Total pages in book: 71
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67211 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 336(@200wpm)___ 269(@250wpm)___ 224(@300wpm)
“Chandra,” he says, warning in his voice. “I’m thrilled you were inspired, and I’ll do my best to make sure I keep you inspired, but you don’t neglect your sleep to write.”
He’ll do his best to keep me inspired?
“Um, we do though,” I say. “People do. Like, writers do. We write all the time and often neglect sleep or something equally beneficial for the sake of the written word.”
That just earns me a stern brow raise. “Oh?”
I push on. “Creativity can’t be corralled,” I say, like I’m in court defending myself. I don’t even know if I believe this, but for some reason I need to explain it to him. “So when the muse comes knocking, I have to answer that door.” I sound ridiculous.
He tips his head to the side and a corner of his lips twitch. “Muse comes knocking,” he repeats.
“Yes. The muse. The… you know… inner voice that tells me it’s time to write.”
His lips twitch again.
“I know what a muse is. Baby, this outer voice is stepping in and telling your inner voice that your ass gets to bed, or your ass gets punished.”
Cue the tingle. It’s not fair how easily he does that.
I swallow. “Are we scening?”
At that, he sobers. “We’re not.” Taking my much smaller hands in his larger ones, he holds my gaze with his. “Do I have to be scening with you to tell you what to do? I never did before. We didn’t ‘scene.’ We were just us.”
I swallow. I don’t know how to answer this.
“You said you were going to become a regular at Verge,” he continues.
“Mhm.” Feeling him touch me again reignites my insides. I’m aroused and humbled and curious.
“So we’ll see what I can do under the circumstances. But until further notice, you’re in bed by ten so you get a good night’s sleep.” He holds one of my wrists against his rough fingers and glides the thumb along my pulse. “Do they hurt after a long day of writing?” He continues massaging until I feel the tension I didn’t even know I had ebb away.
“Sometimes,” I tell him. “Especially after a particularly long day of writing.”
He nods. “And how do you have time to work here and write?”
“I only work here part time.”
“I see.” He waits, and when I don’t speak, he quirks an eyebrow at me.
“What?”
“I asked you a question, Chandra,” he says. “I’m waiting for the answer.”
Shit! What did he ask again? Something about finding time to work and write. “Oh, so, I write on my breaks and when I go home at night. I’m… sort of a night owl. I write a lot then.”
“I see. Tell me what you wrote last night.”
Now my cheeks are flaming. It was the hottest ménage scene I’ve ever written. Clamping my lips together, I give him a look that says oh hell no.
Narrowing his eyes, he returns that look with a oh yes you will.
We stare in a battle of wills. Part of me wants to tell him.
“Need to find out for myself?” he asks. “Alright, then. What’s your pen name?” He lets go of my hands and stands up, heading to the large display of kinky romance books Marla’s running a sale on.
“I’m not telling!”
Turning to me, he anchors his hands on his hips. “I need to spank it out of you?”
My heart races. “I shouldn’t have to tell you my pen name on threat of a spanking!”
But immediately my mind goes to him bending me over the little table right here and slamming his palm against my ass.
“So,” he says, a hard edge taking over his voice. “You let perfect strangers read your books but not me?”
“It isn’t like that.” I’m circling the books, trying to get him away. If he sees what I write, I’ll die. I’m not sure why, but I know it to be true.
“Oh?” he asks.
On instinct, my eyes flit to the huge display of glossy paperbacks I’ve signed, adorned with a golden sticker on the front that says Signed by the Author.
“Bingo.”
Damn it. I’ve watched enough C.S.I. to know that a guilty party’s gaze will frequently go straight to the evidence they’re trying to hide. The throw rug that covers the hidden key. The closet door that hides the body.
The bookshelf where all my books sit.
I’m my own worst enemy.
I let out a sigh as he lifts a paperback in hand and raises a brow at the cover, all glossy skin and sex appeal. Turning it over in his hand, he reads the blurb.
“Don’t,” I plead, but he’s got that glint in his eye that tells me he’s not stopping now.
“When single mother Elena Mcintosh finds herself at her neighbor’s mercy, she—”
“Axle,” I plead.
Mercifully, he stops, but only so he can open up the cover and read.
“Nooo,” I moan.
His mouth drops open and his eyes crinkle around the edges. “With the purposeful intent of a master at work, he glides his tongue over my—”