by Alexis Angel
I can’t help but laugh, and Toby joins in. “I should fucking hope so after an episode like that,” he jokes, rising to his feet next to us. “So, I guess this means the infamous Jake Kent has finally tired of hearing women scream his name?”
Jake looks down at me, his eyes full of something that looks a whole lot like...well...love. I hate to be that girl that needs constant affirmation. That’s so not me. But it’s been a few days. Maybe Jake was just caught up in the moment when he told me he loved me.
“There’s only one woman I want to hear scream my name, and that’s Layla.” He lowers his head to mine and kisses me softly on the lips. “I love you, Layla.”
Oh my God. This man is known for two things. His magic tongue, and his ability to use words to really get a woman to open up to him. The first one I’ve experienced more than enough to know that he’s the real deal. The second? Well, I think Jake Kent may have just swept me right off my feet.
“I love you, too,” I say, a little dizzy from how fast this conversation switched gears. “And I’ll make sure you never get tired of hearing me scream your name. But you better not get out of practice now that you don’t have a show to film every night.”
“That’s why I have you.”
Jake
Toby’s taken to his new role like an old pro. What did I tell you? He learned from the best.
It’s only been a few days since he’s taken the reins for A Cunning Linguist, but already the feedback is amazing. The audience goes crazy for him, ratings are strong, and there has been a new rush of applicants who want to be on the show. Plenty to keep Toby busy for a long time.
I stand in the wings with my arm around Layla and watch as he interviews the latest guest. He hasn’t even touched her yet and she’s already moaning. I laugh. He’s right where he wants to be.
When he gets on his knees and starts giving his guest an off the charts pussy licking, Layla turns to me, giggling.
“So, do you miss this? Being on the show, taking over the world one orgasm at a time?”
I wrap my arms tighter around her and turn her to face me. “I do like being on TV,” I muse. “But I don’t miss being the Cunning Linguist at all.”
“Oh really?” she teases. “You sure one woman is going to be enough for you?”
Cocking an eyebrow, I look at her suspiciously. “Are you suggesting you already want to spice up our sex life?”
She laughs, throwing her head back. I take the opportunity to kiss along her neck, trailing my tongue along her sweet skin, up to her jaw, and then finally settling on her lips. The woman onstage starts to scream some incoherent string of words as another one of Toby’s mind-blowing orgasms rips through her. The dude has decided to up the stakes. He says the show needs to bring its A-game. No less than three orgasms per episode—all for the same woman, of course.
Smiling against Layla’s lips, I shake my head, then pull back a few inches and look at her.
“Seriously, though, you are the only woman I could ever want or need.”
She gives me this look like I’ve just made her insides go all gooey. That’s my cue.
Dropping to one knee, I pull out a small velvet box from my pocket and look up at the woman I’m totally, madly in love with.
Her hands fly to her mouth, her eyes widen, and she whispers, “Jake…”
I laugh. Guess we really are friends now because she hasn’t called me Jacob once since my last episode of ACL.
“I love you, Layla. I want to let the whole world know how much. You’re the only woman I ever want for the rest of my life.” I thought out this proposal in my head, wondering how best to word it. Proposals run the risk of being too sappy and ridiculous. I’m not that guy. I finally figured out where to go with it. Grinning, I open up the ring box, and the five-carat diamond shimmers and sparkles, light reflecting off its perfectly cut facets.
“If you’ll have me, I promise to never let you down. Every night without fail,” I cross my heart with my fingers then hold my hand up, “I do solemnly swear to go down on you until you have no less than five orgasms. So what do you say? Will you marry me?”
I fight to keep a straight face, but when she breaks into laughter, I lose it. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I couldn’t resist.” Then I take her hand in mine, suddenly feeling just as solemn as I pretended to be only seconds ago. “But I’m serious. I want you to be my wife. Marry me, Layla.”
She nods, her eyes glittering with tears. “Yes. Of course.” Then she stops me just before I put the ring on her finger. “With one stipulation.”
I wrinkle my brow. “What?”
“It’s only fair that two get to play at this game.”
“What are you suggesting?”
She grins mischievously. “Nightly blowjobs.”
Fuck. Yes.
See, what did I tell you? This girl? Perfect. And she’s mine.
Jake
“So, Claire, tell us,” my beautiful wife says conspiratorially to the woman sitting in the chair across from us, “which one had the biggest cock?”
The audience laughs. This has become a regular bit on the new show The O Connection that I host with Layla. Layla Kent.
Yep, we’re married now, and it’s been a wild ride. That promise we made the night we got engaged? We’re still going strong.
“Well, Layla,” the guest says, dropping her voice and leaning forward, “I’d have to say—”
“Whoa, ladies, hang on.” I break up the conversation like I do every week. “We all know it’s not about the size.”
Layla just looks at me, deadpan. “And you’d know this because…?”
I grin and wink at the camera. “I’m just saying. It takes a lot more than a big cock to satisfy a woman.”
“I’ll agree with you there,” Layla says, giving me a heated look that has the audience getting all riled up again. They fucking love us together. Our chemistry on camera is off the charts. I don’t think it’s too much to say that we’re the main reason they tune in to our show week after week.
“Fine,” Layla continues, “I’ll ask a different question. Which of the men was the most sexually satisfying?”
“Now we’re getting somewhere,” I say, getting ready to dig in to what I’m best at—helping the women of this world learn how to get what they need. Well, I take that back. It’s what I’m second best at. Because we all know that despite Toby’s staggering success on A Cunning Linguist, I still reign supreme as the king of cunnilingus.
Wink.
The guest of the week takes us back through her sexcapades of the past few days, not holding back. She gives us all the dirty deets.
That’s what we do here on The O Connection. It’s like A Cunning Linguist meets The Bachelor. The featured guest goes on three dates with three different men; Layla and I evaluate her experiences on fire and help her choose which one is her very own perfect sexual match.
Genius, am I right?
By the time the hour-long segment is over, our guest has found her match and we bring him out for the audience to see. It’s fun. And we’re helping the people of this world have better sex. Noble aspirations, to be sure.
Once I left the old show, I came up with this idea—with Layla’s help, of course. She just wasn’t satisfied anymore with her job at the FCC. Her research into my show inspired her and she wanted to help women out too. So that’s what we do now.
After tonight’s filming wraps, I grab Layla and pull her back into the dark hallway behind the sound stage. These shows always get me so hot for her. Watching her tell the guest how to liberate themselves sexually and take what they want is a total turn on.
“You were so fucking hot tonight,” I tell her as I press her up against a wall and slide my hand under her dress.
Fucking drenched.
Just like always.
Layla moans into my shoulder as I tease her clit. “Fuck, Jake. I couldn’t wait to get off that stage and get you inside me.”
I’m not the only one who gets hot and b
othered during the show. My girl is like a live wire afterwards. Every fucking time.
In seconds, she’s coming hard all over my hand. “That’s one,” I say with a smirk, pushing two fingers inside her wet heat. “Ready for number two? I’m feeling a bit like an overachiever tonight, babe. What do you say we go for ten?”
She mumbles something incoherent—she's well on her way to number two, you know—but I’m taking it as a yes. “That’s my girl.”
This life I have? It’s pretty much perfect.
WineBar
I'm a top romance author writing love for a living.
So where is my own Happily Ever After?
I've been patient long enough.
I'm young, independent, and single in the city.
Sorta giving up on ever finding Mr. Right.
Until he sweeps into my life.
Stopping my heart every time we're together.
He's strong. Powerful. Intense.
He makes my knees weak and my panties wet.
You'd think it's gonna be easy, right?
It's anything but.
Not when two alphas circle each other.
But I'm tired of being a good girl.
It's time to let my wings furl and be a Naughty Lil' Angel.
Part 1
Emily
My cramped fingers fly over the keyboard at warp speed, and a wave of excitement and relief washes over me as I type the two final words on the manuscript: The End.
“Fucking finally!” I whisper to myself, leaning back in my chair and stretching my arms. Finishing this novel, 12 Inches, has been a true marathon, but I’ve finished it just in time.
Getting up from my seat, I leave my home office and amble out to my living room. “Ugh,” I groan as I draw the curtains back, the orange glow of the setting sun hitting me straight in the face. I’ve been writing for so long that I lost all track of time; that’s what happens when you get up at five in the morning and work like a woman possessed. Yeah babe, a writer’s life doesn’t mean you spend your day sitting at a café, sipping on coffee and looking stylish and hot all the time. More often than not, it means that you’re a night owl that spends the day in her pajamas, hair tied up in a bun. Sometimes you kinda even forget to wear pants.
But not everything’s bad: it’s only 7pm, so I guess there’s still some time left for a little celebration. Picking my phone up from the coffee table in the middle of the living room, I dial up Lana’s number and put the phone up against my ear.
“Please, please—tell me you’re done,” she cries out the moment she picks up, her voice fraught with anxiety. That’s Lana, always on the verge of a mental breakdown whenever I’m close to missing a deadline.
“When have I ever let you down, Lana? The final chapter’s done, and I’ve already emailed it out to you,” I tell her, a smug smile on my face. Some writers hate deadlines, but I thrive on them. When time starts growing short, that’s when I become a productive demon from hell.
“Thank God,” she sighs, anxiety being replaced by relief. “I’ll send the manuscript out to our editor, then. I guess we’re done, uh?”
“Yup, we’re done,” I chirp happily, sitting down on my couch and propping up my feet on the coffee table. “What do you say we go out for dinner? Or, even better, for drinks? A little celebration is in order, don’t you think?”
“Ah, I don’t know, Em…” She mumbles and, even though I can’t see her, I know she’s playing with a lock of hair as she ponders her next words. “I was thinking of having dinner with Michael, and —”
“Oh, come on! Don’t ditch your business partner like that!” I protest with a bright laugh, fully knowing that I can sway her easily. You see, Lana isn’t just my writing partner; she’s also my best friend. I so love her.
We met in college and hit it off straight away. It was as if we were two sisters separated at birth, even our literary tastes matched. And, most important of all, we both enjoyed writing. We left college with lofty dreams of becoming writers, and we decided to partner up; much to our surprise, the starving writer phase only lasted for two years or so.
We really hit a stride once we published a few romance novels, and now we’re well off enough to write full-time. In fact, the writing is awesome. Top 100 in the Rainforest.com store, baby! Totally blows our minds that we’re able to do what we dream about. Like go to work every day and write smut. It’s so fulfilling. It’s so fun. It gets you so wet. It’s amazing. Just look at Lana: even though she’s a responsible adult, married and with one kid, little Savannah, she still writes full-time. We’re living the dream, I guess.
“I don’t know…” she repeats, but I know that, unconsciously, she’s begging me to convince her. Which of course, is exactly what I do.
“It’s not up for debate, Lana,” I tell her. “We’re going out tonight, come hell or high water. Is Michael home tonight?”
“Yeah, he is… He can look after Savannah,” she sighs. “Where do ya wanna go? Please, no clubs, I’m too old for that.”
“You’re as old as I am,” I protest but, truth be told, I haven’t been in the mood for clubbing in some time now. “Okay, no clubs. Let’s go somewhere fancy, what do you say?”
“Fancy sounds good.”
“So…” I start, closing my eyes and trying to think of a place where we can go to get a nice buzz going. Most of the places Lana and I enjoy usually require a reservation, and it’s a bit late for that. But there’s still one option left on the table.
Jumping up to my feet, I cross my living room in three wide strides and go straight toward the window. Looking down, I let my gaze wander to the new wine bar that has opened across the street. Getting wasted at a walking distance from my place? Sounds about perfect.
“Meet me at my place,” I tell her, “there’s a new place just across the street, and it looks fancy enough… Even for someone like you, with such an exquisite taste for fanciness,” I tease her, and I can almost see her frown.
“Okay, okay…” she laughs. “I’ll meet you at your place. You’re not luring me into a trap, are you?”
“No, don’t worry. It’s not a club, Lana. It’s just a wine bar,” I continue, narrowing my eyes and trying to see through the windows of the bar below. Even though the place has been open for just a few weeks now, a lot of people have already started flocking to it—a good omen, I guess.
“Wine,” she whispers, “that sounds good. I’m in the mood for some wine, yeah.”
“Then it’s a deal! Meet me at… eight?”
“Eight, then. See ya, Em.”
“See ya!”
Checking my wristwatch to see how much time I have left to doll myself up, I then head straight to the bathroom and undress. I draw myself a nice warm bath and lay back on the tub, mentally going through my drawer and picking a nice revealing dress to wear tonight.
You see, unlike Lana, I still haven’t entered that dreaded ‘responsible adult’ phase. No, I’m still a little girl at heart; I enjoy living in the fastlane. Which, as you’ve probably guessed by now, also means that I’m still on the hunt for Mr. Right… or Mr. Wrong, for that matter.
But after finishing a novel, right now?
I’m just looking for Mr. Tonight.
Kirk
“Holy shit! I need to go, right now!” Andrew says, staring at his phone with bulging eyes. Grabbing the towel draped over his shoulder, he throws it over the counter, looking from me to his phone over and over again.
“Now? You just got here,” I tell him, checking the time on my wristwatch. Andrew was supposed to take over the night shift today but, judging by the expression on his face, that’s not going to happen. “Is it Joan?”
I mean, I just came to check the fucking inventory for the bar. Am I going to be working tonight?
Fuck.
“Yeah, it’s Joan. It’s—it’s happening now,” he stammers, the anxiety on his face almost palpable. “I need to go,” he repeats, waiting for me to give him the go-ahead.
“What are you waiting for then? Just get going, I’ll take care of things tonight.” I pat him on the shoulder and give him a smile. “Good luck, man. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks, boss,” he mutters, heading for the exit so fast he almost knocks down a table on the way out. So much for my free night, huh? But it’s not like I could’ve done otherwise; Andrew’s wife is having a baby, and covering for him is the least I can do. And, it’s not like I mind; I spend so much time working behind the scenes that I always relish the chance to be behind the counter.
You see, you might think that entrepreneurs do nothing but fly from city to city first class, and drive their sports cars around, but that’s not exactly true. More often than not, true entrepreneurs spend their days working their fucking ass off. Trust me, I know; with almost a dozen bars spread all over the city, I know what it’s like to not have enough time in the day. Sure, it feels good to watch my bank account grow at the end of the month, but it’s not like I have the time to go around spending that money.
“Alright, let’s do this,” I whisper, walking behind the counter and looking around the main room. It seems that I’ve made the right decision when I opened this winebar at this location; more often than not, the place is always completely packed. Lucky for me, I have four more employees working the night shift to help out, or else I’d be in for a night of pain.
“I’ll take table four,” I tell Susan, one of my waitresses, as I notice the two women sitting by themselves at one of the corner tables. Now, I could lie and tell you that I’m just taking care of business, but it’s more than that; these girls, there’s something about them. They’re both in their mid to late-twenties, they look good and… Well, I really can’t help myself when it comes to pretty women.
Picking a bottle of red from the shelves, a nice 2008 Barolo, I make my way toward their table confidently, taking a pair of crystal glasses in a tray.