Passion in Portland 2016 Anthology

by Anthology

  I began staying up late into the night, trying to keep my eyes open as I watched infomercials or reruns of Happy Days and Gilligan’s Island, just so that when I went to bed I’d fall into a deep sleep. If I did dream, I didn’t remember anything in the morning, which was a relief. I didn’t want him consuming my every thought. I didn’t want to be so damn attracted to him. He was aggravating and so full of himself, thinking he could call me a fraud when he knew nothing about me. I was a woman, and as such I knew how I wanted to be treated – I knew how I wanted a man to gaze into my eyes and pour his heart out to me, telling me how much he loved me and wanted to spend the rest of his life proving it to me. I knew what it was like to be treated like shit. I knew what it was like to be cheated on. I knew what it was like to be dumped by virtue of a text message. I knew how I didn’t want to be treated. All I’d done to write my stories was taken those feelings and experiences and imagined the opposite. It wasn’t rocket science, and it seemed to be working for me.

  After two weeks had passed, I was busy working on a novella for an anthology I was going to be part of and enjoying the story I was writing. It was short and sweet and I knew that true romantics would eat it up. I was keeping it PG rated and loving the challenge of writing a great story without relying on some erotic scenes to keep it spicy. I was tasked with writing sharp and snappy dialog between my two main characters and loving the banter back and forth. I wasn’t feeling like a fraud, not one bit.

  One late afternoon, early evening I suppose, there was a knock on my door and when I peeked through the peep hole, all I saw were flowers. I cautiously opened the door and there stood Jackson, a bouquet of spring blossoms in his hand, outstretched to me.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, looking contrite. “I can be an ass sometimes.”

  “I know,” I smirked but accepted the flowers, bringing them to my nose and inhaling their glorious scent. Bringing me flowers was a good way to start an apology. I just might be able to forgive him.

  “I just think that you could be such a great writer.”

  “Could be?” I snarled. Maybe I wouldn’t be forgiving him, despite the flowers.

  “You know what I mean,” he sighed.

  “No. I don’t!” I huffed. “Explain it to me.”

  “May I come in? I’d prefer not to have this conversation in the hall.”

  “Fine,” I muttered as I stepped aside.

  With Jackson settled in an arm chair, I placed the flowers into a simple glass vase and filled it with water, then placed it in the middle of my small dining table. They looked delightful despite the ass who’d delivered them. I then turned my attention to Jackson who was watching my every move.

  “I read your story about the NBA player and the model, The Face of Love. It was really well written. You did a terrific job of drawing the reader in, allowing them to feel every emotion the characters felt. It was really, really good.”

  “So you’ve said,” I grumbled.

  “And then,” he continued, his hands moving forward, palms facing upwards. “You write this unbelievable, raunchy piece of fiction that is nothing more than written porn for women!” He was almost shouting at me. “Yeah, it may have been a bestseller, but still. Where was the emotion? Where was the angst? Where was the story that pulled at your heart and made the reader feel?” He stood up and was pacing back and forth, now wringing his hands as he spoke. “A love story is more than two people getting hot and heavy in the backseat of a car. Have you ever had sex in the backseat of a car? It’s not that easy and it certainly isn’t an experience that would give a woman multiple orgasms. Not the way you described it, anyway.”

  “Maybe you’re not as good as other men at making women feel pleasure,” I snapped. “Just because you couldn’t do it doesn’t mean others can’t.”

  “You don’t get it, Gina! What you wrote is not physically possible.”

  I desperately wished I could argue with him, but I had nothing to fight with; no experience, no memories, nothing.

  “If you’re going to write romance, then I suggest you get it right.”

  “This is your way of apologizing?” I was stunned at his audacity.

  “I’m not finished yet,” he grunted.

  “Get on with it then,” I demanded.

  And then I saw the look in his eyes… and it scared me... terrified me. I was like a deer in the headlights. He looked like a jaguar stalking his prey… and I was the prey.

  ~~~~~

  With one long step, he closed the distance between us and stood before me, his eyes dark and dangerous, heat emanating from his rock-hard body. Unconsciously, I licked my top lip and it was all the invitation he needed.

  Crushing my lips with his, his mouth took mine and devoured me. The kiss was nothing like I’ve ever experienced. It was passionate and desperate and it ignited a burning desire deep in my belly. His arms had forcefully pulled me to him, our bodies touching from toes to lips and everywhere in between. My hands felt the muscles in his back, hard and taut. I allowed myself to explore a little as I ran my fingers up the slight indentation of his spine and across his shoulder blades. I caught his breath in my mouth as he groaned and I shuddered as I felt him harden and press into my stomach.

  How could I allow him to dominate me like that when just moments before he had angered me to the point of wanting to pummel him with all the strength I could muster? How could I be enjoying his kisses when he had so arrogantly told me I knew nothing of romance and of men? These questions sobered me enough that my hands froze in place and my tongue withdrew from the dance he was so expertly leading. I took a breath and lifted my head, took a step out of his embrace and looked into his eyes.

  What I saw surprised me. I expected to see satisfaction and gloating. Instead, his eyes were hooded with desire and yearning, a sight that stole my breath from my lungs. How? Why? What the hell was going on?

  “If you want to be a great romance writer, then you need to understand romance,” he whispered as his finger traced my cheek down to my chin. “If you want to be a great romance writer, then you need to know what it is like to be loved.”

  I sucked in a breath as my lips parted and formed an O. It was the most sensual thing anyone had ever said to me.

  “Gina,” he spoke my name with such reverence as his thumb brushed across my lips.

  “I… I didn’t think you liked me much,” I sputtered.

  “Quite the opposite. I like you a whole lot,” he smiled and my whole body ached with a need I’d never known, as his fingers continued to drift softly over my skin. “From the moment I saw you in that sexy red dress I’ve been unable to think of anything, or anyone else. Thoughts of you invade my every waking moment and your eyes and soft pouty lips haunt me in my dreams at night.”

  “Oh,” I managed to eke out.

  “That’s why I read your books,” he explained. “To get more of you. And that’s when I discovered that you had no clue what love really was, and it made me want you even more. Let me love you, Gina.”

  Love me? He wanted to love me? He hardly knew me. I hardly knew him. But deep down in my gut, deep in my soul, I knew that there was something between us, something that I had felt instantly but had buried. He’d felt it too.

  I was scared – scared that what was happening between us was going too fast. I was scared that I was misreading him, that maybe he was just looking for a conquest and was playing me like the innocent fool that I was.

  “This isn’t something I say lightly,” he murmured, as though reading my thoughts and sensing my apprehension. “I have never felt this way before. There is a chemistry between us – one that I can’t deny, and don’t want to deny. You fascinate me. You intrigue me. You make me want to know more. You are stunning – the most beautiful woman I have ever laid eyes on and I want your face to be the last thing I see at night and the first thing I see every morning.”

  I took a step back, unable to breathe, and unable to decipher between fact and fiction. I’d written so m
any silly romances that it was hard to hear his words as genuine. It was all just way too sudden, and I couldn’t trust my reaction. My body was betraying me, urging me to return to his embrace and feel his mouth once again on mine, his tongue plunging in and tangling with mine. If I allowed myself to do so, I didn’t think I’d be able to stop and I couldn’t let myself get carried away.

  “I need to think,” I squeaked. “This is all too much.”

  “I don’t want you to be uncomfortable. I’ll give you some time,” he smiled. “But don’t make me wait very long,” he added as he bent his head and touched his warm lips to mine in a sweet kiss. “I’ll call you.”

  And then he was gone.

  ~~~~~

  My feet were cemented in place. I couldn’t tell you how long I remained standing there unable to move or even think! To say that I was shocked was an understatement. I had no idea that Jackson felt the way he did, and had even less of an idea that he’d be so bold in declaring his intentions. I couldn’t have come up with this plot line and thought it believable.

  But there I was, still rooted to the floor and feeling the pulsing heat rise through my body until it made me uncomfortable. I walked to the kitchen sink slowly and with purpose, making a physical effort to place one foot in front of the other in order to reach my destination. I took a glass from the cabinet overhead and filled it under the faucet and drank the cool water. It didn’t help ease the warmth in my cheeks.

  It was getting dark outside, the sun having already set. I knew the air would be cool so I grabbed my favorite Oregon Ducks hoodie and my purse and headed out to fill my lungs with fresh air. As I stepped through the door of my building, I inhaled deeply and closed my eyes, hoping to calm myself with each additional breath.

  I walked across the street, into the park, and found an empty bench by the small fountain. There were a few people milling about as they made their way home from work, or were headed to one of the many restaurants close by for dinner. I concentrated on my breathing and went over and over the conversation with Jackson in my head.

  Perhaps I’d become cynical over the years. Perhaps my relationships with jerks had left such a bad taste in my mouth that it blinded me to believing that a good and decent man could have feelings for me. Perhaps the book boyfriends I’d fallen in love with over and over again had made it impossible to fall for a regular guy. Perhaps I needed to put all that aside and look at Jackson as an individual rather than part of the male collective.

  Jackson Wright was a journalist, a writer, a gorgeous man with beautiful eyes and a sexy smile. And he liked me… and I liked him. Did I need to keep making a list or was that enough? Was it possible that he was the real reason I moved to Portland? Did my subconscious know something that my conscious mind hadn’t figured out yet?

  From the corner of my eye I caught the movement of someone sitting on the other end of the bench. I continued to stare forward at the fountain, although I didn’t really see it. My mind was so focused on Jackson that a unicorn could have stood before me and I wouldn’t have noticed. But when that body slid closer to me, I turned to see Jackson just inches from me, that sexy grin and captivating eyes holding my gaze as his hand took mine and laced our fingers together.

  “Have I given you enough time?” he chuckled softly. “It’s been torture waiting.”

  “It’s been like thirty minutes,” I said, unable to stop the laugh that he’d elicited as he feigned agony, his other hand over his heart.

  “Twenty-nine minutes too long,” he replied.

  “I am a fraud,” I muttered to myself, and to him, almost in a confession. “I write about what I hope love is, what I hope romance is, because my experience with men has left me wanting. My experience has not been what dreams are made of. I want to experience the heat and passion that I write about. I want to feel like my life is so much more than a romance novel, but I have to find the man who can give me that. So I keep writing, hoping that somehow it fulfills me enough so I can live happily enough without the real thing.” I’d never said that out loud and the instant the words fell from my lips I figured I’d regret it. But I didn’t. And when I looked up at Jackson, I felt the tears stinging my eyes and I blinked and blinked again trying to keep them from falling and humiliating myself.

  “I’m sorry I called you a fraud,” he said gently as the palm of his hand cupped my cheek. “You’re not a fraud, Gina. You are a beautiful woman and I’ve been waiting for you to come into my life for a long time. And when you did, it scared me. How could I ever measure up to the perfect men you create? I will always be lacking to some degree and, I suppose, I was jealous of a fictional character and that just made me feel more ridiculous. But you know what?”

  I shook my head.

  “I think that even if I’m not as rich or as debonair as the heroes in your books, I can love you, and cherish you, and keep you warm at night. That’s something those guys can never do,” he grinned brightly. “So I think that they should be jealous of me.”

  I couldn’t help but giggle. I don’t normally giggle, but Jackson made me and it felt good. A traitorous tear escaped and rolled down my cheek. Jackson softly kissed it away and then brought his lips to mine.

  “We’ll be good together, you and I,” he whispered against my skin. “You will make me a better man and I will make you a better romance writer.”

  I kissed him back. And then I kissed him again.

  ~~~~~

  I have to admit that as good as the best steamy romance novel is, it’s not nearly as good as the real thing. Jackson Wright has managed to convince me of that. I pretended to need a lot of convincing.

  And, he was definitely right. He has made me a better writer. In fact, he helps me do research before I ever write a sex scene, just to make sure it’s all plausible and accurate. After all, I do have a responsibility to my readers. I want to give them the best fantasy possible. But I’ll let you in on a little secret – it’s no fantasy. I found my Mr. Right… I mean Mr. Wright ;)

  About the Author

  It doesn’t take a village just to raise a child, it also takes a village to publish a book. AJ Harmon was blessed with a village in her very own family.

  Instilled with the love of reading by her mother at a young age, AJ grew up believing in the fairytale ending. All her favourite books had one, so why shouldn’t she? Mr. Darcy and Elizabeth Bennett, and Jane Eyre and Mr. Rochester shaped her belief in the happily-ever-after.

  Born in Perth, Western Australia to English parents, AJ grew up on the beaches in the summer and studiously studying English, music and languages during the school year. Reading, dancing and cooking filled the rest of her time. Moving to the United States as a teenager opened her up to not only a new culture, but a faster paced life and eventually to her own Prince Charming as well. Now married for twenty-nine years to her sweetheart, AJ is still perfecting their own happy ending, and loving every minute of it.

  She and her husband have two children that she describes as “every mother’s dream.” Her son and son-in-law are stationed in North Carolina, and her daughter is an attorney in Washington. All are vital members of her ‘village’ and is thrilled to call them her best friends.

  When AJ came home one day from her accounting job and announced to her husband that she was writing a book--after the initial shock wore off--he immediately went to work on preparing marketing plans and strategies. As a small business marketing strategist, he was excited at the prospect of playing in the ‘big league’ with the giants of the publishing industry. Never shying away from a challenge, he was up to the task and took AJ on as his number one client. Turning to her son next, AJ has come to rely on him for most everything else. A computer and technical guru, he has been the one who takes a word document and turns it into a book ready for sale digitally or in paperback, among countless other tasks and projects.

  Playing with her dog, trying out new recipes and reading are some of the things that keep AJ busy when she’s not working, but her new found
career of writing romance novels is a source of delight and constant excitement. A USA Today bestselling author, AJ has published over twenty books and always has at least five or six in the “working” phase, with countless more characters in her head wanting their stories told too. Follow her on Amazon to stay up on her newest release.

  www.ajharmon.com

  www.facebook.com/authorAJHarmon

  http://www.amazon.com/author/ajharmon

  https://www.ajharmon.com/youtube

  https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/6888970.A_J_Harmon

  https://twitter.com/authorAJHarmon

  Chaser – Alex Rosa

  Like a shot of whiskey, sometimes life needs a chaser.

  Paige Erickson had no idea her best friend, Sean Benson, was the source to her newly found feelings until he tells her he’s leaving town.

  Will their last shift at the bar be their final goodbye, or will she finally take life straight up instead of on the rocks?

  Changing habits is not something I’ve ever been good at.

  And the need to lay eyes on Sean Benson is not a habit I was aware I had until this very moment.

  I force my stare to the worn, faded mahogany of the bar, knowing that 7:00pm is fast approaching. I’ve been rubbing a dirty towel in circles in the same spot for at least five minutes and when the dull jingle of the double doors makes it over the sounds of the band on stage starting up their set, I try to remember to breathe.

  My inability to do this vital life function is riddled in the fact that I got into the very first argument with my best friend. The same best friend walking through the door.