Baby, it’s cold outside, and the lyrics are kinda troublesome but the tune is catchy and, consensual sex, anyone? #christmasstory #noirerotica #quickread

HOLIDAY Filthy Friday (on Wednesday) Feature aka Jane has Christmas issues and solves them with orgasms episode 2019-4! Ok, so just to manage your expectations–you’re  not getting a dirty excerpt here. The sex scene comes at the end, and it’s a spoiler. So here, today, you just get the foreplay. And I’m not cheating, at all, because it’s not Friday.

Chill.

Edging is good for the brain.

So is writing outside of your genre.

VIOLETS, an erotic noir
featuring Christmas Music by Dead People
BY M. JANE COLETTE
from BABY, IT’S COLD OUTSIDE

 

The yoga class was weird, as always, and, as always, Santokh pretended to be happy to see me—but wasn’t. Karma avoided my eyes and carefully put her mat as far away from me as possible. I shouldn’t have told her I knew she was a rub-and-tug girl. I didn’t mean to… well. But I did.

It wasn’t a threat. I just wanted her to know I knew. And it started with—I knew her real name couldn’t be Karma. Karma! There’s one in every yoga class. I just wanted to know… what her real name was.

It was Elaine.

Elaine the rub-and-tug girl.

I wasn’t going to tell her I knew. But I did.

Stupid. I should have known better. I should have just enjoyed…

Uttamroop didn’t even look at me—her eyes slid past me as if I didn’t exist even as she took the spot beside me. Beside me—but still as far away from me as she could.

Florence gave me a dirty look. Or maybe just a look.

No, a dirty look.

She always did, now.

I didn’t care.

Yes, I did. I tried to give her a dirty look back, but it felt limp. And guilty.

The class was full—it always was, these days, which made Santokh happy, but it also meant it was more crowded and, once the room filled up, she had to turn people away. And so she should have turned him away when he tried to open the studio door just as she was going to lock it.

But she didn’t.

“I’m sure we can squeeze in one more,” she said. “We can’t turn visitors away in December, can we?” But it had nothing to do with December—she said that—well, yeah, always. Always room for one more in Santokh’s yoga class. Until we were sitting in each other’s laps.

I resented that. But what could I do?

“I’m Santokh,” I heard her say. He mumbled his name. It sounded like George Michael, but maybe I thought that because Wham!’s “Last Christmas” was seeping into the yoga studio through the thin wall that separated it from the tattoo parlour next door.

Santokh was murmuring and shepherding the newcomer in. Pointing him to the mats. Helping him select a cushion—“For meditation, yes, but you can also use it as a prop for some of the kriyas,” she said, voice low, soothing.

Welcoming.

I knew she was going to put him in my space before she asked.

“Jax?” Still that low, soothing voice. “Can you skooch over, just a little closer to the gong? We’ll get George to get in there between you and Uttamroop.”

Of course. Always, I was the one who did the scooching.

I squelched the thought that it was because everyone always gave me space—too much space. How far away from me was Uttamroop? Could she be any farther? Her mat was almost touching the bookcases that created the mini entryway into the studio. But the thought came anyway, and as I made space for George Michael, I felt sick. I felt Florence’s eyes on me, cold and judgemental, and Karma’s eyes carefully not on me—and she was so beautiful and I wanted her hands, not servicing the hands and bodies of strangers, but in mine—I wouldn’t make her touch my breasts, my genitals, I would just hold her hands, so gently, and I would kiss them—and I wanted to weep—and I hated myself, and I hated this class, and this practice, and this over-sized man who was now invading my space in my sanctuary.

I wanted him gone. Dead.

Seventy-five minutes later, he was.

***

You can complement this reading with the Violets playlist: Christmas Songs By Dead People.

Also, did you notice that I used the yoga studio from Text Me, Cupid in there? Well-spotted.

 

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+you can search for buy links at mjanecolette.com/books

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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 the just released 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.

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