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“I’m not here for coffee, Annie.” His bravado voice was so sexy, confident, aware.
I felt my knees begin to shake slightly.
“No?”
“I think we both know why I’m here.”
“Is that so?”
“Turn around, Annie. I want those lips.”
I turned slowly and looked up at him.
“These ones?” I asked, licking them slowly.
He nodded as he stared at my tongue, and then he wrapped his massive, muscular arms around me, lifted me off my feet, and then carried me into my bedroom, staring into my eyes the entire time, saying nothing verbally. In his eyes, though, I knew what his intentions, desires, and needs were.
And I knew my eyes were telling him the same story.
He laid me on the bed then leaned down, his wet hair, fresh from a shower, hanging inches above my face as he held his body over mine. The weight was deliciously comfortable as I felt the tingles building deeply in my belly.
Inside, I was pulsing everywhere, anticipating his first move.
His lips, I hungered for them. I craved the way they had tasted in my dreams.
I felt starved after just a day without them.
He leaned lower, his hands holding mine hostage above my head. Avoiding my lips entirely, he kissed down my body, until he was all the way down to my navel. There, he pulled my shirt up, and that was when I remembered I had not put on a bra after my shower.
At that moment, as he pushed my shirt up with his nose, as he nibbled his way to my breasts, I was forever grateful I had forgotten.
When his mouth took my left nipple, and he sucked on it, I felt euphoric.
“Oh, God... Yes, Jonathon.”
I close the book and sit back. My dick is hard, and my heartbeat is fast.
I look at the clock. I have twenty minutes before I can head back down.
Son of a bitch, I think as I look down at my cock.
Chapter Eight
I sit at my laptop, looking out the window of my hotel room. It’s dark. I lost track of time. Then I look at the bottle of wine and realize I am on my third glass. My mind can’t seem to get in the zone.
The blank screen taunts me. The blinking cursor begs for letters to form words, words to form sentences, and sentences to tell a story.
I have written and deleted three thousand words from my manuscript today. I hate this story. I hate it, and I want to tell Melanie to stick it in her ass like I am making the hero do to the poor virgin woman in this damn book.
Anal. Seriously, who begs to have a dick shoved in their ass? Ugh.
I stand up and look at the river. It calls to me. It looks much prettier at night when you can’t see the mucky, polluted waters caused by years and years of factories dumping their wastes into it. What a waste, literally.
I close my eyes and think maybe the characters in this damn romance novel should take a sexy dip in the river, but then I think of skin-eating chemicals or brain-eating super bacteria that have mutated because of the chemicals. And then my characters will be forced into comas and die a slow death while their families have to sit and watch them waste away.
Get a grip. For Christ’s sake, you faked orgasms before; the least you can do is fake a damn happily ever after for a fucking paycheck, I tell myself.
Melanie never asks me for something this big. She wouldn’t have if it wasn’t important. This is me trying to rationalize my way into the writing groove.
I grab my glass of wine, pour the contents into the cup my iced coffee was in from the coffee shop this morning, throw on my black coat, and decide to get some sins-piration from the mucky—I mean, beautiful—river lit up by the twinkling moonlight.
I walk out of the hotel room and consider leaving a note, just in case he uses the key card I gave him. Shutting the door behind me, though, I think how ridiculous it was to leave it for him in the first place. How would I know if he even got the damn thing?
This book, living fictitiously, is screwing with my sense of reality and reason. Yet, even knowing this, it’s hard to stop myself from popping a Post-it on my door in case we miss each other in the elevator.
To passing ships in the night, I think, realizing that being closed up ten hours in a hotel room alone with myself while concocting fairy tales for peoples’ entertainment is causing me to think foolishly, as if I am some love-struck, naive woman.
“Like Melanie,” I say out loud as I hit the button and wait for the elevator.
Outside, I sit across the street from my hotel on an iron and wooden bench in front of the river. I suppose it could be romantic if someone was here to share the moment with me. Someone with dark hair, green eyes, and who stood like a statue and had a manbun. Someone I expected to be bringing back my book tonight, but has yet to show up.
