Chapter Thirty-Four Bennett
| Thirty-Four |
Bennett
Bennett took a sip from his mug of coffee as he waited for his computer to start up.
This morning had been nice. Savannah had initiated their lovemaking and he was grateful that she wasn’t one of those women who waited for the man to make the first move.
She was good in bed, but it was still hard not to compare her to Poppy, who had been much more adventurous.
Their desire for each other had never abated.
Every single time was like an explosion.
With Savannah it was different. He didn’t feel that same soul connection he had with Poppy.
Savannah made him feel safe and cared for.
Something that he’d been missing for a while now.
That was better, he told himself. He didn’t want to be consumed by another woman the way he had with his first wife.
Even though he tried to deny it, even to himself, his attraction to Savannah had been because her red hair and coloring had reminded him of Poppy.
Maybe on some subconscious level, he was pretending to himself that she wasn’t gone.
He thought about the other two women he had intended to marry.
Almost on their own, his fingers clicked the folder, input the passwords, and the screen filled with them again.
His eyes rested on the first picture. Angela.
She’d been a brunette with warm brown eyes and a voluptuous body he loved to lose himself in.
He thought about the last time they were together, remembering what it had felt like to caress her, the way she had sounded when reaching satisfaction.
He had thought they would last. And then Devon.
Blond and blue-eyed, killer body, and a face the camera loved.
They had almost made it to the altar, but then she’d betrayed him too.
Savannah was different from all of them.
She was loyal. She worshipped him. He wouldn’t have to worry about her ending up like the others.
He closed the folder. Time to get to work.
Opening a new browser, he began to type.
He had finally settled on the plot and was satisfied it would be well received.
He’d spent weeks on research, looking at past and current trends, taking the temperature of the market.
He never used to worry about such things.
But publishing had changed. You couldn’t simply write what you wanted and hope to stay on top.
No, it took more than talent and grit. It took smart positioning.
He wasn’t taking any chances. There were two words for an author whose book sales continued to decline book after book.
Washed up. And he was too young to be irrelevant.
He continued typing, nodding as the ideas flowed.
This was going to be good. His method was not as artistic as he would have liked, but he was doing what was necessary to succeed.
The end result would be a book his fans would eat up and his publisher and he would profit from. Win. Win. Win.