#Poesia – BREATHE

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BREATHE

Once upon a time
she buzzed past
faster than light
tightly wound
crazed
He saw her flame
reached out
twined his fingers in hers
and smiled
Breathe he whispered
and she did
slow deep indulgent
filling her lungs to capacity
exhaling in relief
Because sometimes
one word is all it takes


These #Poesia pieces on this blog and Madhuri Blaylock Writes are works of fiction, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. They are often unedited and unscripted, spontaneous, super loose and probably some of my favorite works. They are perfect in their imperfections and I hope you enjoy.

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#WednesdayFreeWrite – SOLITUDE

SOLITUDE

SOLITUDE

It is in
the solitude of our togetherness
that I am able
to touch your soul
hear your heart
kiss your mind

the quiet
wraps itself around us
cocooned in a blanket
of arms
legs
lips
skin

and in those moments
when your breath
leaves lines of heat
along the curves
of my being
your fingers trace
circles of desire
around my breasts
your tongue tastes
the sweetness
of my need
I feel craved
alive
awake

It is in
the solitude of our togetherness
that I am able
to admit my shortcomings and insecurities
frustrations
fears

You hear them
ponder my words
then insist otherwise
because you see me
in ways
I cannot fathom
and would hardly admit

Strength of character
beauty beyond belief
wisdom and wit
commingled
and conjugated
inseparable
different parts
making the whole me
you see
touch
love

It is in
the solitude of our togetherness
that I am able
to read you a poem
laugh at a joke
cry in despair

the comfort
of your presence
both shocks
and soothes me
your smile
laugh
breath

Everything that is you
speaks to me
in silence
and wonder
everything that is me
speaks to you
in quiet
and awe
“You are not like the others”
you whisper
and I smile
“No, I am not”

It is in
the solitude of our togetherness
that I am able
to breathe again
and you are able
to learn
live
love


My #WednesdayFreeWrite series is based on what I write during the 10 minutes allotted my writing group’s Wednesday Prompt. As always, these pieces are works of fiction, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. They are unedited and unscripted, super loose and probably my favorite ten minutes of the week. They are perfect in their imperfections and I hope you enjoy.

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#WednesdayFreeWrite – MAGIC TOUCH

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MAGIC TOUCH

There have been many
in my bed
on my body
trying to capture my soul
but none like him

He is magic
All of him
And he wraps me
In his web of wonder
Every time our paths cross

“I’ll come down”
and before I know it
his warmth is at my side
his gaze that fills me with lust
his smile that charms

“Hi”
and I smile
because I know
he is going to lean close
touch my face
and kiss me
soft
a brush
that leaves me
lips parted
and breathless

“Hi”
I reply
eyes closed
mouth curved in delight

He takes my hand
and we’re headed upstairs
chatting about our days
our meetings
our lives not lived in each other’s presence

Until we’re not

And I’m pressed against the wall
his rough kiss at my throat
his hands on my face
his everything against me
immobile
craved
owned

“God, your skin”
he breathes against my curves
as his lips touch and tease
all my spots
he has painstakingly discovered
as my clothes disappear
until all that’s left
is a damp slip of silk
between my thighs

“These are fucking sexy”
he smirks
as his fingers move
over my panties
his gaze never leaving mine
his eyes full of heat and mischief
“and totally worthless”
as he rips them off
tosses them aside
and touches me
soft
soft
softer

“Don’t stop”
I beg
but he doesn’t listen
and flips me around
to face the wall
while he kisses my neck
traces heat down my spine
cups my behind
and I feel him smile into my skin
“Your ass is a crime”

But what he doesn’t understand
will never know
because I will never tell
is that everything
about him
is criminal

The way he smiles
laughs
fucks
speaks
snorts
stares
touches
moans
whispers

The way he challenges
listens
encourages
teases
taunts
torments
loves
absolves
trusts

He is MAGIC
that has somehow
in this big city
of faceless millions
crossed my path
made my acquaintance
seduced my mind
then charmed off my panties
and fucked me blind

His TOUCH
makes my breath catch
my nipples hard
my pussy drip
and gets my world
spinning so fast
I can only close my eyes
and let him do his thing
(and holy shit
can he do his thing)

But I will never
whisper such truths
into his ear
breathe such intimacies
into his skin
kiss such affections
into his soul

I will hold them
for myself
if only
to hold onto
all of his MAGIC
and every single TOUCH
a little longer


My #WednesdayFreeWrite series is based on what I write during the 10 minutes allotted my writing group’s Wednesday Prompt. As always, these pieces are works of fiction, erupting from my incredibly over-active imagination. They are unedited and unscripted, super loose and probably my favorite ten minutes of the week. They are perfect in their imperfections and I hope you enjoy.

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#TeaserTuesday – AMAL

I posted a little of AMAL, my love story without a title but with a character with a great name, on my blog over at Madhuri Blaylock Writes a while back. It’s my first time writing a regular romance and even though the story has been bouncing around in my head for a hot second, the thought to actually write it down has not. Mostly because I’m a girl who loves her raunch with some magic, but Amal and her men are kind of fun and all kinds of dirty, so as long as they demand my attention, I’m going with the flow and writing their story.

Anyway, I figure today is as good a day as any to share a little more of Amal, Jackson, and Andrew…enjoy.


I saw her long before she saw me, mostly because I was looking, completely incapable of casting my glance anywhere but the door every time it opened. Dax was right, even from across the room, Jackson was a force to be reckoned with, stealing the show the minute he and Amal crossed the threshold. But she was just as brilliant, possibly even more so in her slight hesitance and discomfort with the introductions and salutations. She smiled and laughed and charmed everyone Jackson knew, but here and there her jaw would clench or she would glance around as if somewhat bored by the fuss and in those moments, I knew she was here, at this party, by his side, for him and him alone. That she loved Jackson so much she willingly slogged through the inanity of the bourgeousie because it mattered to him.

I wondered if he knew what a lucky fuck he was?

Maybe he did, but most likely he was past the point of such ruminations. I did my research, Amal and Jackson had been a couple for more than three years, with some slight breaks here and there, but always coming back to one another. So yeah, I’m sure once upon a time he viewed her through the same prism as I, but based upon his body language with the attractive older woman who couldn’t stop touching him and fawning over every word he uttered, I gathered Amal was no longer the center of his everything. Not that Jackson didn’t love her, but he probably loved himself a little more.

Just my two cents.

“Has no one ever told you it’s incredibly rude to gawk at another man’s woman?”

Laughter and a smack on the back brought me face-to-face with one of my oldest friends, Philippe Narcisse, Afro-French beautiful bastard but for the gash running down the side of his face, care of a terrible childhood car accident. We met during a skateboard camp in London the summer we turned twelve and had been thick as thieves ever since. While I was busy learning the ropes at Maynard Brothers, he was running one of the most successful custom tailors in the city. Bespoke was that motherfucker’s middle name.

“Fuck you,” I tossed back the remains of my whiskey and set the glass down on the bar.

“You mean fuck her,” Philippe laughed and ordered a scotch, “and if you don’t, goddamn, I will.”

I raised a brow and shot him a look.

“You’re taken,” I informed as I brought another whiskey to my lips, “and last time I checked, so is she.”

“Yes, yes, so I’ve heard a million times since she walked into the room,” Philippe cast a glance Amal’s way, his eyes resting on her ass because seriously, how could they not, “apparently, she doesn’t do these things. Ever. But she’s here tonight and for some reason it’s a big, fucking deal.”

Philippe laughed mischievously before adding, “I don’t care why she’s here, I’m just glad she is because fuuuuuuck, that ass makes me think some wicked shit. I’m not even an ass man and she’s got me wanting to put my face all up in her shit.”

“All right, all right,” I glared at my friend and he grinned.

“I knew it, Maynard,” Philippe tossed his head in Amal’s direction, “spit it out. I know you, motherfucker, and I know you know her.”

“I don’t know her any more than you do.”

“You cannot bullshit a bullshitter,” Philippe raised a brow in my direction, “I want the story, with all the juicy bits, like how that ass feels when you’ve got your hands all over it.”

“Fucking christ, man,” I shot back, “back off.”

Philippe leaned back on his heels, studied me for a second, then burst into deep peals of laughter, so loud several heads at the bar turned our way, curious as to his amusement. I tossed back my whiskey and ordered another, amusing my friend even further. He smacked me on the back again and kissed my cheek, long and loud and sloppy.

“Come on, man,” I pushed him off me, “control yourself.”

“I believe one Amal Naipaul has gotten under the skin of New York City’s most eligible bachelor,” Philippe grinned, “so as much as it pains me, in respect to you and because I love you like a brother, I shall cease making filthy cracks about her splendid ass.”

“I’m certain the very lovely Sylvie, who last time I checked is your very devoted and stunning girlfriend, would love to hear all the filth escaping your lips concerning a certain derriere.”

Philippe stole another glance at Amal and sucked in his breath, “mais oui, Sylvie would love to hear it and then join in my admiration, being the ass woman that she is.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. He was incorrigible.

“For the record, her name is Amal Warrier Naipaul,” I tipped my drink in his direction and smirked, “and she is the most stunning woman ever created.”

Philippe let my words sink in for a second, took a sip of his drink, and shook his head while shaking a warning finger in my face. I pushed his hand away and waited for whatever advice I knew my friend could not help dispensing.

“Did you fuck her, Andrew?”

“Nah, man,” I shook my head, “not at all.”

He squinted his eyes and waited, as if by doing so he could tell whether or not I was being truthful. “Did you think about fucking her?”

“The second I saw her and every second afterwards,” I admitted to him and myself, “until I learned of Jackson. And then I forgot her.”

“Now you’re lying, Maynard,” Philippe squeezed my shoulder affectionately, “no one forgets an ass like that. But if you didn’t fuck her, what’d you do? Dinner? Drinks? Spill it.”

“Just a chat, and if I’m being honest, it probably didn’t last longer than five minutes.”

“Longest five fucking minutes of your life, my friend,” Philippe noted, “that much’s written all over your face.”

I started to protest when long, lean, arms circled my waist and warm lips pressed to my neck. Sylvie. Only Sylvie could make the simplest hello so goddamned sexy.

Mon cher,” she whispered in my ear as she ran a perfectly manicured hand down Philipp’s arm, “my two sexies…the things we could do together,” she whispered as she slipped between us and settled herself onto Philippe’s lap. He pulled her close and sucked on her ear while Sylvie practically purred in delight. It was sensual and endearing and so very Philippe and Sylvie.

“Get a room,” I groused.

“With Amal’s name on it? Happily,” Philippe joked and immediately pricked Sylvie’s interest, something I knew he intended.

“Amal?” Sylvie’s eyes widened as she played with the rim of her champagne flute, “as in Naipaul? As in Doctors for Hope?”

“As in Jackson Davis’s girlfriend,” Philippe added with a laugh.

Sylvie rolled her eyes as she kissed his cheek, “ignore him, Andrew, he’s a horrible gossip and probably loves the fact you haven’t been able to take your eyes off that woman all night.”

And now it was Sylvie’s turn to look rather impish and incorrigible.

“Fuck both of you,” and they laughed as Sylvie pulled me close for a kiss.

“She is lovely and her behind has me captivated,” Sylvie whispered in my ear, “but she is very taken and he is very tall and incredibly strong and impossibly fuckable. Just please watch your heart,” and she kissed me again before leaning back into Philippe’s embrace.

I touched her furrowed brow as if to smooth it out and smiled, “you have nothing to worry about, Sylvie. My heart is as cold and dead as ever.”


It’s raw and needs some serious editing, but it’s getting there. I love Philippe, just haven’t decided how large a role he’ll play. The way I do things, those kind of details work themselves out as the story progresses, so we shall see. Fingers crossed for Mr. Narcisse.

Also, Andrew is totally David Gandy, mostly because this is my story and Andrew is my character and god, if I don’t LOVE me some David Gandy. Don’t even try and act like you mind…you know you don’t.

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Thanks for reading.

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“Found” Writing

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My writing group, THE INKY PATH, led by Jena Schwartz and Cigdem Kobu, engages in a unique and fun writing exercise every Friday, from leaving handwritten notes for ourselves and others to yesterday’s prompt to make “found” writing.

What is “found” writing, you ask. According to Jena and Cigdem, it’s simple:

1. Pick a book off a shelf with your eyes closed. 
2. Open to page 45, and write down the last word (or three) from each line.
3. Leave it as is, or use it to spin into something new.
4. Feel free to add punctuation, skip a line, write the words as poetry or prose — anything goes. 

For my “found” writing, I picked Jhumpa Lahiri’s THE NAMESAKE off my bookshelf, turned to page 45, and started collecting last words and phrases. I discussed my final piece with Jena and noted how interesting it was that page 45 of the book pertains to the difficulties of making overseas calls to India and keeping in touch with loved ones, while my poem built from bits and parts of that page seems more like a dialogue between lovers, replete with empty spaces, unspoken truths, and subtle silences. I also just realized I ignored the fact we could “skip” lines – hmmm, had I noted that earlier, my poem might have turned out quite another beast. Anyway, it is what it is.

Check it out.

Page 45
Inspired by The Namesake

Speak
moment
say

Recognize his grandparents
static
midsentence

Me
voice growing fainter

Let’s speak later
write to me
her

Somewhat irritated
only to ask
out

His bed
fatigue

Crib
shivering
calling just now

Exactly
his profile lowered

Tell me
he reaches across

It is.


Pretty cool, non? If you wind up doing one yourself, feel free to share it in the comments so I can check it out…I’m nosy like that.

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Do You Even NaNo?

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It’s November ya’ll and over here in the den of sexy (Too corny? Yes? No? Nah.) two of us shall be participating in National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short. We’ll be banging out 50,000 word story in 30 days (or in my case, trying to).

Laura, the fabulous badass that she is, will be working on The Devil’s Disease, the second book in her Shades Below trilogy which you should totally read if you haven’t already.

I, on the other hand, will be working on something new, half outlined, mostly pantsed. It’s YA dark fantasy, with demons, revenge and romance (duh). Wish me luck. I’m gonna need it.

Madhuri, won’t be participating this year. Mostly because SHE JUST LANDED AN AGENT and is busy editing the sexiness (aaaaaall, the sexiness) that is DUTCH ❤

If you’re doing NaNoWriMo this year, or are just hearing about it now come join us HERE and HERE

 

Kayti

#WriteBitch

 

#BookReview – SEASON OF THE WITCH by LJK Oliva

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Paranormal

Published October 2015


Having read several of LJK Oliva’s other works, I came to SEASON OF THE WITCH fully expecting strong writing, excellent character development, and stellar world-building – I’m happy to report she delivered in all three aspects. Oliva’s writing is only getting better, her characters are rich and layered, and her world is so damn interesting. Fans will not be disappointed.

SEASON centers around Georgia Clare, the lone survivor of her coven’s massacre, and private investigator Darius deCompostela. Sensing she’s being hunted, Georgia reaches out to Darius for his help and despite all signs telling him to stay away, he finds himself quickly sucked into Georgia’s life and her troubles.

San Francisco in Oliva’s mind becomes a dark, magical city, detailed and rich; it’s obvious she has done serious research into every aspect of the very complex existence of her witches and The League and other magical beings. It’s mind-blowing, impressive and interesting and pulls you right into the action. I cannot fathom the hours that went into the backstory of her story – Oliva is the queen of researching the fine details.

The plot of SEASON intrigues and the pace is perfect – fast, but not rushed. A reader is grabbed from the first, bloody scene in the Epilogue, then soon afterwards Oliva’s characters, Georgia and Darius, take over and handle the rest. Their energy with each other, the way they complement one another is a highlight of the novel but so, too, are Oliva’s lesser characters. A favorite of mine is the ghostly Madison, a young girl haunting Darius. I love their final scene together and how it captures both characters’ unique, yet intertwined, journeys.

One thing about Oliva – girlfriend knows her way around a sex scene and SEASON‘s are hot. Georgia and Darius are fire and watching them come together (pun intended) is freaking sexy. Even the briefest of moments, the most primal sex, with Oliva’s deft touch winds up also being quite tender, a testament to Oliva’s skill and the superb character development of Georgia and Darius, both as individuals and as a couple.

Finally, there’s the issue of race, particulary interracial love. And Oliva handles it perfectly – she doesn’t hit readers over the head with the fact that Georgia is white and Darius is black, but she lets it be known, it’s out there, she’s not hiding from it. While reading her characters and her story, you get the feeling Oliva is very comfortable both in her own skin and that of her characters, as it shows in the writing and her handling of interracial love: instead of treating it as other, she treats it as the norm.

We live in a diverse world and Oliva’s book, SEASON OF THE WITCH, captures this reality so damn well. I only wish more writers would follow suit.

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#CoverReveal – DUTCH, The Keeper Series Book One

It feels like a while ago that I messaged my friend, graphic design artist and all-around brilliant human being, Michele Mason Holmberg, she of the fabulous gorgeous sexy Sanctum Trilogy book covers, and hit her with a million ideas all at once about my new book, DUTCH, and my website and my web series and all kinds of other nonsense that she wasn’t really interested in but listened to anyway. Why? Because she is good like that, and maybe she smiled as I babbled away – but most likely she rolled her eyes – and when I finally shut the fuck up for about three seconds, she gleaned the most important info from my rambling:

I needed a cover for my erotic romance about a deadly assassin named Dutch tasked with killing someone named Juma nine times.

The book was ridiculously sexy

and just as dark

and my cover needed to express all of that.

Without depicting a man

anywhere

at all.

Because that kind of erotic romance cover, and you know the one I’m talking about, was exactly what I did not  want for DUTCH. And since I promised I wouldn’t talk about Michele that much in my post, all I’m going to say is she delivered in epic fashion.

Take a peek and decide for yourself.

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It’s gorgeous, non?

And brilliant and perfect and dark and sexy and really, just everything I wanted for a cover and more.

So yea me and yea Dutch.

I think we’re off to a pretty fucking stellar start.

Next stop – the October 12th release day party.

#smut4Life


For the curious and uninitiated, here’s a blurb on DUTCH, The Keeper Series Book One:

Arrogant, handsome, and detached, deadly assassin Dutch Mathew has an insatiable appetite for bourbon, cigarettes, and women. A Keeper for The Gate, the shadowy organization designed to control Death and her Poochas, those reclaimers helping the dead cross back to life, he has three simple rules for anyone sharing his bed: no talking, no kissing, no touching.

Juma Landry is all about talking and kissing and touching. The more talking and kissing and touching, the better.

And as one of Death’s Poochas, the best in fact, she is Dutch’s next assignment. He is tasked with ending each and every one of her nine lives but with her sharp banter, beautiful smile, and hips made for all kinds of wickedness, she isn’t going to make that easy.

Set in New York City and Trivandrum, Dutch, The Keeper Series Book One, is a unique and sexy urban fairytale – a must read for anyone who likes their raunch with a twist of romance and a hint of magic. Watch for it to hit shelves October 12, 2015.


GIVEAWAY

Oh, and guess what – because I love whetting folks’ appetite and whipping them into a frenzy while they wait for DUTCH, I’m hosting a giveaway for a $20 Amazon Gift Card, and all you have to do to enter, is click HERE

or HERE

or even HERE.


And if you’re roaming the interwebs, come find me:
Website: https://madhuriblaylock.wordpress.com/
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/thesanctumtrilogy?fref=ts
Twitter: https://twitter.com/@madhuriblaylock/
Goodreads: https://www.goodreads.com/author/show/7323620.Madhuri_Blaylock

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Thanks for helping me reveal a little of DUTCH – he and Juma will be unleashed in all their nasty delicious dark and dangerous glory October 12th.

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