But deep down, I know I’m more. I’m a creator of stories. Stories that have a plot and an arc and a journey. Yes, they experiment in BDSM. Yes, they do anal. And yes, you will probably get horny when you read them, but they still mean something to me. I’m still proud of them when I type The End. And I love the fact that I have readers who get to escape their regular lives for a while and pretend that they’re someone else.
I give them book boyfriends like Miles.
But he is not fictional. He is real, and he went to great lengths to prove how many fucks he doesn’t care that I write smut for a living.
And fucking hell, this giant of a man feels so good under my hands. I had to yank him down by his neck to bring our lips together. God, he’s tall and firm. So firm. Every muscle in his body is tight and hot beneath my touch. I can’t help but run my hands appreciatively over his triceps as our lips dance together in the best kiss I’ve had in years.
Years!
Dryston was a terrible kisser. His name totally matched his romantic abilities. Let’s just say it’d be a cold day in hell before I ever used the name Dryston in a book.
He never used tongue and never moved his head. He kept it at one angle and just opened and closed his mouth over and fucking over like a guppy fighting for his life on the shore.
Miles, on the other hand, kisses like a shark.
I may have started it, but damn, this guy has taken the lead. He moves his hands all over my body—squeezing, groping, and fondling as he wishes. He even turns his head from side to side, like a shark nipping at his dinner, savoring every scrumptious bite. It’s pure frickin’ magic. When his head tilts to the left, he gives me tongue. When he tilts right, he caresses my lips. And just when I think I’ve figured out his pattern, he changes it up. Biting my lower lip, he pulls it into his mouth. His big hands squeeze my ass and pull me flush against his hard groin, leaving me with no doubt about the effect this kiss is having on him.
Jesus Christ.
And the fact that I’m wearing this short, stretchy skirt makes the barrier between us basically nonexistent. If I was writing a book about this kiss, now would be the point where the bad boy steals his hands up the girl’s skirt, rips off her panties, and marvels at how wet she is for him. He’d pick her up, press her against the wall, and slam his bare, hard cock into her tight, soaked cunt.
Or something like that.
I’m making out with a hot guy, I can’t be a great writer right now!
“Mercedes,” he husks, pulling away from my lips, panting. “What are we doing?”
I drag in huge gulps of air, not realizing how much I needed oxygen while swallowing down the stab of guilt that he still doesn’t know my real name. But I don’t want him to know me as Kate. I am Mercedes at this moment. I’m not the girl still living with her ex because she can’t get him to move his shit out. I’m Mercedes, sex goddess in fiction and in life!
“I don’t know,” I reply, touching my fingers to his hot lips. God, they are sexy. “I just kissed you, I guess.”
“Yes, you did,” he replies, and a muscle in his jaw ticks like he’s in pain. He presses his forehead to mine and pulls his groin away from me. “And as hot as that was, we have to stop.”
I swallow and nod. “Totally. We’re in public.”
“And I don’t think this is a good idea.” He pins me with his steely blue eyes that sparkle even in the darkness. Piercing through his dark lashes like shining beams of sapphires.
“Wait, what?” I reply, pulling out of his arms and mourning the loss of his warmth immediately. “After all that shit you said inside and just now on the phone with your sister…you…don’t want this?”
He grimaces as if I kneed him in the balls. And maybe I should have. “I like you, Mercedes. But I’m not in the position to like someone right now.”
I have to laugh at that. What a line for a book! And what a twist—the sex writer who can’t get laid. How perfectly ironic. “Got it. Well, sorry to put you in such a difficult situation.”
I turn on my heel and move down the sidewalk to go back inside the pub. Fuck this guy. Fuck this bar. Fuck leaving the sanctuary of my fictional story and trying to live in the real world for one night.
A large hand snakes around my elbow and spins me back around. “Mercedes, wait. I don’t…want things to be weird.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have flirted with me so much then!” I snap and bite my lower lip, hating the fact I’m being so uncool about this.
It’s not like he proposed to me. He flattered me and bought me pizza and beer. Miles didn’t even make a move except for that one kiss on the cheek, and he was clearly uncomfortable about that.
Jesus. I write about this shit, but I don’t see it for myself. Idiot, Kate. Idiot, Mercedes. Whichever personality you are, you’re an idiot!
Miles runs a hand through his hair, causing his shock of black locks to stick out all over. “I’m sorry. I…don’t know what to say.”
I sigh and take mercy on him. “There really is nothing else to say. I’ll just…I’ll see you around, Miles.”
I turn and stride away, humiliated by the fact I was just rejected by my real-life book boyfriend.
Miraculously, my black moment with Miles matched up seamlessly with the black moment in the book I’ve nearly finished writing. Just a couple of more pages of depression, cue grand gesture, and bam…happily ever after. If only I could fucking write from home!
“Why are you here?” Lynsey asks, opening my front door without a knock to find me sitting cross-legged in my living room with my laptop open on my pretentious barnwood coffee table. Her face falls. “Oh my God, what is that horrible smell?” She opens my front door wide and waves the stench outside as my face heats with humiliation.
“It’s nothing!” I blow out the candle next to my computer and pop the lid on the tin to quickly stash the source of my embarrassment underneath the coffee table.
“It’s not nothing. It smells like…burnt rubber.” Her eyes go wide with realization. “Is that a fucking tire scented candle?”
She leaves the door open and dives on top of me, flattening me to the floor as we both grapple for the tin.
“Stop it! You’re going to make me spill wax on the floor!”
“Then let go so I can see what you’re hiding!” she squeals and claws her way up my arm, trying to reach my tightly gripped hand under the coffee table.
“No, you’re just going to make fun of me!”
“You’re damn right I am!” She redirects her hands to my sides where she starts tickling me mercilessly.
“Stop!” I howl and start laughing and screaming in unison as she assaults my tender sides and squirms on top of me. The ruthless bitch is going to leave bruises!
“What theeee fuuuuck?” a masculine voice stops us both midmotion. Lynsey’s face is only inches from mine, her hair falling around both of us providing a curtain of privacy.
I cautiously push Lynsey’s hair back to see Dean standing in my open doorway, gawking at us.
“Oh, thank God.” I exhale. “It’s just Dean.”
“Yeah, it’s just Dean,” he repeats and gestures with his hands for us to continue. “Please…don’t stop on my account.”
Lynsey and I both roll our eyes as she hauls herself off my body but not before she makes one more attempt for the tin. “Ah-ha, I got it!” she exclaims, but her face crumples in disbelief as she takes in the label on the tin. “Burnt rubber scented soy candle. I cannot believe this is a thing.”
She hands it over to Dean, and he winces as he takes a sniff.
“How much was that?” Lynsey asks, crossing her arms and tapping her foot like she’s preparing to scold me.
“Only $8.50 on Etsy,” I scoff and mumble, “I paid extra for expedited shipping.”
Dean booms with laughter. “Jesus H, you’ve got it bad, Kate!”
“I know!” I cry and stand up, staring at my manuscript still lit up in front of me. “I can’t write a damn word, and all I want to do is go back to Tire Depot.”