Chapters
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
PROLOGUE
Life is not always a matter of holding good cards, but sometimes, playing a poor hand well.
~ Jack London
Life sometimes gives you a shitty hand. Sometimes you find you’re with a shitty man. But a shitty plan? That’s on you, bitch.
~ Jessica L. Rogers
MY NAME IS JESSICA L. ROGERS.
The L stands for Lestat. Yes, the vampire. My mother was a lifelong fan of Anne Rice. Sometimes, I wish my mom had been a vampire, so she'd still be around. I'd like to be able to call her when I need a good cry. It doesn't happen often, but when it does, nothing beats mom.
My dad's still alive. We talk on Skype every few months. He lives in Thailand, mostly retired. He plays internet poker to supplement his social security. When the American government outlawed online poker in 2011, my dad and many other players move overseas.
I still play online today, but I have to use a proxy.
I love poker just about more than anything.
Well, not more than true love.
Or food. Or sex. Or fucking.
Or vampires.
Okay, more than vampires. After all, poker made a few things possible: my new house, my new car, and my insane shoe collection.
In pokers favor, over love, I know for sure it exists. True love, real intimate friendship and passionate love, I'm not so sure the concepts aren’t just fantasy.
My mom's hobby was contagious. I inherited her collection of vampire books, travel souvenirs, and gothic knickknacks. When I finally got rid of boxes and boxes of Beta-Max and VHS tapes, I had about seven hundred books and novels about vampires: Dracula, lore & legends, books that purported to be true, film guides, trivia, and travel books.
I also inherited a collection of first edition Anne Rice books, all in pristine condition, some of them flat signed. There is one with a short personal note inscribed to my mother dated a year before she died.
If I ever meet Anne Rice, I want to give her a huge hug and thank her.
You think seven hundred books is a lot?
I donated boxes and boxes more.
I struggled when it came to giving away the lesbian vampire pulp, but honestly, thinking about my mother reading vampire erotica -- it freaked me out. It's like finding your dad's porn. It's just kinda gross -- no judgments.
I was born in 1985. August fifth. So my birthday is 8-5-85. That made me extra lucky, or at least, that's what I always claim at the poker table. Being proud, cocky, aggressive, and ruthless at the poker table is mostly a man's world thing. Trust me on this, I know. But guess what?
I'm fucking amazing at poker.
If you doubt that, boss or bitch, I'm easy to find. Whenever I'm in a new casino it causes a bit of a commotion: it's not every day that the first woman to win the main event at the World Series of Poker sits down at a ring game to milk the whales.
Poker is poker.
I don't win every time, nobody does.
Poker is like love in this regard.
But if you're smart, patient, a bit ruthless, cunning, clever, a bastard (or the proverbial bitch in my case), and you understand the game: winning is like getting men to stare at your cleavage.
Easy.
I wish men were as simple to figure out.
Actually, I take that back. Figuring out the male species is simple enough, it's finding an available man, who isn't a liar, a thief, an abuser, or an under-employed loser, that is hard. Especially if you have some standards: decent looking, takes care of himself (mind and body), and understands empathy.
Empathy and kindness, those are the biggies to me.
And I’d like him to fuck like a stallion, I’m greedy that way.
One more thing: I never date poker players.
There's never a bigger group of degenerate losers congregated in one spot than at any major poker tournament on the circuit.
I WON FAT STACKS in the world's most famous poker game. I don't like to talk about how much, although if you own any smart device, you can look it up. I think it's rude to discuss a woman's bank account, her age, or her previous sex partners. Exception: talking about former lovers is okay if she brings it up. Which, by the way, I do.
I love to chat, gossip, talk about two things: great poker and great fucks. Poker chips and magic dicks.
I DECIDED LAST WEEK (I made a vow to myself) that in the next year or so—never hold a woman to an exact time—that I'd date fifty-two men.
One man for each card in a standard deck of cards.
Fifty-two Pickup.
You see: one of the mistakes I see my girlfriends make (and they do it over and over again) is that they play the dealt cards as if they don't believe the dealer is going to shuffle and deal another two. And another two after that.
You don't have to play shit cards. No, really, you don't.
Sometimes in poker--as in life--you end up playing shitty cards and winning. It happens. But you can’t make a habit of it. Don't expect crappy hands like 6-5 off-suit to do anything except cost you money in the long run.
Another piece of advice: pocket aces, while the best hand, has a reputation (well earned) of giving small wins and massive losses. Sort of like the college love affair with the pre-med student. Sure, he's going to become a doctor, but he's also going to dump your ass a long time before the big vacation house in Aspen is a reality. I've seen it happen.
So my plan: Play a lot of hands, just like in poker. Fifty-two cards, fifty-two men.
Cut the losses. Build on the wins. Fifty-two hand-selected guys—using modern technology of course—one year invested--and hopefully a big fucking wedding on Maui when it's all said and done.
Or Paris.
I'm willing to compromise.
Always.
That's the key to great relationships.
CHAPTER ONE
I have been so long master
that I would be master still
or at least that none other
should be master of me.
~ The Count Dracula
Be in control of your chips, your stack, your emotions, your orgasms, and your journey. Don’t be in control of other people unless you’re breastfeeding them.
~ Jessica
PATRICK COLLINS had picked me up less than twenty-four hours previously and had taken me to the hangar where he stores his airplanes. Technically, at least in my mind, we were officially on our third date--which was a good thing--because I don’t like to break my own rules.
First date: Coffee. Maybe a glass of wine. Meet at a public place. A cheek kiss is fine.
Second date: Dinner or lunch. If all goes well, no hinky feelings, no creeper vibes, it’s deep kissing time.
Third date: If I agree to a third date it means he was a good kisser on date two and I wanted to fuck him then.
I like to practice
patience in all things.
Patrick (or Pat or Rick, depending on what story he was telling) was third date material, which was fortunate because he was about to get lucky.
“You want to grab the joystick?”
“Ummmmm.”
“I mean for the plane, but — ”
“Don’t embarrass yourself. Tell me what to do.”
“When I say you have the airplane it’ll mean I’ve released control to you. Just don’t do anything drastic and we’ll live through this.”
“You sure?”
“I explained all things you need to know to be able to bank left or right or climb a bit. You can dive the plane, but don’t go nuts. You’ll feel it in your stomach, especially if you go too drastically. If we hit any bad patches of turbulence, I’ll take over. If I say, 'I have the airplane' you say back to me 'you have the airplane' and release the controls. Got it?”
I did, and it was fantastic.
The sense of power and the feeling of flight, it was as close to being a bird as one could come, except for being in a dream. Speaking of coming — being in control of flying machine with a hot man was working me up.
When he’d shown me how the controls worked, he put his hands on mine. Soft, but dominate. Very hot. I needed--wanted--desired--more contact.
“Does this have an autopilot mode?”
“But of course.”
“Can you show me?”
He knew I was teasing. I like a man that can take a clue. Most men can--but not all can act on them. Fear of rejection is a powerful motivator. I use this knowledge on the poker tables against weaker players. Their pride is so fragile that they’d rather fold a good hand than be beaten by a woman. It’s the alpha wolves you have to watch out for, they have pride too, but their courage is such that they can take the loss of a battle because they believe they are going to win the war.
I didn’t know if Patrick was a wolf, but he was an alpha. He explained that he had to maintain a presence in the cockpit, but the plane did have a very stable auto-piloting system.
“You said cockpit,” I whispered in his ear, emphasizing 'cock'.
“I did.” He leaned into me.
First kisses tell a story. It’s up to you to listen to them.
His kiss was bold. His tongue entered my mouth and guided mine as if they there drifting in unison with the plane. Perhaps it was just the butterflies growing in my belly, but I was feeling giddy and lightheaded. His right hand slid past my ear and his spreading fingers ran through my hair. His nails (which were manicured perfectly —better than mine, actually) ran along my scalp.
I eased out of the kiss and spoke in a breathless voice, “God, that feels like a shampoo massage...”
“A good thing?”
“Don’t stop.” I leaned into him. He kissed me with force and thrust, while at the same time, he moved both of his hands to my scalp. Ten fingers rubbed, probed, stroked as his tongue explored deep into my mouth. Then he backed off, kissed my lips, the corners of my mouth, and then my ears.
God. Wet panties?
No, drenched.
Anticipation.
He slowed his massaging and moved his hands to my shoulders. He rubbed them gently and asked, “You’re not tense, are you?”
“No, it’s just kind of freaky being up here. I mean, we aren’t going to crash?”
“No.” He pulled off his shirt. His skin was light cocoa, his abs tight, biceps, well defined. He was cleanly shaven. Or waxed. Or sugared. I didn’t think it was the time to ask. I moved in and kissed his chest, starting below his left nipple. I slowly worked up. It was erect, like a woman’s, but smaller, the circle of dark brown responding as if it had goose bumps encircling it. I ran my tongue around it and then moved to its pair. Fairness.
“Can I help you?” he said. He took off my blouse.
I said nothing as he helped me.
Impressively, or perhaps as a warning, he removed my bra with more ease than I could do myself considering it had a new clasp design. I’d bought several sets of sexy lingerie from a new Victoria’s Secret line; this set was lacy, black, sexy, and expensive.
He’d seen it on me for approximately two point five seconds.
My breasts were free. My nipples hard in anticipation. He mirrored what I’d done to his nipples. Sexy and cute. I like a lover who mirrors. It shows they are paying attention.
We kissed again, our chests crushing together. For the longest time, we simply kissed like teenagers in the back seat of a borrowed mini-van. It was refreshing. I like a man that doesn’t need to stick his dick into me in the first five minutes. Guys: get the motor running and warmed up before you go into turbocharger mode.
He brought his hands to my breasts and cupped them, gently at first, but as I moaned with pleasure, he worked them harder, occasionally dropping his face from mine to kiss my nipples, lubricating them with the mixture of our combined moisture. Hot. I reached my hands to his sides, caressing his abs, feeling the warm skin from pecs to hips. I brought my right hand across his stomach, tracing his muscles, and felt the tip of his stiff cock rub across my wrist.
He said, “Oh.”
I said, “When the hell did you take your pants off? Are you a magician too?”
“No. I was getting crushed in there. You don’t mind?”
I answered him without words.
Blowjob, Fellatio, hummer, playing the skin flute, suck off, head, giving head, a Lewinski, and many other monikers and slang terms (some not so nice, even for an open-minded sex goddess like myself), all mean the same thing: a trip to heaven for a man.
Do you want to own a man? I mean really? Give good head. I’ve never once had one of my girlfriends say to me, “He broke up with me right after I gave him the best head of his life.”
I don’t know if it’s ever happened in the history of the universe.
You can fake it, sure. But I wasn’t faking. I figure that since I love a man going down on me, I should be equally gifted and willing to reciprocate. Fairness and equality make for a better world.
Patrick’s cock swelled even more as I brought my mouth down over his shaft. I took it as deep as I could manage. Fucking in an airplane isn’t easy, let me tell you. I shifted my weight down to my feet so I could leverage myself up and then back down. My right hand grasped his thigh, my elbow providing an anchor, and with my left hand, I found his balls. He moaned out again as a gathered his sack into the 'O' created between my forefinger and thumb. Gentle tugging, I swear his dick grew even longer and swelled to the point of bursting. I could feel pre-cum on my tongue as I gently licked his tip, giving my jaw a moment to relax.
Then I plunged, he cried out, and I rose again and plunged again.
Over and over, my head moved like a piston, I worked his ball sack and then concentrated, slowly, deliberately, on the purple swollen glans, the pleasure dome on a man. His yang to my yin. Or something like that. I wasn’t thinking clearly anymore at this point; my pussy had literally begun to throb.
“Don’t make me cum. Not yet, I need to taste you.”
He wanted to mirror again. Fucking hot.
I dropped my capris and my panties, which I swear felt like they’d just come out of a humid jungle. He guided me to my knees, explaining that he was required to stay in the pilot's seat and maintain, at least to some degree, a controlling presence.
“I’ll hear the controls if something comes up on the radar. Don’t worry; the auto-pilot will keep us steady and on a safe course.”
On my knees, with my ass facing him, I had one hand placed on the control panel. I wasn't even considering the fact that I could--with one slip--accidentally bump a vital control and send us to our deaths. I was too out of my mind at that point to think rationally. My other hand found a hold and thank God because when he sunk his tongue into the folds of my sex, parting my lips, I nearly fell over. My body shuttered. I convulsed. I shook. I moaned.
He had the tongue of a giraffe, I fucking swear, I don’t know how it mad
e it so deep into my pussy. He started fast, licking and sucking. Then I felt his hand reach around my thigh and he touched my clit as if he was stroking a feather over granite. His tongue stopped moving, he rested in my folds and gently moved his entire body. Applying more pressure--then less--then more--then less: I was ready to explode.
More, then less.
More, then less!
Fuck!
The feather light touch on my clit was too much.
“Do something, fuck me, I have to come.” I pushed myself backward onto his tongue, and he thrust it forward. Using his flesh like a sword, he plunged it into me. I could feel his fingers work my knotted, swollen, eager-to-fire-pleasure-to-the-brain clit. The greatest pinnacle of evolution, the wonder of wonders, the magic maker. Halleluiah!
I shouted out in a gasp.
My brain has since erased all the memories of the sounds I made--the pleasure, joy, and intense heat turning me into a primal animal. I know I cried out, “Fuck! Sweet Jesus. Fuck me.” My breathing eventually slowed. My breasts heaved with each breath, and I became dizzy, the adrenaline rush overpowering me. I turned around and sat upright. Another breath. Another. I inhaled and exhaled, trying to find my breath.
“Oh, fuck,” I said.
“God, you’re a beauty in the aftermath,” he said. “I wish I could be inside you right now. I think my cock is going to burst.”
It was true; his fleshly joystick reminded me of those old movies with bi-planes, the pilots controlling the plane with a phallic control stick between their legs.
“How can we do this? When you said cock, my pussy tightened. I think it’s a sign.”
“You’ll have to mount me right here. I can’t leave the seat.”
I didn’t need to be asked twice.
It was a tight fit. I mean that literally, and as in a double entendre. His thick member slid into me as I lowered myself over him, moving my knees to the sides of his thighs (and getting a couple of bruises in the process).
“Wait,” he said.
I’d been pumping up and down like a horse on a carousel, and he placed his strong hands on my shoulders and pressed me down. He held me there, tight, locked into place. I could feel his cock move, slightly, slowly, torturously.
Fifty-Two Pickup: Aces (Jessica Rogers Book 1) Page 1