story he felt content.

No one could take them away. Even if he was forced to give up the original, he had the copies and with them he could survive.

They were his addiction. They held him in their vicious grip, content to hold him prisoner, a voyeur living through them. The stories, they were to blame for his agitation, for his restlessness, for his lust. Each one was different. The characters were all unique, well developed, human, and he hated every last one as much as he loved them. They had something he did not have, a companion, a lover, someone to turn to late at night when the feeling of isolation grew too heavy.

He slowed his pace once he passed through the glass doors of the library. Quickly, he walked to his apartment. Intent on his goal, he passed students he knew and waved to them, never stopping to talk. He couldn’t. He had to get the copies somewhere safe. Now.

Once he closed his apartment door behind him, his breathing began to slowly regulate itself. He was finally able to take fat gulps of air to appease his starving lungs. He could breathe now that the copies were in his apartment. He never once attempted to figure out why the stories meant so much to him. He only knew that they did. From the first read they had become his everything.

He couldn’t go one night without reading them. They were his obsession, his addiction, and like any good fiend he had no intention of curing himself of his dependency. He instead loved it, relished it, and spent every waking moment figuring out a way to stretch out the intoxicating feeling his infatuation gave him.

He walked through the living room to his bedroom, passing the kitchen. As he passed it his stomach rumbled, protesting the lack of food. For a second he paused in the kitchen. But only for a second did he waver, for he remembered the notebook in his hand.

The click of the bedroom door lock was reassuring to him. It was just him and her. He and her words could finally be alone. He would not be interrupted.

Immediately his ritual began. He slowly walked over to the CD stand and pulled out the compact disc. He waited to hear the first few notes of the song before moving. Though the CD changed, the artist was always the same. Never did he waver from the blues singer. She had the soft throaty voice he needed to lead him down his amorous path.

Suddenly he remembered the copies he had made in the library. He took them from his notebook and held them to his chest, savoring the moment, the knowledge that no matter what he would have these stories. They would always be his. He placed them in the drawer of his desk for safe keeping. Later he would wonder why it never even occurred to him to read the copy. He automatically picked up the original. Though his mind would wonder, his heart knew, the copy had not been held by her. Her hands, her skin, her breath had run across the original. The copies were without her touch, her spirit. She was the one he was tied to, it wasn’t so such much the stories as it was the author. The woman knew him, his dreams and fantasies.

He laid on his bed and read the first of the short stories. Irish Cream was the title of the short erotic story. 

All the while he read, he kept having to change his positioning. The visions the stories produced in his brain always ignited his passions.

Reading her stories always produced the same effect, he was hard as a stone and angry. The latter emotion he never tried to analyze, the first, well the first he could deal with.

First thing was first. He grabbed the clear lubricant gel and squirted a little into his hand. It was warm and scented. It smelled like strawberry shortcake. He didn’t know why he had chosen that scent, but it had called to him. For some reason as he walked through the isles choosing a gel when he tried to pass this one he couldn’t. He so clearly saw the notebook and her that he hadn’t been able to walk away. Hell, he hadn’t even considered making any other purchase. He had walked from the store with that single item.

He wrapped the base of his cock with his left hand and pumped up and down with his right indulging in the feel of the warm liquid against his skin. 

He closed his eyes to savor the feel and imagined it was her wrapped around him, not his hand. He felt her. She was hot and wet, welcoming. He could almost smell her arousal, the musky sweet scent of her heated sex.

He could feel her excitement pouring from her weeping vagina. She wanted him like she had never wanted another man before. He was different, someone special to her, just as she was someone special to him.

She was so tangible to him that he could feel her vaginal muscles clenching around him, tightening, stroking and milking him.

He flicked his thumb across the sensitive head of his cock and groaned, imagined it was her clenching pussy muscles that rubbed the top of his cock. She straddled him, and pumped her hips up and down in excitement. He loved the full honest smile on her face as she rode him. She didn’t try to hide her attraction, her arousal, or the satisfaction she felt when they were together. Suddenly on the down take her eyes shut and she groaned. The dissented tips of her full beautiful breasts lightly scrapped against his chest as she moved. He knew that she liked the added friction. Her fat nipples grew larger, more sensitive until she couldn’t ignore the sensations coursing through her body that started at her highly responsive nipples. She twisted the engorged buds between her fingers and they both felt her vaginal muscles contract around him. 

She whispered breathy loving words into his ears before nipping at his left ear, giving it a light scrapping with her teeth. She told him how good it was to be with him, to have him inside of her. She told him how she loved him, all of him. She gave to him as much as he gave to her.  The fingers of one hand held her hip, guided her, giving her support as she rode him. His other hand was nestled in the curls at the apex of her thighs. He found the slick fat nubbin he sought and pressed his thumb against it. Flicked it. And then pinched it.

Suddenly her body stilled and then began bucking. “I’m coming. Oh shit I’m coming”, she screamed as her orgasm ripped through her.

Hold on sweetheart. I’m coming with you. Oh God. Oh God I’m coming.      

He muffled his groan as he found his release, still feeling her around him.

He opened his eyes to an empty room and felt his solitude. It weighed a ton.

He wiped the white sticky liquid off his chest before fully undressing for a shower.  Unshed tears burned in his eyes as he walked to the bathroom. Tomorrow, tomorrow he was going to meet her, his author. She wasn’t just in his dreams, and tomorrow he would face the reality.

* * *

Her

She had seen him today. Again. Today was just another day in an endless cycle of days spent watching him from afar.

She knew every inch of his perfectly sculpted body, from his chestnut locks to his large feet. She knew his voice, could pick it out in a crowd. Whenever she was privileged enough to be near him, when he spoke the deep rough edge of his voice was a balm on her aching soul. She soaked up any and every sight of him simply because she craved him. After all this time he still was her addiction.

 Silently she asked herself how long she could go on watching him, wanting him, needing him when it hurt her so very much. Even though every glimpse was a balm it was a double edged word that hurt as much as it soothed for the quick glances only highlighted her loneliness. They made her realize how much and how long she had sought companionship in vain.

She willed herself not to shed the tears, but they were determined to be set free. Only after hearing the click of the lock did she let them fall. Only then did she let the fat silver droplets fall.

Another year, another day, and nothing has changed.

She wiped the tears from her cheeks with the back of her hand, as she walked towards her library. She needed comfort and the only arms she saw were the words of the novels that kept the loneliness at bay.

The opulent mahogany bookshelves gleamed in the sunlight. In their shelves sat hundreds of books, but only one caught her eye, her favorite book.

Maybe that’s what I need, a magic spell to transport me to a beautiful body, maybe then.

She immediately flipped to her favorite part, sat upon her bed, and read. Halfway through the love scene she stood up from the bed and flipped down the covers before walking to the entertainment system that sat in the corner of bedroom. She pulled out a CD, her favorite R&B singer, knowing fully well he would comfort her like no other.

The singer’s soothing vocals would caress her like she dreamed HE would caress her. Her R&B songbird would whisper in her ears the words she longed to hear him say. The soothing singer would be the lover she dreamed he would be.

She turned from the CD player as the music began to return to her bed. The comfort it promised her aching heart beckoned to her. In response, she smiled at it even as the tears fell from her eyes. It whispered loving words, promising to weave a beautiful dream to keep the pain away.

Her movements were smooth and slow, the breath of a striptease. She undressed for her dream weaver, and stood naked and proud before him. She reveled in the feel of the sheets against her bare skin. Black satin, beautiful and luxurious, it cooled her hot skin. Not once had she regretted the costly purchase. The sheets had come to be a souvenir, a reminder of her sensuality. Their presence put her at ease and allowed her to “Just Be”, especially at moments like these when she just needed to dream.

She closed her eyes and let herself float away. Her destiny was not determined, it never was. A whisper, a mist and suddenly she was there, a thousand miles away and in the presence of her fantasy lover.

He walked towards her with long confident strides. His long strong legs ate up the space between them. With every step he took the tingling sensation on her skin intensified. She was feeling warm from the heat and lust that poured off him. The air surrounding them surged with his energy. He stopped less than a foot away from her. The black Stetson he wore masked his face from her view, but she wore no hat to hamper his perusal. A fact that pleased him greatly, she could see the proof in his burning gaze.

He took a slow long drink of her. From head to toe, he admired her. Her cheeks warmed, and her blush deepened when he studied the places in between; he took in the ample breasts, small waist, and wide hips. She fully understood and appreciated her nickname. She had been nicknamed Cola, because her figure resembled that of the classic soda bottle. She was all woman, all his woman, or she would be his by the end of the night.

He took a step and closed the distance between them. She was immediately surrounded by his scent. It was a mixture of sweet hay and clean masculinity. It was pure and unadulterated. It was more arousing than any cologne she had ever come across.

She stared at the kerchief that was tied around his neck. It was moist with his sweat. Idly she wondered if a kiss against his neck, right where his pulse ticked so earnestly would leave a salty taste on her lips and tongue. She ached to find out. She needed to find out. She wanted to drag her tongue against the sensitive flesh of his neck, tasting him, drinking him in, licking every inch of his salty skin. She admitted to herself that she was envious of the kerchief, it was what she wanted to be — drenched by him, soaked in his essence.

She continued her upward appraisal, waiting to see the face beneath the hat. Her eyes settled on his firm sensual lips, lips that she desired to kiss, lips that were tilted up with amusement. She lifted her hand to his face brushing lightly over the firm soft lips. A swift pink tongue darted out to lick her questing fingertips. His tongue was followed by his teeth, giving her finger a slight nipping. The sharp clasp of teeth against skin rebounded in her pussy. Desire coursed through her, a steady hot stream she felt flow from between her legs. She felt her nipples and vagina respond to his lip action. They tightened in anticipation and need.

He saw the lust in her eyes, the same desire that was mirrored in his and responded. He had never been the kind of man to ask for what he wanted, he simply took what he wanted, and right now he wanted one thing, HER.

His hand snaked out and wrapped around her waist. There would be no more games, no more coy attempts at flirting. He was in the mood for the taking. 

He drew her up against him. She fell against him with the full momentum of his force allowing her to feel the hard strength of his chest, the muscular chest that flattened her breasts so that he felt her nipples through the thin fabric of her blouse. She was aroused. He pictured the raised blackberry tips in his mind and groaned. Soon, very soon he would have her firm nipples in his mouth. He would taste them, lick them, suck them until she screamed “No more” and then he would continue until she screamed for more. 

He nonchalantly wondered if she could feel the evidence of his arousal through his jeans and chaps. No matter, before the end of the night she would know exactly how he felt.  Before the end of the night she would feel every inch of him. A promise he planned to make as pleasurable as possible for both of them.

He dipped his head to capture her lips. His lips were hot and demanding, intent upon conquering hers.  She moaned into his mouth and he felt desire rush into his veins. He had waited long and it felt so good to feel her lips beneath his. His mouth slanted over her lips and his tongue took advantage of the situation to dart through her open lips. 

One large tanned hand slipped beneath the serviceable cotton skirt she worn grazing her thighs as it sought its goal. She parted her legs for him, giving him access to her, to the hot bubbling well that was her core.

She wasn’t wearing any panties. He groaned against her lips as his fertile mind pictured her naked beneath her skirt. 

Slowly one finger slid into her, measuring the depth of her eagerness. She was wet and tight. He didn’t think he could last much longer. He had planned to take her slow, make her crazy with lust, but he wasn’t so sure he could accomplish his goal. He was getting burned just touching. His index finger was joined by a second and together they slid in and out of her tight sheath. Closer and closer they brought her to that ledge, that precipice that would bring her release.  

She kept her eyes closed even as she let her hands wander down her body. Her legs parted of their own volition and one hand slipped between them.  She needed to touch and be touched, but unable to do the former she took consolation in the latter. She would ease her need, her pain, the feeling of loneliness that swam in her veins.

She parted the thick folds of her heated sex. She was wet with desire. The feel of her hand against her nether lips started to tear at the fabric of her reverie, but she steadfastly held on to one thing, his face. The sharp planes of his cheekbones, the long ridge of his nose, the opulence of his firm sensual lips, and the tormented green of his eyes, these were the things she held on to.

As long as she saw his face, she could dream, she could revel in the fantasy.

She ran her forefinger around the tight nub that demanded her attention, and felt her vaginal walls tighten and clench in response. Even the slight touch brought her extreme pleasure.  I’m close, so close. With the dreams it was always like this. With her reveries in one hand, her other hand worked to bring on that delicious moment of fulfillment. Her finger traveled farther down and rimmed the tight red portal. Surprised by the sensations, the act caused her breath to catch.

She knew even before she touched her clit, milked it, that she would come from the touch. She was standing right at the ledge– the simple touch would push her over the edge. What surprised her was the intensity of the orgasm. It ripped through her like a raging inferno leaving nothing in its wake untouched. Once again she had been burned, burned by her need.

As soon as her breathing returned to normal, the tears started to fall. The orgasm was great, like all the others it had released some of her sexual tension, but once it had faded it was just one more lonely orgasm at the end of a very long line, and this time, this time she had seen his face even while she came.

            Silently she cried herself to sleep accepting the pain that seeing his face brought her, knowing that he never even once saw hers. And he never would, because girls like her only get with guys like him in her stories. Never in real life.

Purchase Book!