Excerpt from BLIND DESIRE. A Novella.

*** As a woman I feel it’s my sworn duty to say one thing and then change my mind…and this is the case with BLIND DESIRE. I’ve decided to publish this story as a free Novella on Smashwords. I will post the link up as soon as it goes live. Until then, please enjoy this following excerpt. ***  ;-)

He inhales noisily and grabbing my hair he pulls my face down to his and attacks my mouth with a wild abandon that wasn’t there before. It’s hot, rough and needy. A feral meeting of hungry lips, tangling tongues and a clash of teeth. It’s almost like he’s thrown caution to the wind and decided to show me his wilder side.

I’m so turned on, I’m ready to take whatever he wants to give me.

“I wanna taste every inch of you, before I fuck you so hard you won’t remember your own name,” he groans throatily — I’m struggling to remember that now — before peppering kisses down from my throat to the swell of my heaving breasts.

I moan like a top-dollar whore, as he licks first one side of my chest and then drags his tongue across to lick and suckle at the other side, all the while hooking his pinkies beneath the shoulder straps of my dress and moving his hands down the side of my shoulders, dragging my dress down with them.

My arms fall from around his neck, and I begin to pant noisily with excitement as my dress slides off, baring my breasts to him and pinning my arms to my side.

And just like that, the thinking part of my brain shuts down.

Leaving my arms contained by the shoulder straps, he slowly and sensually moves his hands down my arms and onto the side of my ribs, my rapidly redundant dress bunching up as it moves further towards my waist. His fingers brush the swell of my breasts and I moan.

He pauses, and I hold my breath as he lightly caresses my skin, teasing me. Then, with exquisite leisureliness, he moves his hands across, cupping my breasts in his palms. I arch my back, tiny mewls of pleasure escaping me as I push my breasts into the large heated cradles of his hands.

He rolls and plucks my erect nipples between his thumb and forefingers, his breathing heavy, almost panting. Dropping his forehead against mine, his voice drops several octaves as he growls, “Oh fuck Willow, I can’t wait to strip you completely naked and fill my mouth up with your gorgeous tits.” We both groan out loud at his words. He arches his hips upward, grinding them from side to side, as he seeks the same sort of relief I’m aching for.

(c) Copyright Jennifer Crowfoot 2015


Love really does conquer all. BLIND DESIRE, a novella.

When my daughter-in-law’s birthday was approaching late last month, I decided in a moment of crazy inspiration that I’d write her a short story as a ‘secret and special’ gift, that was just from me.

And, so, BLIND DESIRE was born.

It was only ever intended to be a few pages, and a couple of thousand words. *rolling eyes* Yeah right!

And, just as I knew would happen, I finally typed THE END…. At 23k words and 57 pages later!

I decided that it was much too short to publish on Smashwords, so I thought I’d make up a lovely cover and post it in parts on Wattpad, which I’ve since done. (There are six parts in total to this story.)

   ♥                    ♥                    ♥


Jacob groans, his hips rocking upwards. He breaks our kiss to whisper against my lips, “I can smell you. It’s so fucking sexy and if I was less of a gentleman I wouldn’t have any hesitation in fucking you right here on the back seat.” He sucks my bottom lip into his mouth and bites down on it, before soothing the sting with a lazy sweep of his tongue.

True love knows no limits. It knows no boundaries.  It is forever.

True love knows no limits. It knows no boundaries.
It is forever.


Two Men

One Woman

Two Devastatingly Wrong Choices

All Cassandra Green has wanted since high school was to marry Christopher, the man of her dreams, have his babies and live happily ever after.

But after one terrible night showed Cass the depths of depravity that her new husband had sunk too, and the dark side he’d hidden from her, those dreams were obliterated in an explosion of cruel betrayal, tears and heartache.

For Jeremy, the man who has loved her all of his life and has been unable to get over her, a fateful incident gives him the second chance at happiness that he’s been craving.

But is he able to get out of a situation of his own making to claim his one shot at true happiness?

*        *         *






*** For mature audiences only: 18+ Contains frequent strong profanity, violence, drug use and sex scenes.

Certain aspects of this story may be upsetting, or offensive to some readers.

Contains scenes of cheating, domestic/verbal abuse.

Story contains Aussie slang/idioms. ***

On sale through Smashwords and iBooks now.



Extract from Chapter #2 WICKED GOOD

Chapter Two.

Beer, Sweat, Lust and Lou.

One week later. The House of Rock Nightclub.

The door to the closet-sized dressing room cracks open. I glance up from where I’m slouched on the worn lounge, semi-naked, my legs spread wide, as our Manager, Damo, pokes his dreadlocked, dirty-blonde head in through the gap. His nose screws up, and his lips twist downward, as a disgusted look passes over his face — almost like he’s just bitten into a shit-filled donut — as he cops an eyeful of how I’m enthusiastically filling in my before-show free time.

He clears his throat, but the sourpuss face stays put as he glares down at my female company. Well, at the back of her bobbing head anyway. “Youse are on in twenty minutes Liam, don’t fucking wipe yourself out,” he barks, his voice rising excessively as his eyes take in the beer I’ve got clutched in my right hand and the handful of hair in the other.

I assume he’s not yelling just so he can be heard over the noise of the crowded Club’s Friday night’s two dollar schooner, schnitzel and free entertainment night. Which would be us by the way; my band Wicked Intent.

He’s letting me know in his own special way, that he’s not cool with what he’s seeing.

I let go of the blonde’s hair and flip him off. “Fuck you cunt,” I drawl, my speech a little slow, but not that impaired that I can’t sing my fucking guts out.

Slamming back my beer, I lob the empty in the general direction of the bin which sits like a guard dog to the side of where he’s now staring at me, his freckled face twisted up in full-on-scowl-mode.

I smile crookedly. I’m definitely buzzing from the combination of getting head, beer and the epic weed I’d scored from one of our roadie’s buddies earlier. I hear the clang of glass hitting the bin’s metal bottom and I laugh as if it’s the friggin’ funniest shit ever.

Fuckin’ score!

Glancing away from Damo’s grumpy, ugly mug, I raise my shoulder and drop it. Casual. Uncaring.

Tough shit mate. Like or lump it, I don’t give a rat’s. Shoulda knocked first.

Extract from

Wicked Good

Copyright: Jennifer Crowfoot 2015


Excerpt from my work-in-progress: WICKED GOOD

I unfold my arms, stretch, and then lacing my fingers behind my head I smirk and give him my attention. A scowl crosses his face as he straightens. Shoving one hand into his front pant pocket, he taps his top lip with the forefinger of his free hand as I demand, “Well you slippery bastard what’s this fuckin’ deal you’re on about?”

Lou’s face lights up as if I’ve just agreed to his deal, promised him the exclusive rights to my soul — contract signed in blood, of course — plus chucked in a life-time membership to Liaisons Brothel in Sydney. I know what you’re thinking, I’m a naïve dickhead, but in my defence I wasn’t thinking clearly at the particular moment when I uttered those words. I mean ‘c’mon, Jesus, what’s a man to do? Huh?

From what I could read of this shitty situation, I had two frigging choices….

Number one: listen to his proposition, or number two: stay the Invisible dead-man for the rest of fuck knows how long.

Nofuckingthankyou. As I had no great desire to go through eternity as an invisible nobody, I decided I had nothing to lose by listening to what he had to say. What was he gonna do if I told him to shove it up his arse and twist sideways?

Kill me?

Fuck me, I’d already done that to myself, I didn’t need any more help in that particular direction.

Clapping his hands with more vigour than I feel the situation warrants, Lou struts around the bed, coming to a halt before me. Placing his palms on my shoulders he tips his head to the side and with narrowing eyes, peers down into mine as if looking for some trick, or a lie. But he ain’t gonna find one. I’m deadly series about my offer to hear him out, no pun intended.

Waves of pulsing heat and prickly static discharge from his hands and down into my skin, scorching a path down into the innards of my dead frame. Fine hairs stand erect over my body as mild shocks zip up and down my now trembling arms and legs via my un-moving bloodstreams, before racing back up and gathering at the epicentre of my being. The tingling sparks teasing but not reviving….

My still heart.

My immobile lungs.

And the motionless synapsis of my brain-cells.

His hands rise, leaving my flesh, and I sag forwards, my hands gripping my jean clad thighs as I seek to recover from whatever shit he’s done to me. Looking up at him through my lashes I spit, “I’m not making any promises dude. I’ll listen to whatever you’ve got to say and that’s all I’m agreeing to.”

You’re a lying cunt Liam, I sneer internally at myself. You’re gonna take it up the arse just like he wants. He’s got you by the balls and there’s not fuck-all you can do ‘bout it, unless you don’t wanna ever breathe again. See Holly again. Have that family you’ve been craving.


Deleted scenes: WICKED GOOD.


Unforgiving bands of titanium, or fucking kryptonite, or some other unholy hard shit, crisscross my body, holding me cocooned and stuck on my back like a stranded turtle.

Not that I really want to move anyway.

Right at this moment in time, I’m feeling pretty fucking mellow. This frigging high I have going on, is un-fucking-real, and I easily ignore the warning bells going off somewhere in the back of my head.

Through the psychedelic haze of chemicals and alcohol fogging up my mind I do wonder for the merest second where I am, before I promptly shut that thought down as a wave of nausea rolls over me, turning my guts inside out and making my mouth water up.

Fuck me, am I gonna spew in public? That’s so not cool Liam. Jesus, I’ve been there and done that shit. Never gonna lose control of myself like that, ever-a-fucking-again.

The sick feeling eases up, and now that I’m not concerned about tossing up the half a pizza I scoffed down earlier, I become acutely aware of these bloody constraints as they grip my trembling body like a sex-crazed groupie groping the front of my jeans at a meet and greet; or as me and the band calls it, ‘the grab the meat.’

Why the hell am I trembling and shaking like a junkie in need of a fix?

Christ almighty, am I having a seizure or something?

A fucking bad trip?

Strategically and sneakily placed, the straps neatly lock me in place across my ankles, hips and chest, the latter also serving a dual purpose of expertly pinning my arms by my side; the whole shebang wrapping me up like Sunday’s fucking rolled-pork-fuckin’-roast. What do these jokers — whoever they are — think I’m gonna do? Go on a murdering rampage and rip wherever the hell I am to shreds?

Where the fuck am I anyway? This isn’t my joint.

And then I remember….

The after-party at my place.

The icy bottle of Grey Goose that I was putting away like it was lolly water.

And, the smack. Pure. Uncut. Pricy as all hell, and fucking top, A grade shit.

The finest H that money could buy.

Nothing but the best for this deadbeat addict.

Beneath my meant-to-look-casual, but totally pretentious and fucking over-priced designer jeans and tee, my muscles flex and jump involuntarily as my nerves kick up a notch, going totally haywire. What the fucking fuck?

Unfortunately, as I’m constrained like a wacked-out-psychotic-fruit-loop and not to mention, laced up like a fucking hiking boot, I kinda have no choice but to lay here as my body twitches like I’ve been tasered fifty times.

Am I dying? Already dead? Jesus. H. Christ, if this is Heaven, it fucking sucks sweaty balls.

On one level of consciousness I feel helpless, something I’m not used to feeling, but, strangely, at the same time, I also feel this wonderful Zen-like calm as I accept my fate.

Whatever the Hell it turns out to be.

Maybe it’s the drugs and booze talking, but deep in the part of my brain that’s still firing in the correct order, albeit a little slow on the uptake, I know that ultimately shit happens, and stressin’ out about it, sure aint gonna make the fucker go away.

After all, no one had made do anything I’d done tonight. No one had held a loaded gun to my head, or threatened me in any way, form or manner into making a chemical pig of myself. I totally and shamefully owned all of the stupid shit I’ve done to myself in my twenty seven years of kicking around. Okay, it’s actually a freshly-turned thirty, but in showbiz nothing’s as it seems; it’s all an illusion and no one really gives two fucks anyway about the truth.

I’d been the dumb, pissed arsehole who’d wrapped the thin leather belt tightly around my bicep, impatiently clenching and unclenching my fist as I primed my greedy vein ready to accept the coming gift.

Just like I’d been doing now for close on a decade.

My racing heart pumps a slushy kapoosh-kapoosh beat in my chest as I remember shaking with a wild, desperate need to get that needle into me as fast as possible; almost like my life depended on it.

And hell yeah, at the time, I really did believe that it did. I would’ve ripped the jaw clean off any crazy motherfucker who’d tried to take my goddess away from me. She and I had been companions for so long now, I couldn’t contemplate living life without her bitter-sweet kiss. I was well aware that it was my calloused thumb which had depressed the small plastic plunger, my cock hard and throbbing in my jeans as I’d eyeballed my Nirvana slowly emptying from the syringe’s skinny plastic cylinder and into my bloodstream.

After tossing the used needle on top of my rubbish-strewn, two grand’s worth of Huon Pine coffee table, I’d flopped backwards, my body boneless as I’d sunk deep into the butter-soft leather of my expensive-as-all-shit-lounge. My eyelids, already heavy from the Vodka, now weighed a fucking tonne. Impossible to keep open, they’d drifted shut as every cell in my body sighed with relief.

And, in hindsight, a misguided love for the magic that my chemical goddess wrought.

WICKED GOOD (c) Jennifer Crowfoot. 2015.

Extract from WICKED GOOD

Wearing a black as sin — what appears to be a Gucci — button down shirt, with the top three buttons undone, shows me a hint of a pale, muscular chest beneath. Even seated and partially hidden behind the body of the guitar, I can tell that his physique is more developed and solider than that of the average man. With his shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, I note his arms — as they casually cradle the body of the guitar — ripple with well-developed muscle tone as he idly strums out random selections of chords over and over.

Chunky silver rings adorn each of his fingers and thumbs, and beneath the harsh lights of the Emergency Room, they twinkle like Aladdin’s Cave, catching my eye momentarily. I frown and an icy frisson nips up and down my spine as I catch a glimpse of unnaturally long and sharp nails.

I shrug and my lips roll up as I puff out a soundless pfffft. Who the fuck am I to throw stones? If the dude wants to have nails like Freddie Kruger, that’s his cross to bear. Personally, I think it’s a dodgy look, but then again not everyone likes tattoos, long hair, or piercings…and I’ve got a shitload of them, and I’ve never given a rat’s arse what others think.

My eyes dart up and away from his hands, and I bob my head — impressed as all fuck — as I cop a squiz at the epic tattoo trailing around his neck. Inked in rich, vibrant hues of deep blues, reds and black, it’s an exquisitely rendered and highly detailed snake. I can see every scale along its thick sinewy body, and strangely its black eye appears to glitter as if it’s alive. Undulating around his throat like a choker, it ends in the hollow of his throat, where it has its tail tightly clasped between closed jaws.


As my eyes flicker over him, studying him, his head tips to the side and full, plump lips part in a secret smile as those glittering blue eyes fix on me. Spearing me to the spot. My eyes widen and I blink as scarlet flames leap deep in their obviously ancient, rich blue irises. I shiver, my balls contracting and hugging my groin, apparently seeking the security of my gut. I can’t say I blame them wanting to hide, ‘cause I sure as fuck wanna hide from the searing intensity of those eyes.

My legs weaken and I swear on Holly’s life that he’s looking right into my soul as he says in a voice dripping with god-like power, strength and an ultimate authority, “Wanna make a sweet deal mate?”

What? Who the hell is this joker? My forehead creases as my brows meet low over my eyes and then rise.

He chuckles and the sound rumbles out from his chest like distant thunder.

Low. Deep. Menacing.

Standing, he unfolds to his full height, of at least six foot, which bests me by at least two or three inches. Bending to the side, he gently places the guitar against the wall, before straightening and calmly walking towards me. He wears a brilliant smile on his full lips, but I notice that it doesn’t reach his eyes, they glitter coldly. Like shards of ice. Or crystal daggers.

His expression is one of insatiable hunger.

I have a fleeting vision of a ravenous homeless cat stalking an unaware mouse and another chill flirts with my spine. My eyes drop to the floor. I study my bare feet, the swirling marble pattern of the lino… the toes of his boots as they stride across its shiny surface towards me.

Anything to keep myself from being sucked in and consumed by the fiery danger I see blazing in those ancient orbs.

His shiny black boots are soundless as he gracefully crosses the floor. The quiet allows me to hear the low sibilant hisses emanating from his direction. Raking my gaze upwards, I blink stupidly, as I watch the impossible; the snake is writhing about his throat like a worm on hot cement.

He reminds me of a MMA fighter strutting into the arena, heading towards the cage….Brimming with barely reined-in power and bristling with self-assuredness and no lack of confidence. He is the picture of wicked elegance and is undeniably and unashamedly impressive in the knowledge of his complete and utter invincibility.

He struts across that few feet of floor as if he’s the King of the World and my nape prickles as the air becomes thick, sizzling with static electricity. Sniffing, I swear I smell a sharp scent of ozone, reminiscent of lightning, and in that exact moment I can almost believe that he is something other than a man.

Something not human and not incredibly fussed on hiding that fact from me either.

 Extract of WICKED GOOD (c) Jennifer Crowfoot 2015.