Jagger & Poppy’s Erotic Romance #2

Mikhail Chekhov is on the run from the two people who love him, Poppy White and Jagger Chabon.

Determined to find her missing boyfriend, Poppy will stop at nothing until she’s tracked his ass down, but her coworker, Jagger, keeps getting in her way. He’s hot as hell. He gives her oral pleasure like no one’s business. And he’s claiming to be Mikhail’s lover on the down low.

Will they ever find Mikhail?

Often while reading Avery Aster’s books, readers have been known to experience hot flashes, orgasms, and laughter to the point of peeing in their pants.

It’s suggested that you have a bucket of ice nearby, along with a chilled glass of champagne and your favorite sex toy—fully charged—before reading this story.

Please note that Avery’s writing is not suitable for prudes, slut-shamers, or uptight readers who don’t have a sense of humor about money, sex, or fame. Avery’s books are not intended for anyone under the age of 18.

Have fun!

Swag and reader contests can be found on Avery’s blog at: AveryAster.com

Interact with Avery while reading The Manhattanites on Instagram and Twitter @AveryAster using the hashtags #TheManhattanites #EroticRomance

The Manhattanites

by Avery Aster

“If you enjoy witty erotic romances by such authors as Alice Clayton and Tara Sivec then you’ll most likely devour Avery Aster!”

—The Kindle Reader

“Never did I think I could love an author as much as Avery Aster. The Manhattanites are obscenely fabulous.”

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“The most original series I've ever read. The Manhattanites is expertly crafted like diving into a soap opera.”

—Miss Construed

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“I took a cold shower after reading Unscrupulous.”

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—Same Book, Different Review

“Plotted like Jackie Collins, the bitches are super-bitches but underneath their tough exterior is a good heart.”

—I Love Romantic Fiction

“Sex and the City on steroids but younger and sexier, Avery Aster equates to fun erotic romance.”

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“The Manhattanites live an extravagant lifestyle. I want to be a part of it.”

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Unless

Copyright 2017 Avery Aster

Cover Design by Croco Designs

Formatted by Mark's Ebook Formatting

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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New York, New York 10021

First edition: April 2017

www.AveryAster.com

Author's Note

Chapter Six: Pussy Lickin’

Chapter Seven: Seeing Stars

Chapter Eight: Total Fakeness

Chapter Nine: Bonjour

Bonus Excerpt – Dirty Talk, Secret Pleasure by Opal Carew

Bonus Excerpt – The Break by Debra Presley

Also By Avery Aster

About Avery Aster

Connect With Avery

Hello, Beautiful Reader!

Welcome back to Jagger and Poppy’s erotic romance. This is the second installment. If you haven’t read the first volume in this serial, UNDERCOVER, stop right now and get the naughty book. Otherwise you’ll be lost, you’ll get angry, and I just won’t be able to live with myself. *wink*

If you’ve been following along, you know that in the first book (SPOILER ALERT) Jagger and Poppy have a few things in common, like the same boyfriend, Mikhail. He’s hiding from them, all right. Let’s see if they can find him.

Love,

Avery

P.S. Chapters 1-5 may be found in Undercover. This story picks up with Chapter 6. Enjoy!

Pussy Lickin’

Greenwich Village

Jagger

“Wait!” Poppy’s loud made-for-TV voice echoes down the hall just as the elevator doors are about to close.

Jetting my hand out to block the doors before helping her into the elevator, I say with confidence, “Mark my words, Mikhail is at my place.”

She crosses her arms, cocking her head ever so slightly, enough so her dark eyes sparkle for me to admire. “You know, Jagger, when guests on my show say phrases like ‘mark my words,’ ‘trust me,’ ‘believe me,’ ‘bet your bottom dollar,’ ‘don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ ‘I’m telling you,’ or my personal favorite, ‘I guarantee it,’ my good sense tells me they’re full of s-h-i-t.”

“Is that so?” Feeling annoyed, I push the L button and allow myself to fall against the wall in exhaustion. We descend to the lobby.

“Yeah, that’s when I bust out the lie detector machine and hook the fool up to see if he’s telling the truth. So, while I do think you’re hiding something—like the reason why Mikhail is running for his life—I don’t believe he’ll be at your Greenwich Village apartment waiting for you.”

I sigh.

“I just don’t believe it.” She shakes her head, causing the oversized gem earrings dangling near her cheeks to jingle.

“Then don’t come with me.” As the door opens, I pop my head out to see if those two goons with their guns are waiting for us. They’re gone.

“Oh, I’m on you like naughty on nice.” Poppy grabs my hand and an unexpected warm tingle surges up the back of my spine.

Coming out into the lobby, we turn for the back entrance and make our way down the block toward Fifth Avenue before climbing into the back of a cab.

After I tell the cabby my address, I look down to notice Poppy still holding my hand. Her nerves are shot. Mine are too. Hell, we were nearly killed, after all.

“I’ll make us some lunch when we get to my place.”

“That would be nice.” She rests her head on my shoulder. “This traffic is horrific.”

“I don’t mind it.” I lean in to her, enjoying this tender side of Poppy. I’ve seen her like this with her friends on occasion. Taddy Brill and Vive Farnworth come into the studio sometimes while we’re taping and it’s like Poppy is a different person: full of love, warmth, and exuding all the feminine things about her that I adore.

I pay the driver and help Poppy out of the cab, then into my building.

Opening the door, she shouts, “They’ve been here!” Then she turns, ready to run for the fire escape.

“No, silly.” I grab her shoulder, realizing she’s reacting to how messy I keep things—sneakers all over the place, clothing piles from where I got undressed, magazines and newsletters scattered about. “It’s always like this.”

She turns and follows me into the apartment. “You can’t be serious.”

“Hey, I don’t have a maid. I live alone. No kids.”

“What about a pet?”

“Nope.”

“A plant?” Quickly she scans the place. “Oh my gawd. You don’t even have any plants in here. That explains everything.”

“Huh?”

“The lack of oxygen in your living space. It’s clearly affected your brain. Caused you to crave cock and sleep with my boyfriend.” She laughs as I start to frown.

Opening the fridge, I pull out some lunchmeat, lettuce, tomatoes, mustard, and mayonnaise. “Turkey club okay?”

With a nod, she hoists herself up on the countertop, crossing her legs and allowing one shoe to hit the floor, then the other. “Looks like Mikhail isn’t here.”

“Nope.”

She rubs the sole of her left foot. “My feet are killing me. I think I sprained my ankle when we were running.”

I glance over at her as I put the slices of bread into the toaster. “Doesn’t look swollen.”

“I hate exercising. I don’t run. Like ever.”

“Not even at the gym?” With a sharp knife, I cut up the lettuce, then slice a tomato.

“Hells no. It’s bad for the face.”

“How so?” I take the bread from the toaster and layer on the mayo.

“Causes sagging. Haven’t you ever seen those runners with their meth faces?”

“It’s because they don’t have any fat on their bones.” I get two plates from the cabinet above the sink. “And I’m not calling you fat. You’re beautiful and you know it.”

Uncrossing her legs, she smiles. “Thanks.”

I layer on the turkey, giving her one more slice than me, then hand her the plate.

She takes a bite of the sandwich and moans pleasurably in approval. “This is probably the best thing I’ve had all week.”

“Mikhail ever cook for you?”

“Yup.” She swallows. “He made me beef stroganoff a few times. It was pretty good. He also made… oh, what’s that dish called.” She looks up at the ceiling and then says, “Shashlik.”

“He made that for me too. Very good.”

Her eyes stay focused on the ceiling. She puts a finger over her full wet lips to shush me, then motions for a piece of paper and a pen.

Reaching into the junk drawer, I pull out the items and hand them to her.

Do you see the hidden microphone on the ceiling?

I laugh so hard that my stomach hurts. “That’s just a speaker to my stereo.”

She shrugs. “Guess I’ve been watching too many crime shows.”

“Looks like it.” I pour her a glass of ice tea from the fridge.

She thanks me, taking a sip. “Please tell me why Mikhail is on the run.”

“What makes you think I know?” I study her face, searching for a reason. The truth is I have a few hunches, such as our boyfriend sold Russian information to the wrong people or that he was a spy. But for which country, I don’t know.

“Cut the crap, Jagger. You’re smart. Did you know something was going on with him at work?”

“No,” I reply honestly. “Looking back, there are a few odd things that stand out to me.”

“Like what?” She pulls a small piece of bread off her sandwich and pops it into her cute, tiny mouth. That’s one thing that’s always fascinating me about Poppy—she has such delicate features, but boy, is she loud.

“Such as… why us?”

“We both started dating him around the same time. You think he used us for something?” Her eyes fill with tears.

“Yeah, I do. Sorry to admit that to you. I know it’s painful. No one wants to be used.” Walking over to her, I place my hand on her leg in comfort.

“I don’t date much. Mikhail just appeared out of the blue, like an angel. I really thought he and I had something special, you know?”

“Sounds about right.” I lean in to her with a napkin, wiping a little bit of mustard from the corner of her lip.

“But we don’t work for the government. We’re just reporters. We don’t make the news, just convey what’s going on.” She wipes her cheek to catch the falling tear.

“We have access to files and information that most folks in the United States do not, Poppy. We view classified documents all the time.” I inhale deeply, noticing the scent she wears. Like her, it’s heady and addictive.

Her face close to mine, almost as if she’s about to kiss me, she says, “I report on fashion, cooking, and occasionally I’ll do a human interest story. There’s nothing special there. The only documents I see are different recipes to fry chicken.”

“You shouldn’t talk so negatively about your work.” I focus on her face.

“Oh. No?” She tilts her head up and uncrosses her legs.

The urge to bury my face between her legs overcomes me. Fuck Mikhail. If he can do this to Poppy and me, then I have every right to fuck her body, right here, right now. Shaking my head, I gently grab her knees. I lean in, doing what I’ve wanted to do for several years now, and kiss her.

First our lips touch, dryly. Then my tongue, wet and firm, slides into her mouth as she gasps. Pressing my body against hers, she whispers my name in my mouth, running her hands over the back of my hair, causing my cock to rise in my slacks.

She pulls back and asks, “When was the last time you were with a woman?”

“Ages.”

“You swear us off?”

“Indeed, I did.”

“Why?”

“I have my reasons.”

“What are they?”

“You always this invasive?”

She nods playfully. “Tell me.”

“Nope. Just let me eat you out.” I reach down, spreading her legs wide and wrapping my pointer finger around her undies. I pull them back and then off her so quickly, her jaw hangs open.

“Jagger!”

“Yes, Poppy?”

“We work together.”

“This tension between us has been building for a long time.”

“We have the same boyfriend.”

“Had,” I correct.

“Do you really think this is a good idea?” Her lips swell from the kiss. Irises enlarging, her pupils dilate as if hungry. Not for the sandwich but for me.

“Yup, I do. I think if we’re going to spend any more time together, we need to get this sexual tension between us out of the way.” Without thinking, my fingers dance down the front of her blouse, unbuttoning the fabric.

“Oh, is that what it’s called?” She laughs.

“Ah-huh.”

“Here I thought it was hatred.”

“You hate me?” I give her a pouty hurt expression and gently caress her breasts.

“Sometimes I want to smash your face in.”

Shocked, I dip my chin, running my lips along her neckline. “Tell you what. After I eat you out, if you still feel like hitting me, you can. Okay?”

“Deal.”

I drop to my knees, leaning against the counter. Her legs rest over my shoulders as I bury my face between them.

“So sexy, Poppy.” Her flesh, smooth and pink, stares back at me as if begging to get off. I lick once, twice.

She hisses at me to continue, knuckling my hairline tightly with her firm grip.

Preferring to take my time—after all, I’ve waited for this moment for several years now—I slide my middle and ring fingers gently into her warm cunt. My thumb moves along her front slit, admiring the narrow strip of pubic hair. I flick it back and forth as she moans. Back and forth, over and over.

Her body tenses as I lick the sides of her inner thighs, my tongue slowly making its way to her core. Heat radiates off her flesh as I bury my mouth in her pussy. Flicking the tip of her clit, stimulating her as she arches her back, her legs flex on the back of my shoulders, drawing me in closer.

“Come for me, Poppy.”

“Right now?” she pants, looking down at me, almost as if confused.

“Yes. Come, dammit.”

Toes curling, she throws her head back and screams out in ecstasy.

To my surprise, her body shakes and… she squirts. Not a lot, but enough to cover my face as I lick faster and harder, thrusting deeper into the well of her cunt.

“Fuck, Poppy, you’re a squirter.”

“Sorry,” she pants breathlessly. Embarrassed, she puts her left hand over her eyes.

“Don’t apologize. I fuckin’ love a girl with a wet pussy.”

“That would be me,” she mutters as I wipe my lips on my forearm.

Seeing Stars

Poppy

I lay there, motionless, letting the fact that Jagger, my archenemy at LUV TV, the man I’ve hated for longer than I can remember, the freak who’s been banging my boyfriend, just. Ate. Me. Out.

And he didn’t just eat me out. Oh no. It was by far the best oral sex I’ve ever had. I saw rainbows and unicorns dancing over us as I climaxed. Every inch of my body came alive. And for one split freaky-deaky second, I completely forgot that Mikhail was missing, that we got shot at by two strangers and chased by another two.

A bit dazed, I sit up and stare at him.

“Still wanna hit me?”

My eyes narrow, taking in all the alphaness that is Jagger before shaking my head slightly and managing, “No.”

“Good. We gotta go. I have an idea where we might be able to find him.”

“Did this idea of yours come to you while you were going down on me?” I pull on my Gucci skirt.

“Sorta.” He splashes some water on his face from the kitchen sink.

I go into his bathroom and wipe off my studio makeup, take out the clips of fake Indian hair that have been digging into my scalp all morning, and shout, “Do you have a T-shirt I can borrow?”

A few minuets later, he comes into the bathroom with a pair of women’s jeans and a sweatshirt. “They were my ex’s.”

“Ahh. The one who made you swear off us womenfolk?”

“That would be her.”

“You gonna tell me—”

“Nope.”

“Fine.” I take the clothing and close the door. Sliding out of my designer duds, I notice the labels: Versace jeans and a Marc Jacobs top. Clearly whoever the woman was, she had taste and money. I step into the jeans. They’re snug, as is the sweatshirt, but I’ll manage.

“Those looks nice on you,” he compliments as I come out of the bathroom.

I glance down and notice he’s replaced his Italian loafers with sneakers.

He catches me looking and chuckles. “In case we have to run again, I want to be prepared.”

“Honestly, who do you think is after Mikhail?” I put my hands on my hips and glance out the window.

“Spies, most likely.” He opens his closet and pulls out what appears to be a carrying case for a gun.

“Don’t you think we should just go down to the police station? Talk to the officer?” I ask, feeling like we’re in over our head, like we don’t know what in the hell we’re doing. Like we were lucky earlier today, but later we won’t be.

“No, I don’t. Whatever is going on with Mikhail, it’s much bigger than the NYPD.” He opens the case, and sure enough there’s a handgun staring back at us.

“Where did you get that?”

“Last year, when I did that story on the National Rifle Association. They gave it to me after it aired.”

“As journalists we’re not suppose to take bribes, you know.”

“Those hair extensions you just yanked out a few minutes ago, didn’t you do a TV special on beauty the other day?”

“Yeah. So?”

“And did you pay for them?”

“They are totally two different things,” I defend.

“Not really.”

“Well, never you mind.” I toss my hair over my shoulder as if to dismiss him and his silly-ass questions. “Then let’s go to the FBI.”

He shakes his head at me, lifts his right leg, and straps a holster onto his calf. “Let’s try the place I have in mind first. If we don’t get any answers, we can go to the FBI.”

“Do you really think we need that gun?” I give him that yearning look, hoping he’ll change his crazy-ass mind.

“Ummm, yeah. Someone shot at us, Poppy.” He slips the gun into the holster, then straightens the leg of his pants.

A wave of nausea comes over me. I go to the kitchen, get a glass of water, and try some positive affirmations.

I, Poppy White, can do this. I can run around town with Jagger after he just gave me the best damn orgasm of my life. We can find the man we’re both in love with. Who knows, maybe we’ll live happily ever after as a thruple. No, we won’t get chased again. We won’t get shot at again either. Everything is going to be fine. Just fine.

I’m so full of shit. I don’t even believe myself.

We make our way outside and head south to Houston Street. I have to admit, knowing we’re armed gives me a sense of reassurance.

“You think Mikhail is in Soho?”

We stop in front of a smoke shop.

“This is the only store in town that sells the brand of cigars that Mikhail smokes.”

I cross my arms defensively. “I knew that.”

“He couldn’t go a day without smoking one, so if anyone has seen Mikhail, it’s these guys.” He points to the tall man behind the cash register as we go into the store.

As much as I detest smoking, there’s something comforting about this place. Maybe it’s the mahogany walls or the ornate Oriental rug on the floor. Whatever it is, I’ve always felt a sense of peace around cigar smoke.

I never knew my father, but my mother used to tell me that he was like a young Mark Twain, always lost in books and smoking a pipe. He committed suicide when I was in the fourth grade. I’ll get into why later. Much later.

“Can I help you?” the clerk asks.

Jagger pulls out his cell phone and taps the screen, pulling up a picture of our boyfriend. “Have you seen this man?”

“Of course. Mr. Chekhov comes in here all the time.”

“Was he in here today?” I ask, leaning forward, with a sharp tone I hadn’t intended.

The clerk, whose name tag reads ‘Bobby,’ pauses. “Why should I tell you two?”

“Excuse me?” I sass, though I’m not shocked. He’s a typical New Yorker.

“I mean, what’s in it for me?”

“How about a knuckle sandwich?” Cleary irritated, Jagger chimes in as if he’s going to lean across the counter and knock the guy out.

Rolling my eyes, I reach into my purse pull out a twenty-dollar bill, throwing it at him before Jagger can say otherwise.

Bob snatches the bill and stuffs it in his pocket. “He was in here today.”

“What time?”

“That’ll cost ya another twenty.”

That’s it,” Jagger huffs.

“Oh brother.” I dig back into my purse. “Here, you asshat, here’s a fifty. Now tell us what time.”

“About an hour ago. He bought a box of cigars. Made a call, then used Supreme Car Service to pick him up.”

Supreme’s cars stood out from the rest in this town in that they were bright purple and often had a neon advertising sign on the top. They’re cheaper than the Yellow Cabs, but not as nice as the Uber town cars.

“Did he say where he was going?”

“Nope.” Bobby shrugs. “But he looked like he was in a hurry.”

Immediately I pull out my phone and look up the address of the office to the car service. Grabbing Jagger’s hand, we head out onto Houston and hail a cab.

Thirty minutes later we’re at the taxi company. It’s an old warehouse, the town cars lined up out front. Some are being repaired as we enter.

“Listen, let me handle this,” I say to Jagger, noticing the guy in the corner at the desk smiling at me.

“Fine.” Jagger puts his hands in his pockets, making his way to the other side of the room.

“Hi there. I left my purse in one of your cars today. I was wondering if you could tell me which driver it was?” I lie.

“What’s that on your arm?”

“My other purse.” I smile at him, still lying. “I have hundreds. You could say I’m a handbag collector of sorts. American. Italian. French. I heart them all.”

“I’m sure you do.” He sits back in his chair, pulls the keyboard to him, and asks, “What intersection and time today were you picked up?

“About an hour ago. On the corner of West Houston and Thompson, in front of Soho Smoke Shop.”

He radios the driver, whose name is Salvador. He agrees to come to the garage. “He’ll be here in about twenty minutes.”

In the makeshift lobby that appears to be more a break room for the drivers, I make myself a cup of coffee.

“What exactly are you going to say to Sal?” asks Jagger.

“Well, I’m outta cash, so you’re going to have to bribe this one. I’m hoping he’ll take us to where he took Mikhail.”

“Very smart of you.” He winks at me causing my inside to flutter slightly.

A few minutes later, Sal comes over to us. He’s short, Italian-American, with a handsome weathered face.

We ask Sal if he remembers picking Mikhail up.

“Yeah. Dropped him off up in Harlem. Horrible block. Scary building. Didn’t get a return fare. Said he was going to take the subway from there on.”

The subway?

“Will you take us to where you took him?”

“Nah, my shift is over. I’m done for the day. I gotta get home, pick up the kids from school.”

“Your wife sounds very lucky to have you,” I compliment, hoping it’ll work.

He shoots me a suspicious look before asking, “Aren’t you that broad on TV?”

“Poppy White, pleased to meet you.” I smile.

“My wife loves yous. You’re her idol.”

“I have some free tickets to my show in my purse if you want them.” I reach inside and pull them out. I always have them on hand, ready to hand out at a moment’s notice. Ya never know when you’ll bump into a fan.

“I’ll tell yous what. Since I take the Queensborough Bridge home, why don’t I drop yous two off up there in Harlem?”

“Thank you.”

Following him out to his car, Jagger and I get in the back seat.

Taking the FDR uptown, we arrive at our destination about an hour later. It’s funny; tourists think Manhattan is just this little town where you can go from point A to point B in a flash. That’s not the case.

The building is an old brownstone, probably built right before World War II, four stories tall with two units on each floor. There’s an older man drinking a beer on the stoop.

“What are you doing?” Jagger asks.

“Follow me.” I lead us into the liquor store across the street. “Can I get a bottle of whatever that man across the street likes to drink?”

The lady at the counter starts to laugh. “Honey, that depends on the day of the week and if he’s got money or not.”

“I see. Well I’ll take the best of whatever you got.” I pull out my American Express card.

“We only take Visa here, honey.”

I dig for my other card and hand it to her. She rings me up for a bottle of Jameson whiskey.

“Watch and learn, Jagger.” I sign my slip, grab the bottle, and make my way across the street.

“Hey there,” I say to the man on the steps. “I’m looking for a friend of mine who went into that building earlier today.”

He glares up at me for only a second, then turns his attention to the whiskey. He reaches for it and asks, “What’s he look like?”

“Tall,” says Jagger.

“Handsome,” I add.

“Not that handsome,” he corrects, then laughs.

“In a suit?” the guy asks.

I nod

“Red tie? Carrying a silver briefcase?”

“Sounds about right.” I hand him the bottle.

“Second floor on the left.”

“Thank you.” A sense of relief washes over me on how easy that was.

We’re getting close.

Total Fakeness

Harlem

Jagger

I take Poppy by the hand and we make our way up to the second floor, where I press my ear against the door to see if I can hear Mikhail.

Two voices. Both male. Speaking in Spanish.

“What are we going to do?” she whispers.

“Follow my lead.” I take a step back, pull my gun from the leg holster, and slam my right foot against the door.

It busts open.

“Jesus,” Poppy mutters.

“Police! Hands up. Don’t move,” I shout, waving my gun for them to stand to hide the fact that I’m trembling. Just a little. I’ve interviewed enough cops over the years; maybe I can impersonate one.

The two men sitting at a folding table do as they’re told.

“Up against the wall. Now!” Poppy says, getting into it. In the far corner is a large semiautomatic rifle. She throws it out the open window, where it makes a loud clack against the cement in the back alleyway.

“Oh man. Don’t do that,” cries the younger one.

Doing my best to keep my eyes on them, I glance down at the table. There’s a pile of money at one end and what looks like a laminating pressing machine at the other.

“What do we have here?” I ask in a throaty voice, picking up a passport. “Phony ID business. That’ll get you at least, what, five years?”

“Ten,” Poppy corrects me. “We’re looking for someone who visited you earlier today. Name’s Mikhail.”

“You just missed him.”

“What did he come here for?”

“What do you think, lady?” he says over his shoulder, twitching his body in short jerky movements.

Afraid he’s going to hurt her, I take a wide step, placing myself between him and Poppy, and ask, “What name was the passport under?”

“Mike Horn.”

“Did he say where he was going?” Staring into his eyes, I press my gun into his back.

“Air France to Paris out of JFK. Flight leaves tonight. You can still catch him.”

“Hey, why don’t you just let us go?” The older guy turns around and glares at us. His left eye starts to twitch as he nods to the cash on the table. “Take it. Forget we ever met.”

Before I can say no, Poppy opens her handbag and stuffs it with their money.

I shake my head at her to stop, but she doesn’t.

“Thanks, fellas,” I finally say, sliding my gun back into the holster. We make our way out the door as quickly as we can and head to the corner of the block.

Poppy puts her hand up, flagging a cab. We pile into the back seat and tell the driver, “JFK. Air France terminal.”

I crack the window to get some fresh air.

“I feel like my heart is going to lurch out of my chest.” Poppy puts her hands against her breasts. Red spots dance along her neckline. “I can’t believe we just did that.”

“Why did you have to take the money?”

“Insurance. Mikhail may need it.”

“We could go to jail, Poppy.”

“Yes, and we also could be dead right now. But we’re not.” The smugness on her face is cute, I’ll give her that. “Do you have your passport with you?”

“Never leave home without it.”

“Good. You’re going to need it.”

Bonjour

JFK Airport, Queens

Poppy

“Oh. My. God. I’m your biggest fan.” The airline employee behind the ticket counter’s round face goes red. “I just love your show, Ms. White. Last week’s episode where you had Jake Gyllenhaal on and asked him to take his shirt off? I rewound that clip about a million times. Loved that lasagna you made yesterday. When I tried it last night, there was so much sauce left over, I brought some to work today with meatballs. Could I get a picture with you? Would you mind? Please. I’m your biggest fan.”

“Not at all.” I motion for Jagger to snap the photo.

He takes the cell from her hand as I put my arms around her, giving a tight squeeze. We then purchase two tickets on Air France to Paris. They only have one flight tonight, so the probability of Mikhail being on that plane is good. I don’t think either one of us is actually going to fly anywhere; rather we’ll get a chance to talk to him at the gate, hopefully make some sense of this.

As we wait for our tickets to print, Jagger leans in to me and asks, “Why is it that you have all the fans and no one even knows I exist?”

I laugh, admitting to myself that there’s nothing better than meeting someone who admires your work. You get a high from it, like back in middle school when my friends and I would inhale whipped cream from canisters. Only no headache follows.

Rubbing his shoulder to soothe him, I say, “I’m sure you have a fan somewhere out there. Maybe they’re taking a nap, or they’re busy eating Jell-O.”

LUX TV did an audit on each of our fan bases before we started taping Hard News. Apparently Jagger is very popular in the Midwest with white men over the age of seventy-five. There’s nothing wrong with those viewers, but there just aren’t going to be very many of them left in a few years.

“Very funny.” He thanks the attendant and takes our tickets.

“Your flight is now boarding. Normally we wouldn’t let anyone buy a ticket so close to the gate closing, but you’re both in first class, without any bags, and should be able to get through security pretty easily. I’ve gone ahead and called the agents, told them we had Poppy White coming on board. They’ve agreed to hold the plane.”

“Thank you so much.” I smile at her.

Jagger’s body tenses and he quickly faces the escalator.

“What is it? What’s the matter?”

“Don’t turn around. Let’s just keep walking.”

“Jagger, stop. Tell me.”

“The two men from your apartment who chased us into the laundry room have just entered the terminal.” His voice is shaky.

“Maybe they won’t recognize us.” We step in behind a group of college students with backpacks on and carrying maps, slowly making our way to the area marked for security.

“You high?” I ask. Everywhere I go, people stop and want to talk to me.

As I step onto the escalator with Jagger at my side, I can’t help but turn around to see them. Scanning the room, I notice one of them is talking to the ticket agent who sold us our tickets. She’s pointing at me and waving.

Fuuuck.

“We gotta run.” I push through the students, taking two steps at a time. Jagger is right behind me.

The crowd of people waiting to get into the terminal is nearly six people deep from all sides of the roped path.

“We’re never going to make our flight in time.” Jagger wraps his hands around my waist, moving me from one line of people to the next. That’s when I spot the guys. Their guns aren’t out like they were in my apartment building, but it’s obvious from the stress on their faces that they want to get us.

Just as I’m about to stick my purse through the metal detector, I stand up on a nearby chair that a nearby TSA agent was using and shout at the top of my lungs, “Does anyone want some free money?” Reaching into my purse, I grab wads of the cash we’d taken back in Harlem and thrust my hands in the air. Then I throw the money as hard and as fast as I can in the direction of the two shooters.

The crowd goes wild, jumping to the floor and screaming, “Money.”

I snag the last heap of cash, toss my purse into the X-ray machine, and throw the money as Jagger makes his way through the metal detector and I follow.

To Be Continued...

Want to know what happens next?

Get Unlucky, the third installment in Jagger and Poppy’s erotic romance!

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And now here are excerpts from books by two of my best friends,

Opal Carew and Debra Presley...

By Opal Carew

Excerpt

Sonny sighed, enjoying the heat of the sunshine on her back. Warm and relaxing. Soothing her tension.

Last night had been difficult for her. To others, it seemed like she easily walked away from any man, totally unaffected. But the truth was, her date with Bryan had been hard on her. As much as she would never consider going out with him, it wasn’t really because she didn’t want to. She just… couldn’t.

Deep down inside, though, she longed for a loving relationship with a man. To meet someone, go out on a date. To build a loving connection.

To be touched by a man.

Oh, God, she wanted that so much. But she was too afraid.

Anytime her natural urges bubbled to the surface, like they had last night with Bryan, it wasn’t long before she started having dreams. Those dreams started off sweet and loving, then turned hot and steamy, searing her senses. Inevitably, however, they turned dark and terrifying and she’d wake up shaking, her whole body sweating.

If only she could just have nice, steamy sex dreams that helped her relieve her ache.

Her skin prickled and a heated awareness washed through her body, but it wasn’t from thoughts of having a nice sexual fantasy.

Someone was watching her.

She suddenly became very conscious of her situation. Wearing just a bikini. Her top undone.

Alone on the roof of the building.

She drew in a deep breath.

It was the middle of a sunny summer afternoon on a Thursday. Usually no one came up to the pool this time of day. Anyone who wanted to enjoy the warm afternoon and go in the water normally went to the beach a few blocks away.

But someone was definitely watching her and it must be from inside, because she would have heard the sliding glass doors open.

She sucked in a breath of air, calming herself. It had taken her a long time to build up her courage to make these outings to the pool and she wasn’t going to let herself slide back to the blinding fear. There were security cameras on the deck and she was in view of one right now. She always let Leandra know when she was going to sun herself on the deck, just with a casual message, as part of letting her know how her day was going.

If anything happened, it would be on the security film. Not that she’d let it get that far if she could help it. She wasn’t powerless. She had pepper spray in her bag, her cell phone handy so she could quickly dial 911, and she’d taken self-defense classes.

She reached around and fastened her bikini top, then slowly sat up. Casually, she reached for her silky, black floral cover up and pulled it on, carefully not looking toward the windows. She wanted to be covered and feeling a little more settled when she faced the intruder.

Before she had a chance, though, the sliding doors opened. She glanced up to see a man step onto the deck.

She sighed in relief when she saw it was Steve from the tenth floor. They had mutual friends in the building and had gotten to know each other and become friends of sorts.

He was a really nice guy. And good looking, with his broad shoulders, well-defined torso, and dark blond hair swept back from his handsome face.

Steve glanced over his shoulder at the open door. It seemed he was waiting for someone to join him.

When his gaze swept outside again, he saw her for the first time.

His face beamed with his warm, friendly smile. “Hi, Sonny. Nice afternoon.”

“Yes, it is.”

She wouldn’t mind chatting with him. She’d found she was always pretty comfortable around Steve which was nice for a change, but she didn’t know how to give out an inviting vibe.

She pulled her bag closer, and routed through it, just for something to distract herself.

Then another man stepped outside.

She glanced up and her heart thumped to life.

The man was…breathtaking.

His body was big and powerful. His arms and chest bulged with muscles and he had tattoos covering his body. She couldn’t tell what they all were since they were so dense, but she did make out a thorny rose vine coiling along one arm and around his torso, tendrils even coiling up his neck.

His hair was dark brown, shaved close to his head, and his ear glinted with piercings.

He glanced at her and smiled. Immediately, she dropped her gaze to her bag and she started sorting through it again, as if looking for something.

They started to walk and she was afraid they’d come over, but instead they headed toward some chairs closer to the edge of the deck.

Oh, God, the man was so heart-stoppingly masculine. Her body tingled as her hormones sparked to life.

Which she didn’t understand. She should be afraid, but the sensation pulsing through her was pure, unadulterated lust.

Unnerved, she grabbed her book and suntan lotion and shoved them into her bag, then pushed her towel in, too. She slipped on her sandals and surged to her feet, then hurried to the door. As she slid it open, she glanced over her shoulder and saw that the big man was watching her, a frown on his face.

Did he think she was running away from him?

She didn’t want any man to think she was afraid of him—showing strength was important—but right now, the threat she faced was her own unbridled libido. She didn’t understand her reaction to him and that unsettled her so much she had to escape.

She closed the door behind her and hurried away.

* * *

Tal watched the woman practically run off, his stomach clenching. All he’d done was smile at her. He hadn’t said a word. Hadn’t made a move toward her. Yet she’d up and fled.

He would have liked to have talked to her. Gotten to know her a little. There was something about her.

She was a beautiful woman, with her long, blonde hair cascading in waves over her shoulders.  A pretty face with kissable heart-shaped lips. And he’d caught more than a glimpse of her curvy body through the glass when she’d sat up to pull on her cover up.

But what attracted him was more than that.

There was an aura of vulnerability around her. And a sadness in her eyes.

He sensed a need in her to have someone or something more in her life.

Or maybe he was just reflecting his own feelings onto her.

It caused him real pain that she would take one look at him and run away, as if he were some kind of threat.

“She’s pretty, right?” Steve said.

“Yes, she is.” He glanced at his friend. “Are you interested in her?”

“Well, yeah, what man wouldn’t be? But I don’t think we’d work out. We’ve talked a few times—she’s friends with my friend Meghan—but we seem to be developing more of a casual rapport rather than a romantic relationship. If you want to pursue her, don’t worry about me.”

“I might if she didn’t seem so terrified of me.”

“Hey, if you’re interested, don’t give up on her too fast. I think she’s been through something. She has these haunted eyes, you know? But I’m sure she’s trying to work through it. She’d need someone who’s willing to be patient and slow.” He shrugged. “But I think she’d be worth it.”

Tal glanced at the door she’d escaped through.

“Yeah, I think maybe you’re right.”

* * *

Dirty Talk, Secret Pleasure is the first exciting episode in New York Times Bestselling Author Opal Carew’s Dirty Talk series, a poignant erotic romance about a woman struggling with her sexuality because of a devastating trauma from her past, and the strong, sensitive man who helps her find her way. If you love bad-assed alpha heroes with a strong, protective streak then you’ll love Dirty Talk!

Click here to buy this heart-rending erotic romance today!

BONUS

When you buy this book, you’ll also receive the erotic audio that Sonny listens to in the story. Be sure to listen to it alone – or with your lover – and be ready for your panties to melt right off!

The Break by Debra Presley

(Breaking Free, Part 1)

© 2017 by Debra Presley

This book contains graphic scenes and very sensitive subject matter.

Excerpt

As Rachelle lay motionless on the floor, fighting the urge to let the darkness win, a plan came to her. One that would, if it worked, set her free. If she failed, the consequences would end her.

Other than the radiating throb of pain where his fist connected with her face, all she felt was an all-consuming numbness. He yelled, drunk and sloppy and so angry, but being drunk was no excuse. Nothing excused this, but she’d seen this ending coming.

The hospital hosted a fundraising event for childhood cancer research. Dr. Trey Wellington III, the head of the department, would definitely be there with his perfect wife. He never missed an opportunity to be seen and show off.

The irony wasn’t lost on Rachelle. The doctor who saved babies was really an abusive drunk who beat his wife.

“I don’t think I ask a lot from you.” Trey’s angry voice broke through the ringing in her ears. “But you just couldn’t help yourself, could you? Flirting.” He spat the word out like it was dirty to even say. “And with him.”

She had no idea who he was talking about, but she often didn’t. His mind was warped.

“I share with my wife how he’s after my position, and what does she do? She struts herself in front of him, showing off her ass while smiling and laughing. Did you both have a good chuckle at my expense? Did you think I wouldn’t notice?”

Mark.

She remembered now. He’d cornered her at the event, and no matter what she did, or said, he wouldn’t shut up. She hadn’t known it was Mark until it was too late. The only bright light, she’d thought, was Trey hadn’t been around when they were chatting. Apparently, she’d been wrong, and now she paid the price for that.

Dr. Mark Anderson, a fairly new addition to the oncology team, young—or at least younger then Trey. All the nurses loved him, and for the last three months he’d been the thorn in her husband’s side. Every night, Trey came home and bitched about something that Mark did at work. His complaints seemed petty to Rachelle, but she’d never admit that out loud.

“Got nothing to say?” he slurred, his voice closer than before.

She didn’t bother answering because anything she said would anger him more. He was convinced she betrayed him. However, not answering would only make things worse for her. Slowly she licked her lips, testing to see if her brain would cooperate with her commands, and opened her mouth to respond, but it was too late.

The kick to her ribs stole her breath. She gasped, trying to take in whatever air she could.

“I saw. You had no idea I was watching, but I was there. How dare you? Stupid bitch. I provide you with everything.” His voice began to rise. “I spoil you. There’s nothing you need. I don’t ask for much in return, but instead of being at my side, you’re entertaining my colleagues, acting like a slut and embarrassing me. Did you think I would stand by like a little bitch and take it?”

“I’m sorry,” she croaked. Tears fell and stung her face. “I’m so, so sorry,” she said with a sob. Once the tears started to fall, she couldn’t stop them. Not because she felt any guilt for the crimes he thought she committed. She cried for her life and how it had turned out.

Rachelle had been nineteen when they met and twenty when they married. Everything about him was exciting. Trey, fifteen years her senior, was dashing and charming, and the age difference hadn’t mattered to her. Love made people do crazy, unexpected things, and Rachelle was no different. Despite her parents’ objections, they married the day after she turned twenty and moved across the country to Texas.

Moving from Brooklyn, New York to Texas had Rachelle at a disadvantage, but she’d adjusted to the changes and loved being a doctor’s wife. They’d lived in a beautiful home with tons of land. Eventually, Rachelle made friends and volunteered her time at the hospital, helping parents deal with their child’s diagnosis. It was difficult to see children suffer, but the work was rewarding. She had planned to go to college, but between volunteering and keeping up social engagements with Trey, it just never happened.

They were happy for a long time, but then things started to change. It was gradual, but the position he held was stressful, and she didn’t help by always pushing him to start a family and wanting to visit her parents. At least that’s what she told herself to excuse Trey’s change in behavior. But three month’s ago, when Mark had joined the staff at the hospital; Trey’s ego had taken a hit. Rachelle, apparently, was the perfect punching bag.

“When will you learn?” he whispered in her ear as he picked her up. She held onto him, still crying, and soaked up the comfort he provided.

He placed her on their bed, whispering words she refused to hear, until she finally succumb to the darkness that had been slowly taking over.

* * *

Rachelle woke to the muffled sound of music. It took a minute to paste together what was going on. Everything hurt. Breathing, moving, blinking—it all took effort. Slowly, she sat up and felt the restriction around her middle—Trey had taped up her ribs. She shuttered to think how bad she must look. If it was as horrible as she felt, then she was scared to look in the mirror.

Tears blurred her vision. She sat in bed, thinking of the person she used to be. It was hard to believe she could’ve ever been that naïve. Before she met Trey, she had dated a few guys, but they were silly boys. She’d wanted a man. When Trey had shown interest in her, she’d been enamored with his charm and handsome features. He’d compliment her on her looks and body. She’d felt beautiful and special—two things she’d never felt at home.

Now though, she didn’t recognize herself. The curves Trey loved so much, he now belittled her for. So she starved her body and pushed it to lose fifteen pounds. Her hair used to be a chestnut brown, but after Trey mentioned that it looked like a dirty mop, she’d dyed it blonde. She did anything and everything her husband wanted, to be who he thought she should be. He always had something to say about what she did or didn’t do, and she’d find herself with a black eye or a twisted ankle.

She tried going to the sheriff once, but unfortunately for her, Trey’s reach in the community was long and her complaints to the sheriff fell on deaf ears. She had no one to help her, to protect her, so she had to rely on herself. If she wanted to be rescued, she had to do it.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Rachelle cried out when she moved. Her body hurt, but it was manageable compared to the pounding in her head. The rhythmic thumping overwhelmed everything else.

Now that Rachelle was fully awake, the music coming from downstairs seemed to be blaring in her head. Trey apparently felt no pain from all his drinking, the sounds coming through her door was evidence of his good mood. That’s the only time the radio played in their house. As if he heard her thoughts, the house suddenly became quiet and she knew that meant Trey would open the door to their room soon.

She didn’t want to see him, but she needed his help. Moving on her own was just not happening, and this was the cycle she found herself in, one she desperately wanted out of.

As predicted, the door opened and Trey strutted inside. “Good mor—baby, don’t move. You’ll hurt yourself.” He took his time walking over to her, carrying a tray with a cup of tea and toast on it. His fake concern sickened her and made her want to scream at him, but she wasn’t in any position to protest.

The intensity of the pain wasn’t something she could mask; she never could. “Let me help you up.” He placed the tray on the bed and assisted Rachelle to her feet. They slowly walked to the bathroom, and she took care of her business, while he watched. She was far beyond caring that he didn’t allow her privacy, even in the bathroom. Over the years, little by little, Trey took more and more from her. It wasn’t something that Rachelle even noticed until it was too late.

She washed her hands and let him guide her back to bed, not even bothering to look in the mirror. The last thing she wanted him to see was her reaction to the bruises he’d caused.

“Here’s some breakfast. The tea is hot, so sip it slowly.” He instructed her like she was a five-year-old and not his wife. “I took the weekend off so that I can tend to you.” He kissed the side of her face as he tucked her back into bed.

“Thank you,” she whispered, as if she was grateful the bastard would be home. Trey hovering over her, as if he actually gave a shit, was another form of torture for Rachelle. If he cared, he’d have never laid his hands on her.

“I fixed you up while you were sleeping,” he chatted while she sipped her tea.

“Thank you,” she whispered, not meeting his eyes.

“I wish you didn’t push me to do these things. I hate hurting you.”

“I’m sorry.” The words stung, like swallowing shards of glass, but she knew the script and wouldn’t stray from it. Still, she couldn’t meet his eyes.

“Hey, look at me,” he said.

She placed her tea back on the tray and lifted her head.

“We’ll do something together. Get away from here and do something fun. Whatever you want.” He gently brushed her cheek with the back of his knuckles.

“I’d like that,” she said, sticking to the words he wanted to hear.

“Okay, you finish this and then rest. I have just the place in mind. I’ll set it all up. We’ll leave later.” He tucked a stray piece of her hair behind her ear before he left.

* * *

A week had passed since the dreaded party, and Rachelle was on the mend but more determined than ever to get away. Trey had taken her to a very exclusive resort. They had their own beautiful cabin off the lake, and if she had been with anyone else, under any other circumstance, she’d have found the place tranquil and amazing. However, having him dote all over her was stressful and tiring.

The only positive to the trip, which Rachelle decided to concentrate on, was the plan that popped into her head while Trey tortured her. It had started to take shape: the dream of leaving Trey. It began a year ago, when she stumbled upon a women’s shelter after visiting her OB/GYN—an appointment that she kept secret from Trey. A long time ago she’d wanted children, but he’d wanted to wait. She thanked God for that now.

However, that wasn’t the case anymore. With every month that passed, and she wasn’t pregnant, he’d become more and more violent. If he knew about the birth control she was taking, there would be retribution for her betrayal.

The day she stopped in at the shelter, a volunteer named Patricia befriended her. They’d talked for hours, and by the time Rachelle had left, she’d felt a small amount of hope. That day, Rachelle had purchased her first burner phone. With each visit, hope had grown until finally they’d begun planning how to leave Trey safely. This wasn’t something that would happen overnight but that was fine. Patricia had agreed to help her escape when she was ready. Those plans were accelerated after the fundraiser.

Now, though, it was time. She couldn’t stay and continue to be his punching bag, and there was no way she was ever going to bring a child into this fucked up life.

Although she wanted nothing more than to leave right now, memories of the last time she’d tried played in her mind. Two years ago, she’d run with no plan and no help. It hadn’t taken long for Trey to find her and drag her back to their home. The memories of that period were ones she tried to forget. This time she had help and she’d get away.

The next six weeks were spent planning, practicing, and preparing. There was no going back. Rachelle had to be careful and smart.

* * *

Today was the day. Rachelle was on edge and wanted this to be over. All the planning she’d done, over the last month and a half, was about to be put into play.

Standing in the woods about a mile from her house, she opened the small bag that she had filled with essentials—burner phone, money, and a gun. She traced her fingers along the small pistol, which Patricia had insisted she learn how to shoot. Rachelle sent up a silent prayer that she wouldn’t need to use it. All that she wanted to do was get away. Taking a deep breath, she called her friend.

The reception in the woods wasn’t the greatest, but she didn’t want to risk hiding this bag anywhere on their property. Luckily, there was just enough strength in the signal to get the call to connect.

“Hello?” Patricia’s voice was broken from the bad reception, but she was there.

“It’s me,” she said, determination creeping into her tone.

“You ready?”

“Yes. Tonight I break free.” A lump formed in her throat, her emotions getting the better of her. She couldn’t go on like this any longer. The only way to have the life she dreamt of as a child was to leave and escape this prison.

“Good. See you later.” Patricia hung up.

Rachelle shut the phone off and closed up the bag. She hid it underneath a bunch of branches and headed back to her house. Tonight, if all went well, the hell that had become her life would just be a memory. The excitement of that idea made her smile. It was the first genuine smile she had in quite some time.

She hauled ass through the woods, timing again how long it took her to make it back to the house. Rachelle had practiced, tweaked, and planned everything down to the last possible detail. In two hours, Trey would be home, so she didn’t have much time to get everything in order.

* * *

If you’d like to find out what happens to Rachelle pick up the complete story in the anthology: A Love For Romance. To read other titles by Debra Presley and to learn about upcoming releases, please visit her website.

Debra Presley is a USA Today Bestselling author and native New Yorker who made her escape to the suburbs. She often returns to her hometown to visit her favorite deli for a bagel with butter, because there’s no better bagel than a New York bagel. When not in search of bagels, Debra spends her time running Book Enthusiast Promotions, an online promotions company that helps indie authors spread the word about their books. She’s also the owner of The Book Enthusiast blog.

She started writing lyrics in her wall-to-wall NKOTB bedroom at the tender age of thirteen while dreaming of the day she’d become Mrs. Jordan Knight. That dream never came to fruition, but she has continued to write.

Connect with Debra Presley

WEBSITE | FACEBOOK | TWITTER | NEWSLETTER

In the Jagger & Poppy series

Undercover

Unless

Unlucky

In The Manhattanites series

Unscrupulous

Undressed

Unsaid

Unconventional

Unique

A Manhattanite's Christmas

Uncensored

In The Undergrad Years series

Love, Lex

Yours Truly, Taddy

XO, Blake

Always & Forever, Vive

Call Me, Poppy

New York Times bestselling author Avery Aster pens The Manhattanites, a contemporary erotic romance series of full-length, stand-alone novels, and the naughty new adult prequel companion series The Undergrad Years.

As a resident of New York City and a graduate from New York University, Avery gives readers an inside look at the city’s glitzy nightlife, socialite sexcapades and tall tales of the über-rich and ultra-famous.

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Table of Contents

Author's Note

Chapter Six: Pussy Lickin’

Chapter Seven: Seeing Stars

Chapter Eight: Total Fakeness

Chapter Nine: Bonjour

Bonus Excerpt – Dirty Talk, Secret Pleasure by Opal Carew

Bonus Excerpt – The Break by Debra Presley

Also By Avery Aster

About Avery Aster

Connect With Avery

Table of Contents

Author's Note

Chapter Six: Pussy Lickin’

Chapter Seven: Seeing Stars

Chapter Eight: Total Fakeness

Chapter Nine: Bonjour

Bonus Excerpt – Dirty Talk, Secret Pleasure by Opal Carew

Bonus Excerpt – The Break by Debra Presley

Also By Avery Aster

About Avery Aster

Connect With Avery