It’s November, and I’m writing the ninth and final Jason and Azazel book. In celebration, every Tuesday and Thursday (TnT), I’ll be posting scenes from previous Jason and Azazel books. Obviously, if you haven’t read the series, thar be spoilers in these parts. Read at your own risk!
The orgasm scene from Tortured:
I flopped back on the bed. “What are we going to do now?” I asked the ceiling.
“Do a Google search for Agnes in Tuscany?” he suggested.
I glared at him.
“Maybe,” he said, “we should wish really hard for all the answers to come to us while kissing heavily.”
I laughed. “That was another of my ideas that didn’t work!”
“It might have worked,” said Jason. “He did come back. And after we beat him senseless, he was actually kind of nice.”
I whacked him with the pillow. He yanked the pillow away from me. “What?” he said. “Don’t you want to kiss me, Azazel?” He began tickling me and kissing whatever part of me he could get his lips on—my elbow, my shoulder, my nose.
I struggled away from his hands, laughing and gasping for breath. “Stop! Stop!” I told him, trying to push him off me.
Jason pinned me down with his legs, forcing himself on top of me to keep tickling me. I punched at his chest, grabbed at his hands, still laughing. “Stop!” I said again.
“No, no,” he drawled, imitating a redneck accent. “I’m going to learn you, woman. If you don’t kiss me, you get tickled.” He caught my hands, which weren’t having any effect on him anyway and pinned them above my head. Then he kissed my lips, long and sweet. And he stopped tickling me.
My giggles faded into sighs. Within a few seconds, his hold on my hands loosened, and I was free to let my hands roam over his back and to play with the stubble on his head.
“I like the way your head feels,” I said.
He broke the kiss, propping himself up to look at me, one eyebrow raised.
I playfully punched him again. “You know what I meant,” I said. Then I couldn’t suppress a slightly wicked grin. “But I guess you could take it the other way too.”
He rolled over next to me, pulling me into his arms. I snuggled against his shoulder.
“Last night,” he murmured, “I was kind of… I mean, I know you didn’t… finish. I’m sorry. I didn’t even try.”
I ran my fingers lightly over the stubble on his head, trying to think of how to respond.
Jason started talking again. “I want you to—”
Impulsively, I grabbed Jason’s hand and moved it onto my body.
“Azazel?” he said.
“Shh,” I said to him.
I put my hand over his, guiding him over my skin, showing him where to put his fingers. For a couple of seconds, I was frightened, because it felt like before, when Jason had tried to do this. It felt like nothing. I closed my eyes, trying to listen to my body, ask it where it wanted to be touched. And then, together, we found it. The place.
“Like that?” Jason asked. He sounded surprised and turned on all at the same time.
“Yeah,” I breathed, moving my hand and letting Jason’s stay there.
“Yeah,” I said, half choking on it. That was very good.
It took forever. It felt really good, but it took forever. Several times, I was just kind of lost in the sensation of it, floating in this warm, sweet feeling, and I suddenly remembered how long it had been going on. I snapped my head a few times up to ask Jason if he was getting bored or if his fingers were getting tired. The third time I did it, Jason growled in my ear, “Shut up, Azazel. I’m not bored. And I love those little noises you’re making.”
But then, several centuries later, it happened. It was a bursting feeling. It was like flowers opening up or a sweet crescendo of thunder across the sky. It was lovely. I opened my eyes and saw Jason looking at me, and I started crying. He brushed the tears away from my cheeks. “Was that okay?” he asked.
Like he had to ask.