Saturday, August 29, 2015


I find myself sitting in the back of one of New York's famous yellow cabs, bumper to bumper in traffic, as I make my way to the outskirts of Soho, to a quaint bookstore/coffee shop called The Book Shelter for my once in a lifetime interview with an ex porn star and his lady love. 

I mean its not every day that one can say that you're about to sit down with the adult film industries Male Performer of the Year, four years running before his retirement. That has to be some record right?

I'm just the tiniest bit excited, but all of that is overtaken by a stomach full of nerves. Scenarios of either spilling a scalding hot skinny latte down my front or saying something highly inappropriate or words failing me completely filter my mind and I have to take a deep breath and try my best to push them away. I watch the boutiques and quaint cafes of Soho pass me by as I approach my destination.  I pay the driver and wish him a good day, getting out. 
I watch him drive away, as I stand outside The Book Shelter that is owned by  Andi Jennings.  I can see what attracted her to the area, and I can hardly wait to wrap up and browse the shelfs, looking for some bargains.

The nerves overtake my stomach again and I've never been so thankful that I'll be kick starting my interviewing skills on author extraordinaire Kirsty Dallas. I open the door and let myself into the store, taking the decor in as I look around.  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, letting the smell of books fill my nose and a smile breaks across my face. Nothing compares to the smell of books, well maybe coffee... and chocolate.

I spot Kirsty across the room, and make my way towards her. 
She hasn't changed much since I last saw her a few months ago at a signing.  The nerves disappear completely as we exchange warm hugs.  
While she dashes off to get us fresh mugs of coffee, I grab my notes out of my messenger bag and have a quick run through of the questions. After a sip of my skinny latte, I launch my interview skills on Kirsty.


Books and Friendz: Kirsty, if you were a rock star, what instrument would you play, and what would a wild night out with you and your band entail...?
Kirsty Dallas: I would totally be the lead guitarist! Because I can’t sing worth a damn. A night out with my band? Okay, we’d start with cocktails, then move on to a massive all you can eat buffet, with more cocktails, then we’d find a roof top bar and drink, laugh and bad dance (because I can’t dance), until the sun came up!

B&F: So what is the kinkiest thing you wanted to write in a scene for Decker but did not include?
KD: I really wanted to insert a public sex scene, but I knew that wouldn’t be Andi’s deal and Decker would never force her to step that far outside her comfort zone.

B&F: Kirsty which real life Pornstar do you see as your idol and who was this book based around?

KD: I don’t think I actually have a porn star ‘idol’, but I am familiar with and admire Kayden Cross and James Deen. The book wasn’t really based around any one adult film star, but around the general industry itself. I also didn’t want to delve too deep into the actual porn scene in the book. It was kind of just a back drop for a good ol’ fashioned comedy romance with a modern spin.

B&F: How did you come up with the idea for Decker’s Wood?
KD: I honestly don’t know. I get most of my ideas in the shower, I think it’s got something to do with escaping the family and finding my solitude. I wanted a character who slept around a lot, but wasn’t exactly a filthy man-whore. For  Decker, sex was a profession, it wasn’t about bagging and tagging as many women as he could. A cocky, beautiful, sexually talented man confronted with a gorgeous, well-rounded, book geek Texan, that’s a recipe for fun!

B&F: Who or what was the inspiration for Decker and Andi’s characters?

KD: My muse for Decker was Joe Manganiello, that man just oozes confidence and sexual appeal. For Andi, it was Isla Fisher, cute, sexy, and confident, in an understated way.

B&F: What was the craziest thing we would find in your google search history?

KD: Ohhhhh, ummm, I clear it REGULARLY. But I spent a lot of time in pornography forums when I was writing Decker. I chatted with behind the scenes people like camera and lighting crew. I also had a brief chat with a female porn star. I’ve googled extensively about manscaping, vagina bling, anal sex, anal bleaching, hammernail, BDSM furniture, flavored lube. OH, just recently I found myself researching lubricants that contain antihistamine.

B&F: Tell us one thing about yourself we’d never suspect?

KD: I’m a total nanna. Seriously, I like to log off the computer by 7pm and snuggle under the covers in bed. That’s not how my evenings usually turn out, but that’s how I’d like them to turn out. I’m also somewhat of a loner. I have stacks of friends and I’m very close to my family, but I am totally at home with my own company. I have so many ongoing stories in my head that I don’t think I could ever truly be alone.

B&F: With the release of Bradley’s Whistle drawing closer, what’s next for Kirsty Dallas?

KD: Yikes, I have so many things lined up, it’s all about which direction my head and heart pulls me. Okay, currently I’m working on the next porn star book (and you’ll have to read all the way to the end of Bradley’s Whistle for a sneak peek at that).

I’ve got another comedy romance called ‘The Honeypot’ floating around in the background. I’ve started on book 5 in the Mercy’s Angels Series (that one is going to be a tough write and read). I’ve got a fantasy romance called ‘The Mortal King’ I hope to get out by Christmas. And, I’m in the process of converting ‘Breeze of Life’ into a movie script. Oh, and I did help write a movie script earlier this year which begins filming here in Australia later this month. ‘Boar’ is a conceptual horror by director Chris Sun. It’s going to be epic!

Wow can't believe that went so quick.

And the nerves are back in full swing when I see Decker and Andi walk in hand-in-hand. They're both smiling, happiness radiating from their every pore. They each grab a cup of coffee before joining Kirsty and Me at the table. We exchange polite pleasantries, followed by small talk. A tactic I would say to ease my nerves. (Kirsty must've let them know about my nervous anxiety when it comes to new people and places!!!!)

Finally feeling at ease, I'm able to get this epic interview off the ground. 


Interview with Decker and Andi

Books and Friendz: Decker, what is the craziest hookup you had?
(*glances over his shoulder to make sure Andi is out of earshot*)
Decker: Okay, I went back to this woman’s house once, and she was on her knees giving me this half-decent BJ, then all of a sudden she jumps up and walks away before I was anywhere near done. A moment later she walks back into the room with a jar of peanut butter and her dog, which was this fucking monster Great Dane or something, then she asks me if I’ll let her spread the peanut butter on my cock and let the dog lick it off…As a porn star I had done some freaky shit, but that was definitely a hard limit for me. 

B&F: Best and Worst thing about being a porn star?
Decker: Ummmm, other than having random chicks want to spread peanut butter on your schlong and have their dog lick it off? I used to get tired of the assumptions people made about the adult film industry. Since I’m retired now, I don’t really care anymore.

B&F: Weirdest thing you saw in the porn industry?
Decker: I guess what one person might interpret as weird might not be for another, there isn’t much that has weirded me out. I saw a scene once that was themed after Disney characters. Mickey and Minnie had a swinger’s party with Donald and Daisy. I guess some would see that as odd…
*Decker smiles and stretches back to lay an arm along the back of the seat as Andi sits down beside him*

B&F: So, how would each of you describe yourself in one word?
Decker -- *grins* Cock-y
Andi -- *slaps Decker’s thigh* Mellow, and I need to be living with a schmuck like this.

B&F: How would you describe each other in one word?
Decker – *still grinning* delicious
Andi -- *smiling* cocky

B&F: Decker I'm curious about your wood... so to speak. Are we talking colossal sized?
Decker: Baby, we are talking about a wood that is no beginner’s toy.
B&F: Decker, Andi is a book lover, she even owns her own bookstore The Book Shelter. Do you like to read? And if so, what books have you read?
Decker: Before meeting Andi I mainly read scripts and Hustler Magazines. I’m near on finishing a degree in architecture, so most of my reading is design books and study notes, but I did read My Booky Wook by Russell Brand recently. That was hilarious, that dude is fifty shades of crazy!

B&F: Andi, Decker likes to call you 'country', have you got a pet name for him?
Andi: Well, when he’s being an ass I like to call him a Buttmunch! But recently he made me a candle lit picnic dinner which we ate on our rooftop. It was so sweet and I called him…*glances at Decker who is shaking his head furiously*, Sweet balls. He loved that!

B&F: Andi, when you found out about Decker. Did you think about running as far away as you could go?
Andi: Oh boy, did I ever. But, I’ve never been mistaken for the color yellow! And look at him, he’s hotter than hades and when he stops shouting his own praise long enough for you to get to know him, he’s actually sweeter than sugar.
*Decker leans in and smacks a long, deep kiss right on Andi*

B&F: Decker, when your body started to respond to Andi, were you surprised in a good way or a bad way?
Decker: Heck, I was simply overjoyed I was able to get a natural erection again! When it only performed for Andi, I felt like I had been forced into a marriage by my dick. 
*Andi slaps Decker’s thigh again* 
A forced marriage to the sweetest, most stunning, adorable little slip of country I’ve ever seen in my life!
B&F: Andi, how did you really feel when you found out Decker was a Porn Star?
Andi: Ummm, I guess it took a while to kinda register, maybe I was in shock or
something? When I was able to wrap my brain around it I was as confused as a
fart and in a fan factory. *Decker bursts out laughing*. The thought of him with all those other women makes me wanna gag! I try to compartmentalize a little bit, it’s in his past and that’s where I like to leave it.

B&F: For Andi and Decker

Fav sexual position

Decker: I love it when Andi’s in the saddle. Man, I lie there and look up at her
and I think I’m the luckiest bastard ever born!

Andi: *blushing* Okay, ummmm, there’s this one position where I sit on Decker’s lap, facing away from him *more blushing*…
Decker: Oh snap! Reverse cowgirl, now you’re talking!
Fav color?
Decker: *smiling at Andi* Strawberry blonde
Andi: Sky Blue
*Decker frowns*  You’re supposed to say amber, like my eyes
Andi *rolls her eyes*

Fav song?
Decker: Light My Fire, by The Doors
Andi: Perfect Storm by Brad Paisley *sigh* I love Brad Paisley…*Decker gives
Andi an irritated glare*…*Andi pats Decker on the thigh*, but I love you more…

Fav food?
Decker: *grinning* Well, I do love a little Andi for breakfast.
Andi: Pizza *blushes* followed by Decker for desert

Worst pick up line they've ever heard?
Decker: Is there such a thing as a bad pickup line?
Andi: Yes Decker, there is. I had a guy say to me once, “My penis just died, can I bury it in your ass?”
Decker: Who the fuck said that to you?
Andi: *pats Decker’s thigh soothingly* Let it go, it was a long time ago sweet balls.

Most embarrassing moment growing up?
Decker: When mum caught me masturbating into a sock
Andi: Ewwww! I guess mine would be stumbling across Decker nailing his high
school floozy Sarah under the pier
Decker *grimaces* Yeah, I think we should all try hard to forget about that night

Most embarrassing moment as an adult?
Decker: I don’t get embarrassed. Being on film has kind of removed all inhibitions.
Andi: Decker walking into our bathroom while I was on the toilet…doing number

Decker:*hands raised in self-defense* Country, you didn’t close the door right
up, that signals entry allowable!

B&F: Looking back on your time together is there anything you’d change?
*gifting each other a secret smile*

Decker: Nope, everything turned out just the way it was supposed to. If I changed a single thing about our time leading up to now, it might change the outcome, and there’s no way I wanna be anywhere else but here.

B&F: What does your future together look like?
Decker: Lots of roof top dancing and a whole lotta lovin’.

B&F: Can you give us some inside gossip on Bradley and Wiska?
Andi: Ohhhhh, I got this, honey. Wiska is in London right now, and from what
Casey has told me, she’s got Bradley running round’ as crazy as a bullbat!  Casey said something about jelly wrestling, and trust me, Wiska is one free spirit who would charge hell with nothing but a bucket of ice cold water! She’s going to give him a run for his money.

Decker: You and Casey gossip too much, you’re as bad as old maids! There is no way Bradley and Wiska will hook up, he got burned with Leah and he’ll never
swing for a porn star again.

*Andi and Decker stare at each other before erupting into laughter*

Spending the morning with Kirsty, Decker and Andi is one that I wont forget anytime soon. Now its time to head back to my hotel, have some lunch then set off to see the sights of the Big Apple!!

I hope you've all enjoyed learning a bit more about Kirsty, Decker and Andi, I know I certainly did.

If you've yet to meet Decker and Andi, keep reading for more details.

Deckers Wood
Pornstars of Romance #1

Was he a nude model? A stripper? An escort?
Blah, I had no idea what Decker Steele did for a living, but I'd figure it out. I was if anything tenacious when confronted with a mystery.
~ Andi

She was forbidden fruit, my friend without benefits.
Is that why my malfunctioning member wanted her so bad? Is that why I wanted her so bad?

I'd figure out the enigma that was Andi Jennings, and I'd have a damn good time while doing it.


Purchase Links

Chapter 1


Have you ever reached that point in your life where you look around and everything just seems gloomy and morose? When colors turn grey and all you see is boring monotony? And dirty laundry. I was tired, I was miserable, and I had finally reached the point where I no longer cared about anything, including  laundry. The world felt tedious and dull, my head constantly ached, I drank too much, and I couldn’t bother to work out. My apartment was trashed. I had stopped wearing underwear weeks ago because of the aforementioned laundry situation. I sniffed my armpit; I think I smelled funky too. The soft tinkle of feminine laughter spilled from down the hallway. Oh, and did I mention I was completely and utterly done with sex? I was sick to death of the sight of it, the feel of it, and the smell of it; I was outsexed, done, timeout boys, Decker Steele is throwing a bitch-fit. I was officially putting myself out to pasture. At thirty-two-years of age, I was taking myself off the damn menu!

I’ve had sex in every position conceivable and then a few very unconceivable positions. I have methodically worked my way through the Karma Sutra and that, my friends, has some impressive feats amongst its covers. I’ve had twosomes, threesomes, foursomes, even five and sixsomes. I’ve had sex in beds, on couches, tables, cars, pools, saunas, weight benches, hospital beds, and beaches; in fact, it might be easier to list the places I haven’t screwed. I glanced around the room and shrugged. Nah, nothing came to mind, I’d fucked everywhere. I’m not bragging, but it is what it is. As a porn star, I have accumulated more notches on my bed post than most social man-whores would in a lifetime. At one time, I had liked sex—hell, I loved sex—and I was good at it. But somewhere during my illustrious career, something had gone horribly wrong. After twelve years in the porn industry, I have seen so much pussy, I am ashamed to say I am tired of it. Maybe I had poked one too many girls and was turning into one now. I had considered the possibility I was gay, but that isn’t the case. I had spent enough time around naked men and meat whistles to know that wasn’t my chosen dish. The simple fact was, the power of the pussy had lost its effect on me. What the hell was I supposed to do now? Give up sex? 

Keep up the pill popping and continue to contribute that perfected false enthusiasm and the pitiful moans of faux enjoyment?

A year ago I had beaten every land speed record in New York as I raced to get to my ever faithful doctor to the porn stars, Dr. Alfie. Many tests later, he assured me my sudden inability to get it up was psychological. I’d laughed and gone in search of a second opinion. 
When that doctor referred me to a psychologist, blaming my erectile malfunction on my head—and not the one in my pants—I had chuckled nervously. When a third doctor suggested that I had become so conditioned to unattached, unemotional sex, my body had actually begun to reject it, I collapsed under the weight of shock. I had literally screwed myself into insanity. Well done, Decker Steele. So, my body wanted to reject sex? Okay, like any red blooded male, I could ignore the problem with the best of them. But how does one simply ignore their flaccid member? You can’t! Any guy will tell you, a problem with the junk is as good as the end of the world! I became a Viagra junkie. Seriously, I couldn’t go to work without one. Worried about the long lasting effects the drug might have on my body, I turned in my acting career for directing. 
A year later I was still dipping into the medicinal cabinet to get an occasional social hard-on. I was doing my best to keep my little—scratch that—fucking massive, secret quiet. It wasn’t unusual for Viagra to be used in this industry. In fact, it was unusual for it not to be used. Viagra and other performance  enhancing drugs, like cocaine, was commonplace. The industry no-no drug, Alprostadil, injected into the penis, was becoming disturbingly more accepted. How any man could willingly bring himself to stick a needle in his manhood was completely unacceptable in my book. Yeah, the porn industry wasn’t all pretty bows and ribbons. I had garnered a reputation as being one of those elusive enigmas left in the porn world who could get it up without medicinal help. Well, until recently anyway. While the P.A.—Pornography Association—was begging me to get back in the saddle, I had used every excuse feasible to get out of it. The Adult Video Association’s recipient of the Male Performer of the Year award, four times running, was living a lie. And to top it off, I was depressed and pissed off. I was a moody fucker that my friends were going to great lengths to avoid.

I ran a hand over the rough stubble on my face. I didn’t usually let it get this long—it bothered the girls when I went down on them—I was too tired to be bothered shaving though. I was sick to death of sex; I couldn’t even bring myself to stand behind a camera anymore. Apparently there are only so many fake orgasms a man can handle listening to. And, I shit you not, standing around twenty minutes while your male lead jacks off so you can get the ever important cum shot gets old pretty damn fast.

I watched the two girls walk from my suite. Well, not everyone found my cantankerous persona a problem. These girls actually got off on the heated aggression I had brought to the bedroom.

They were fully clothed now, relaxed, sated, and ready to start their day. They were beautiful, one with blonde hair, one with dark hair, both with big tits, little waists, big lips. No inhibitions. Probably every guy’s wet dream, but like I have previously mentioned, I’m dead in that department. Not even an attractive woman could make my dick stir anymore. I saw to their needs during the night though; no way am I ruining my reputation by not putting on a standing ovation worthy performance. But it took that little damn fucking pill to get a big fucking boner. I glanced down at my half hard dick. It was actually sore. The drug was finally beginning to wear off, ten hours later. I didn’t think it was possible, but I had screwed myself into exhaustion, mentally and physically. I still couldn’t bring myself to waste an opportunity to at least try. The girls showed up on my doorstep, and I was apprehensive, though eager enough to see if my elusive hard on was back. Viagra had come to my rescue in the end, making sure I was raging hard for ten hours minimum, so I used that time well. Leah strutted forward and pressed her lips to mine, her tongue delving deep and tasting pleasantly like toothpaste. As soon as she pulled away Cindy moved in, kissing with a little more fervor. You see, Cindy’s tits were slightly smaller than Leah’s, her hips a little wider, a major source of contention for the ‘D’ cup porn star. It made her feel inadequate, and she always felt like she had to step up her performance a notch or two to compete.

Truth was, as long as she was happy to flash her goods, moan for an hour or two, and scream out when the director told her to, she had herself a job. I slapped Cindy on the ass as she walked away, feeling a little pleased with myself to see the satisfied sparkle in her eye.

“Bye, Decker,” they booth crooned as they let themselves out. As soon as the door clicked shut, I was left in an uncomfortable vacuum of silence. I reached for the remote to my way too expensive and really damn loud sound system and pressed a button. “We Gotta Get Out Of This Place” by the Animals filled the room. I liked old school stuff. My musical appreciation had been groomed by my parents, and I wasn’t giving it up for anyone. Not even Snoop Dog, even if I had been at his last album release party.

Feeling a little less lonely with my music, I found the energy to make it to the bathroom where I quickly soaked under the heated spray, washing away the scent of sex and women. When I was done, I dried off like all males do, quickly and inefficiently. Water still dripped down my naked torso as I brushed my teeth in the vanity mirror. My dark hair looked darker wet and hung a little longer over my eyes and around my ears. I would have cut it, but Belinda, my hairdresser, explained the couldn’t-give-a-fuck look was in and I should roll with it. What could I say? I truly didn’t give a fuck. My eyes were a weird mixture of brown honey which were currently laced with tired red veins. I only had a couple of hours’ sleep last night. The thought of my escapades with Leah and Cindy didn’t result in a satisfied grin. No shock there though, one pussied out male present and accounted for. I ran a hand over the growth on my face again  and shrugged. Neither Cindy nor Leah had complained that I had left them with beard burn between their thighs. I checked the grooming around my dick and gave it a satisfied nod. I guess all those years making money off that piece of equipment had me more concerned with its appearance than my face. I was in good shape, tall and tone, and I carried a cock that most men would pay one of those penis enlargement sites a ton of cash for. The entire package made me a reasonable amount of money and, more importantly, had put my name in the right social circles. It wasn’t like I didn’t have options outside of porn. In the early days of my career, I had managed to invest wisely. When my dad was laid off from the construction company he had put in thirty years’ worth of loyal service to, he decided to step out on his own. 
I gave him every cent I earned towards it, and in the end, Steele Structures was born. My dad and I were now equal partners in a company that purchased old dilapidated buildings in Manhattan, renovated them to their former glory, and either leased them out or sold them for a tidy profit. While the economic crash a few years back had destroyed many, my dad and I swooped in and bought whatever property we could get our hands on, right across Manhattan. As the economy continued to slowly right itself, Steele Structures was now raking it in. I didn’t need to work in porn, but I liked it. I had liked sex, I liked girls, and I liked the name and reputation I had worked hard to build for myself. I sure as hell didn’t like that I now had a major equipment malfunction to deal with though.

I dressed quickly, old jeans, worn shirt with a button up thrown over it, buttons undone cause I didn’t have time to do them up. I slid my feet into a pair of flip-flops before grabbing my keys and leaving the apartment. I was running late, as usual. I had promised my best friend, Bradley, I would pick up his cousin from the airport. He had caught me in a moment of weakness, and when I say weakness, I was tanked. I hadn’t even remembered the phone conversation with him; an email with Andi’s flight details was my only clue that the conversation had transpired. I guess I owed him; he had dragged my drunken ass home from enough bars and clubs over the years and covered for me when our sneaky, teenage whiskey shots had resulted in me hugging the porcelain throne for half the night. Just the thought of the whiskey induced vomit-a-thon made my stomach churn. I was renowned for more than just my sexual prowess; I had the weakest stomach and the most ridiculous gag reflex known to man. Bradley used to give me no end of teasing over my sensitive stomach. I had met Bradley when I was four-years-old. Our parents had been neighbors and we hit it off right away. We went to school together, and even after Bradley and his family moved to Florida when we were fourteen, Bradley and I remained best friends.

Our parent’s friendship, unfortunately, dwindled with time and distance, but I still spent many summer vacations in Florida with Bradley, which is where I met Andrea Jennings. Andrea, or Andi as she now liked to be called, was awkward. She was a good few years younger than me, so as a blossoming, horny teenager, I hadn’t really offered her the same attention as the other girls my own age. I had noticed she was cute though, in that country, pale skinned redhead kind of way. She hid her braces under a constant frown and kept her gaze submissively downcast at all times. She also had the personality of a rock. The girl barely pulled her face out of a book long enough to eat and shit let alone hold a conversation. Yet even though I had dismissed her as a weird book geek, I found her intriguing. My male appreciation could see the milky soft skin, big eyes, and full lips that would grow into a beautiful woman. If only she would grow a personality to go with it.

According to Bradley’s email, Andi had purchased an old second hand bookstore with a studio apartment above it down in SoHo. She was going to fix it up and turn it into New York’s next big thing. A bookstore…New York’s next big thing. Nope, that was not going to happen. I had checked out the building; it wasn’t one of mine, but I had to admit it was in a good area. Old and in need of work, but not too far from the hustle and bustle of the SoHo nightlife. Andi was taking a massive gamble though. Any business venture had risk and a country girl trying to make it in the city? It had disaster written all over it.

Traffic was a bitch and my mood was dark as I coasted along the bumper to bumper city streets, my arm casually resting on the window sill. A car pulled up alongside me, music blaring, “Walkin’ on Sunshine” by Katrina and the Waves. I glared at the pretty boy blonde and his hippy female counterpart who both wore a ‘free hugs’ t-shirt and flowers in their hair, even the guy. They were singing loudly and watching me with far too much enthusiasm, big ridiculous smiles on their big ridiculous faces. I reached for my cold coffee to go and tossed its contents out the window, splashing down the side of their bubble Mazda. Their smiles didn’t disappear, and their effort to shine some sort of whimsical happiness into my heart intensified. I pressed the button and my window slid up too slowly. I graced them with my middle finger before the traffic finally began to move. I was being an asshole. This wasn’t me. I was the laid back, easy going Decker; the guy who laughed when others threw temper tantrums; the guy who could bring a woman to her knees, literally. Under the pressure of my failing manhood, I had turned into a prick!


After trolling for a parking space for far too long, I was in the airport, leaning against a wall by the carousel where Andi would get her luggage, if Bradley’s flight details were correct. My eyes scoured the people around me from under my cap, worn in a futile attempt as a disguise. I was no Brad Pitt; I could leave my home and venture outside without being set upon by soul sucking paparazzi, but I was still occasionally recognized. I didn’t feel like being recognized today. I felt like…I had no idea what I felt like.

I was acting like a moody bitch on the eve of her period. I watched with some small amount of humor as a hot piece of ass struggled with a bright yellow suitcase the size of Everest. Seriously, what was it with chicks and luggage? Guys could travel to the other side of the world with one carry-on and women had to pack their entire wardrobe plus worldly possessions. It constantly amused me to see men struggling with their woman’s truck sized suitcases, while their own backpack hung effortlessly from their back. No way in hell was I ever playing packhorse for a woman. Finally, the little doll got her suitcase from the carousel and turned around with a triumphant grin on her face. I gave her body a careful perusal. She was small yet her body still held soft feminine curves. She was wearing a little checkered dress with thin straps, frills around the bottom. It was a little too Elly May for my liking. The sexy, turquoise cowboy boots were pretty hot though, and an image of that little delicacy wearing nothing but those boots and maybe a scrap of lace filled my mind.

At that moment, the strangest thing happened. My dick twitched and I stopped breathing. For some reason, all logic eluded me and I figured if I breathed, the reaction in my nether region would stop. The pretty little thing began a hesitant shuffle towards me, an anxious smile in place. Struggling to pull her enormous suitcase through the crowds, she finally stood directly in front of me, the top of her head reaching my chest and my mouth literally fell open. Her hair, which was tossed into a messy bun, wasn’t as dark a red as it used to be; I guess she was coloring it these days or was spending plenty of time in the sun. Her still pale skin suggested sunlight wasn’t the reason though. Her dainty nose tipped up ever so slightly, her lips a perfect bow. Her eyes were the color of moss and surrounded with lashes that were so long they almost defied nature. Her skin was flawless apart from a few scattered freckles across her nose and under her eyes. My gaze followed her exposed arms then finally found their way to her small breasts. Too small, I thought to myself. The tightening in my groin told me my dick didn’t care.

“Wow,” the pretty little enigma murmured with a voice that had a uniquely smooth yet husky quality to it, like a sex call operator. “You sure got taller.” I tipped my hat back and looked the little bumpkin over from head to toe once again. My brain was still caught in the magic of my physical response to this girl, and my mouth suddenly felt too dry.

“Andi?” I finally spluttered. Her smile was bright and beautiful, her teeth perfectly straight. Guess all that metal did its job.

“I didn’t think you would recognize me without the glasses and metal.”

Well damn, Andi had grown up. She was…beautiful. No fake tan, fake tits or fake smiles here. She was all adorable, sweet, and innocent. Too sweet, too innocent, I thought.

“So, thanks for picking me up,” she continued, shuffling a little awkwardly under my stunned scrutiny. “I told Bradley I was perfectly capable of catching a cab, but he seems to think a woman in the city for the first time needs a chaperon. He actually used the word ‘chaperon’, like he’s some sort of eighteenth century nobleman, but you know Bradley, he’s like the Mr. Darcy of the twenty-first century. He’s been living in England too long, he even sounds like Mr. Darcy. In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings for your safety will not be repressed.” She spoke with the worst attempt at a British accent I had ever heard. She shook her head and chuckled. I wasn’t sure what the hell she was laughing at or who the hell Mr. Darcy was, but I could certainly agree with her observation of Bradley overseas for far too long.

Andi began to shift nervously again, struggling with her enormous suitcase. “So, do you talk? Because if you don’t, you’re going to become sick of the sound of my voice pretty damn quick because I talk, a lot.”

There was no way I could become sick of the sound of that voice. That sweet Texan drawl with that smooth, smoky tone, it sounded so good it was as if my ears were being fucked.

“You never used to talk. As I recall, you were constantly stuck with your nose in a book. I didn’t even realize you had glasses or metal because I never saw your face,” I finally said.

Andi smiled again and my lip twitched at one side. A small smile found its way to my face which had recently become a stony scowl. Her happiness seemed contagious. I was nudged from behind, bringing me close enough to breathe in a lungful of Andi Jennings. Damn, she smelled as sweet as she looked.

Cursing the asshole who had pushed me, I reached around Andi and grabbed her suitcase. As I did, I drew in another breath of her unique scent. Andi recoiled slightly and gave me an arched brow.

“What?” I asked with nonchalance.

“You sniffed me,” she said with an amused look on her face.

I shrugged. “You smell good, like cinnamon.”

She blushed. Too innocent, I reminded myself. New York was going to suck her in, chew her up and spit her right back out. The thought of licking, sucking, and eating Andi filled my thoughts. Man, how long had it been since I had truly felt a spark of attraction to a girl? I couldn’t remember. Was this attraction?

My semi-hard dick suggested it was. Bradley was going to kick my ass. This was my best friend’s little cousin—she had even lived with Bradley and his family for a short time—she was practically his sister.

There were rules in these situations: hands off sisters and family. Andi was forbidden fruit, and even if she wasn’t, there was no way a pure country bumpkin like her could handle a self-confessed pussy pounding warrior like me.

“Come on,” I growled, my mood slipping back into the familiar sludge it had been in for months. “I got shit to do today.” 

Andi frowned as I turned and began to haul ass out of there. I was being rude, and a small part of me was ashamed I couldn’t even manage to display some resemblance to manners. The other part of me, the irritable and smug male that burned in my veins, just wanted to get out of here and away from the too sweet country girl. As Andi scampered along behind me, I realized I was lugging her suitcase, like a packhorse, for a woman. Go fucking figure.

Bradley's Whistle
Pornstars of Romance #2


Was he a hitman? A Navy Seal? Gigolo?
I had no idea what Bradley Emerson did for a living.
I’d figure it out though, secrets didn’t sit well with me and I loved a challenge.
~ Wiska

I wanted her.
I didn’t want to want her.
The brain in my head was no longer in control of this vessel.
Wanting her went against my rules, but apparently my male member was a rule breaker.
~ Bradley

This is NOT a dark romance. Nor is it smut...This is a slightly silly, LOL read, with a lighthearted look at the kinkier side of life. It comes served with a dash of wit and a sprinkle of playful romance.

Recommended for audiences 18yrs+

Purchase Links:
Amazon: Coming Soon
Bradley's Whistle



I stood before my full length mirror and gaped at my sorry reflection. I’d barely had more than twelve hours of sleep in the last three days; my eyes were bloodshot and weary, my jaw and chin held a healthy layer of stubble. I looked like shit . . . I felt like shit. My suit was immaculate, though it didn’t hide the worn-out, haggard man wearing it. I ran my fingers though my blond hair, pushing it back from my eyes.

It needed to be cut, but over the last six months, I hadn’t had much time to do anything other than eat, shit, and work. Being the financial advisor to New York’s Mafia crime lord, Willie Bianco, was taking its toll. Stocks had taken a hit recently, which had required some major money shuffling on my part, but having my nuts threatened with dissecting was enough motivation to fix the fucking mess. I knew Willie wouldn’t actually dissect my willie . . . mostly.

I had started working for Willie when I was twenty-two-years-old, and over the last eleven years, I had earned him and his family millions. As his golden boy, I could pretty much ask him for anything I damn well wanted, which included a one way ticket to Europe. I now call London my home, though I was born and raised in America, specifically New York, and I spent my teenage years in Florida. My entire family still lived there, as well as most of my friends, but in an effort to keep them clueless about my career, I put as many miles as possible between them and my slightly felonious occupation. Mind you, everything I did was legal, even if the money I did it with had been acquired in a somewhat illegal manner. Willie had numerous legal business ventures that created income, one of which was Brutal Babes, one of the more successful pornographic production companies in the US. Even though the company was legit, the drugs they dealt were most definitely not.

At first, I had hated London.  The weather was shitty; most of the time it was cold and wet, but when it was hot, the temperature climbed to such sweltering levels I feared the heat would somehow damage my precious danglies contained in my boxer briefs.

The diversity of the people was interesting, and the history in the buildings and surrounding cities was a never ending source of architectural enjoyment. My best friend, Decker, would love the buildings. I could just picture him gaping in awe and rambling on about architraves and eaves from dusk ’til dawn.

Probably one of the many reasons I hadn’t encouraged him to visit; that man could bore me to death with his passion for bricks and mortar. Not to mention the fact he was a well-known porn star and would have every woman in a five mile radius dropping to their knees. Even though he had officially retired, women still recognized him, and it pissed me off. Jealous much? Fuck yeah! I had always come second where Decker was concerned, and I mean that literally and figuratively. If we were prowling for women, Decker attracted them. Whoever he left behind would finally notice me, and trust me, being second choice gets old real fast. As a typical horny, young, adult male, I couldn’t have cared less, as long as I got laid, and the fact Decker was doing all the work luring the women . . . well, I was happy to pick up the leftovers. As time went by though, I wanted to be first, just once. I’d lost track of how many times I wished a woman would turn her sultry gaze on me and ignore the porn star extraordinaire at my side.

I pressed the blinking button on my answering machine and listened to Decker’s easygoing voice once more; it held an undercurrent of humor which just pissed me off. He had left the message yesterday, and since I’d worked all night, I’d only heard it a few scant hours ago. This was payback, a reminder of the favor he had done for me when I had caught him at a drunken low point several months ago and asked him to collect my cousin, Andi, from the airport. He had bitched and moaned about that for weeks, but the fucker should be kissing my ass now, not claiming an IO fucking U. Now he was happily shacked up with Andi and living the domesticated dream, while I was working myself into an early grave while licking the wounds of a broken heart.

I shook my head in disgust as I moved around my apartment, picking up dirty clothes and trying to make it guest-worthy. No, not a broken heart, but maybe a broken dick. My eyes automatically dropped to said dick, hidden behind my eight hundred pound Hugo Boss suit. It wasn’t physically broken, just disappointed. For a moment I thought I’d found my own domesticated dream in the form of a stunning American porn star—yes, porn star. Don’t judge me; porn stars are people, too—only to discover she didn’t share my feelings. Well, that had been . . . awkward. She’d even used the infamous words, “it’s not you, it’s me”—I hated those fucking words. The entire experience had been a knock to my pride that I tried hard to ignore. Leah hadn’t been in love with me; I hadn’t been her it. I snorted at her romantic notion of finding her it. It was the one she would drop her career for, and I wasn’t the one, and call me old-fashioned, but I couldn’t stand the thought of another man fucking my woman. I knew now that Leah had been right; we hadn’t been in love, but damn, it had been some pretty fine lust.

It wasn’t hard to fall in lust with Leah. She was a gorgeous brunette with a perfect rack, legs long enough to launch an aircraft off, and hells bells, she had perfected the art of fucking. She was every man’s dream come true. Not mine anymore, though. This man would no longer dream about porn stars; even the porn on my computer sat in an untouched folder that I practically hissed at it every time I booted the damn thing up.

This whistle was not whistling for porn stars ever again, nuh-uh, no way. Just the mention of porn pissed me off, and Decker Fucking Steele had the nerve not to ask but demand I pick up one of the female stars of Kink Harder Productions from Heathrow airport in a little under two hours, and then he wanted me to put her up in my spare room for a few weeks. According to Decker, she had shit going down in America, and she needed a time-out. She needed somewhere discreet and safe to hang, so a hotel wouldn’t do.

Apparently, Decker trusted me with this girl.

I growled, actually fucking growled, as I grabbed the keys from the somewhat pointless ceramic dish by my front door. I checked my reflection in the mirror one last time before leaving my penthouse suite.

The attendant had pressed for an elevator before I had even reached the thing. He was the best elevator attendant I had ever come across. He was also the oldest, and each day I left my suite, I prayed I wouldn’t find him lying in a deathly puddle of old age in front of the elaborate brass doors.

“Sir,” he murmured in a croaky voice that also attested to his longevity. Shit, he had to be nearing ninety!

“I told you, Floyd, just Emerson. No mister, no sir, just Emerson.” No one here called me Bradley; it was a name reserved for family and close friends. In the industry I worked in, I preferred to keep my real name a separate entity, and I wasn’t particularly fond of the name Bradley. It felt too uptight and stiff, which as I glanced at my uptight, stiff reflection in the elevator doors, I admitted the name was highly appropriate right now.

“My apologies, Emerson,” Floyd murmured in a noncommittal tone.

I stepped into the elevator and gave the old man an honest smile. I liked him, even though when I returned home he would go right back to calling me sir. Maybe it was his memory, I pondered as the doors slid shut. He was, after all, a gazillion-years-old.

The drive to the airport was chaotic, and I wished I had called my chauffer. I forgot I had one most days.

He had only been employed to my services a year ago, and I had used his services no more than five times. Being driven around made me feel like a spoiled dick. I preferred the independence of driving myself, even if it did push me to heights of rage I never knew I had. I wasn’t an angry man by nature; I
thought of myself as more of a lover than a fighter.

Where Decker was the easy going, comical joker, only too happy to blow off steam with his fists, or dick, I was the more serious, passive aggressive one, freakishly good with numbers, and borderline geeky. Is it a crime to enjoy books and Sudoku?

I had never once been in a fight; punching Decker six months ago was the first time I had ever taken a swing at anything other than the occasional fly or mosquito. It had hurt like a bitch, and I’d decided right then and there I would pay someone else to swing their fists if I needed to rough someone up. I had never had any qualms about using the heavy handed tactics of the Bianco family. If one of my friends or family were threatened, I called the Bianco’s, and they fixed it. If I wanted pizza delivered in under fifteen minutes, I simply dropped the Bianco name. If I wanted the Spanish villa cleared for my own personal use . . . well, the Bianco family made it happen. While I looked after their money, they looked after me. It was a match made in heaven.

Once I reached the airport, I realized just how difficult collecting this porn star was going to be. All I had was a name, and a weird one at that. Wiska James. Surely she traveled under her real name rather than her film pseudonym? I had no idea what she looked like, and I had no idea if she knew what I looked like. I pushed my way through a number of disgruntled passengers standing in line before a car rental desk, and grabbed the attention of a woman who had a classic case of overworked and underpaid. She was young, and if it wasn’t for the dark circles under her eyes and the frustrated look on her face, she would have been cute in that prim and proper British way. I smiled my best panty-dropping smile, and a blush filled her cheeks.

“I don’t suppose you have a piece of paper and a pen I could borrow?” There was a slight twang of English pomp in my American accent, which I knew both confused and intrigued women.

“There is a line, you know,” demanded a woman from somewhere behind me.

I ignored her and kept my attention on the woman behind the desk. She reached for the printer beside her and pulled out a sheet of paper and handed me a pen.

“Do you have a Sharpie back there?” I asked, taking the obnoxious liberty to lean over the counter and check myself. Yeah, I could be an asshole when I wanted to. I spotted the thick black pen and grabbed it.

“There we go. Thanks, sweetheart,” I said with a smile as I whipped off the lid. In thick text, I wrote the name Wiska James then shoved the lid back on the pen. “Thank you, honey.” I added a wink, which earned me another blush and a shy smile, then turned my attention back to the gates where people were beginning to pour through.

I joined the line of chauffeurs, once again wishing I had used my own. After twenty minutes, the people coming through the arrival gates had thinned, as had my temper. The last thing I wanted to do was stand around a fucking airport all day long; I was a busy man, and although I had worked until after midnight, I needed to go back into the office today.

When a tiny blonde bombshell strode through the gate, my heart stuttered and my cock jumped with undisguised interest. She was gorgeous: her hair so blonde it was almost white; her skin creamy; her face angelic and perfect; her nose tilted upwards slightly; her lips full. I couldn’t make out the color of her eyes from where I stood, but I’d bet on them being blue. She wore jeans that may have been sprayed on and a t-shirt that clung to her curves and accentuated her breasts, which were a damn good size for such a small woman. Her feet were slipped into a pair of leopard print heels that no doubt added a sway to her hips. A few men followed her out, their eyes glued to what I knew would be a perfect ass.

When those color-undetermined eyes looked my way, they lit up, and her pace quickened as she strode towards me.

“Fuck no,” I murmured, and when she kept sauntering in my direction, I groaned. Decker Steele had gone too far.

“Bradley?” she asked, her voice as silky and smooth as her skin.

Blue, light blue with a darker blue ring around the edge, the most flawless eyes I had ever gazed into.

Decker . . . was . . . dead.

“Emerson,” I corrected her.

A furrow found its way to her perfect face, right between her perfectly arched brows. “Oh, you’re the driver?” she asked, somewhat confused.

“I’ll be driving,” I answered as my eyes slowly ate up her petite body. She looked like a prima ballerina, not a goddamn porn star!

An oddly high pitched squeal from somewhere behind Wiska caught my attention, and I dragged my gaze from her body of perfect curves. What I saw had my jaw drop open and my head begin a slow shake. Disbelief had struck me silent and immobile. Fuck me, Decker was a dead man walking. I was putting a hit on him the moment I got home. The familiar person in front of me bounced with delirious excitement, his hands doing a ridiculous silent hand clap. When he eventually calmed down, his hand reached out and gripped my chin, forcing my mouth closed.

“While I don’t ordinarily object to a man standing in front of me with his mouth wide open,” Casey winked, “we are in a public place.”

Someone cleared their throat from behind us. Lionel stood there scowling, uncomfortably loaded down with two lavender suitcases and a matching carry-on.

“And you’re taken,” he growled.

“And I’m taken, you lucky devil you,” Casey purred in an attempt to pacify his unimpressed boyfriend.

Decker had not only sent a gorgeous porn star, but Andi’s loud and proud gay neighbors, Casey and Lionel, too. I knew them well enough to know that Decker was going down, and for once, not in a good way.

“What the fuck is going on?” I asked, my tone far too brisk. Casey, Lionel, nor Wiska seemed to notice, though, or if they did, they ignored my sharp tongue.

“What do you mean?” Casey asked, sounding genuinely confused.

“What are you two doing here?” I tried again.

“You didn’t expect Wiska to travel all that way by herself, did you, Bradley?” Casey scoffed.

“Emerson,” I said through gritted teeth.

Casey waved me off. “You’ll always be Bradley to me. Wiska had never been on a plane before; we couldn’t let her go through that alone. Decker and Andi said you had plenty of room and wouldn’t mind putting us up, too.”

I groaned; this nightmare was morphing into a real life fucking horror story. “For how long?” I somehow managed to force out between gritted teeth.

Casey shrugged. “Until Wiska is settled in.”

Lionel struggled with the suitcases, and I noticed Casey carried nothing.

“And you brought Lionel to carry your luggage?” I wondered out loud.

Casey grinned and winked before spinning around to divest Lionel of one of the suitcases. “Of course not. I brought Lionel to give me orgasms.”

I tried not to smile, but Casey’s crass humor and blunt personality made it difficult to stay serious.

In the meantime, Wiska seemed completely oblivious to the conversation that had transpired between Casey and me, her eyes wide and innocent as she took in her surroundings. She seemed so young, so vibrant, as if the ugliness in life had yet to reach out and touch her. My cock twitched in agreement, finding its own attraction to her obvious beauty. Back the fuck down, boy. I grimaced. She’s far from innocent; she’s a fucking porn star for god’s sake, and I’m not whistling that tune ever again.

I reached for her suitcase.

“So, you’re the famous Bradley?” she asked with a gorgeous smile.

“I prefer to be called Emerson,” I explained, though hearing Bradley roll off her tongue hadn’t been all that horrible.

“Emerson? Andi told me your name was Bradley.” She looked confused again.

Was it so hard for the woman to call me Emerson?

“My name is Bradley Emerson, but only close friends and family call me Bradley. Everyone here calls me Emerson, and I would prefer it if you called me Emerson,” I practically ordered.

“Of course she will, Bradley,” Casey purred, and for a split second, I wanted to slap the man.

Slap him? Like a fucking girl? I needed someone to slap me. I wanted to wake up from this ridiculous dream.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Bradley Emerson. I’m Wiska.” Her hand was held out in front of me, and I had to switch her suitcase to my opposite hand to take her tiny digits in mine.

“What’s your real name?” I asked gruffly. There was no way I was calling her by her porn name.

“Her real name is Wiska James, Bradley,” Lionel said from my side in an unamused tone. “It’s Ukrainian,” he elaborated.

Oh, well, fuck me. With that knowledge, I found myself pleasantly warmed and intrigued by her name.

Wiska, it sounded like the kind of name you would breathe while licking every inch of her body. Hell no!

Not . . . gonna . . . happen!

“Let’s get the fuck out of here,” I grumbled as I began to walk away.

I didn’t check to see if the queersome threesome was following me; I just walked. I was being an asshole, but fuck it. Decker had some hard-core explaining to do, and I had to figure a way to fit three more people into my two bedroom suite. Maybe I could find Casey and Lionel a hotel; I’d pay for them to stay in a five-star, exclusive fucker if I had to. To hell with it, I’d put all three of them up in one, ’cause there was no way I was going to be able to keep my hands off the walking wet dream behind me.

About Kirsty Dallas
I grew up on the beaches of North Queensland, Australia before migrating south to the iconic Gold Coast in 1995. I traded the surf and my bikini for pajama's and a computer when I embarked on writing professionally in 2012. I've since developed a wicked computer tan and my mad ninja skills have been finely honed following many hours of reading paranormal and dystopian romance. I also have a closet horror fetish. Leatherface...*shivers*.

I love to hear from fans and other like-minded, creative people, so flick me an email, or come hang out at Facey or the Twitterverse.

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