THE BARE BONES is off to the editor!
YIKES! Let the nail-biting begin. The Bare Bones is off to the editor, so theoretically I should be plotting out the sequel. I've never worked with this editor before so I have no idea how furiously she's sitting there redlining my poor, misbegotten manuscript. Slash/burn!
We'll find out soon enough. In the meantime, an (unedited) excerpt follows.
Two weeks passed and Ford didn’t bring up the kiss. He couldn’t possibly know how worked up he’d gotten me. It was better than my craziest imaginings when he humped that long, fat cock against my ass. I lifted my ass to him because I wanted nothing more than for him to spear me with that dick. I wanted him to take me like an animal from behind, I wanted to feel his dick spurt cum deep inside me—jism, his beloved Miller always called it.
I wanted to be the receptacle for all his bodily fluids. I wanted every tease of my hips, every clutch of my inner pussy to bring him joy and more joy. I quite literally wanted to feel his manhood, corny as it sounds, buried deep up against my womb, wanted to feel his thickness pulse, hear him cry out in ecstasy.
I wanted to watch him fucking me in the mirror.
Ford was carved like a turkey, his body a sublimely sculpted work of art. I wanted to watch his glutes contract as he swiveled his hips into me. His tattoos would undulate with each pump of his pelvis.
I was a virgin and had never wanted that before, but now I wanted it as though it were life itself. “Either you believe in miracles or you stand still like the hummingbird.” I took this to mean that if I gave up on Ford, all would be lost. The human psyche needs to believe in something, or depression grabs ahold of you.
After two weeks I started slamming dishes and books around, just irritated beyond belief, on a hormonal rampage. It was one of the last days of school and Ford was dropping me off in the morning at our usual spot. The usual kids started crowding around—I had suddenly become popular when I’d gained a brother who was in a motorcycle club.
This time, though, I just suddenly adjusted my backpack, not meeting Ford’s gaze as he tried to say goodbye. I tromped off, my lower lip sticking out, desperately wanting Ford to follow me. Luckily, he did, brushing off all the hang-arounds who drooled over him and his bike.
He didn’t even call me Maddy anymore since the pool kissing incident.
I twirled to face him, wondering what dumbass thing he wanted now, like “what’s for dinner?”
“Hey. You’ve been so quiet. Everything all right?”
Already, tears stung my eyes! I prided myself on being so cool, remote, and unfeeling. I’m telling you, though, being forced to look at those sensuous, bowed, Roman lips was enough to set any girl off on a crying jag. I found myself saying, “No, Ford, everything is not okay. You kiss me one day and ignore me the next. What am I supposed to think?” I felt like such a petulant schoolgirl. I should’ve stamped my little foot for emphasis. But really, at least I was standing up for myself instead of expecting him to read my mind.
“I know,” he admitted all in a whoosh. “I know. I’m so sorry about that. It won’t happen again.”
“Won’t happen again?” I was falling, falling. I couldn’t wrap my head around what he was trying to say. “Why not? I liked it, Ford, in case you didn’t notice.”
“I know. I liked it too. But Cropper…he doesn’t like it.”
I screwed up my face. “What? Who gives a flying fuck what Cropper does or doesn’t like? Aren’t you over eighteen? Aren’t you your own man?”
“Maybe after I move to the new yard to run Illuminati Trucking,” Ford said weakly. “I’ve got to get out from under Cropper’s roof, Madison.”
“What the fuck, Ford?” I seethed. “You know that yard’s not going to be ready for another few months with all your permits and all, and I’ll be in Flagstaff by then. Why don’t you really tell me why you don’t want a repeat performance? You don’t like me that way. Is that it?”
Ford smeared his hand over his beautiful face. He was so handsome I loathed him. I hated him, hated him! Why the fuck had I moved back into Ingrid’s broken-down house if I wasn’t going to be close to him? “That’s not it at all, Madison. You know I want you. I swear it’s Cropper. Listen. He’s got a…perversion.”
“Perversion? What else is new?”
“No, listen. He likes to watch.”
“Watch? Like he’s a voyeur? So?”
“Yes, like he’s a voyeur. You wouldn’t believe how many times he’s watched me getting up on sweetbutts. There are even holes drilled in the walls at the Bum Steer.”
“So what?” I had heard of worse, more warped things in my short life. Ingrid once had a customer who, she told me after he split, liked to dress up as a pony and be ridden, harnessed, and fed like a horse.
“So I just don’t feel comfortable subjecting you to that. You’re better than that, Madison.”