Page 17 of Haunted Spurs

The problem is that I can’t stop undressing you with my eyes.

The problem is that I haven’t been able to stop fantasizing about you for fourteen damn days.

And I have to stop. I don’t want to complicate my life.

“Come on… I know your books,” he adds, lowering his voice even further into an intimate, almost conspiratorial whisper that brushes against the bare skin of my neck.

Thump. Thump. Thump.

Is that my heart? Why is it going crazy at the mere thought of him reading the smut I write?

“I could be a great asset in giving you… inspiration.”

Dammit.

My brain, already hopelessly compromised by his proximity, translates his words into pure, raw eroticism. Sure… for writing certain scenes, doing the show with him could definitely provide more than enough hands-on material.

But… did he mean that? His blue eyes gleam with a silent promise that makes my knees weak.

Yeah, doing a reality show in an isolated house with this man is a massive mistake. A recipe for absolute disaster.

But… do I really have a choice?

Me: Please void the clause forcing me to do the reality show.

Jessica: Not a chance in hell.

Me: It's completely out of line.

Jessica: It's absolutely perfect. you'll thank me.

6

Red Lights

Selene

It’s been ten days.

Ten irritating, nerve-wracking, absolutely insufferable days spent in excruciatingly close quarters with Ron Willers.

I haven’t made a single ounce of progress on my novel. The page on my laptop is still depressingly blank. On the plus side, though, I think the physical appearance of my male lead is now very clearly defined in my head.

Ahem.

Let’s just ignore that and try not to think about it.

Yeah, right. As if it were that easy.

“Can you knock it off?” I groan, sinking deeper into the small armchair in the corner of the room.

This is definitely a scene I didn’t want to—and shouldn’t—be seeing. But one that, to my utter and pathetic disgust, I absolutely cannot look away from.

The room is bathed in thick shadows, cut through by LED lighting set to a deep, sinful red. And right in the center of this makeshift set is him.

Ron is half-sprawled on the mattress. The crimson light slides like liquid over his bare skin, caressing the brutal definition of his broad chest and sculpting every single goddamn ab into a perfect grid of shadows. His faded jeans hang dangerously low on his hips, revealing the sharp V-line that disappears beneath the denim.

But the thing that’s completely short-circuiting my brain is that he’s wearing a mask. One of those white rubber serial killer masks from slasher movies, its expression twisted into a ghostly scream. His hands, thick with veins, hold the camera above him. The contrast between the grotesque creepiness of the mask and the raw, virile sensuality of his half-naked body bathed in red light is a fucking assault on my sanity.