Chapter Seventeen
It’s not another two full days before I’m called upon to prove that I’m actually working on a new book, chock-full of sexy goodness. Or badness. Depending on how you look at it.
“Maggie,” I chirp on answering her call. Do I sound happy to hear from her? Dismayed? Desperate? Suicidal? I can’t tell.
And it’s not like she cares very much either way. “How’s the new book coming along?”
It’s unlike her to call me while I’m in the process of writing something, which tells me she doesn’t have a ton of confidence in what I’m doing. That’s okay since I don’t have a ton of confidence either.
“It’s definitely coming along. I have a strong story, great characters. My heroine, Phoebe, is sort of a smart-mouth, and her boss likes that—”
“Great, great, but is it filthy? Oral? Anal? Bondage?”
My skin crawls. “It’s pretty filthy. Lots of sex, lots of fantasizing before the sex happens. Her fantasies are pretty raunchy.”
“Excellent. When do I get to see some of it?”
Yep, she’s worried.
I stare at the blank page in front of me.
There are plenty of pages filled with words on my computer, but this one happens to be empty.
Because it’s the page on which I have to start the big, important first sex scene between Phoebe and her boss.
No more fantasies, no more flirting. They’re on the jet, flying back from the weekend conference after Phoebe helped him pull off a major victory at the last-minute meeting.
So, they’re celebrating, and soon, they will do so by inserting Tab A into Slot B. Only in a much sexier way. I hope.
“Uh, I can send you a bunch of chapters tomorrow morning, if that’s okay? I wanna look through them before sending them over.”
“Sure, that sounds great. I expect to need a fresh pair of panties by the time I’m finished reading.”
Welp then. That doesn’t nauseate me or anything. “I can only hope so,” I manage to say before I have to end the call. I don’t want to imagine how much worse this conversation could go.
Terrific. Now, I have to write a truly dirty, filthy, panty-flooding scene. And I have an entire day to do it.
The light outside my window changes as hours pass, and my fingers move much slower over the keys than I would like.
Here’s the thing about writing sex: everybody thinks it’ll be easy until they have to sit down and do it themselves.
It takes a strong imagination and the ability to see everything, from every angle, and describe it clearly.
But it has to be more than a bunch of body parts thrashing around. The best sex involves the feelings and thoughts and sensations the characters are experiencing. Otherwise, it might as well be a description written in a medical text.
Not sexy.
“I need to thank you,” he murmured, his breath hot on Phoebe’s already-overheated cheeks. “I wouldn’t have been able to do that without you. You’re a superstar.”
If his nearness and the champagne hadn’t already made her flush, she would’ve blushed to the roots of her hair. He was so close, closer than they’d ever been. The only time she’d ever been near enough to feel his breath on her face was in her daydreams and fantasies, and those didn’t count.
“I did my job. It’s what you pay me for.” She shrugged. “Though a bonus wouldn’t be out of the question.”
“You think I should give you something extra?” A faint smile played over his generous mouth.
“I do.”
“What if I don’t have any extra cash to give you?”
She couldn’t help but snicker softly. “You? No extra cash?”
“Not on hand. I’m afraid I’d have to come up with some other way to balance our accounts.”
His gaze dropped to her chest, where she knew her V-cut neckline revealed more than she normally did at the office. Especially when leaning forward, the way she was now.
Instead of sitting up straight or adjusting the way the dress fell, she stayed just where she was and let him get an eyeful. The tip of his tongue moistening his lips just about undid her along with his deepening breath.
He wanted her. He wanted her just like she wanted him.
The touch of his hand on her knee only made her more certain.
“Sure, sure, that’s right,” I whisper, nodding slowly.
They’re in the cabin of the jet, which, naturally, looks a heck of a lot like Blake’s jet. My hero looks a lot like Blake Marlin, too, except his hair is jet-black and his eyes are like two chips of ice.
The similarities are a coincidence, of course. That’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.
She slid over the buttery-soft leather, inching closer to him. Leaning into his touch. Letting his hand slide higher up her leg, setting her skin on fire with each skillful sweep of his fingers.
“I’ve been wanting to touch these legs of yours for as long as I can remember,” he whispered, staring deep into her eyes.
“Really?” Not sexy or seductive. Surprised more like. “Me? You’ve been thinking about me?”
“Every morning,” he confessed. “Every afternoon. Every night. You bend over a desk or lean in to look, and I smell your perfume and your skin. When I feel your tits pressing against my shoulder or I see your ass stretching your skirt, it’s all I can do to keep from taking you by the waist and …”
She shuddered as his fingers slid against the hem of her panties—panties which were getting more soaked by the second. Each word out of his mouth came out at once, in a single breath.
Hmm. Not bad. I managed to work wet panties into it and everything.
It’s dark out now. I check the time and recoil when I see it’s past midnight. How did that happen? I never ate dinner. What was lunch? Did I eat that?
This is the way it always goes when my back’s to the wall, and I have no choice but to grit my teeth and get the work done. I lose track of time while typing, backspacing, typing, backspacing again, staring off into space and questioning my choice of career.
There’s leftover curry in the fridge and enough greens for a salad to go with it. I’ve been shamefully lax with my eating lately, between gorging myself with Blake and noshing on leftover Chinese from my disastrous lunch with Matt a couple of days ago.
The thought of him is enough to boil my blood.
Obnoxious jerk. Talking to me like there’s something wrong with me, and why?
Because I believe in love and commitment?
What’s so bad about those things? Maybe if he had a good woman in his life, she’d take him down a peg or two and even out that inflated ego of his.
Which is probably just as much a reason as any for him to stay single. He wouldn’t want anybody to call him out on his stupidity.
I have bigger fish to fry. I can’t afford to waste time thinking about him. Life was a lot easier back before we ever spoke a word to each other. Maybe I knew instinctively that he wasn’t worth the time.
Now, he’s in my head. I can’t help but wonder why Blake hasn’t called or texted all week, and I keep going back to what that idiot across the hall said. That I should’ve rolled with it, laughed it off, and gotten back to business.
I’m wondering if I lost that chance for good, all because I was ashamed of myself. I wish I could go back. I’d do it all differently. And I might even end up spending the night in Blake’s bed, in Blake’s apartment. In Blake’s arms.
“Kitty Valentine, you need to grow up,” I sigh, taking the curry off the burner and pouring it over the rice I heated up in the microwave. It’s still tasty, and my stomach’s glad to have something in it. I might think better with food in my belly.
Do I need to grow up? I guess so. No matter how I look at it, facts are facts.
I’ve been sheltered, in a bubble. There’s a reason Hayley encouraged me to date around.
I have no experiences—not just sexual ones, but life experiences too.
Like how to deal with embarrassing moments without making them worse.
It could be that I’m in the right business but the wrong genre. I could write a how-to manual on how to deal with humiliation. Lord knows, I have enough personal experience to draw from.
Except I’d still have to learn how to deal with these situations without shriveling up and wishing I could die on the spot, so …
Back to writing sex. Imagining Blake in the position of the boss is helpful indeed. I can see him on the jet, can imagine him lowering himself to his knees in front of me. Taking my hips and jerking them until I’m at the edge of the chair, sliding my panties down, down, down …
Giggling in the hallway breaks my train of thought, and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming. It’s like the entire world is conspiring to keep me from writing this scene.
Matt’s door opens and closes.
Wonderful. He’s getting lucky tonight.
“Blake. Think about Blake.”
I do that, turning my focus back to the jet cabin and Blake, on his knees, working my dress up to my hips and spreading my legs wide. My mouth goes dry as sand.
He inhaled her, eyes closing like he smelled the sweetest perfume. “Beautiful,” he groaned before pressing his lips to her inner thigh. “So beautiful. So sweet. I need to taste you. I wanna lick you until you flood my mouth. Until you scream my name.”
Phoebe shuddered in pleasure, the heady pleasure of knowing she was wanted. Watching this powerful man, this titan, on his knees and just about salivating at the scent of her …
“Do I have to use this word?” I whisper, frowning. I guess I do. Maggie wants filth. “P-U-S-S-Y,” I mutter with each letter.
What would I do? How would I feel? Jeez, I could be taking this from a real-life memory if I hadn’t been such an idiot before. I might not have to imagine what it would be like for Blake to go down on me if I hadn’t ruined everything.
“Ooh … yeah …”
I look from the screen to the wall in front of me. Did I imagine that? Is my fantasy that strong?
Nope. No such luck. It’s the lucky girl of the night, moaning like she’s in the throes of bliss.
“Perfect timing,” I mutter.
Phoebe closed her eyes, letting herself go. Letting him slide his tongue up and down the length of her cleft.
Is that the right word? Well, if Maggie doesn’t like it, she can change it.
Letting him dip deeper, urging him to, she lifted her hips to meet his hungry tongue. “Please,” she whimpered, forgetting to be shy or hesitant. How could she be hesitant when he was driving her crazy?
“Please what?” he growled before taking another lick and then another.
“Please … more. Harder. Make me come, boss.”
“Oh, Matt! Baby, yes!”
“Give me a break,” I mutter, rolling my eyes and pushing back from the desk in frustration.
At least she knows his name, but she sounds like she’s practicing for a porn video. A really bad one where you know the girl is faking.
I’ve done a little research since that unfortunate incident with the volume control. I know what I’m talking about.
“Oh! Oh! Oh!” It’s in time with what I guess is his thrusting or her thrusting onto him.
What is this man packing that he inspires that sort of squealing? Oh, right. I’ve pretty much seen it—at least, when it was tenting the front of his boxers and making me blush from head to toe.
I guess I’d sound like that too, if I were her. Though I’d at least put my face in a pillow or something. I’m not a complete barbarian.
Knowing him, he’d tell me not to. He’d take the pillow away because he’d want everybody to hear what he was doing to me.
I narrow my eyes and stare at the wall between our rooms. How much would it cost to invest in a little soundproofing? I might even be able to write it off as a business expense since there’s no way I can concentrate when somebody’s getting plowed next door.
A deeper voice joins hers. “Ugh! Yeah!”
Oh my Lord, he’s grunting now. I wish my imagination weren’t as good as it is. As strong as it is and as vivid. Because now, I’m imagining him slamming into this faceless girl for all he’s worth, and it’s killing me.
Which is what leads me to type a few words into my browser’s search, and before long, rousing marching band music comes blaring from my laptop.
“See if this helps you maintain the mood.” I grin, cranking up the volume until my ears are ringing.
No way he can’t hear this. No way she can’t. I don’t care if she’s on the verge of an earth-shattering orgasm.
I’d bet good money she’s not anymore. Not with John Philip Sousa providing background music. I might have to put a playlist together.
After the third repeat of “The Stars and Stripes Forever,” I let the music wind down. Nothing but silence reaches me after that.
Except for something that sounds like a fist hitting the wall. Just once, just hard enough for me to hear it.
But enough to let me know the message was received.