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“Yes,” I breathe, pushing against his hand to take him deeper.
“Spread your legs,” he commands.
I oblige.
“Now lean over the counter. Let me see you.” His voice hitches as I bend forward, opening myself to him. “You have the most beautiful ass,” he says as he rubs his hands over me.
“I thought the same thing about you,” I purr.
“Really? It makes me kind of hot to know you were looking at my ass.” He moves his fingers back to my center, plunging them inside, and I whimper as he fingers me. I hear his zipper and look over my shoulder to see him stroking his cock, getting ready to enter me. I hear the condom wrapper seconds before he plunges inside. Chris slams into me urgently, as if our bodies have been separated for days, not minutes. After only a few thrusts, I’m on the brink. Chris must sense my need, reaching around to fondle my clit as he drives into me. I shatter, and the moment I break he quivers inside me.
“Every time, Lisa,” he pants.
“What?”
“It gets better every time, and that only makes me want more. Look at me, I barely put my cock away long enough for breakfast, and now that I’m inside you again, I want to stay here. You’re driving me crazy.”
I squeeze myself around him, earning a husky groan. “If I didn’t have to go, I’d want you to stay here, too.”
“Shit, I forgot about your meeting.” Chris slowly pulls out, deposits the condom in the trash. “I better get out of here before you distract me again.”
I stand at the counter, still trying to catch my breath, while Chris retreats to the bedroom to get dressed. When he returns, he pulls me into his arms for a slow, thorough kiss. “I’ll call you later,” he says before letting himself out the door.
I’m still trembling as I shower and dress for my writer’s group meeting. The things Chris did to my body, the things he said, have me reeling long after he left, and the cool shower does little to chill my emotions.
My skin is flushed where Chris’s strong hands gripped me, pushing and pulling and driving into me. I tingle where his soft lips lingered, exploring and tasting. I haven’t been touched like that in ages, and now that he’s awakened my body, I crave more, even though the memory of his touch is still fresh. Wow, I sound just like one of my characters, I scold myself, not entirely sure that’s a good thing.
Romances always require a little fluff, some descriptive wording that accentuates the power of the connection between two characters. The first time I wrote in that particular voice, I came dangerously close to breaking one of my rules about what’s acceptable to write. After all, no one really has thoughts about “their body being awakened.” Except that’s exactly how I feel. It’s been so long since I’ve been intimate with anyone, and even those times hadn’t left me feeling the way I do now. It’s like every time before has been just going through the motions, not without pleasure but not with passion, either. This is different, and my body knows it.
We’ve only been together the one night, but already I know something big is happening here. Forget that we click outside the bedroom, which we both acknowledge is different and intriguing, what happened in the bedroom is on another level. Yes, we thoroughly explored one another and drove ourselves to ecstasy over and over again. But it hadn’t been just sex. Oh, there’d been that urgent, ravenous fucking that took me higher than I’ve ever been before. But something else had happened. Something that forged a deeper connection than just driving each other to orgasm. That’s both reassuring and terrifying, because I recognize what it is now.
I’ve written about this. About a connection that becomes more than physical almost from the start. It makes for a great plot, but until now I didn’t think it happened in real life. Where that leaves us, I can’t say for sure, because I don’t know if he’s drawn the same conclusions I have. And after only one night together, now is not the time to wonder where we stand. Now is the time to get my mind out of the bedroom and onto things like cartoons and whimsy and all things for young readers, like the ones I hope to reach with my fables.
I pull into the library and find the meeting room where the critique group is scheduled to meet. Unlike some of the other groups I’ve joined before, this one is strictly for children’s book writers, which hopefully means I’ll get better feedback and maybe better leads on how to find the right publisher. Or maybe even an agent. Much as I love Harper, the truth is that the children’s market isn’t her forte, and even though you typically only have one agent for all your work, if that agent can’t break into the market I want to be in, I have to do it myself. That’s why I have high hopes for this group.
After the group assembles and introductions are made, people take turns sharing what they’ve written. A few people write middle-grade stories, those targeted towards eight- to fourteen-year-olds, while others focus on early-grade like me. At least two members have already had their work published, and a few others have seen their short stories in children’s magazines but are still hoping to put out a book. Overall, it’s a good mix of experience and genre, and I soak it all in.
When it’s my turn to share, I choose a story that's told from two different perspectives, one for each of the characters, with the lesson being that one story can be viewed two different ways depending on who does the telling. As I finish reading aloud, I study the faces in the room, all of which seem introspective amid the silence. Finally, the author of a published middle-grade novel speaks up.
“You want this to be a picture book, right?” she asks.
“That was my thought.”
“I think of picture books as being for early-grade readers, but the subject is a little more complex. I think it might fit better with middle-grade readers.”
“Isn’t it a bit short for middle grade?” I ask. “It’s only a few thousand words with no chapters.”
“True, but that’s long for a picture book. You seem to fall a bit into both markets.”
“Could you shorten the story a bit, maybe have the main character solve his own problem instead of being shown the solution by someone else?” asks another unpublished writer.
“I suppose.”
“I think the subject can work for early grade, but the lesson will be more valuable if the main character learns it himself instead of being told what the lesson should be,” he suggests.
“I hadn’t thought about it like that before, but I guess the ending has more meaning if it’s discovered rather than taught,” I agree.
“Try a version like that. Maybe it will help you lose a few words so you skew more toward early grade,” another member says.
