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118 pages, Kindle Edition
First published January 1, 2013
“Where did you learn to do that?”
“Los Angeles High School of Performing Arts,” I said. “They taught me how to open my throat to sing. Then Kevin Wainwright taught me how to put his dick down it.”
He laughed. “I’d like to thank LA Unified and Kevin Whatever for this moment.”
“She didn’t take a dime. She took everything that mattered.”
“I didn’t need one so pissed at his ex-wife he’d make me fall in love with him before apologizing for leading me on. He wanted to hurt women, and nothing froze my creative juices like heartache.”
“I’ve never heard of a man trying to sandwich another woman between fingering me and fucking me in the same day.”






Please,"
"Not yet."
"Jesus, Jonathan. What do you want?"
"I want you to want it."
"I do. My God, I do."
"No, you don’t. Not enough."
I knew what he wanted, and I was willing to give it to him.
"Please. I’m begging you. I’m begging. I’ll do anything you want. I’ll be anything you want. Just don’t—"
He drove his dick into me with a ferocity that shocked me and turned the last word into a cry.






"...red hair cut just below the ears, disheveled in that absolutely precise way."









"I won't hold you to it...we can call if off."
"A bet's a bet."



His Irish good looks were undeniable next to anyone, even movie stars


It was sweet, and doomed and pointless but it was late, and he was handsome and funny. I many not have been interested in having a boyfriend, but I wasn’t made of stone


"Please. I'm begging you. I'm begging. I'll do anything you want. I'll be anything you want..."
"Teachers told poor kids they might be seen if they busted their violins on the streets if they had to. Dream-feeders. Fuck them. Some of those kids should have gone into accounting, and that line of shit kept them dreaming a few too many years."


"Please," I said again."
"Not yet."
"Jesus, Jonathan. What do you want?" My sex ached for him. It didn't feel empty. It felt full to bursting, a throbbing, pounding hunger filling my skin.
"I want you to want it," he said.(...) "Beg for it."







"I just kept telling myself I didn't want you, but we said no lies, and I think that includes lying to myself. How about you?"
"I like you, Jonathan."
"Feeling's mutual, Monica."
"Please. Fuck you."

My name is Monica, and I am not submissive. I stand six feet tall in heels. I am descended from one of the greatest writers of the twentieth century. I can sing like an angel, and growl like a lion. I am not owned. I am music.

“The minute I told you to spread your legs and you did it, you were mine. When I told you to beg for it and you did, you were mine. When you put your hands behind your back without being told, I owned you.”

“When this ice cube melts, I’m going to make love to you so slow, everyone in this hotel is going to know my name. It won’t be play. It’s going to be dead serious.”

“That smell mixed with the scent of getting tied up and fucked became the smell of complete release, of an orchestra connected by the simple movements of a skilled conductor.”
“God,' he said, 'I have to have you.'
'Take me. Own me. Use me. Pick a verb. Just please.'
'Fuck you. I'm going to fuck you. That's my verb.”

“This is us together. I own it. This body is my plaything. Your ache is mine. Your orgasm is mine. Your hunger is mine. Your dirty thoughts are mine.”

“I’m yours. My pleasure is yours. My wet pussy is yours. You own me, Jonathan. You are the master of my fuck.”

“What we have isn’t something we made. It’s something that existed before we even met.”





"Where did you learn to do that?"
"Los Angeles High School of Performing Arts," I said. "They taught me how to open my throat to sing. Then Kevin Wainwright taught me how to put his dick down it."
He laughed. "I'd like to thank LA Unified and Kevin Whatever for this moment."



