I just hope I haven’t scared that cock away.
“Well he hasn’t responded yet so maybe…” I trail off, wondering if I should quickly send another text, telling him I’ve changed my mind and would rather go alone. But what if that makes him feel rejected? Wait, can Blake even feel rejected? I’m not sure that’s emotion he’s capable of, along with empathy, sympathy and shame.
“He’ll say yes, don’t worry,” she says with a sigh, heading into the bathroom. “Time to wash this off.”
I watch her go and then nervously head back into my room, eyeing the phone as it sits on my pillow, like it’s going to lash out at any moment.
You can fix this, I tell myself.
I gingerly pick up the phone and peer at it.
Blake finally texted back, for once not calling.
Sounds great. When do we leave?
Ah.
Shit.
***
It’s Friday morning and I’m standing on the curb outside my place, waiting for Blake. The sun is just starting to peek out over the maples, streaming through in columns of golden light. There’s always been something magical about summer mornings. I guess because when I was younger, the summer meant vacation and if you were up early during the summer that usually meant you were going somewhere fun.
That’s true today, even though I’m excited about heading to the cabin for the weekend, I’m also flat-out nervous as fuck. I woke up before the sun even rose, taking my shower and spending extra time on my appearance, like I’m going on a date. And in some ways, it is a date—a really long one. I also went through my duffel bag for the millionth time, packing and repacking my clothes. I want to stay comfortable, earthy and sexy, which is somewhat of a tall order. The girls in the Free People catalogs can pull it off, but I’m another story.
Even though I’m the one who invited Blake and we’re going to my family cabin, he insisted on taking Mr. Mean. Can’t say I have a problem with it. The Cooper is cute but Mr. Mean is a sexy beast, just like its driver.
Butterflies toil in my stomach, heating up my spine and cheeks. I suck in a deep breath and somehow manage to hold it in as I hear the roar of Mr. Mean’s engine and see the black car coming around the corner.
Blake pulls up alongside the curb and gets out, shooting me a grin that I wish didn’t weaken me at the knees.
“Madame, your chariot awaits,” he says, sliding his aviators to the top of his head. “Sorry I’m late, I literally rolled out of bed fifteen minutes ago.”
“It’s fine,” I tell him, coming over with the bag. To my surprise he takes it from me and puts it in the trunk, then opens the passenger door, gesturing to it. “After you.”
I shoot him a wry look. “How very gentlemanly of you. You feeling okay?”
“Darling, you should know I’m not a morning person by now,” he says, going around to his side while I get in. “And you should know that they make me delusional. Appreciate the gentleman while it lasts.” He starts the car and slips his shades back down, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “I’m certain all vestiges of decorum will vanish the moment I get you alone.”
“A,” I say to him, holding up a finger. “We’re alone right now and B,” I tick off another finger, “you need to stop reading the thesaurus. It’s good in a bind and that’s it.”
He leans over and snaps his teeth at my finger, trying to take a bite out of it.
I shriek, a little too loudly, and then dissolve into nervous giggles, also a little too loudly. I need to calm my panties, stat.
“And you, my peach,” he says, “need to relax a little.”
“I have been relaxing. Too much. Hence this trip.”
“No,” he says with a quick shake of his head as we cruise down the tree-lined street, passing by folks walking their dogs and a kid delivering the paper. “I said yes to this trip not because we’re going to work.”
“What?”
“Let me finish. I said yes because I think the problem you’re having with so-called writer’s block isn’t that you’re not inspired. After all, you’re getting my dick, how much more inspired can you get?”
“You think that’s the solution to everything.”
“It’s never not been,” he admits and I can tell he believes it. “Your problem, Amanda, is that you’re succumbing to the pressure of success.”
“The pressure of success?” I repeat. “You really are delusional in the mornings.”
“Hear me out,” he says, licking his lips. “Look, when we wrote our class project together, we were so focused on just getting it done and producing something and fucking surviving it that neither of us really thought too much about the final grade.”
“Speak for yourself,” I tell him, even though he’s somewhat right. Even though I cared deeply about getting an A and acing it, I also knew I would be graded on how well my part was done and the act of completion, rather than the quality of the story as a whole.
“Then,” he continues, “we decided to have a go at Stripper and see if we could really do the whole erotica self-published ebook thing. There was no pressure at all, it was, for all intents and purposes, an experiment. It was for fun. It was a challenge. And it lead to some pretty amazing discoveries. Like you’re phenomenally good at not only writing about cock but getting it too.”
I let out a snort.