1.12 // Sex, Stick & Carrot

TEXT ME, CUPID // Episode 1, Scene 12

Previous: 1.1 // The Challenge  💘 1.2 // The Challenger 💘 1.3 // One Night Stand Gone Wrong
1.4 // Panties, Penises & Bank Vaults 💘 1.5 // The Negotiation 💘 1.6 // Cute, Fab In The Sack, Not Interested, Also, Psychic 💘 1.7 // Routine to the Rescue, Sort of 💘 1.8 // Methadone Fail 💘 1.9 // In Case You Missed It The First Time: Christmas Sucks When You’re Divorced  💘 1.10 // Lies, Groceries & Plans 💘 1.11 // Fake Christmas Eve Victories & Fails

Sunday, December 24, continued

He didn’t bend her over a parked car this time. Nor kiss her in the vestibule. And she didn’t touch him either, not until he pushed the elevator button, and that’s when she leaned into his shoulder—just a lean, her forehead brushing the bottom of his jaw.

And he lost his mind, again, and by the time the elevator doors opened, she was half-naked and he was all hard, and Mrs. Ziernicka, the chair of the condo board, almost swallowed her dentures.

“Mr. Ornot!” she shouted stepping out of the elevator. “Are you drunk?”

“So fucking sober, Mrs. Z,” he moaned through a mouthful of Florence’s hair. “Merry Christmas.”

She unbuttoned his coat and shirt in the elevator, but he didn’t let her do much else—he was too… he couldn’t stop to let her touch him, he needed his hands, his mouth, his nose, everything—touching her, squeezing, pulling. He pulled her out of the elevator by her breasts and she moaned with such pleasure and pain that he dropped them and fumbled with his belt and zipper because the pressure of his clothes on his cock was unbearable.

“Keys, keys, keys, apartment, apartment,” she whispered, then dropped to her knees and lunged for his cock, and he grabbed her breasts again and pulled, then lifted his hands to her hair and dragged her, on her knees, his cock in her mouth, towards his apartment door. He mouth-fucked her, holding her head with one hand while fumbling for his keys with the other.

“Fuck, god, Florence.” He made inarticulate sounds, and thought If she laughs, I will slap her, and hoped she would laugh, but she didn’t—just eased off his cock for a second.

“Keys?” she said.

“Keys,” he groaned. Let go of her head with his other hand. Keys. Pockets. Cock. Mouth. Tongue. Teeth. Thrust. Thrust—and hold still. Gag. Withdraw. Oh-fuck.

He felt her hands on his legs, under his coat.

“Keys.” She fished them out of his pocket, placed them in his hands, then returned her mouth and attention to his cock.

He had no idea how he managed to open the door, but he did, and he dragged her across its threshold, still on her knees, her mouth still on his cock, and then pulled out of her and crashed on top of her. Eyes. Nose. Cheeks. Chin. Lips. Mouth full of hair.

Clothes, too many clothes.

They went flying, coats, scarves. His shirt, her bra. His pants. Her leggings.

“Fuck, I love this dress,” he said. It was soft and pink and velvety, trimmed with soft fur. Outrageously kitschy. Outrageously gorgeous.

“Did you change into this just for me?” he said, pulling it down over her chest and belly, and then yanking her breasts out of the V-neckline.

“Lesbian engagement party,” she murmured into his neck. “We all had to wear pink and fur.” She laughed, and he… he didn’t dare slap her, he was too keyed up to control that, but he covered her mouth with his hand. Did not pull off the dress, just shoved it up higher, and pulled the panties down between her knees. Kept them there too.

“They will tear,” she whispered, trying to wiggle out of them.

“Leave them.” He stopped her. Kisses. Freckles. Neck. He pressed her face against his chest, just to feel… just to feel.

Fuck. God. Florence.

Her hands on his cock.

Her voice in his ear. “We need condoms.”

Fucking condoms.

His hand between her legs. So slick, so soft. Heaven.

“Florence?” he said her name, and its syllables were a nightingale’s song in his ears, head, heart. “We need to make it to the bedroom. That’s where the condoms are.” He spoke very slowly as if drunk, but he was so sober and he was so happy. “We can do it. But don’t you fucking dare stop kissing me as we go,” he said, and he kissed her, and wrapped his arms and legs around her. “And we can’t get up.”

“We can’t get up?” she said, tangling her limbs with his.

“We can’t,” he said. “The world will end. Can we do it?”

“Or die trying.” She chewed on his neck. Clavicle.

He slid his hands under her body and heaved her forward. “Don’t stop the kissing,” he reminded her.

She didn’t. Fuck, she didn’t, and by the time they made it to the bedroom and he was sliding the condom on, he was also thinking—or not thinking so much as feeling—that there was no need for the condom, for penetration, for orgasm—this was utter bliss and heaven and fulfillment, but then, cock covered, he slid into her, and oh-my-fucking-god, there was more bliss.

“What did you say?” she asked after he came. They were still laying on the floor, although he rolled off her and brought her up on top of him—more than that he couldn’t do. They were both wet, slick with sweat, and Will was getting cold…

“Are you cold?” he asked her.

Florence shook her head.

“What did you say?” she repeated.

“I thought the word bliss, repeatedly, for perhaps the first time in my life,” he said into the hair just above her ear. “Before coming, no less. Very unmanly.”

Florence laughed.

Kissed the tip of his nose.

“Come to the bed,” she said, pulling him up.

They slid under the covers, and she climbed on top of him, resting her pussy just above his spent cock, and then sliding it onto his left hip bone.

“Will? This is no way a reflection on your performance, which was fabulous,” she said, moving her hips up and down and then grinding herself against his hip. “So fabulous, in fact, that I desperately need another orgasm just because I’m laying here beside you.”

He kissed her and reached for her ass.

“No.” She breathed into his chest. “You don’t need to do… anything.”

He lay still, one hand on her ass cheek, one hand in her hair, and felt her moving and felt her breathing and felt her explode on his hip, and then he held her close so he could feel every single vibration.

“Fuck,” she said.

Bliss, he thought.

Sleep, he thought, and tightened his arms around her. But she was wiggling out.

“Babysitter,” she said. Kissed his nose.

“You did good, Will,” she said, as she had in the liquor store earlier. “I’m proud of you.”

It didn’t sound patronizing.

He watched her move through the bedroom, into the hallway, hunting for clothes.

He was going to see her again. Did she know that?

“Florence?” he called.

She came back into the bedroom, her fur-trimmed pink dress pulled down over her ass and pussy, her leggings in one hand, her bra in the other.

“I’m not leaving you my bra this time,” she said. “Although I can’t find my panties.”

“Ok,” he said. “But, Florence.”

“And I’m glad you texted me, but this is still a one night stand,” she said. “December-sucks-Christmas-is-hard-let’s-have-animal-sex. You know?”


“Will.” She was stern.

It didn’t matter. He was going to see her again. It was only a matter of time. He didn’t have to fight her right now.

“Ok,” he said and smiled. “Thank you—thank you very much for coming.”

“You’re welcome,” she said and smiled her beautiful smile, and turned around. Looking at her back, Will suddenly saw himself waking up tomorrow, Christmas Day, alone, and texting his kids and knowing that they were in his house—former house—spending Christmas without him, and…

She turned around.

He was standing, shaking. A little.

“Will. Talk to me,” she demanded.

“Tomorrow is going to be a hard day,” he said. “I’m afraid… I know you can’t come. Won’t come. I know… but can… can I just text you? And say… it’s hard? And you can… I don’t know, kick my ass, so I don’t…” He stopped. “I’m afraid,” he said.

Sexy. Fucking cowardly loser. Well-played, Will.

He was never going to see her again.

“Get on the bed and lean back against the pillows,” she said. “No, not under the covers. On top. Yes, like that.” He followed instructions, confused.

Saw the phone in her hand too late.


She laughed.

“Look.” She showed him the photograph. “Post-coital shrinkage is such a cruel thing, isn’t it? So this is what you’re going to do, Will. Tomorrow, every hour on the hour from when you wake up until midnight, you’re going to send me a message on OKC, you’re going to say… do you prefer dry or clean?”

“Dry,” Will said.

“You’re going to say, ‘Dry.’ And I’ll send you a thumbs up. I know you won’t lie. But if you miss an hour—this photo goes up on my Facebook and Twitter and Instagram, and my kids’ SnapChat, for good measure, and I’m going to ask all my friends to share it, and we’re going to call it Will’s Eenie Weenie Penis.”

“Jesus Christ, Florence, what’s wrong with you?”

She laughed.

“I’m making sure you don’t get tempted into half a drink tomorrow,” she said. “Don’t you think it will be effective?”

He fucking hated her and loved her at the same time and his penis twitched and grew.

“Could you take a picture of this instead?” he asked. And they both laughed.

“Deal?” she asked, leaning in for a kiss.

“Deal,” he agreed. “But… give me an incentive too.”


“Well, the photo is the… stick. Give me a carrot. If I make it… when I make it… what do I get?” He slid his hands under her dress and rested them on the softness of her belly. His fingertips started seeing her freckles, and then his eyes wanted to see them too. He started to lift the dress up. She pulled it down.

“What do you want?” she asked, moving away.

To see you again, you infuriating creature.

“A date on Valentine’s Day,” he said.

She was in the bedroom doorway again and half-turned.


“A date on Valentine’s Day,” he said. “Pro-actively. I definitely don’t want to be alone and moping and feeling sorry for myself on Valentine’s Day.”

“That’s… six, seven weeks away. You’ll find a date by then.”

“I’m booking a date now. With you. As… my carrot, Carrots. Incentive.”

She laughed and twirled her crazy red hair.

He loved the way she laughed, and he also wanted to shove his cock into her mouth every time she laughed.

“Ok,” she said. “You can cancel if you find Mrs. Right by then.”

“Ok,” he said.

“This is still a one night stand,” she said. “Because of… extenuating circumstances.”

“Right,” he nodded.

“Merry Christmas, Will,” she said. “You don’t have to see me out.”

“Merry Christmas, Florence,” he said. Stayed sitting on the bed. “I’ll see you on Valentine’s Day.”

He couldn’t see her anymore, because she was in the hallway. He heard her open the door.

He heard her say, very quietly, “You will.”

He was asleep in minutes, and he dreamt of nothing but freckles. Woke up happy.

one more scene!



Check out the full RELEASE SCHEDULE & Table of Contents for links to published scenes.

Get MORE Text Me, Cupid today at 2 CHICKS & A BOOK!

Of course, if at any point, you can’t take it any more and want to read ahead, one-click Messy Christmas or buy the full Text Me, Cupid series. In this case, I thoroughly approve of your desire for instant gratification. 😉

(And if you’re on-track and devouring all the novellas as they release–Saving Christmas is live!)





About mjanecolette

Writer. Reader. Angster. Reformed Bohemian (not). Author of the erotic romance TELL ME, the erotic tragedy (with a happy ending) CONSEQUENCES (of defensive adultery), the award-winning rom-com (she's versatile) CHERRY PIE CURE, and TEXT ME, CUPID--a (slightly dirty) love story for 21st century adults who don't believe in love... but want it anyway. A sought-after speaker and presenter, Colette is also the author of the Dirty Writing Secrets Series, which includes the non-fiction collection of essays ROUGH DRAFT CONFESSIONS: not a guide to writing and selling erotica and romance but full of inside inside anyway, 101 FLIRTY WRITING PROMPTS TO SEDUCE YOUR MUSE, and ORGANIZED CREATIVE. She's also the curator of the fab YYC Queer Writers anthologies Queer Christmas in Cowtown, Screw Chocolate, and A Queer Summer Night's in Cowtown. Releasing Spring 2020: CUPID IN MONTE CARLO.

One comment

  1. Pingback: 1.13 // Dry | m jane colette

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