BWWM Books | Mr. Too Big (BWWM Hitman Romance Novella)

Mr. Too Big, a steamy hitman novella came from an idea that I had while talking to my husband. Yes, it sounds corny but it's true, my HUSBAND inspired "Mr. Too Big". Infer what you will from that one! I couldn't wait to get the novel written and I actually had it done two weeks before I published it. I had no idea what to do with the book and my mind was RACING with questions...

Will my readers like this book?

Is this book good enough to publish?

Will the kinks in this book be "too raunchy" for Amazon?

I can tell you right now that the book is HOT. It's almost too raunchy for Amazon. Oops. I guess I couldn't help myself. The book was definitely good enough to publish and to this day, I get emails about Mr. Too Big from readers who were pleased to stumble across my steamy novella. Sometimes it's better to believe in yourself than to cloud your head with doubts...

I don't want to spoil too much of this story for you, but let's just say our hitman JAY will have you drooling. I know you need a new book boyfriend, so dive into the sample ASAP

BWWM Books Novella Sample: Mr. Too Big

Jay 

One more job, and then I was out. 

Isn't that what they always say in movies, right before the shit hits the fan?

I guess maybe it was only too appropriate, then. Because things were about to go down for me like they'd never gone down before. 

As I would soon find, I'd gotten far too big to try and pull out now... 

I sat across the street from a towering skyscraper in the middle of downtown, outside a small cafe. In another lifetime, I would have been sitting with a newspaper pressed against my nose, trying to look inconspicuous in order to hide what I was really up to. These days, though, a guy like me reading a newspaper would have stuck out like a sore thumb- six foot one, jacked and rugged, occupying his time with a relic of the previous century. 

So instead I sat stooped over an iPad, blending in a lot better that way, a set of shades concealing my persistent glances toward the building on the opposite side of the street. I kept pressing my earpiece closer and closer like there might be something going on that I was missing. I'd bugged my target's car, then watched as he and his bodyguards made their way out into the building in question. I knew there was nothing that I should be listening for, but I guess I was just a little bit on edge. 

This was the job to end all jobs. The payday that was going to get me out of this shit once and for all. And I was going to do everything in my power to ensure that it went off without a hitch. That any one of a million different things didn't manage to fuck it up for me. 

I'd been following my target around for weeks, hoping to gain some insight into his schedule. A mister Ray Philips, one of the most contemptible sons of bitches I'd ever been assigned to take out. Day trader. Arms dealer. A major player in the pharmaceutical industry, who'd made a fortune jacking up drug prices for those who were most vulnerable, and most unable to afford them. 

I'd never been proud of how I made my living. It wasn't that I'd chosen the life of the assassin, so much as it had chosen me. Having enlisted as a soldier and seen things that no man should see, and doing things that man should ever do in good conscience, I found myself unable to reshape myself into the mold of a healthy, everyday life. The violence was in my blood. My soul craved peace, and a reprieve from all the horrors I'd witnessed and been a part of. But I still needed to make money, and at the end of the day, I realized there was really only one thing I'd ever been good at. 

I worked for a man called Hillary. Marlon Hillary. A rich jackass in his own right, he'd kept me around as his gun for hire for the past five years. I took care of his enemies for him. The business rivals who posed too much of a threat. Those who were willing to get their hands even dirtier than he was, and who seemed as though they might serve as a problem for him in the long term. 

I harbored no delusions about what I did. I was a murderer, pure and simple. But at least in this position, I had some say over who bit the bullet. I could say no to a job if I had to if my conscience started objecting too loud, unlike in my previous line of work. 

I did have a moral code, even if it wasn't much of one. I'd always refused to take out the innocent. To hurt anyone who didn't have it coming, and then some. I'd turned down a few high profile clients who'd requested such services of me- asking me to kill men and women who, obnoxiously wealthy and corrupt or not, had done nothing worthy of the death sentence that had been asked of me to impose upon them. 

I'd lost a pretty penny that way over the years, believe you me. I could have been done and out of this game by now if I hadn't shown such restraint, but here I was, still in the game, and only just now on the threshold of getting out of it. 

I didn't even want to think about how much of my soul I would still have left by the time I finally did get things wrapped up...

Thankfully, this Ray Philips was like the best of both worlds to me. He was both rotten to the core and worth a fortune in my pocket- easily the largest bounty I had ever made an effort to claim. 

Then, at last, the moment I'd put the bullet through his temple and washed the blood from my hands, I had plans to pack up my fortune, buy a first class ticket to Belize, and leave this life forever, spending my remaining time on earth making my best effort to forget that any of it had ever happened. 

Not that I would forget. 

I could never forget all that I'd done. The sins these hands were responsible for. The lives they'd taken. But at least, for once, I could try to rest. I could lay my head down in contemplation, and try to figure things out for myself. What I was meant for. What I was put on this earth to do. If, indeed, I really had any business being on this forsaken rock at all. 

The only problem right now with my ingenious plan was that Ray Philips didn't seem to stick to any kind of reliable schedule that I could make out. All the days I'd been following him, I had hoped to take note of a recognizable pattern of some kind. Something that would make it easy for me to catch him when his guard was down, and when I stood the lowest possible risk of getting caught. 

But of course, I really should have learned by now, nothing was ever really that easy for me... 

Apparently, having his fingers in so many pies at once kept Philips as busy as a bee, flitting from one flower to the next, his movements erratic, unpredictable. He must have done enough coke to never have to spend ten consecutive minutes asleep at a time. 

And so, I decided, I was just going to have to take the plunge one way or another. 

I made up my mind that today would be the day. I was ending this, tonight, as soon as he was at home and, with any luck, asleep. 

And then I was out of this, at long, long last. 

I'd lapsed into a reverie in the heat of the early evening sun, and let my vision fall out of focus without meaning to. I jerked awake at the sound of static in my earbuds, then footsteps clacking across the sidewalk toward the Mercedes in which Philips had been driven here. 

“Okay, men. We're done here today. If Esposito doesn't want to listen to reason, I'll just take things into my own hands. I'm done playing games with such a goddamn child. Now, take me the fuck home, I need some rest. I haven't slept a fucking night clear through this entire goddamn week.” 

So much of the time I kept my cool so well. Now, though, I let myself get too excited. I leaped up from my chair without meaning to, keen to follow after my target, even though there was no imperative need to do so just now. I knew where he was going. I should have waited a while instead of trailing them too directly, but I wasn't thinking. 

Across the street, Philips didn't notice me. Nor did the large, thuggish bodyguard opening the back door to the Mercedes for him. The one at the driver's side did, however. 

Through two lanes of heavy evening traffic, my eyes met those of the driver through his shade, making my heart skip a beat. 

Damn it... Damn it... Damn it! I thought to myself, freaking the fuck out that my cover was about to be blown at best, and that at worst I was about to wind up with a bullet in my own head. 

I thought fast, though, trying to minimize the damage. 

I stretched, as though my eyes meeting those of Philips' brute had been nothing more than a coincidence. Then I took the last sip of my coffee, and laid some money on the table, as though I'd become totally oblivious of all that was ensuing on the other side of the street. I sorted out some change from my pocket and left a far too generous tip for the young woman who'd brought me my coffee- if this worked like I hoped it would, it might have just been her that ended up saving my life. 

Then, keeping up the charade, I set off down the street, away from the Mercedes, away from where my bike was parked nearby, striding as though I knew exactly where I was going, and why I was going there. I really had no clue, except that I needed to get as far away from Philips as I could, as fast as possible. 

I didn't dare look back over there again, back over to the building where Philips had been. I did, however, squint into the glass windows of the building I passed on my side. The knot in my stomach unclenched at the sight of the Mercedes pulling away, the bodyguard's suspicion of me evidently minimal enough for him to let me off the hook. 

I let out a sigh of relief and decided I would circle the block once for good measure. 

There was no rush to get to Philips this instant. I would wait until tonight when conditions were more favorable, and then I would end this, once and for all. 

I could almost taste the fresh air of freedom on my lips... 

_____

Midnight. 

I'd parked my bike in the woods outside Philips' mansion several hours ago, then hiked over to a spot overlooking his place. I'd watched his house through the scope of the rifle I carried with me until every light had gone out, and a vehicle had pulled away out the driveway- the vehicle, I hoped, of Tweedle-dee and Tweedle-dum, his bodyguards. 

I couldn't be certain that Philips was the only occupant in the place but now felt like as good a chance as any. At that moment, it honestly felt like my only chance. 

I crept down to the house like a phantom, switching instantly into combat mode. I'd learned to turn off all of my inhibitions, to cast aside all of my doubts whenever the moment of truth arrived. I was no longer a human being anymore. But a machine. My actions swift and decisive. My decisions, my responses, purely rational. Dedicated to getting a job done, and nothing more, nothing less. 

I pushed a fist through the glass panes of his front door, and made swift work of disabling his security alarm- I'd cracked the code the previous week while he was away one afternoon. I stepped through the door with soft, but speedy footsteps, and glided my way up the spiral staircase for the second floor, heading for his master bedroom. 

I was normally so good about all of this. So skilled at making an entry, and doing my job, and disappearing without a trace. As I made my way down the hallway, however, and the door to his room came closer and closer, and so did my freedom, I felt my blood pressure rising. It all seemed too good, too perfect to be true. 

And suddenly, I realized that it must be. 

Something wasn't right... 

I stopped, dead in my tracks. 

I didn't know what was off. But something was. There was just a sense of it. A feeling in the air, that I couldn't quite seem to put my finger on. 

And then I heard the sound of a footstep, trying to be lighter than it could manage to be from around a corner. 

I spun on my heel, whirring back around in the opposite direction. 

I saw the flash of light before I heard the sound. 

BAM! BAM!

I hurled myself down to the ground as the bullets missed me by nothing greater than a few millimeters. Once I was to safety, I didn't even think about it. I lifted my gun up to what I calculated to be the man's knees in the darkness, and I fired. 

“Jesus Christ! Motherfucker!” 

He shot at me again as he was falling, but only managed to hit a vase atop the stand beneath which I'd taken cover. He hit the ground like a timbered tree and was already rushing to point the barrel of the gun back up at me, but I was too fast for him. 

I pointed at his head and fired, and that was the end of him. 

He lay there, motionless in silent in the middle of the hall. I waited, for just a fraction of a second, long enough to be sure that he was as dead as a doornail. Then I sprang up, and rushed over to him, and saw that it was the man from the Mercedes. The one who'd locked eyes with me across the street.

Clearly, the place hadn't been left as unguarded as I'd hoped. 

I'd largely been suspecting that, though. 

I let out a light sigh, not wanting to let myself be too relaxed just yet. My gut told me that this was the only guard in the place, but I still had Philips left to go. And something told me he would be on a high alert after I and Tweedle-dee had just made enough noise out here in the hallway to summon up the living dead. 

I hastily weighed my options at that moment. 

Retreat? Fuck no. 

I was getting this job done, dead or alive. 

Wait? For what? For Philips to have more time to get his guard up? To call the authorities? Not that I imagined he would, given the many dirty dealings he was connected to in some way or another. Still, though, the principle was the same. The longer I let that son of a bitch stay alive, the longer he had to come up with a plan to stop me. 

Time was of the essence here, and whether I liked it or not, I was all out of time... 

I stepped up to his door, staring at it for a moment with dread, instead of the naive optimism I'd allowed myself to feel at the sight of it, only a few short moments ago. 

I lifted my hand to the knob, and almost made the mistake of stepping inside. But then I checked myself. I twisted the knob, just enough to get it started. Then I stepped off to the side so that I was no longer positioned directly within the doorway. I lingered for a moment, then pushed my foot against the door's lowest panel, kicking it open from off to the side, still standing next to the hinges. 

Immediately once the door was open, a mad volley of automatic gunfire exploded through the door, the bullets pelting wildly against the opposite wall, tearing the drywall to smithereens. 

I heard Philips yelling over the sound of the bullets, his battle cry the sad mimicry of a middle-aged man who's never been in combat but who's watched Rambo on TV at least a dozen times. 

He moved slowly out into the hall, still firing, too blinded by the pulse of the gun to see that he was hitting nothing whatsoever, save for his own house. 

I waited until my shot was clear, then I jerked my gun up, and aimed it right for the side of his head. He became aware of me just as I started pulling the trigger, and started turning in my direction.

BAM!

“FUCK!” 

The bullet raced clean through his head, but he was facing too me way too much as he fell, and the gun was still going off in his hands as he fell. Streams of bullets whipped and whizzed through the air in my direction, seeming to leave these white hotlines in their wake like miniature chemtrails, fading only very slowly from my field of vision. 

And then I felt something hit me, in spite of my very best efforts to avoid the barrage.

I yelled out in pain and was sure in that moment that this spelled the end of me. The impact had been against my head, and no sooner had I felt it than I watched my life flashing before my eyes. All the horror. All the carnage. All the mayhem, and all the heartbreak. 

No! No! Fuck! Fuck! Please, please, don't let this be the last thing that I see before I'm ushered in through the gates of hell! I'll have all eternity to look at all that... Just please, don't let this be the end!

I was lying on the ground by the time it dawned on me that I hadn't been mortally wounded. A scalding teardrop was rolling down along my cheek, thick and viscous. It seeped in between my lips, and I felt it on my tongue, and I realized that it was blood from my wound. 

I touched my cheek, and it stung but realized with relief that I'd only been grazed. 

I wasn't about to die. Not yet, anyway.

It took a while past the ringing in my ears to recognize the sound of voices ringing out in the background. I leaped back to my feet, instantly on my guard again, and the adrenaline of survival the only thing that was keeping my legs from collapsing. 

I held my gun pointing into the room but thankfully didn't fire. The afterimage of gunfire finally faded away from my field of vision, and I could see that there were two naked women, cowering in fear in the opposite corner of the room. 

I sighed and lowered my pistol. Then I looked down into Ray Philips' wide eyes, the gaping red hole in his temple a sure sign that it was over at last. I'd done my job. And I was finished. 

“You two could really do better,” I said to the two of them, with a last look inside the room. Then I pulled the door shut again behind me, and took off down the hall at top speeds. I should have felt victorious, elated, freed at last from the shackles of this line of work. 

Instead, though, I just felt sick. My blood pressure was high. My pulse was skyrocketing. I never felt great after a kill, but this was something different. I wondered whether it was the fact that I'd come so close to death, or maybe that I'd taken a life I hadn't intended to take when I'd signed up for this job. 

I didn't think it was either of those things, though. 

I think, somehow, my body was trying to warn me. I think it was a sense of foreboding, to let me know what I had no way of knowing yet, but that I probably should have anyway- by instinct, if by nothing else. 

That, quite simply, this wasn't really over. It was only just getting started... 

Right now, though, I ignored all of that. I rushed into the woods, and hopped onto my motorcycle, and took off down lightless back roads like a bat out of hell, increasingly on edge. I could hear the sound of sirens blaring like mad from the highway, and could see the red and blue lights flashing toward the crime scene as I made my escape- Philips might not dare have called the cops when he was alive, but I was sure the two women he'd probably paid to sleep with him would have. 

I told myself I didn't give a damn. That there was no way in hell I wasn't getting away with this. 

I just kept going and going, the momentum perversely soothing, as all the while the whole world seemed to be crashing in around me. 

_____

I started taking my clothes off the instant I stepped through the door of my apartment, and I was naked in the shower within a minute, the water cranked up to full heat, filling the bathroom with steam. 

I leaned forward against the far wall, panting so deep and so hard I thought I was hyperventilating. I didn't know what the fuck was wrong with me. As often as I'd done this, I'd never reacted to the way that I was now. Was it the girls maybe? Was it that glimpse of something I could never have in my life, making me feel so guilty, so paranoid? 

I still couldn't say for certain. 

I looked down at my feet, gasping, and watched the blood of Ray Philips and his bodyguard swirling down the drain amidst the scalding whirlpool of water. I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. And then, without totally being aware of it, I noticed my hand finding its way between my legs, grabbing a nice, firm hold on my cock. 

I'd been hard ever since I put the bullet through the head of the bodyguard. 

It sounds terrible. I know it does. Like I get off on killing or something. But that's not it. 

Ever since I'd started doing this, I always got rock solid from the danger of a hit. I think it was something to do with survival, and biology, and all that shit. Like my body just knew, instinctively, that it was in danger. That its chance to reproduce was drawing to a close, and it demanded that I give it one last shot before I turn my back on life. 

I always had to cum after a kill. And right now I was aching for it like I'd never ached before. 

I wrapped my fist around my rock hard cock and started rapidly pumping myself beneath the shower, grunting as my hand slammed back into my balls, needing so badly to get this out of me, thinking that once I did it would finally be enough for me to be able to react. I jerked my growing inches of solid manhood with a vengeance. Like the job wasn't actually finished until I'd completed this crucial, cleansing ritual. I was pulsing so hard, and my tip was getting unbelievably swollen, and I wanted to get this heat out of me so fucking bad. 

But the pressure wasn't building. No matter how hard, how relentlessly I pumped myself, how desperately I needed to see this through to completion, my mind wasn't where it needed to be. I closed my eyes and tried to think. Tried to conjure up whatever it might take to get my rocks off, but couldn't figure out what the hell that might be. 

I tried picturing the two girls back at Philips' place- taking both of them at once- but of course, that only made matters worse. Then I tried thinking about Julia, my ex-fiance, who I'd dated all the way back before enlisting. Sometimes, she did the trick for me. That woman knew how to screw a man like it was nobody's business, and sometimes I could still taste her on me if I concentrated hard enough. Still feel the tight, rhythmic pulsing of her tight slit around my cock as she rode me. 

But then I would start thinking about everything she'd done to me. How badly she'd broken my heart, once I came back from combat so profoundly changed, so different, like she hadn't known what she was signing up for when I enlisted. 

This took me in the opposite direction. I started feeling bitter, and resentful, and about as far away from turned on as it was possible to be. 

And so I thought again. I shifted my focus. I tried to draw forth a name from depths of my mind. A name, and a face, of anyone who still filled me with any sort of tenderness. Instead so much pain. All the crushing heartbreak that had been inflicted on me by nearly everyone else in my life. 

And that was when someone strange came to mind. 

Keisha Hillary. 

It almost caught me off guard at first. 

I certainly hadn't been expecting it. 

Keisha, the daughter of my boss, Marlon Hillary. The two of us had only met a handful of times over the years that I'd ben in Marlon's employment. There had certainly never been anything between the two of us, as such- Marlon probably would have had me killed if he even caught me thinking about it. But the couple of times we had run into one another, there had been something unaccountably striking about her. 

Poise, and graciousness, and of course beauty. There was something mature about her, for a girl who was only twenty-one years old. A bit young for a blondish silver fox in his mid-forties? I'm not going to pretend otherwise. 

But on the occasions I'd seen her, I'd thought I saw some glint of those rich, mahogany eyes of hers. An expression of longing, unspoken, but very clear, and very present. I want you, she seemed to say, without speaking, and at that moment, beneath the boiling water, and with the last of Philips' blood draining away beneath my feet, something seemed to click. 

I wanted her. Badly. Like I'd never wanted a woman before in my life. 

I groaned and started slamming my hand against my body, pumping my shaft again at double the rate of before, jerking my fist along all those solid tumescent inches of mine. 

I pictured my tongue in her throat. My hands on her perfectly portioned breasts, squeezing them, pinching those dark, luscious nipples. I pictured her thighs, just the right amount of wide, and her tight, juicy ass, and imagined how wonderful it would feel, kneading those buttocks between my greedy fingertips. 

I savored the imagined touch of her rich, ebony skin, and the contrasting cool and heat of her body, and how hot and how tight she would feel around me if only I could be inside her. 

Finally, I pictured her down on her knees, and my cock in her throat and her tongue twisting around me, sucking me off with a kind of urgent desperation like I just couldn't cum for her soon enough. 

I started roaring and pounding myself, and I felt the pressure building, at last, building toward its sweet, inevitable, perfect crescendo. 

Then I let out a yell at the top of my lungs. Every muscle in my body seemed to spasm. Every part of me was seized by orgasm, gripped from head to toe, the bathroom seemed to spin around me, the steam making me lightheaded, and my heart thundering to escape from my chest. 

My cock spilled over, pulsing, leaping, pumping its hot cum everywhere. It plunged across my shifting hand, and hit the wall of the shower, and poured along down the drain. And all the while, as I just kept cumming and cumming, the whole of my being on fire with pleasure, was how fucking amazing my cum would look all over Keisha's skin, and dripping from her mouth, and spilling down so slowly between her perfect breasts. 

At long last, I felt the thrill of climax dissipating. I gasped, and shivered, and felt a devastating emptiness wash over me. All of the sudden, I was reminded of just how far I was from the girl I'd fantasized about. How ridiculous it was for me to imagine that kind of thing in the first place, knowing that a man like me could never settle down. Never have anything even remotely resembling what I craved to have with her. 

Best just to put her out of my head, and be grateful for what she'd done to me. 

Getting the toxins of murder out of my system, and allowing my heart to finally settle down to something even remotely resembling a normal rate of beating. 

I gave my shaft a last few deep, slow pumps, then practically slid along the tiles of the shower to the floor, exhausted, in so many more ways than I could count. 

“Fuck,” I gasped, tilting my head back, closing my eyes, and letting the steam from the water sweep me away. 

I tried my best to ward off my looming depression. To tell myself that I was all okay. So, I couldn't have what I really wanted. I could never have it. But I was out of this life now. I'd made enough on that hit to be finished with it. Gone for good. 

No looking back. 

That, as far as I was concerned, should have been enough.

What do you think about the sample? Pretty wild, huh? I won't deprive you any longer. You can read the full-length novella here: https://amzn.to/2ryTq85

If you'd prefer to read the Paperback version, you can find it here: https://amzn.to/2ryUetD

Romance Novel Excerpts: Jealous Ex-Husband (BWWM Romance Novel)

This novel will be coming out new this month and I'm excited to share Jealous Ex Husband with all you interracial romance fans out there. The trailer just dropped on YouTube and y'all have been sharing the love in the comment section to enter and win an advanced review copy. If you love books similar to 50 Shades of Grey with an interracial BWWM twist, you'll love this full-length novel which maps out the crazy story of Quetta & Vlad.

As I said in the trailer, divorce isn't easy and this story is about finding love after divorce. If you like romance novel excerpts, love romantic stories and enjoy reading free romance novels online, keep reading to enjoy the first preview of Jealous Ex-Husband... 

Book Description:

Divorce ain't easy...

It's even harder when your ex-husband is famous...

And vengeful.

Jealousy, back-stabbing and Hollywood materialism threaten Quetta's joy after divorce.

The one man who makes all her troubles disappear is the one man Quetta must stay away from...

Or she'll risk losing everything.

Romance Novel Excerpts: Jealous Ex Husband (BWWM Romance Novel)

DIRTY LAWYER

Vlad Romanov had tired of Tati.  She was not only another boring, fake model filled with silicon at every point of injection, but she was another reminder of his tendency to make horrible decisions with women. On his quest for “the one”, Vlad found himself surrounded by the perpetual stream of plastic women in Los Angeles whose only obsessions included Botox and Birkins — nothing else. Sure, she was sexy enough but was that really enough?

The biggest issue with Tati, besides her empty blue eyes and her desperation for material objects was the fact that the second they’d slept together she had become clingier than a piece of gum beneath a table. She didn’t get the idea that Vlad had no time for her. No. Fucking. Time. Vlad was one of the highest paid divorce lawyers on the West Coast and although he loved passing time with these wannabe models, strippers and shallow rich chicks, he reviled interruptions, especially while he worked. 

“What the hell is it Tati?”

“I love you Vlad…” She purred in her heavy Russian accent. (Vlad wasn’t entirely sure she wasn’t faking it. She claimed to be from Moscow but he knew without a doubt, her parents had immigrated in the late 80s.) 

Vlad rolled his eyes. They’d slept together once. And Tati wasn’t naive. She might have been twenty years old but she had been around the block. She’d starred in around fifty blue movies before “retiring” and attempting to become a professional girlfriend. Sugar babies were as common as bus drivers in the city.

“Listen… Tati… I can’t handle this right now. I’m working on a case…”

Tati hit back, “You’re always working Vlad. Always working. Why don’t I stop by your office and I wrap my lips around your cock. We’ll see how busy you are.”

Vlad cringed. There was no way in hell he was going to let Tati know where he worked.

“Listen… Tati, I’ve got to go. Why don’t you go find some other way to occupy your time. I promise I’ll see you later.”

“You are a terrible boyfriend Vlad. Perhaps I should call another man to occupy me this afternoon.”

Vlad ignored her obvious attempt to make him jealous. “Perhaps you should. And I’m not your boyfriend.”

“What are you afraid of Vlad? You hate commitment.” 

Vlad scoffed. He’d known Tati a grand total of eight days. Afraid of commitment or afraid of crazy Russian chicks? 

“I don’t have time for this.” 

“Fine! You’re a fucking scumbag Vlad! I spread my legs for you and what do you do… you shit all over me.” 

Click! 

Tati hung up. Vlad smirked. She was so dramatic. He knew she’d be crawling back for more later anyway. He really didn’t have time for her. Vlad’s latest celebrity lawsuit and his work had always taken priority over bimbos. The deeper and deeper Vlad got into his work, the less he had time for women. 

Of course, all the women his age wanted nothing more than to tie him down and start milking him for money and babies. Vlad was still looking for fun. Crazy as she might have been, Tati was fun. 

Vlad’s receptionist paged his office. 

“Mr. Romanov? I have your two o’clock.”

“Send her up.” 

Vlad downed the glass of vodka he’d kept sitting on his desk. His latest clientele wouldn’t appreciate how much he drank on the job. He adjusted his lapels and sat up straight, pulling out a gold pen and a sheet of thick card paper to take notes on. He’d been up all night, working on his latest case and the dark bags under his eyes betrayed his exhaustion. 

Vlad’s piercing eyes were brilliant greenish color that glowed like emeralds. The green picked up the deep chestnut brown color of his hair, giving his eyes an occasional champagne color. Vlad sat up in his office chair and straightened his orange and black Princeton tie. Breathe. 

His receptionist had hinted that this client wanted to remain anonymous before they met. She had “security concerns”, which wasn’t uncommon for his clients. Vlad wondered who it would be… Some celebrity bodyguard hoping Vlad would get them a big cash payout from alleged mistreatment? A woman with a botched boob job? 

A knock on his door interrupted Vlad from his fantasizing. 

“Come in!” 

He coughed and sat up straight, prepared for anything.  

When the door opened, Vlad’s jaw might have dropped if he hadn’t had so much practice maintaining his composure under all manner of surprising encounters.

“Good afternoon, miss,” He greeted her. Of course, most people on the West Coast knew who she was but people who were famous preferred the pretense that they could maintain anonymity. Instantly, Vlad noticed how much more beautiful she was in person…  

Quetta Blackburn noticed the same things about him. Quetta wondered if she’d come to the right place at all. The man sitting across the desk from her looked more like a professional athlete and bodybuilder than a high-powered lawyer who had been personally responsible for bankrupting a number of high profile men. His office stank of vodka and cigars, but other than the smell, was perfectly clean and tidy, almost acetic in its appearance.

“Good afternoon Mr. Romanov.” 

“Good afternoon, madam.”

Quetta stuck out her hand to shake his. Vlad maintained eye contact with her, his gaze piercing into hers as he assessed every detail about her, gripping her hand in a firm, powerful handshake. Her diamond tennis bracelet jingled as she shook his hand and her manicured fingers dug into his thick meaty palm. She released his grasp quickly and smoothed her tight dress, sitting with her legs crossed before invited.

“So… What are we speaking about today Miss…”

“You know who I am…” She said, “But don’t call me Mrs. Blackburn. Call me Quetta.” 

“My husband and I are getting a divorce. I forced him to file the papers and I need a lawyer who can help me get what I’m worth,” Quetta said flatly. 

Quetta’s cool impressed Vlad. Most divorcées were withering messes, unsure of what they wanted and more interested in salvaging what politeness they could from their spouses. He could tell Quetta wasn’t that kind of woman. Her dark, copper colored skin glowed with the effortless beauty of a woman who lived without stress. Vlad picked up on her intense gaze.

He was the best, everyone agreed he was the best. But Quetta was still skeptical when she saw him. Vlad still looked more like a pretty boy than a renowned lawyer.

“What do you have in mind?” Vlad asked.

She didn’t pause for a moment before speaking her mind.

“I want at least half… More than half if I can get away with it. It’s just… I’ve been through a lot with him and I’m afraid of what my husband will try to do.” 

Vlad looked Quetta up and down. She didn’t look like your usual basketball wife gold digger, but she had some of the trimmings of one. Every part of her was perfectly manicured from her straight black weave, her body hugging dress and her manicured fingernails. Every inch of her that could dripped in jewelry. Her Prada bag on the table was the final touch in a made-for-TV outfit. 

Vlad was certain she didn’t leave the house without consulting a stylist. Still, despite her manicured state, she was dressed properly. There wasn’t a hint of cleavage and her skirt fell far below her knees. Quetta Blackburn seemed just as wholesome as her TV image.

“May I ask the reason for the divorce, Mrs. Blackburn? Before taking on new clients, I need to know that I can win.”

“This conversation will be confidential, right?” 

Now, Vlad was curious. He leaned forward, itching to have another drink as he listened to a story that promised to be intriguing.

“My husband…” she sighed.

“My husband hasn’t been faithful,” she confessed. 

Quetta pursed her lips after the confession. Her calm exterior was only slightly ruffled, but Vlad was good enough at reading people to see that she had been. She twirled her fingers around and fiddled with the clasp of her bracelet. 

Vlad raised his eyebrow. Even he wasn’t resistant to such a delightful piece of gossip. Kareem Blackburn was a famous NBA player whose entire image as a celebrity was constructed around his Christian faith and his love for his Christian wife that he’d been with since college. Vlad couldn’t believe that the pure and wholesome family man could actually be a philanderer. A part of him wondered if Quetta was telling the truth.

“Listen… Mrs. Blackburn. I’m not sure what you’re looking for,” Vlad replied with a smile.

Quetta’s expression changed. She could tell that he wasn’t taking her seriously. She stopped fiddling with her bracelet and she grabbed her purse off his desk. Her eyes narrowed and she spoke to Vlad in a stronger voice than she’d ever managed to muster up.

“Listen Mr. Romanov. I’m a serious client asking you to negotiate a multi million dollar divorce. I don’t know what impression you have of me but I can pay your fee and I want your services. I’ve heard about you… a lot about you… And I know that you’re the only man who will be able to get me what I want. Everyone knows that you’re a sicko in the courtroom and you’ll do what it takes to win. I want that… I need that. So are you really going to say no to money on the table?”

She opened her purse and took out a checkbook. She wrote, in dazzling neat script and ripped the check, sliding it across the table. Vlad’s eyes popped open at the amount, which far exceeded his usual exorbitant retainer. 

For someone who played the meek, innocent wife during TV interviews, it was clear that Quetta was no innocent. She was ready to play hardball. The check was all he needed to see. 

“Listen Mrs. Blackburn, my tactics as a lawyer have been described as wily… devious and by some men, illegal.”

“I don’t care. All I want is to walk away from this divorce with exactly what I’m worth.” 

“And exactly how much do you think you’re worth Mrs. Blackburn?”

“At least $200 million.” 

“Alright. Tell me more about what’s happening with you and your husband.”

Quetta sat down and began to tell Vlad about everything that was happening with her husband. It was a shame how quickly everything seemed to deconstruct. She had grown accustomed to the idea of a forever with Kareem but everything had turned sour fast. Getting drafted in the league had seemed like a dream come true at the time. Now Quetta was wondering if her relationship had been ruined the moment Kareem signed his contract. Everything had changed. The moment he’d gone from her man to a media darling, her life was completely different.

“Kareem and I met in high school. I was part of the Christian Students Association and back then I’d taken a vow of chastity which included not dating any boys until I turned eighteen. Kareem honored my promise to wait and I supported his dream to play basketball. We started dating our first year of college. I still kept my promise, no matter what people thought. And he remained committed to me. I still remember after practice every day, we would hole up in my dorm room with our Bibles and talk about the word of the Lord…”

Vlad was trying to focus on Quetta’s story but reading the Bible together was not how he thought this was going to start. But Quetta was making a good point: when had it all gone wrong? How could a perfect couple that was so committed to each other fall apart so fast? Was the allure of money, cheap sex and power so great that it could break a bond made between two devout soulmates?

Quetta was continuing, “When Kareem signed his contract I was so happy… We had just been married and I’d just entered into a perfect relationship with my perfect man. I’d done everything exactly the way God had asked of me. Kareem was reaping the blessings of his faith too. I felt like nothing could go wrong. But it was only about a year or so before things began to change.” 

Now this was the good stuff… Vlad thought to himself.

“He started lying to me. I didn’t know he was lying to me but I could tell. Our relationship with each other and with God was starting to falter. I hated it… I hated playing the perfect couple for the cameras and at all the ball games while knowing he was lying to me. It hurt so much to have to be that person who was being dishonest. But I didn’t dare let up the image. After a while, I started doing my research. If I’d found out it was just one time…” Quetta started tearing up. 

Vlad waited, stoic for her to continue. A part of him felt for her but another part of him wondered what on earth she expected with a man who played in the NBA.

“If it was just one time I could have forgiven him. God would have wanted me to forgive him. But that wasn’t it. It was more than one time, with more than one person and after I tried to forgive him, he lied and did the same thing all over again. God wants me to forgive, but he doesn’t want me to ruin my life for a man who don’t love me no more. Kareem might think he still loves me, but he don’t. And when he realizes that he don’t, I’m gonna suffer. Are you capable of helping me Mr. Romanov?”

Vlad nodded.

“I’ll help you Mrs. Blackburn. But… Please, call me Vlad.” 

This book will be coming to Amazon very shortly. I hope you enjoy the free sample. If you want to stay updated on the book, join my mailing list and you'll be the first to find out when it drops! Click here to join the list. When the book is live, I'll update this blog with the links to where you can find the book. This book will be included in Kindle Unlimited. To read more chapters free before the book drops, check out my Patreon. 

Short BWWM Books: Black Widow Finds Her Billionaire

Check out another one of Jamila's short bwwm books. If you enjoy pregnancy romance books and interracial romance books, you'll enjoy this excerpt from one of our best contemporary writers. This is an intriguing and highly erotic tale which will appeal to almost anyone interested in stories about black women and attractive white men. If you love alpha male romance tales and stories with strong black women, keep reading.

Widowed and desperate...

Aubrey is widowed and desperate for happiness that she doesn't think she'll ever find again. The walls around her heart are hundreds of feet high, and topped with barbed wire. Turning to the church to help her overcome her grief pushes her into the arms of a charming, white man, Will Waldorf, whom she begins to date.

Desperate to overcome her grief and her guilt, she decides to finally have sex with Will. Will seems to have very specific tastes, tastes that he needs satisfied. Aubrey takes the plunge, and satisfies her new dominant in every way she can. In doing so, she finds out a secret about Will that changes everything. Before she knows it, Aubrey has a baby on the way and a billionaire wrapped around her finger.

Grief is a funny thing...

Short BWWM Books: Black Widow Finds Her Billionaire Excerpt

My husband died a few years ago. We were high school sweethearts who got married when we both turned twenty years old. Demarcus and Aubrey. Our names were well known amongst our peers. We had been the perfect couple since we started dating, our freshman year of high school. We had always known that we were going to be together forever. When Demarcus was twenty-five, he was killed for testifying against gang members whom he had witnessed committing a crime. When I went to identify his body, in the cold disgusting morgue where the love of my life was desecrated, most of what I remember is the stench. And of course, the bullet holes -- three nearly perfect round punctures in his chest. I cried for the rest of the night and didn’t eat for two days.

Grief is funny. You’ll never really know how it will hit you until it hits you. I knew that I would never love anyone again after Demarcus. I knew that my life, was over. I am a God-fearing black woman, but I turned away from Christ throughout my darkest months, cursing him over and over again for taking away my one true love for no reason at all. I lost around thirty pounds during the grieving process and had turned to alcohol for much of my comfort.

It took me a full three years to get over his death. I was in my late twenties, self-weaned off of alcohol and fully committed to my faith. Yes, I still believed that I would never love again. Yes, I still believed that the only way for me to keep on going was to remain closed off to the world. I did not want to let anyone in because I’d seen how easily God could pluck friends and lovers out of my life, without a hint of remorse. Every day, I prayed for some end in sight. I prayed for some great happiness to sweep me off my feet, to help me forget the grief I felt over losing Demarcus.

Then I met Will.

At this point, I was five foot six and a little over a hundred and ten pounds. My thin frame didn’t mean that I didn’t have a good body on me. My rich caramel colored skin was soft to the touch with lightning strike stretch marks over my hips. My tummy was flat and firm, and I had medium sized plush breasts with chocolate chip colored nipples. My ass was as plump as it could be for a girl my size; my taut buttocks were my best feature according to some of my closer friends. I wore my natural afro textured hair in long ringlets down the center of my back, with the front pieces pulled back in a little clip. My eyes were hazel brown colored, with flecks of darker brown. A few months after Demarcus’ death, I’d gotten the letter. Everything about my appearance looked a little hollow since Demarcus’ death, but when I met Will, things were on the upswing. Getting out of bed no longer felt excruciating.

I was at a local church charity event, when a handsome white man walked up to me. I could tell immediately that he was wealthy. His walk, his mannerisms and his confident smile clued me in to his dignified status. “Hello, I noticed you standing over her and I just had to say hello. You’re one of the most beautiful women that I’ve ever seen. My name is Will Waldorf,” he said, sticking out his hand to shake mine. I extended my palm, gripping Will’s hand in a strong handshake, noticing how his strength exceeded mine. “I’m Aubrey. Thank you for the compliment,” I said smiling. It had been a while since a man had approached me, and even longer since I hadn’t immediately rebuffed him.

We got to talking and Will asked me out on a date. I was hesitant to say yes. “I lost my husband a couple years ago, I’m not sure if I’ll be able to give you what you want,” I said to him honestly. “You don’t know what I want. But we can take it slow Aubrey,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. I was sold and agreed to go on a date with Will. The date was magical. I hadn’t felt that kind of magic since Demarcus. I hadn’t laughed that hard in years, especially not with a man. Will was charming, polite and as he had promised, he took things slow with me. He didn’t kiss me at the door or pressure me for sex, but left like a gentleman.

After two weeks of dating, my feelings for Will started to get stronger. But so did my feelings of guilt. Would Demarcus, from beyond the grave, ever forgive me for loving another man? Will and I hadn’t slept together yet, but after two magical weeks, I began to crave it more than anything. My dreams were filled with Will, pressing his beautiful body into mine, kissing and biting my neck and plunging deep between my folds. These passionate dreams seemed to be intertwined with nightmares. I imagined Demarcus’ punctured corpse rising, and watching me as I made love to Will. In each dream, after he watched me make love, Demarcus’ corpse would plunge a knife into my body. I woke up before the tip penetrated my chest, often in a cold sweat and always unable to return to sleep.

Despite my guilt, I was determined to sleep with Will. Perhaps that would be the only way that I could move on. But I still felt like I needed some blessing to make it happen. And so, I did what every good black Catholic woman does, I turned to the church. After seeking counsel with nuns and the priest, they that although premarital sex was forbidden, I should not in fact feel guilty of wanting Will’s love. They advised that we get married first, but my religious counsel pointed me away from guilt. That sealed the deal. With God on my side, I felt entitled to the pleasures of the flesh with Will. If I loved him, it couldn’t be so wrong, could it? I couldn’t continue to deny myself happiness. That night, I had only pleasant dreams. My guilt ridden nightmares seemed to have finally ceased. I made the decision: I was going to fuck Will Waldorf.

He came over to my house, bearing gifts. Will brought me a beautiful white gold bracelet, fancier than any gift that I’d ever received. He hugged me and kissed me at the door. It was only the second time we kissed, but it felt amazing. “Will, I’ve made a decision,” I began shyly, “I think it’s time we take our relationship to the next level.” He raised his eyebrows, like he was uncertain of whether or not this was a test. “You mean sex?” he asked bluntly. I nodded. “Are you sure, Aubrey?” he questioned. “Yes, I’m sure,” I replied.

Will paused for a little bit and sighed deeply. What the hell? I had expected him to be overjoyed and to immediately pounce on me once I had admitted that I was ready to take the next step. I’d seen his bulge straining through his pants on our date. I’d seen the hungry look in his eyes when I would take my coat off at restaurants, revealing my naked shoulders and bare chest. “Aren’t you happy?” I asked, totally perplexed by his reaction.

Continue reading this story on Kindle!

If you enjoyed this story, check out another by Jamila Jasper. Click here to experience another short bwwm book excerpt!

Romantic Comedy Novels: Walking Down The Aisle

This story cemented Raven's position as one of the best contemporary writers. Another one of her romantic comedy novels that became a best-selling African American romance novel. This is a perfect book if you love romantic stories and enjoy hilarious romance novels with plenty of twists and turns.

Rachel is a young, hot, African American novelist, and she's in a bind. She's got a big event coming up on Friday which could make or break her career, but she doesn't have a date. Her mom twists her arm into taking Michael, a world-renowned artist with more than a few quirks. Rachel, however, just can't seem to figure him out, and it's driving her crazy. As far as she's is concerned, he's either the most attractive man she's ever met, or the most terrifying. But which one is it? The deeper Rachel goes down the rabbit hole, the more she finds out about Michael, and the more she desperately she hopes that her heart is correct.

Can Rachel discover all of Michael's secrets and still love him?

Romantic Comedy Novels: Walking Down the Aisle Excerpt

BEFORE THE BIG NIGHT

It was an interesting time in my life. I had spent my years after college waiting tables to pay my bills while following my dream of becoming a successful writer. In three years, I’d written three romance novels, and published each independently. Each title received a respectable amount of success, but the true reward came when some talent scout at Simon & Schuster read some of my work and decided that I would be the next author they would bring into the limelight. Mind you, my first three titles had already netted me a fair degree of success -- especially with black women, my target audience. So while I might have had to sign a few autographs when I was at the hair salon, I was still pretty much unknown to the rest of the world. With a big publisher behind me, my goal for my next novel was nothing short of becoming a New York Times Bestseller.

Just because I knew how to craft a tantalizing romance between a black woman and a white man didn’t actually mean that I had personal experience. I must confess that I hadn’t been on a date in months, and I’d never even slept with a white man before –– I’d never so much as seen a white guy’s cock before in real life. As a BWWM writer, I was always paranoid that I’d say something in my books to expose me as a fraud who didn’t know what she was talking about. For example, one time I compared my lead character’s junk to a pink strawberry. I thought for sure that all of the penis experts would throw their arms up in protest, but nobody noticed. Do white men’s penises really look like pink strawberries?

Anyway, my pathetic love life especially bothered my mother. You see, my mom was a former Ford Model -- one of the few black ones in her time, I might add -- and she never forgave me for not being as hot, or as successful as she was. She had long since given up hope that I might grow out of my awkward phase, but now that my career as a writer was starting to take off, she was absolutely thrilled with the idea that maybe she did rub off on me a little bit. To give me a warm welcome, one of the bigwigs at Simon & Schuster had invited me to a snobby social, and my mom had decided to use the upcoming event as an opportunity to initiate the one thing that no black woman wants to hear from her mother: it was the dreaded relationship intervention.

A relationship intervention happens when your parents, relatives, or closest friends decide to push you out of the driver’s seat of your own love life and start steering you in a different direction. This usually involves meeting up for what looks like an innocent get together followed by an ambush of unsolicited relationship advice and demands. Case in point: One quiet afternoon, my mother and I were having a delightful lunch at a bistro downtown, when our laughter and fun conversation took a sharp turn…

“Oh, c’mon Mom. Do we really need to talk about this? My love life’s fine!”

“No it’s not, Rachel. You’re almost 30 and you haven’t even met a decent man. Do you think you’re going to keep those fresh looks forever? When was the last time you went on a date?”

“But––”

“Your older brother has four kids and Trisha’s pregnant with a fifth. Your little cousin Dwayne’s fifteen, and he can’t stop talking about getting married –– or about getting to third base. Even your grandpa found himself someone online. The man’s been a widow for 20 years; he’s so computer illiterate that he needs tech support to figure out how to turn his computer on, but he figured it out because don’t nobody want to be old and alone. You don’t want that, do you?”

“No…” I groaned, rolling my eyes…

“C’mon, now. You’re not getting any younger. You don’t want to wind up like your aunt Mary Jo, do you? All she’s got is a dog named Michael Ealy who gets to stay in the room when she masturbates.”

“Eww! Mom, I don’t wanna know about that…”

“Your little sister is seven years younger than you, and she’s already married. She was smart –– she married young and fetched a hot black Wall Street banker with a six pack. Who knows if you’ll ever be able to bring home something like that…”

“So what do you want out of me, Mom?” I barked. “What am I supposed to do? I can’t just snap my fingers and have the man of my dreams appear before me…”

“Nobody’s talking about pie in the sky miracles, Rachel. I just want to give you a little push in the right direction.”

“Huh?” I asked, eyebrow raised. “What are you getting at?”

“I have it on good authority that you don’t have a date for your Simon & Schuster social on Friday night. I have the perfect guy for you––”

“Oh no,” I protested. “No way. Besides, I already have a date.”

“Really, who?”

“I’ll go with one of my girls.”

“Seriously? Have I taught you nothing? If you take one of your girlfriends, then you might as well not go at all…”

“What do you mean?”

My mom cleared her throat as she prepared for her triumphant speech…

“God bless them, but every one of your friends suck. If you show up with Amber, she’ll peck at every guy within a ten foot radius of you. You know she’s an overly competitive whore who can’t stand the idea that a man might find you more attractive.”

I folded my arms disapprovingly and wrinkled my face. My mom continued…

“Monica will chase men away because she I’m pretty sure she hates them.”

“She’s not a lesbian, Mom.”

“Sure, whatever…”

“And what about Troya?” I offered. “She won’t be so bad. She might even help me find a guy...”

“Are you kidding me? She’ll cockblock you the whole night.”

“No, she won’t.”

“Honey, Troya’s the worst of them all. If a guy approaches you, she’ll death stare you from across the room to try to slut shame you into submission. You know how she gets with her weird religious mumbo jumbo.

“I know that what I’m saying seems harsh, but darling, now that you’re in the limelight, you need to get it through your head that appearances mean something. If you –– romance author extraordinaire –– show up without a nice, hot man by your side, everyone’s going to want to know why. It’s bad press. You’re going to want to show up with a man, whether or not you’re sleeping with him, because with a hot man by your side, you’ll be seen as untouchable, and that’s right where you want to be. Dogs always try to sniff around the alpha male’s patch of pee. Do you see what I’m saying?”

“Wait. Mom, did you just compare me to a patch of pee?!”

“It doesn’t matter. Look, baby, why don’t you let your mommy set you up this one time? I promise, if it doesn’t work out, I’m never going to stick my nose in your business again…”

“But Mommm,” I complained, “These setups never work. The guy always turns out to be some wimp who’s thirty and still living in his mom’s basement, which is precisely why he tries to get old ladies like you to set him up with their daughters. Besides, there’s no way I’m going to show up to such an important event with a complete stranger. There’s going to be reporters and press. No way…”

“Have a little faith, dear. You don’t think your mother knows the type of man that you want most? His name his Michael. You’ll love him. He’s an artist -- mostly photography -- and he’s totally handsome. And here’s the best part: you write romance novels, and he’s one the sweetest, most romantic men I’ve ever met in my life.”

I tried to decode my mother’s language. She said artist. I heard: broke. She said totally handsome. I heard: Maybe he’s not balding. As for the whole romance connection, now I was already convinced that I’d hate him, because behind my big romance writer nametag, I fancied myself to be about as romantic as a potato…

“I met him through some of my old Ford connections,” Mom said. “You’ll love him, I promise.”

My mom looked over my shoulder toward the bistro’s front door. It was then that I realised that my mother wasn’t asking my permission for a setup. She was merely informing me that it was already happening…

“You brought a guy here? Mom, how could you?”

“Don’t worry, darling. I promise, you’re going to love him.”

My mom looked at the front door again expectantly. Just then, a tall, clean shaven, dark skinned man entered the room. If he wasn’t successful, he certainly played the part perfectly. He wore a sharp, pinstriped suit, he walked with a confident swagger, and he was the spitting image of Idris Elba. I couldn’t believe my eyes. How had my mom done good and set me up with a handsome hunk like that?

Before I had the chance to thank her, the handsome black man walked straight past the two of us and joined the table of businessmen at the opposite corner of the room. Moments after that, my mom pointed at the front door…

“There he is…” She said.

I tried to adjust my eyes to the blinding light from outside, and soon the real Michael came into focus. I couldn’t believe what I saw. The man who had just waved to my mother, and was approaching our table, was covered in dirt from head to toe. He looked like he’d just stepped out of a coal mine. I took one look at his pale skin and blue eyes couldn’t help but feel like my mother was trying to pull a fast one…

“What the hell is this, Mom?” I said. “Why is this man covered in dirt? And why’s he white? You think that just because I write about white men all day long that I’m trying to get locked down by Adrien Brody? Mom? Mom?”

My mother wasn’t listening to me anymore. Her plan was already set in motion, and she had already set her mind on seeing it through to the end. As Michael arrived at our table, she stood up to greet him. I kept my ass glued to the chair. I was seething…

“Oh Mikey,” my mom said while kissing each of his dusty cheeks, “I’m so glad you came. Meet my beautiful daughter, Rachel. Isn’t she lovely?”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rachel,” Michael said, extending his hand toward me for a handshake. I was having none of it. I was willing to admit that Michael was handsome -- in a David Beckham after a muddy soccer match kind of way -- but what kind of white guy shows up to a nice restaurant in the middle of the day, covered in dirt? I was on high alert…

“Why exactly are you covered in dirt?” I said, with the most unimpressed tone I could muster.

“Oh, this?” Michael said, referring to his entire appearance. He seemed to have become self aware for the first time. He laughed and scratched his head. “You know, I just got back from digging up a few graves…”

My mom gave me a side eye that only an angry black mother can do. In one look, she said it all: Don’t embarrass me, or I’ll kill you! She wasn’t bluffing, either. I could tell from my mom’s intense grimace that if I put up too much of a fight, she really might kill me. She would at least pull out her belt and whoop me in public, and I was too old for that, so I decided to play a little bit more diplomatically. I extended my hand to shake his…

“It’s nice to meet you, Michael,” I said with a slightly sarcastic tone.

At this point, my mother decided to give Michael and me a chance to get to know each other a little better so she excused herself and went to the ladies’ room, however not before she gave me one last death stare. Don't fuck it up! She seemed to say. I gave her a hopeless, groveling look. It was obvious that I didn't want to be there, but since she’d forced my hand, I tried to make the best of a bad situation. In spite of the fact that Michael was covered in dirt from head to toe, at the very least, he was handsome and jovial.  I tried to keep that in mind as my mother left the table, and Michael sat down…

After Michael and I had exchanged a few awkward pleasantries, I discovered a few things about him that changed my opinion from ‘hell no’ to ‘maybe’. For starters, he didn't let his appearance get in the way of him being charming and fun. I liked that. His smooth, deep voice also worked to sooth my reservations about him, and I also figured out right away that he was definitely very bright. He happened to mention that one of his favorite authors was bell hooks. We got into a heated discussion about black sexual politics, and needless to say, I was impressed.  I had spoken to a lot of handsome white guys in my day, but meeting one who appreciated a top black feminist scholar was a first.

Most surprisingly of all, Michael had a decent explanation for why he had shown up to such a nice restaurant in the middle of the city looking so bad. To tell you the truth, I had already gotten so engrossed by our stimulating conversation that I had almost forgotten about the whole covered in dirt issue, but when he brought it up, he handled my objection like a champ.

“I guess I ought to apologize for showing up like this, covered in dirt. I'm very passionate about the work that I do. I'm working on an art piece that's going to be my magnum opus. I like to think of it as my version of the Sistine Chapel. Sometimes I get so obsessed with it that I forget that how messy being an artist can be.”

“Wow. That sounds intense,” I said. “What are you working on, exactly?”

“That's top secret for now,” he said. “But perhaps I’ll show you when it’s closer to being finished?”

“Okay…” I said. I was admittedly a little bit mesmerised. I had never actually met a guy who had such a combination of eloquence, charm, intelligence, passion and masculine grit. Michael had a sort of glint in his eye that revealed a magnetic charisma. I somehow knew that he wasn't playing around. He really was some sort of hopeless romantic who was wild about his craft. Suddenly, the dirt that covered his body seemed kind of sexy…

“But for starters…”  he said. “How about we talk about that date?”

Right about that time, my mom showed up again. It was an obvious and shameless tactic to bully me into saying ‘yes.’ My mom gave me an admonishing glare, and Michael waited in anticipation for my response. All of a sudden, the pressure was on. Was I really going to take Michael up on his offer? After all, I still didn't know who he was. Could I trust him? Forget about him embarrassing me in public, how could I be sure he wasn’t some sort of creep? I couldn't. That was the whole problem. My eyes told me one story about him, but my gut said something else entirely. I struggled to make my decision, and the seconds ticked on.

Seeing my prolonged hesitation, my mother cleared her throat loudly to prompt me for my answer. Michael also sensed my uncertainty. He stepped in to give me an out…  

“Look,” he said. “I know this is a little awkward. Fifteen minutes ago, you didn’t even know my name. Now here I am, perhaps not looking my best––”

“No kidding…” I blurted out. Michael smiled, then he leaned into my ear so he could whisper the rest of his message…

“You don’t have to do this,” he said quietly. “If you say ‘yes’ to get your mother off your back, I won’t hold it against you if you stand me up later.”

I realized right then that Michael was in as much of an awkward position as I was. He wasn't some desperate loser who needed some old lady to hook him up with her daughter. In fact, he wasn’t even here for me at all. He had only shown up to the bistro out of respect for my mother, one professional to another. He felt as awkward about the whole thing as I did. In fact, he was probably trying his best to turn me off, which was probably the real reason why he was so filthy.

That realization suddenly made me feel like an asshole. Here I was, resisting him with all my might, when in fact, he was trying to do the same thing…

“Fine,” I said. “You can be my date on Friday night. But you better be freshly washed and in a tuxedo.”

“You have a deal,” Michael said. “You can meet me at my place. Here’s my address.”

As Michael handed me a napkin with his handwriting on it, he shot me a coy smile and a wink, making sure that my mom didn’t see. I knew what that wink meant. The ball was still in my court. I could either meet him Friday night at eight, or show up to my Simon & Schuster social all by my lonesome. What would I do?

* * *

The next day, I had an appointment to get my hair done with my three best friends: Monica, Amber, and Troya.  Under the noise and heat of our hair dryers, I discussed the issue with them…

“Don’t do it! You don’t have any facts about him. Based on what little you know, you can’t even rule out the possibility that he’s not a serial killer. I don’t like those odds. Next thing you know, he’ll be using your nice brown skin for the cover of his Satanic Bible.”

That was my friend Monica. She was a senior accountant for ExxonMobil eastern division as well as a Princeton graduate. After years of fighting her way to success in a male dominated industry, Monica carried a huge chip on her shoulder when it came to all men, everywhere. My mother was wrong; Monica wasn’t a lesbian. She was, however, a numbers girl. In life, just as in business, she always crunched the numbers and demanded a good return on her investment.

“Don’t listen to Monica, try him out. As I always like to say, men are a never ending sausage buffet; if you kill one, another one will rise up to take his place. Show up with him, if he turns out to be a dud, leave with someone else, and post the story on Instagram. Do you have any idea how much people will pay to see that kind of stuff on a daily basis?”

That was Amber. She was a femme fatale with a vengeance. She used her powers of seduction to attract men, and then troll them on Instagram. She had built an entire media empire around it, with millions of followers and endorsement deals from a wide variety of designer companies.

“Rachel! Don’t ever have two dates in one night. It goes against the word of Christ to act so lustfully. Besides, if you want to keep a man hooked, you’ve gotta make him wait at least seven days before you meet up with him.”

Troya managed the investment portfolio of the entire North American branch of the Baptist Church. There were two things that she was most proud of in the world. The first was being noticeably light skinned. The second was being a self proclaimed “virgin of Christ”. Troya was definitely not a virgin, but she did go out of her way to make sure that she could never, ever, be accused of being a slut.

Both Monica and Amber kissed their teeth in chorus. “Oh, please,” Amber said. “Virgin, my ass,” Monica muttered.

“Follow the seven day rule and you’ll be on the fast track to having a serious relationship. Just like me...”

Troya smiled as innocently as she possibly could. Almost as if a halo were over her head. This only served to aggravate Monica and Amber, but I jumped in before they could take her down a peg…

“What’s the seven day rule, Troya?”

“It’s a stupid rule that some Catholic nun probably made up to keep women’s thighs glued together,” Amber chimed in.

“Amber’s wrong,” Troya explained. “The seven day rule definitely works, and it sets the guy up for perfectly for the 30% percent rule. In a nutshell, a woman must always make a man wait, while only putting in 30% of the effort. The longer you make him wait before the first date, the harder he’ll work for your attention, and the longer he’ll wait to have sex. And every girl knows that the longer you wait for sex, the more a guy loves you, and the more likely for your relationship to turn into marriage.”

Monica shook her head in protest…

“The 30% rule already sounds like a lot of hard work to me. If a man shows up covered in dirt and asks me out on a date, he’ll have to bring his bank account statement, doctor’s report, and a recently updated background check. That would help me a long way in deciding whether I want to bother showing. Besides, Troya. For all of your seven day rule this, and 30% rule that, how’s your new man doing?”

“We’re doing just great,” Troya said snootily. “He buys me flowers all the time, we talk on the phone almost every night for hours, and he hasn’t even pressured me for sex. #Winning.”

“Gay…” Amber blurted out.

“Probably not,” Monica rebutted. “But he definitely has something to hide. Have you been to his place yet?”

“No…” Troya said sheepishly.

“I’m shocked -- and appalled, quite frankly,” Amber said.

“You’ve been dating this guy for like three months, he hasn’t fucked you, and you’ve never even seen his place? He sounds like textbook male hoe,” Monica said. “I bet he’s got two cell phones, three aliases and he gets lots of sexy text messages from Domino's.”

“Well, at least I’m not trying to find men online,” Troya sneered, “like some desperate loser…”

“Actually,” Monica said. “Online dating is a proven and effective way to meet a man. Did you know that one in eight people who get married these days have met online? eHarmony has an excellent algorithm for matching couples based on compatibility, with a 93% success rate. Now those are odds that I like. And, as it so happens, I’m going to meet a gentleman that I met online on Friday myself.”

“You girls are so boring,” Amber said. “When was the last time you let a man enjoy the thrill of the chase? If you really want to improve your odds of success, you’ve got to put yourself out there more. First you show up to the club wearing a sexy black dress and the tallest pair of heels you can find, then try to look as ‘damsel in distress-y’ as possible with an empty martini glass in your hand. Works every time.”

“But Amber…” Troya gasped, “That’s sinful.”

“I’d rather size a hundred men up within seconds and fuck the best one at the end of night than waste three months of my precious life, only to find out that my ‘man’ has been sleeping with half of the city. Seriously, Troya, you need to figure out what your man is hiding ASAP before you regret it. Take it from the girl who really knows how to have a successful marriage. If a man loves me, we can keep it casual for 30 years, and tie the knot on my deathbed. That way I’ll die knowing my marriage was definitely a success and I don’t have to divorce a guy because ten years into our marriage, I found out he had a baby diaper fetish.”

After my date at the hair salon with my girls, I started to wonder…  

How much should you trust a man in a relationship, and what was the best way to do it? Should you crunch the numbers, like Monica, and let statistics be your guide? Should you have blind faith in a man because he lived up to your rules and regulations, like Troya? Should you never trust a man at all, like Amber, but just give him the benefit of the doubt as time marches on?

And what’s the best way to find out about the skeletons in a man’s closet? Can you ever really know someone for sure? Should you? What if you find out something that destroys your entire relationship? In other words, if you find out that your partner has a scat fetish, would that be a deal breaker, or can you really know every crappy little thing about another person -- so to speak -- and still like them?

That night, I had several nightmares about what would happen if I agreed to meet Michael on Friday night.

I dreamt that he was covered in dirt because he’d just dug his way out of federal prison. In this equation, I was just a body that he could use as a cumdumpster and human shield before he escaped to Guatemala.

Then another dream came. In it, Michael was one of those peep show freaks who hides at the bottom of latrines and lets women piss and shit all over his face just to get a peek.

Then, in another dream, Michael just liked dirt, and he wouldn’t have sex with me, unless I went a week without showering.

Was I losing my mind?

When I woke up, I decided that I couldn’t allow my imagination to get in the way of my love life. I decided then and there to show up to the Simon & Schuster social with Michael on my arm.

Click here to continue reading Walking Down The Aisle!

Check out more of our romantic comedy novels. Raven Ferrari's most recent release, Getting Her Ex Back is available now! If you enjoyed this excerpt, you'll definitely love what she has in store for you with this one. Click here to read more.