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I start to think about any strong, spicy woman I can come up with in the hope that I can channel her inner temptress.
Angelina Jolie? She’s way out of your league, babe.
Christina Hendricks? You need bigger boobs to go this route.
Jennifer Lawrence? Megan Fox? Kate Upton? J. Law’s goofy, endearing personality has some merit, but still, she’s Jennifer Lawrence. The OG Katniss Everdeen. You ain’t got the clothes.
“You know what I think we need to talk about right now?” Chase’s question pulls me from my brain’s “sexy female celebrity” Google search.
“What we need to talk about?” I repeat, my voice trailing off on the last word. Your smile? How good your eyes look right now, even beneath this shitty lighting? How good your penis would look inside me?
When I don’t say anything, he answers for me. “The book.”
Everything inside me deflates like a balloon.
Oh, that.
Defeated, my brain closes out of her Google tab and powers down her laptop.
The book. That damn book. It’s the whole reason he’s even sitting in front of me right now, and suddenly, it’s the death of any progress my inner sex kitten just made—sad meow.
Brooke
Tucked in the motor home bedroom with a belly full of boneless barbeque wings, I pull my laptop onto my thighs and stare at the blinking cursor at the end of Chapter Twenty. I’ve got earbuds in with the sultry beat of “Closer” by Nine Inch Nails flowing into my head, and I’m doing my best to heed my dreamboat editor’s bookly advice.
“Expand the sex scene in the break room,” Chase suggested tonight at dinner. “I’m afraid if we leave the readers hanging on this one without a climax, we’ll have a riot on our hands.”
Hoo boy, do I understand what he’s saying on an intrinsic level. The longing, the aching, the need for more—my bones are full of all of them and then some.
This much time with Chase has only enhanced my crush because as it turns out, the real-life version of him is even better than the fictional one I made up in my mind. He’s considerate and funny and easygoing at all the right times. He’s been just pushy enough to keep me focused on work without it feeling condescending or parental in any way, and if he doesn’t stop throwing his head back when he laughs and showing me the muscled cords of his long throat, I’m going to spontaneously orgasm in my panties.
I am a frozen Creamsicle, begging to be thawed by Chase’s tongue, and if I were still counseling at the high school in Hometown, I’m pretty sure all the students would be bursting into flames around me.
There’s absolutely no shame in being a sexy romance author—but at the time I wrote this particular scene, I wasn’t that—instead, I would characterize myself as pervy.
The truth of the matter is that when I faded that scene to black, it was because I was so worked up by the fantasies of this poor, unsuspecting man that I needed real-life attention. Sadly, it was from my own hand and a couple of toys, but it was real contact, nonetheless.
Frankly, I’m not surprised this particular scene reads as unfinished because it was. And for my own self-preservation, I intended to stay away from it until the end of time.
“Hey, Brooke,” the apple of my raunchy eye says, surprising me by peeking his head in the motor home bedroom. I glance down at my lap like I expect to find a mystical, magical vibrator spontaneously inside my vagina simply from the direction of my thoughts, and evidently, the look that puts on my face is enough to make his eyebrows crinkle toward each other. “You okay?”
I pull out one earbud, wave a hand at my very obviously red face, and lie my ass off. “Hot flash or something.”
Benji sighs at my fib, just one, single rolling rumble from his comfortable spot on the bed. Luckily, Chase isn’t an expert in dog expression yet, and the traitor’s snub goes unnoticed.
“You want to come for a walk with me? Maybe get some fresh air. It’s at least a little cool outside, so it might help.”
He’s leaving the motor home?! my inner horndog yells triumphantly. That means we can flick our bean to the thought of him! YAY!
It’s sad that this is where my mind goes, but it’s even sadder that the unsatisfied, throbbing ache between my thighs has made me one hundred percent in approval of this plan. A girl can only be around the hot-as-sin man who revs her engine to the red line for so many consecutive hours before she needs some damn relief.
“I, uh…” My voice starts in a pitch much higher than my baseline, and I have to clear my throat and try again. “Actually, I think I’m going to take a nice cool shower before we get on the road.”
