Prisons of the Flesh

gorgeous woman with perfect breasts and silky skin in a lace bra teases her lover with a kiss

She tastes like sugar on the tip of my tongue, before even crossing the room. The scent of jasmine skin digs into my memories, turning my own fondness against me. In an instant, I’m thrown back into the depths of our addiction…as if I’d ever left it at all.

She strips my resolve with every sway of her hips, stirring the senses to a roil of pure craving that bubbles over at the first rush of heated breath.

“I need you,” I want to scream, “but I don’t want you.” Instead, I just marvel in silence.

I’ve tried to run, to hide, to set my mind free from this prison of desire—shackled to the pains of precision in a cage of wanton need. God knows I’ve tried. But every step, every falter, the turn of every corner, brings me right back around to this…this faithless immersion of body and spirit while the soul shakes its head from afar.

“No,” I murmur beneath my breath, and then louder with a cracking of confidence. “No, not this time.” Yeah, who the hell am I kidding?

Before me, the door remains open as the moment she first floated through it; the field of flooring between me and escape stands willing, as easily traversed as ever. Why, then, can’t I leave? Why on earth do I stay? Why remain subservient for one second longer to a cruel warden of my own design?

The answer hits with the damning force of its simplicity. This is all I know. The world beyond the hollow of that doorway—with all its joys and its bathing of liberties—holds nothing for me. My world spins here with the vastness of my torment. My pleasure. My every dying breath, immortally resurgent, to be taken by her again and again.

The romantic might claim I belong to her. How sweet, such fresh sentiment of naïveté. In truth, I am her…she is me…two halves slowly dying apart but for these fleeting glances of resurrection. It is in these moments where strengths are tested, and invariably doomed to fail.

 

gorgeous woman with perfect breasts and silky skin in a lace bra teases her lover with a kiss

One brush of her hand down the rough of my cheek sets the tone for our evening to come. Like a trickle of water over fatally parched lips, she strokes the base instinct for more. Without a thought, at least not one that could be called conscious, I wrap my fingers around her throat, squeezing the chill of my frustrations into the melting warmth of her skin. Bonded at first touch like base elements rejoined, we quicken her pulse together, every leap of her heart beating furiously into the meat of my palm.

From the point of our joining, a single bead emerges—a tangible droplet of salt and submission that trickles down her neck. Lower it falls, staining her unblemished contours with the promise of things to come. Together we linger, the rogue strands of her hair tickling without mercy, as I bask in the heat of her breath.

Mesmerized beyond salvation, I watch the droplet descend. It rolls over shadows and into the light, exploring her chest with an urgency I could relate to all too well. Much like myself, its destination seems all but predetermined. As it gains speed down the gentle slope of her breast, it dares me to join. I’m thoroughly helpless to decline.

A vicious smirk rolls across her lips and she throws back her head with a groan, by all appearances giving herself over to my control. But we know better. We’ve always known better. Casting aside my last hope for escape, I seek out her heart with my lips, my resistance short-circuiting upon contact. I turn my anguish back upon her, licking hesitantly upward to that single bead of sweat. As she dissolves over my tongue and I inhale her essence, the current between us intensifies.

Even as I reach up to shred the lace of her bra between my fingertips, I feel my hands bound irreversibly to my sides. A delicate hum grows in ferocity to surround us, pricking at my skin and burning my eyes with the sting of inevitability. What am I doing? Where is the rest of that man I once knew—the one whose obsessions dared to run elsewhere, at least in some small part?

As my teeth sink hungrily into the sensitivity of her nipple, I feel the first rush of primal heat release in a grinding of wet flesh against me. The rhythmic piston of her hips enhances as her moans gather speed, escalating until both break away, growing beautifully discordant in their need.

Nibbles on the lobe of my ear become rabid bites into my shoulder, fueling me in turn to raise the stakes higher. Christ help me. Why? There’s only one way this can possibly end!

“Oh, God!” I cave to the starvation, driving my own hips up to meet her, parting her defenses with the illusion of my domination.

The sheer anticipation in her scream drives all sound from the room. But the buzz of electricity grows further, and further still, nearing overstimulation from its relentless internal attack. With the current unleashed, I know I’ll surely fry, once and forever destroying that part of me that longs to be free of her bliss. Yet I alone hold the switch, tightly as I hold her, and with it the final decision. A choice made under wondrous duress. I feel the energy straining inside me, an internal battle waged. With the flex of a muscle, I will seal my own fate. But without it, I fear I’ll seal even worse.

How long have I walked the halls of this prison, a slave to darkness untold? I shut my eyes tight, pretending for one exquisite moment that I still control my destiny, and let my senses run wild over her body. The weight of her breasts in my hands and the heave of every gasp. The squeeze of her thighs around me, their pressure delicately unrelenting. I sink my head to her chest and exhale, my breath running in waves down the shivering curves of her stomach to ignite a firestorm which begs to be taken. As I shift myself beneath her and lunge for the finishing strike, I can hear the noose tighten around my neck… Feel the needle as it punctures the final resistance of my skin… Taste the growing surge of electricity… But only as I pierce the veil do I see.

Thrusting upward as she drives herself down with a primal scream, I forego my last meal, my last rites, my last hope, in a rush to reach the ultimate burial. Like a curtain pulled back to the light of mid-morning, I throw my eyes open to bask in the glare of her impalement. She is me. I am her. And again, as it always was, we are one. There is nothing for me beyond these four walls. All that I crave is inside her. As her thighs hit roughly down onto my lap, the room fills with a blinding intensity. Completion. Fusion. Heaven and Hell swirl in the thrash of her hair and the sink of her claws into my back. Where she goes, I will follow. When she comes, I’ll join her.

She is the brink, my point of no return. My iron bars and silken dream. She tightens in my arms, her senses wracked and overwhelmed, as the suffocation consumes us both. And as I feel her muscles coil to release the rapture I’ve unlocked…

***

 

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In the Eye of the Storm

With a flick of the tongue just inside her knee, he unleashed a tempest, swirling violently against her every thrash. At the mercy of the storm, her adrenaline rolled in waves. At first gentle and lapping like a breeze across her skin, it now crashed with surging intensity. Angry. Hungry. The bristle of his cheek scratched like a tickle of mist up the most sensitive stretch of her flesh, stirring her thoughts into a deafening din that no longer offered any guidance but for the pounding need to take more.

Blinded by the maelstrom, she roiled­—craving stripped of logic to well up from deep inside. Breaching the surface and drenching the sheets with each abrupt scream she let go. The onslaught weakened her defenses and strengthened her resolve as she bucked hard against the rising tide.

“Who is this force of nature?” she pondered quietly amid the roar, “and what have I done to release him?”

As reason fractured within her, he pushed on unrelenting, weathering her mounting need while inching his way closer to port. She grasped. She clawed. She feigned every effort to fight back his advance but the wash rose higher still, threatening her last vestige of sanctuary even as she spread wider to encourage his assault. Closer he came. Closer…inching in with cataclysmic intent and raw, torturous deliberation.

As the first lashes made landfall at the parting of her thighs, her back arched tersely skyward, cresting just as a primal howl filled the air. Was his intention to break her, deplete her, rinse away the final shreds of her willpower in one last deluge of resistance? Whatever his desire, she would eagerly hand it over for just one taste of the completion his lips silently promised. He now owned her entirely, his own personal hurricane on the tip of his tongue, just waiting to be set loose on the world.

Pulling back against every impulse he had to impale her, he stalled for one moment longer, just enough time to question what might come next. There he waited—listening for the slowing of her heartbeat, breathing in her unmistakable arousal, feeling the fade of her tremors through his fingers. Her skin jumped with the jolt of invisible lightning strikes. Thunder rumbled in her throat. Temptation circled like the eye of a wicked storm, seductive as it is inevitable. And just as she dared attempt to refill her lungs…

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A “MasterClass” in Subservience?

Let me say this up front, please pardon the rant to come. As a general rule, it isn’t my style to dig into the business of others but I do feel a protective instinct toward my fellow writers—especially the gifted and less experienced among us.
Here it is, a humble opinion for whatever it’s worth. Something really rubs me the wrong way about this James Patterson “co-author competition” and those of its kind every time they spam my social media page. Yes, “there are a lot of people who have the talent.” Ironically, Mr. Patterson is not one of them. And honestly, given his reputation as a notorious hack who outsources every word he puts his name on, I’m not entirely sure why any legitimate new author would risk attaching their name to his for one phantom shot at glory.
Seriously, $90 for what amounts to a lottery ticket granting the winner the “opportunity” to write his next book for him and put your name under his? Let’s have some dignity, guys. The sob stories and con jobs I see littering the comments on these posts only further the reality that this entire scam is a last-ditch dramatic effort, a plea cast into the void that blind luck will work where hard work has failed.
“Oh, Mr. Patterson, you are such a wonderful man and writer…”
“Oh, Mr. Patterson, I have always idolized you and looked up to you, and named my first three children after you…”
Enough! Let’s be clear about this, I don’t begrudge the man his empire built on the backs of others. There is definite genius in his method. Still, I would like to believe that any true author who has the talent and a vision of their own, however rough the road they’ve traveled, values their ability and place in the world more than this. I support the little guy, however big he may become. He (or, of course, she) is the one who did the work and survived the strafing gunfire to crawl back up out of the trenches. The one who made a name of their own without any interest in having someone else do it for them. Why hitch your rising star to a sinking ship? Why pay through the nose for the illusory hope of leveraging your own future to line another’s pockets?
It is “programs” like these that play on the dreams of so many—the quick strike of riches we seem to believe any brush with celebrity surely brings. They blind us to the glaring reality of their substance with frilly promises of things that never will be. They prey on the allure of wealth without the work—perhaps the only skill their kind are truly qualified to teach. But at the end of the day, who wins and who loses?
It is one thing to throw your money at the chance to learn writing from a man notorious for not writing. I doubt that’s the greatest harm that could come of it. No, perhaps the greatest threat of all would be the prospect of actually winning. Of becoming the next in line to have their dream hollowed out, fed on by the vampires of verbiage and then left behind, forgotten, a husk too broken to refill.
Take your chance if you must. Line up, buy a ticket, and pray to the gods of writing that they deliver you the quick score. Offer yourself up as the sacrifice of the day. It’s undoubtedly easier than waking to continue the good fight tomorrow. I know we live in a reality TV world and there may be no going back from this ledge. But ask yourself this—do you want to be famous, or do you want to be legitimate?
Sure the two can co-exist. When done right, they often do. But you don’t gain respect by achieving fame, especially not of the fifteen minute variety. You earn your fame through the respect you deserve. I’m sure a lot of us writers often ask ourselves, “why do we do it?” It’s a reality check that can’t be checked often enough.
Do you do it out of love for the craft? Out of compulsion that cannot be quelled? If so, then you already have my admiration and that of the industry at large.
Do you do it because it would be cool to be rich and shoot to a mountaintop with no particular view? Well then, I’ve got a class you might be interested in…

Five Days and Counting… MALEDICTION

countdown graphic to launch of Malediction: Rise of the Crimson Confessions, an erotic romantic suspense novel by author J.D. Lexx

Excerpt.

*****

As soon as I penetrated the sweltering heat between her lips, I sprung to life across her tongue, engorging with the very blood that fled my extremities until her mouth strained to contain me. First, my eyes rolled back in sheer bliss at the all-consuming warmth, and then at the skill with which she applied it. With each stifled moan that vibrated through her throat and into my flesh, she not only enhanced her raw sexual value but left me increasingly curious about the kind of bad decisions that lead a woman like this here, of all places.

Pulled free from a descending haze of my own, I looked down to marvel at her enthusiasm, only to find those eyes still locked on mine. Damn, the girl learned quickly. Flashing a glint of bravado that endeared her all the more, she pulled me briefly from her pursed lips and asked again, just as earlier in the day, “You like, yes?”

As if empowered by my approval, she immediately doubled her efforts, tightening her grip and flicking her tongue in playfully erratic lashes. With the slightest shift, she adjusted her angle and drove down with even greater force, burying my entire length and swallowing deeply to engage muscles that sent me reeling.

Only once I opened my eyes again did I notice the burning attention cast down from our host and his illustrious, voyeuristic gathering—a handful of whom wore outfits virtually identical to those ladies on the floor. It seemed that even a few fellow guests had opted to stay behind and ogle, having long since cast their own conquests aside.

While it has never been my style to put on a public exhibition, it’s not like I could drag her to a more secluded location. As much as I cringed at the barbaric notion, she was not mine to take. I had to respect the reality that, in such a strictly supervised environment, she was borrowed property to be enjoyed at the watchful discretion of the master.

With the reasoning centers of my brain already thoroughly frozen and my inhibition drunken at best, our audience could have ordered pizza and called over friends for all I cared. I had a hotter, tighter, and infinitely more gripping engagement ready to drop in my lap.

“Get off that cold floor,” I urged, coaxing myself free of her insatiable grip and ordering her upright—vulnerable, exposed, and simpering at my whim. “Turn around.” Of all the commands so far laid down, I found it fascinating that only this one prompted a distinct moment of hesitation.

“Yes, sir.” She spoke to the ground as she turned away, tightening every muscle as if preparing for an unseen but inevitable assault.
Leaning forward, I rested one outstretched hand over the small of her back. Feeling the raised lash marks for the first time only triggered further anger toward any beast that would so irreparably desecrate such a treasure. My other hand dug firmly into her hip as I pushed forward, forcing her over at the waist and then lifting the tattered dress to expose her entirely.

With her legs spread slightly, she struggled to maintain balance against the pressure of my palm, sparking the more wicked recesses of my imagination even as I battled to differentiate myself from the men behind those marks. Try as I might, I simply couldn’t help myself. Did that make me a monster as well?

*****

MALEDICTION: Rise of the Crimson Confessions.

Coming March 20.

In Just Six Days… MALEDICTION

Book cover for Malediction: Rise of the Crimson Confessions, an erotic romantic suspense novel by author J.D. Lexx

Excerpt

*****

     With every step I took, her thighs parted instinctively wider, until my feet stood frozen at the walkway’s edge. Perhaps sensing the trepidation, and most likely feeding off it, she urged me inside the sphere of light with a flirtatious curl of her finger. Her other hand dangled a pair of strappy shoes between her legs, hiding my prize until I finally caved and took it by force.
“How badly do you want me?” She teased without mercy, looking up with innocent eyes as I stood directly above her. I’m sure she planned to nurture the game for at least a while longer, but I was too far gone. Lost in the unapologetic lunacy of our surroundings, I slapped her wandering hand from the bulge in my jeans and pinned her wrist hard against the cold marble overhead.
Emboldened by the one gasp, I treated myself to another as I ripped the shoes from her grasp and pulled her second wrist up to meet the first.
Offering a token struggle against my power play, she writhed and thrashed, working herself into an incoherent frenzy before whispering the words, “My purse.”
I reached for her small bag and emptied its contents across the stonework, immediately catching sight of a short length of rope. This dirty girl came prepared. And I was all too happy to oblige.
“Don’t move,” I ordered as I retrieved the rope and wrapped it around the obelisk, fastening her hands in a rough knot. With her upper body secured, I stood no chance. I simply couldn’t help myself. I gripped her dress at both shoulders and ripped the fabric down her body, sinking my teeth into each exposed nipple. Her nails clawed helplessly at the stone above, which only encouraged me to dig deeper until she unleashed her first primal scream of the night.
Perhaps a bit premature in my victory, I stepped back to allow my prey a single, unhindered breath. As her lungs filled with a second, however, I tugged her lower half to the second stone landing, shaking loose the oxygen on impact and placing her arched body entirely at my whim. At that point, I couldn’t have cared less who might stumble across us. In this one impossible moment, I had her right where she wanted me. And I would take my fill.
Dropping to my knees on the wet grass before her, I flashed a mischievous smile of my own and spread her legs wider. She writhed violently as my tongue hit the warm flesh of her inner thigh, growing more feral as I traced a lazy trail to within breathing distance of her dripping heat.
Oh good, so I’m not the only one suffering.
All the same, I had no intention of making it that easy. Oh sure, I teased with the promise of a finishing strike, blowing gently across the dampness to ensure her absolute attention. But as I pulled my lips away and rested my tongue just inside her other knee, I could feel those thoughts of revenge toward another melting away, rolling down her skin in tangible droplets of need. Indeed, the more ruthlessly I tormented her sensations, the more I became the one deserving of punishment.
As I traced my way back up her thigh, I paused just short of my target to playfully inquire, “And how badly do you want me?”
She stopped her moaning just long enough to stare me down with a growl that I placed somewhere between sensual and animal. This time, I took the hint, burying my face between her legs once more, exploring every delicate fold until that growl grew into a scream more primal and orgasmic than anything I’ve heard since.

*****

MALEDICTION: Rise of the Crimson Confessions.

Coming March 20.

***MALEDICTION COVER REVEAL***

There are markers along the road to any great destination, reminders in retrospect of the distance one has traveled and of those who have helped along the way. For me, today ranks high on that list, in part because I get to share it with all of you.

Today, I get to unveil another facet of a project so long in the making that I’d begun to doubt it would ever happen at all.

Today, I finally get to make a proper introduction.

At long last, meet the face that launched a thousand sins, and the start of a new novel series. Staying faithful to the story within, I needed a cover that leaps across genre lines and blurs the boundaries between worlds—one that whispers of mystery while screaming passionate intrigue. I hope I’ve accomplished some of that here.

For now, let’s call her ‘V’—an allusion some readers will instantly recognize. I’d love nothing more than to tell you her story, and how it came to drive my own, but that’s going to have to wait…at least a few days longer. In the meantime, feel free to get acquainted. And be sure to pre-order your copy of Malediction between now and March 20th for a special discounted price.

PRE-ORDER: http://goo.gl/Dko6Jc

 

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So what do you think? I’d love to hear from you.

Writer and Reader: Still the Greatest Partnership in Publishing

Dear Reader,

While we writerly types love to throw words around at the slightest provocation, there’s one thing we don’t say nearly enough (and yes, the shame is palpable). Thank you.

You, the reader, are the ultimate raison d’être for any fledgling author with hopes of professional and artistic success. While we write to live and live to write, we wouldn’t exist without you. And what fun would it be if we could?

Please keep this in mind if you’re ever approached by a wordsmith in search of your support. If you believe in what we’re doing and the quality of our work, please don’t keep it to yourself. Leave a review that might catch the eye of another who comes after you. Share with like-minded friends this newly discovered jewel in the rough. And revel in the knowledge that you’re making a genuine difference.

We don’t ask it to appease some inflated sense of self, but because a simple gesture from you might help change the course of our career. It may just open new avenues and create connections that would not have existed otherwise.

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