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“You see, that's why I can't work here. Because I would be naked, and I wouldn't be doing anything like work.”
I pick my handbag up off the chair and sling it back over my shoulder. My shoes slide on pretty fast, and I'm filled with a little bit of regret. Do I really want to go? Really?
“What if I promise you that it will be a real workout?” Dillon suggests, quirking an eyebrow at me suggestively.
“Okay… goodbye now, gentlemen!” I call out as I force myself to leave the room, walking back through the penthouse to the private elevator. I keep telling myself this is the right thing to do as I cross the lobby and get in the waiting car. All the way home, I remind myself that I really do have work to do. Books don't just write themselves. All the great ideas and source material in the world do not equal a book. You have to put your ass in the chair and grind it out.
Ooooh, that sounds dirty.
Oh man. I really need to get it together.
And then when I'm finally in front of my Greystone again, that's when I know I really have done it. I just exercised the right amount of discipline. Or at least started to. The still actual work to be done.
It's a good thing I don't have pets, I think as I re-enter my home. I don't even have real houseplants. There are couple of mother-in-law's tongues and philodendrons in the kitchen, but those things would survive the total collapse of civilization. Not even I can kill them. But I certainly haven't been spending a whole lot of time at home. Nothing really seems out of place, but nothing really seems very clean either. There's a little bit of a film of dust, or so I think.
But after a quick shower and change of clothes into yoga pants and an overly large, worn T-shirt, I'm ready to sit down and make this happen.
Here's our story.
I open the document, going back to the very beginning. I met Dillon in a parking garage and mistook him for his brother. I suggested a date. Hannah relayed that information to Emmet. The date began with Dillon.
And then we kissed.
Truthfully, that first kiss blew me away. The warmth of his breath on my cheek as he exhaled, leaning into me, eagerly tasting my lips… That sensation seared through me. I'd forgotten how wonderful it is to be kissed. I'd forgotten how delightful it is to want to be kissed.
And then when Emmet arrived, the confusion returned. I forced myself to remember that I was on a mission and reconstruct my defenses. Also, I had to reconstruct something of my ambition, even while every secret part of me was screaming that I should leave. My cover had been blown. The character I’d created to act out the fantasy was torpedoed to smithereens.
But I couldn’t do that. I couldn’t just give up on everything like that.
And so I forced myself find a way to salvage the story. I had to kiss Emmet as well so that the blogger could see us. That wasn't like me at all, kissing two different men within, say, years of each other. And that aroused something different in me: a feeling of power. The realization that I could actually do this. They were actually going to let me.
They both wanted me.
My eyes scan the transcription, and I scroll through page after page, replaying every scene in my mind as I read through them again. From time to time I add more notes, but I find myself eager to get to the next meeting, the next conversation.
I realize quickly that there's quite a lot of material here. I execute the keystrokes for the word count tool and my mouth drops open. I have a hundred thousand words already. That's a novel, a really long novel.
I sit back in the chair, knuckling my chin and chewing on my bottom lip. Did I really write a novel? In three weeks? How the hell did I find the time, in between acrobatic bouts of the kind of sex regular people would never even consider?
But really, I've stolen every moment that I could, dictated everything that I remember into the app. I have been faithful, disciplined, dedicated.
Something else begins to occur to me too. It's my voice. It's me. This is the kind of writing that I wanted to do, the kind that Hannah told me was too difficult to sell. She is the one who nudged me off, forcing me to write those inane lifestyle pieces.
My eyes dart over the page, hungrily skipping ahead to the next juicy details. This is good. This is really good. This could be a perfectly steamy romance novel, if I just changed the names. A quick find and replace, and I could come up with a pen name in five minutes, I'm sure of it. I could self-publish it by tonight.
But I'm not going to do that.
This is my story. Our story. And the agreement was that I own this story. Every single word.
Can I really do it? I have got long passages in here describing the exact length and girth and texture of Emmet's beautiful cock. That sweetly rose-colored tip. The branching veins rolling under the skin. His balls, cupped tightly to his body, wreathing that beautiful shaft.
Oh boy. I wonder what he is going to think of this?
But I play the scene in my mind and realize he's going to love it. Dillon especially! He's going to adore my descriptions of his cum sliding between my tits, pooling in my belly button. He's going to absolutely love it. He may have to have it printed on a T-shirt.
Nearing the end of the document, I realize I'm almost up to today. So where does the story go? We’ve got the proposal coming up, with the spectacle of all of that. I'm sure it will be something, and a slow smile creeps across my face. Emmet has been very quiet about it, and I’m really excited to see what he's being so secretive about.
So what is my ending? Romance readers expect happy endings. Happily ever after, if at all possible. The characters are supposed to ride off into the sunset together, even if it's an unusual ride into the sunset, on three horses instead of just two.
