He sucked one last time, curling his fingers—and I snapped. He held me through it, steady and patient, like he’d waited a long time for this exact moment.
When it was over, he kissed the tops of my thighs, the scar, then carefully dressed me again. Slow. Intentional. Gentle.
When he rose, I tasted myself on his lips, and my inner voice—screamingBAD NORAon a loop—was drowned out by how good he felt under my hands. How much I wanted more. Again. Now.
I reached for his belt.
But he caught my hands and pressed his forehead to mine.
“Nowthatwould be a bad idea,” he said, voice rough, pained. “We should go back in.”
He was right. The future I wanted—the store, the book deal—was inside that cottage, not here in the shed. Where I could get frostbite on my lady bits.
“Right.” I stepped away, still shaky, and opened the door. “But you’re doing the dishes.”
Chapter Thirty
Bond girls have to be accessible by nature.
He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.
I wish I was wearing a chastity belt.
I’d just finished polishing the ending of my story, which was now way more dramatic with a climax that was pretty rad, if I did say so myself. In two days, we’d send out the final manuscripts to the board. After that, it’d be out of my hands completely. The internet would get an extra three chapters to vote on. Those votes, combined with the board’s decision, would determine who got the chance to turn those rows of black and white into a real novel that people would hold in their actual hands and slip into their bags. Put on their nightstand. Maybe even recommend to friends. The thought was thrilling. Almost terrifying.
But the most important thing? It could save the shop. I often found myself daydreaming about what I’d do with the money. Buy the shop out. Pay the energy bills. Upgrade to faster internet. Give the walls a fresh coat of paint—it hadn’t had onesince the grand opening. I’d get new shelves. Maybe a coffee machine for the customers. A couple of plush velvet sofas for people to stretch out on. Heck, I liked the idea of a community board, too. I could renovate that windowless back room into something useful, like a writer’s workshop or a book club space—or even a kids’ reading nook. Maybe install a security system. Host author signings...
I sighed and glanced out the window, where two squirrels dashed up the pines, their bushy tails disappearing among the snow-covered branches. There were so many things I wanted to do. So many possibilities. It was all within reach. If only I could keep my head straight.
My phone buzzed, and I sighed, preparing to send Otis my usual, “I’ll tell you when I get home, go back to work” message. But it wasn’t Otis.
It was John.
Just seeing his name made my pulse race.
You okay?
I wasn’t okay.
Perfectly fine. You?
Can’t sleep. Can’t work.
I rolled my eyes. So, he was bored. And I was his closest source of entertainment. No, sir. I flopped onto my bed and typed my response.
Poor Mr. Bestselling Author can’t sleep. Maybe this competition is getting to you. Time to quit?
It’s not the competition that’s getting to me.
My face flushed. No, I wasn’t doing this. The thing in the shed had been another temporary lapse in judgment.
I started typing something, then deleted it, well aware that he could see me doing it. I could practically hear his impatience from the other side of the wall. Before I could muster a proper response, another message popped up.
What are you wearing?
I bit my lip. I wasn’t smiling at his message. Not at all.
A bite guard. Sweats. A chastity belt.
