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Unless (Jagger & Poppy Book 2), page 1


Unless (Jagger & Poppy Book 2)

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Unless (Jagger & Poppy Book 2)

  Jagger & Poppy’s Erotic Romance #2

  Mikhail Chekhov is on the run from the two people who love him, Poppy White and Jagger Chabon.

  Determined to find her missing boyfriend, Poppy will stop at nothing until she’s tracked his ass down, but her coworker, Jagger, keeps getting in her way. He’s hot as hell. He gives her oral pleasure like no one’s business. And he’s claiming to be Mikhail’s lover on the down low.

  Will they ever find Mikhail?

  Often while reading Avery Aster’s books, readers have been known to experience hot flashes, orgasms, and laughter to the point of peeing in their pants.

  It’s suggested that you have a bucket of ice nearby, along with a chilled glass of champagne and your favorite sex toy—fully charged—before reading this story.

  Please note that Avery’s writing is not suitable for prudes, slut-shamers, or uptight readers who don’t have a sense of humor about money, sex, or fame. Avery’s books are not intended for anyone under the age of 18.

  Have fun!

  Swag and reader contests can be found on Avery’s blog at: AveryAster.com

  Interact with Avery while reading The Manhattanites on Instagram and Twitter @AveryAster using the hashtags #TheManhattanites #EroticRomance

  The Manhattanites

  by Avery Aster

  “If you enjoy witty erotic romances by such authors as Alice Clayton and Tara Sivec then you’ll most likely devour Avery Aster!”

  —The Kindle Reader

  “Never did I think I could love an author as much as Avery Aster. The Manhattanites are obscenely fabulous.”

  —Book Boyfriend

  “The most original series I've ever read. The Manhattanites is expertly crafted like diving into a soap opera.”

  —Miss Construed

  “A throwback to Judith Krantz, Avery’s writing is salacious glitz, drama and glamour.”

  —Talk Supe

  “I took a cold shower after reading Unscrupulous.”

  —Books Are Love

  “Avery's voice is fresh and witty. Something not found in the market.”

  —Same Book, Different Review

  “Plotted like Jackie Collins, the bitches are super-bitches but underneath their tough exterior is a good heart.”

  —I Love Romantic Fiction

  “Sex and the City on steroids but younger and sexier, Avery Aster equates to fun erotic romance.”

  —Ever After Romance

  “The Manhattanites live an extravagant lifestyle. I want to be a part of it.”

  —Blissful Books

  “The shock value is high and hot flash-inducing. Trust me, I've suffered a few.”

  —Ripe For Reader


  Copyright 2017 Avery Aster

  Cover Design by Croco Designs

  Formatted by Mark's Ebook Formatting

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite e-book retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  New York, New York 10021

  First edition: April 2017


  Author's Note

  Chapter Six: Pussy Lickin’

  Chapter Seven: Seeing Stars

  Chapter Eight: Total Fakeness

  Chapter Nine: Bonjour

  Bonus Excerpt – Dirty Talk, Secret Pleasure by Opal Carew

  Bonus Excerpt – The Break by Debra Presley

  Also By Avery Aster

  About Avery Aster

  Connect With Avery

  Hello, Beautiful Reader!

  Welcome back to Jagger and Poppy’s erotic romance. This is the second installment. If you haven’t read the first volume in this serial, UNDERCOVER, stop right now and get the naughty book. Otherwise you’ll be lost, you’ll get angry, and I just won’t be able to live with myself. *wink*

  If you’ve been following along, you know that in the first book (SPOILER ALERT) Jagger and Poppy have a few things in common, like the same boyfriend, Mikhail. He’s hiding from them, all right. Let’s see if they can find him.



  P.S. Chapters 1-5 may be found in Undercover. This story picks up with Chapter 6. Enjoy!

  Pussy Lickin’

  Greenwich Village


  “Wait!” Poppy’s loud made-for-TV voice echoes down the hall just as the elevator doors are about to close.

  Jetting my hand out to block the doors before helping her into the elevator, I say with confidence, “Mark my words, Mikhail is at my place.”

  She crosses her arms, cocking her head ever so slightly, enough so her dark eyes sparkle for me to admire. “You know, Jagger, when guests on my show say phrases like ‘mark my words,’ ‘trust me,’ ‘believe me,’ ‘bet your bottom dollar,’ ‘don’t say I didn’t warn you,’ ‘I’m telling you,’ or my personal favorite, ‘I guarantee it,’ my good sense tells me they’re full of s-h-i-t.”

  “Is that so?” Feeling annoyed, I push the L button and allow myself to fall against the wall in exhaustion. We descend to the lobby.

  “Yeah, that’s when I bust out the lie detector machine and hook the fool up to see if he’s telling the truth. So, while I do think you’re hiding something—like the reason why Mikhail is running for his life—I don’t believe he’ll be at your Greenwich Village apartment waiting for you.”

  I sigh.

  “I just don’t believe it.” She shakes her head, causing the oversized gem earrings dangling near her cheeks to jingle.

  “Then don’t come with me.” As the door opens, I pop my head out to see if those two goons with their guns are waiting for us. They’re gone.

  “Oh, I’m on you like naughty on nice.” Poppy grabs my hand and an unexpected warm tingle surges up the back of my spine.

  Coming out into the lobby, we turn for the back entrance and make our way down the block toward Fifth Avenue before climbing into the back of a cab.

  After I tell the cabby my address, I look down to notice Poppy still holding my hand. Her nerves are shot. Mine are too. Hell, we were nearly killed, after all.

  “I’ll make us some lunch when we get to my place.”

  “That would be nice.” She rests her head on my shoulder. “This traffic is horrific.”

  “I don’t mind it.” I lean in to her, enjoying this tender side of Poppy. I’ve seen her like this with her friends on occasion. Taddy Brill and Vive Farnworth come into the studio sometimes while we’re taping and it’s like Poppy is a different person: full of love, warmth, and exuding all the feminine things about her that I adore.

  I pay the driver and help Po
ppy out of the cab, then into my building.

  Opening the door, she shouts, “They’ve been here!” Then she turns, ready to run for the fire escape.

  “No, silly.” I grab her shoulder, realizing she’s reacting to how messy I keep things—sneakers all over the place, clothing piles from where I got undressed, magazines and newsletters scattered about. “It’s always like this.”

  She turns and follows me into the apartment. “You can’t be serious.”

  “Hey, I don’t have a maid. I live alone. No kids.”

  “What about a pet?”


  “A plant?” Quickly she scans the place. “Oh my gawd. You don’t even have any plants in here. That explains everything.”


  “The lack of oxygen in your living space. It’s clearly affected your brain. Caused you to crave cock and sleep with my boyfriend.” She laughs as I start to frown.

  Opening the fridge, I pull out some lunchmeat, lettuce, tomatoes, mustard, and mayonnaise. “Turkey club okay?”

  With a nod, she hoists herself up on the countertop, crossing her legs and allowing one shoe to hit the floor, then the other. “Looks like Mikhail isn’t here.”


  She rubs the sole of her left foot. “My feet are killing me. I think I sprained my ankle when we were running.”

  I glance over at her as I put the slices of bread into the toaster. “Doesn’t look swollen.”

  “I hate exercising. I don’t run. Like ever.”

  “Not even at the gym?” With a sharp knife, I cut up the lettuce, then slice a tomato.

  “Hells no. It’s bad for the face.”

  “How so?” I take the bread from the toaster and layer on the mayo.

  “Causes sagging. Haven’t you ever seen those runners with their meth faces?”

  “It’s because they don’t have any fat on their bones.” I get two plates from the cabinet above the sink. “And I’m not calling you fat. You’re beautiful and you know it.”

  Uncrossing her legs, she smiles. “Thanks.”

  I layer on the turkey, giving her one more slice than me, then hand her the plate.

  She takes a bite of the sandwich and moans pleasurably in approval. “This is probably the best thing I’ve had all week.”

  “Mikhail ever cook for you?”

  “Yup.” She swallows. “He made me beef stroganoff a few times. It was pretty good. He also made… oh, what’s that dish called.” She looks up at the ceiling and then says, “Shashlik.”

  “He made that for me too. Very good.”

  Her eyes stay focused on the ceiling. She puts a finger over her full wet lips to shush me, then motions for a piece of paper and a pen.

  Reaching into the junk drawer, I pull out the items and hand them to her.

  Do you see the hidden microphone on the ceiling?

  I laugh so hard that my stomach hurts. “That’s just a speaker to my stereo.”

  She shrugs. “Guess I’ve been watching too many crime shows.”

  “Looks like it.” I pour her a glass of ice tea from the fridge.

  She thanks me, taking a sip. “Please tell me why Mikhail is on the run.”

  “What makes you think I know?” I study her face, searching for a reason. The truth is I have a few hunches, such as our boyfriend sold Russian information to the wrong people or that he was a spy. But for which country, I don’t know.

  “Cut the crap, Jagger. You’re smart. Did you know something was going on with him at work?”

  “No,” I reply honestly. “Looking back, there are a few odd things that stand out to me.”

  “Like what?” She pulls a small piece of bread off her sandwich and pops it into her cute, tiny mouth. That’s one thing that’s always fascinating me about Poppy—she has such delicate features, but boy, is she loud.

  “Such as… why us?”

  “We both started dating him around the same time. You think he used us for something?” Her eyes fill with tears.

  “Yeah, I do. Sorry to admit that to you. I know it’s painful. No one wants to be used.” Walking over to her, I place my hand on her leg in comfort.

  “I don’t date much. Mikhail just appeared out of the blue, like an angel. I really thought he and I had something special, you know?”

  “Sounds about right.” I lean in to her with a napkin, wiping a little bit of mustard from the corner of her lip.

  “But we don’t work for the government. We’re just reporters. We don’t make the news, just convey what’s going on.” She wipes her cheek to catch the falling tear.

  “We have access to files and information that most folks in the United States do not, Poppy. We view classified documents all the time.” I inhale deeply, noticing the scent she wears. Like her, it’s heady and addictive.

  Her face close to mine, almost as if she’s about to kiss me, she says, “I report on fashion, cooking, and occasionally I’ll do a human interest story. There’s nothing special there. The only documents I see are different recipes to fry chicken.”

  “You shouldn’t talk so negatively about your work.” I focus on her face.

  “Oh. No?” She tilts her head up and uncrosses her legs.

  The urge to bury my face between her legs overcomes me. Fuck Mikhail. If he can do this to Poppy and me, then I have every right to fuck her body, right here, right now. Shaking my head, I gently grab her knees. I lean in, doing what I’ve wanted to do for several years now, and kiss her.

  First our lips touch, dryly. Then my tongue, wet and firm, slides into her mouth as she gasps. Pressing my body against hers, she whispers my name in my mouth, running her hands over the back of my hair, causing my cock to rise in my slacks.

  She pulls back and asks, “When was the last time you were with a woman?”


  “You swear us off?”

  “Indeed, I did.”


  “I have my reasons.”

  “What are they?”

  “You always this invasive?”

  She nods playfully. “Tell me.”

  “Nope. Just let me eat you out.” I reach down, spreading her legs wide and wrapping my pointer finger around her undies. I pull them back and then off her so quickly, her jaw hangs open.


  “Yes, Poppy?”

  “We work together.”

  “This tension between us has been building for a long time.”

  “We have the same boyfriend.”

  “Had,” I correct.

  “Do you really think this is a good idea?” Her lips swell from the kiss. Irises enlarging, her pupils dilate as if hungry. Not for the sandwich but for me.

  “Yup, I do. I think if we’re going to spend any more time together, we need to get this sexual tension between us out of the way.” Without thinking, my fingers dance down the front of her blouse, unbuttoning the fabric.

  “Oh, is that what it’s called?” She laughs.


  “Here I thought it was hatred.”

  “You hate me?” I give her a pouty hurt expression and gently caress her breasts.

  “Sometimes I want to smash your face in.”

  Shocked, I dip my chin, running my lips along her neckline. “Tell you what. After I eat you out, if you still feel like hitting me, you can. Okay?”


  I drop to my knees, leaning against the counter. Her legs rest over my shoulders as I bury my face between them.

  “So sexy, Poppy.” Her flesh, smooth and pink, stares back at me as if begging to get off. I lick once, twice.

  She hisses at me to continue, knuckling my hairline tightly with her firm grip.

  Preferring to take my time—after all, I’ve waited for this moment for several years now—I slide my middle and ring fingers gently into her warm cunt. My thumb moves along her front slit, admiring the narrow strip of pubic hair. I flick it back and forth as she moans. Back and
forth, over and over.

  Her body tenses as I lick the sides of her inner thighs, my tongue slowly making its way to her core. Heat radiates off her flesh as I bury my mouth in her pussy. Flicking the tip of her clit, stimulating her as she arches her back, her legs flex on the back of my shoulders, drawing me in closer.

  “Come for me, Poppy.”

  “Right now?” she pants, looking down at me, almost as if confused.

  “Yes. Come, dammit.”

  Toes curling, she throws her head back and screams out in ecstasy.

  To my surprise, her body shakes and… she squirts. Not a lot, but enough to cover my face as I lick faster and harder, thrusting deeper into the well of her cunt.

  “Fuck, Poppy, you’re a squirter.”

  “Sorry,” she pants breathlessly. Embarrassed, she puts her left hand over her eyes.

  “Don’t apologize. I fuckin’ love a girl with a wet pussy.”

  “That would be me,” she mutters as I wipe my lips on my forearm.

  Seeing Stars


  I lay there, motionless, letting the fact that Jagger, my archenemy at LUV TV, the man I’ve hated for longer than I can remember, the freak who’s been banging my boyfriend, just. Ate. Me. Out.

  And he didn’t just eat me out. Oh no. It was by far the best oral sex I’ve ever had. I saw rainbows and unicorns dancing over us as I climaxed. Every inch of my body came alive. And for one split freaky-deaky second, I completely forgot that Mikhail was missing, that we got shot at by two strangers and chased by another two.

  A bit dazed, I sit up and stare at him.

  “Still wanna hit me?”

  My eyes narrow, taking in all the alphaness that is Jagger before shaking my head slightly and managing, “No.”

  “Good. We gotta go. I have an idea where we might be able to find him.”

  “Did this idea of yours come to you while you were going down on me?” I pull on my Gucci skirt.

  “Sorta.” He splashes some water on his face from the kitchen sink.

  I go into his bathroom and wipe off my studio makeup, take out the clips of fake Indian hair that have been digging into my scalp all morning, and shout, “Do you have a T-shirt I can borrow?”

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