“And you’re incredibly cute when you make those noises,” he adds.
I try not to take that as a compliment. “Anyway…”
“Anyway, now that we’ve proven we can do it, now that we’re committing to do another book, to make the fucking big bucks, to make this something real…the pressure is on. And I don’t think I’ve ever met someone who takes pressure like a job itself. It’s like if you don’t feel the weight of the world on your shoulders, if you’re not grim and serious and suffering, that it’s not real.”
I swallow and gaze out the window, wishing I made coffee to go. The coffee at the ferry terminal is heinous and I’m going to need some sort of stimulant to handle all of this. “I can’t help it if I take it seriously,” I say quietly. “If it’s going to be my career, I have to take it seriously. Stephen King said that writing isn’t something to be approached lightly.”
“Stephen King is also a liar.” I frown at him. He goes on. “He’s a liar for a living, all authors are. So are we.”
Except we’re acting out our written fantasies, I can’t help but think.
“Look,” he goes on, his tone softening. “I’m not saying we can’t take this seriously. I think we already are. We’re going about it the right way. But at the same time, we’re writing about billionaires and strippers. Respect for the written word and all that, but you have to have fun too, find the joy, and most of all, forget about everything else. Forget about the other book. Forget about the future. Writing is about the now, is it not? It’s about putting down words and creating worlds and really, that’s it. Worrying about how the book will do, how it will be received, about if it will all be worth it is just a waste of time and it takes away from the creation of it all.”
He pauses and I can feel his eyes studying me underneath this glasses. My own face reflected in them looks tired and pained. “I agreed to this trip because I think it’s a great chance for you to let go. Just forget the whole world exists. Let’s not use our phones. No internet. We won’t talk about the future or the past. It will just be about you and me and the book and that’s fucking all.”
Wow. I know he was just telling me not to take things so seriously but I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look so serious. I wish there wasn’t something so incredibly attractive about this, the way he’s taking charge and acting like…an adult.
“Okay,” I say, my voice soft. I attempt to smile and lighten the mood. “I thought maybe you agreed to this weekend because of sex.”
“There are more things to life than sex,” he says. “I think writing might be one of them.”
I try not to look too shocked that he actually just said that. I hate to admit it but this man is doing a pretty good job of keeping me on my toes.
Thirty minutes later we end up at the ferry terminal in Swartz Bay, barely squeezing on the ferry with our heinous BC Ferries coffees in hand, one step up from gas-station garbage. There are some giant cruise-ship sized ferries that head to Vancouver and the mainland but the one that goes to the island is like an open barge. There are some small indoor lounges at the side where walk-on passengers can sit, protected from the elements, and there are some seats above that on the upper deck but for the most part the ferry is a raft topped with parked cars.
AKA there is no privacy.
AKA anyone can walk past your car at any given time and look inside. Or just be parked beside you and look inside.
AKA it’s extremely inappropriate that Blake’s hand is currently reaching over and sliding over to my denim shorts, slipping between my legs.
“What are you doing?” I hiss, looking around us to see who could be watching. The ferry is on the move and the people in the truck next to us have left to go sit on the deck, out of sight. The rest of the cars around us also seem empty, except the sedan on Blake’s side. There’s an old couple in that one, the woman reading the newspaper, and if they were to even look in this direction they would clearly see what he’s doing.
Or attempting to do.
“Relax,” he says. “No one is going to see.” With his hand he deftly undoes the button of my shorts and works the zipper down.
“Those seniors reading the free newspaper might see!” I tell him.
He looks over his shoulder and grins back at me, those bloody dimples. He really does wield them like a weapon. “I really doubt it.”
He leans over a fraction more and his hand slips down into my underwear, down into my cleft. Surprise, surprise, I’m wet as hell already.
“That’s a good girl,” he murmurs, his languid eyes taking me in, watching me, as he glides over me, his fingers long, hard, slick.
Fuck.
I know I really should keep my eyes open, pretend this isn’t going on, act natural.
But I want to feel it. Every inch of it.
I close my eyes and rest my head back, melt into the seat, melt into his touch.
My body prickles with need, so aware of everything. The diesel smell of the ferry exhaust, the salt air coming in through the window, Blake’s heavy breathing, the faint, wet sound of his fingers slowly working me. It’s not long before the car smells like sex.
“You’re so gorgeous,” he tells me. “Just like this. Just taking what I’m giving you.”
His fingers continue in the lazy motion, like he’s beckoning me, but I want more, so much more. My hips start to rock into his hand, my own hands gripping the seat and armrest.