♪ ♫ ♪ Extract WICKED GOOD: From out of the mouths of babes ♪ ♫ ♪




The tiny fingers patting my tats suddenly leave my skin and tangle into my hair.

Connecting us.

Twist. Tug. Twist.

Closing my eyes, I inhale, hold it and then release it in a shuddery exhale. Flicking my eyes back open, my arms pull him closer, his breaths hot against my chest, his heartbeat swift as a hummingbird’s wings through his tiny chest. Poor little bastard.

“It’s okay little dude,” I whisper into his hair. “No one will hurt your mummy. I promise you,” I reassure him. He yawns, the sound jerky as he sniffles softly at the same time, trying to hold back the scared, confused tears of a five year old. “Wiam,” he drawls around another yawn.

“Yeah buddy.”

He tugs my hair, pulling my head down to his level, and placing his lips against my ear, his breath’s warm as he tells me, “Daddy tolds mamma you have shit in you brain ‘cause you eat dugs.” What the fuck? He snuggles in closer, tucking his head beneath my chin before adding, “That yukky. What’s dugs? Can I have some too?”

Halley inhales sharply. “Lucian that’s a naughty word,” she gently chides, completely ignoring the uncalled for reference to my habits. Habits that prick had no business talking about and bringing up. Especially in front of his kid. She clears her throat and continues, “We don’t say that. We say poo, baby boy.”

I flash her a fierce look which she blatantly ignores.

“Yeth mamma. I sorry.” His fingers stroke the tats painting my chest. “Wiam.”


“I wuv you Wiam-daddy.”

Oh fucking Christ. Jesus. My heart melts at his words.
“Love you too little dude,” I murmur truthfully into his sweetly scented hair. He sighs and goes limp in my embrace as he readies himself to succumb to sleep.

Carefully lifting him, I flop down onto my arse, stretch my legs out before me, and place him back down on my lap, wary of tripping Halley as she walks past and silently sets the table.

Cradling the side of his face inside my large palm, I bend my head and kiss the damp mahogany cap of his thick hair, possessively cuddling his little Minion-PJ clad body to my front.

A front which is rigid with barely, supressed fury.

Unclenching my jaw, I rest my head back against the cupboard and look up at my lover who’s watching her sleepy son wriggle around on my lap, before wrapping his other arm around my waist and kissing my chest before yawning again.

I know exactly what she sees. A bulky, long-haired, tattooed, pierced motherfucker cradling a half-sleeping child. Like watching a porpoise surfing. Fuckin’ goes against nature.



Extract from Wicked Good, copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016


♪ ♫ ♪ Wicked Good. Extract: Ninja Turtles and Princess Mummys ♪ ♫ ♪

***The following (unedited and first draft) extract shows a scene between my rockstar, Liam, and his girlfriend’s five year old son as they discuss Ninja Turtles and the joys of having a princess for a mummy.***



Lucian tugs on my jeans, drawing my eyes down. “Wiam. Wiam. ‘Scuse me Wiam.”

Swallowing down my uneasy feelings, I push it to the back of my mind and bite my top lip to stop my laughter at his infectious bubbly impatience. He wouldn’t like it if I laughed at him, and despite him not being my own flesh and blood son, I’d never deliberately hurt his feelings. I always try to treat him with the love, care and respect he deserves from a father-figure.

“Guess what Wiam?” He bounces on his toes as he impatiently waits for me to react so he can spill his news. I’m too slow though, because he sighs and blurts out, his voice high and squeaky, “Mamma stopped beetle man from dwowning.”

He proudly holds up the lucky wet nunchucks-wielding ninja turtle clutched in his tiny hand.

Apparently they’re all the rage again. What goes round, comes round. I remember playing with them as a kid.

My eyes flick up to my woman, and my chest swells with the force of my love for her. “Wow, did she? You’re a very lucky little boy, ‘cause your mummy’s so brave and beautiful. She must be a magic princess. What do you think little man?”

He tips his head to the side, strands of ebony hair plastered to his cheeks. “Yeth, mamma’s a pwincess. Are you a pwince, Wiam?” I snort. Not fucking likely. His mouth splits open in a glorious smile, showing me the gap in the front of his teeth where he’s missing one tiny upper milk tooth. My throat tightens and I swallow around the sudden lump as he looks up at me through dark eyes so like his mother’s.

I run my hand down over his damp head. My hand so impossibly large on his small head.

“How’s my favourite spaceman going?” I ask him, my stomach tightening as he giggles.

“I not a pace man Wiam. You a silly snodage.”

I’ve been called many things, but a fucking silly sausage is a first.

“I a beetle, like him is.” To demonstrate so I don’t get any more confused, he shoves the stiff toy right into my cock.

Wincing, I turn, place my beer on the counter, and crouch down to his height, scooping him into my open arms and sitting him on my thigh as he makes the turtle bounce and hop over my chest. Thank Christ. “Can I dwaw some nice pictures on your tummy Wiam? You don’t have many down here. I’m bestest at dwawing in all my class. Mrs Green tolds me,” he proudly announces as he drags the toy’s stiff plastic legs over my lower gut while Halley softly laughs as she sets up plating our dinner.

It smells fucking unreal and I swallow noisily as my mouth floods.



Wicked Good copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016


♪ ♫ ♪ WICKED GOOD ♪ ♫ ♪ Meeting Lila.

Holy fuck, if I thought she was beautiful seated, she’s perfect now that I get a good look at what she’s been hiding. Tall and slim, she’s shaped like an hourglass, with curves to fucking drool over.

Placing the cigarette in the hand holding her drink, she extends the other to Danny and then Rhys, who’s managed to shift his arse over to us, his eyes never leaving her face.

Her lips tip up in a secret smile.

Well fuck me, she didn’t stand to shake my fucking hand. Come to think on it, she didn’t shake my hand.

My generous ego deflates a tad at the realisation that I’m not quite the sex god I’d imagined.

She licks her pillowy lips and they both squirm on the spot. “Hello gentlemen. I’m Lila and I’m your new Media Liaison.”

Their eyes bulge, and I can almost see the mice running frantically as the wheels in their heads spin to help them absorb this news.

Mr Dickhead and Mr Deadshit.

Rhys’s eyes drop and he licks his lips. Raising his arm, he rubs at the back of his neck, bicep bulging like he’s got a pumpkin inserted beneath his inked skin. “Ah, okay,” he mumbles to her tits. “Cool. Didn’t know we needed one.”

She leans into them, her long plait swinging forward, the delicious colour shining like a polished ruby in the light. Rhys groans and rubs at his neck harder, while Danny and I drool as her blouse gapes.

Holy fuck we’re pigs.

“Apparently your new boss thinks that you do,” she counters, her voice dropping to a husky purr as if she’s divulging a state secret.

I shut my gaping mouth and scowl as I watch their jaws drop at the boner-inducing honey-tone of her voice.

Yeah, we’re totally fucked.



♪    ♫     



Wicked Good

Copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016.



Extract: ♪ ♫ ♪ Wicked Good ♪ ♫ ♪

“So, how are you and your friends enjoying the party?” Lou inquires breaking the silence in the room, his glass raised, sharp eyes studying me over the rim.

I open my mouth to answer, and then lose my train of thought. What’s that smell? My nose crinkles as the pungent odour of a match being struck drifts around me. The bitter scent thickens, and I startle as a black garbed set of legs silently appears at my side.

“Your drink, Mr Donahue,” Belcebu utters, bending forward and extending the same tulip shaped glass that Lou has, filled to halfway with the syrupy honey-coloured liquid. “No ice. Of course,” he adds, his lips turning up in a sly grin.

I take the glass from him and take a sip, rolling it over my tongue before swallowing. Jesus, this’s top-notch shit.

Lou splutters and tosses his head back, roaring with laughter. After he catches his breath, he shoots me an amused glance and winks. “We’re going to get on well Liam. I love your wicked sense of humour.”

Frowning, I lick along my bottom lip, the taste of luxury lingering there in a missed drop of whiskey. Fuck this’s good shit, I think absently as the smooth taste of the alcohol caresses my tastebuds.

“Isn’t he hilarious?” Lou inquires of his companions, the hint of snootiness in his lilting tone suggesting he’s discussing a cute kitten who’s just learned to shit in the litter box and not on the carpet.

Belcebu snickers softly. “If you say so Sir.”

“I do.”

“Oh he’s something alright,” a sensual voice concedes, and in my ears I hear the soundtrack to hot and sweaty sex in each of those four purred words.

Concentrate dickhead. I’m not screwing the Boss’s…guest? Girlfriend? Wife?

Definitely a fatal move for my career, not to mention the shelf-life of the band. I mentally shake my thoughts away from sex and back to Lou’s earlier quip.

He likes my humour? I didn’t make a joke. Yet.

“You’ve lost me mate,” I remark off-handed.

Silence settles in, broken only by the faint echoes of the party beyond the closed door, and the gentle ticking of an antique grandfather clock set in the room’s far right corner. I sip my drink, for once enjoying the serenity of silence, until a thought occurs to me.

Leaning to the side, I rest my elbow on the armrest, and blurt out, “You keep pet tigers or pigs here somewhere? I coulda sworn I heard some savage snarling shit happenin’ earlier.”


Wicked Good copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2016.


🎄       🎄         🎄

I would like to wish everyone

a very Merry Christmas.


May you all have a happy and safe

New Year 2016.

🎄         🎄        🎄

Thank you for supporting my page during 2015.

Hope to have your company in 2016

🎄  Joyeux Noël tout le monde  🎄


♪ ♫ ♪ Random excerpt: WICKED GOOD ♪ ♫ ♪

Halley tucks her little hands into my waistband, and a shiver snakes up my spine as her warm palms caress the flesh situated just inside my jeans. Unexpectedly, she pushes me back a couple of steps and withdraws her hands — much to my disappointment, she was so close to my dick — and stands. Ignoring the snarky insults aimed at her, she plants her hands on her hips and her pretty lips purse as she looks up at me.

My balls draw up and my cock swells, pressing uncomfortably against my zipper as those beautiful molasses-coloured eyes flash with shifting sparks of burnished bronze.


I lick my lips. You sultry little exotic Siren, I tell her with my own eyes.

She huffs, her nostrils flaring as she sees the lust softening my features. One hand comes off a hip and she raises it up, stabbing her index finger at me. “Liam per l’amor di Dio, don’t patronise me. I won’t be left here by myself, to drink myself into a stupor and be babysat by Security like a naughty little child, il mio sexy cantante,” she scolds, spitting the words at me like a cranky kitten, as that lovely finger stiffly jabs in the air between us.

I grin like a love-struck fool as she scowls, slipping between a sexy mix of Italian and English in her annoyance. My heart beats faster as I gaze down at my spirited little dark Angel. Fuck me she’s gorgeous. Biting down on my bottom lip, I groan. The rumbling sound, rough and full of pent-up arousal.



Shifting on the spot, I brush my hand over the front of my tented jeans, and push down, listening to her speak.

I’m lost in the music her voice makes.

God almighty, I want her.

Right. Fucking. Now.





Copyright (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2015