Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 69069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69069 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 345(@200wpm)___ 276(@250wpm)___ 230(@300wpm)
“So, what kind of book are you writing right now?” I asked as I slowly took a bite of the soup.
Flavor exploded in my mouth, and I moaned.
She shifted so that her arms were covering her breasts, and that was when I noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
I moaned again, but I disguised it as I took another bite of soup.
“It’s about a man that is in a motorcycle club,” she said softly. “Or, more accurately, is trying to get into a motorcycle club. But it’s one of those one percenter clubs, so you have to do some bad shit to get into it.”
“Like what kind of shit?” I asked curiously.
I, of course, knew what a one percent biker club was. Being a cop, I’d run into my fair share of them before.
And, come to think of it, Hastings’ dad probably had before, too. So she likely knew what she was writing about.
“Guns and drugs.” She shrugged. “Do shit that you don’t want to do. Rough some people up. Show your devotion to the club. Let the president fuck your girl. That kind of thing.”
My brows rose at the end of her explanation.
She laughed and pointed at my face. “You should see your face at that last one. But anyway, the guy doesn’t realize that his girl is a bunny. He doesn’t realize it until much later, when the girl keeps showing interest in the president. So instead of arguing, he doesn’t care that she goes and does things with the president of the club. He takes it more as a favor and finds another girl. They fall in love, and the guy refuses to give that one up. Things get tense… and that’s where I’m at in the story.”
I shook my head.
“And women actually want to read that crap?” I asked before I thought better of it. “As a cop, I don’t see the appeal of clubs like that.”
She shrugged. “There are some rabid readers out there that like it way worse than I write it. Cheating is A-okay. Sometimes there’s public sex. Sometimes members share their girls. Sometimes the guy roughs up the girl. Things like that. Things that I’ll never write because my brain just isn’t wired to write like that.”
I took another bite of soup but kept my eye on the woman in front of me.
She was a tricky one. I’d never met someone like her before.
She was like one of those stuffed donuts. She looked all innocent and shit on the outside, but on the inside, she was a surprise.
“Is there sex in your books?” I asked curiously.
I mean, I’d have asked that earlier, but I didn’t want to embarrass her. And I felt like she’d answer it if she was a little more loosened up by my earlier questions.
She blushed a bright red that matched the red Kitchen Aid mixer that was sitting on her counter.
“Yes.” She hesitated. “Not like Fifty Shades of Grey sex, but definitely more than a Christian Romance.” She scrunched up her nose. “I wouldn’t let my grandmother read them.”
I laughed at that. “What’s your most favorite one?”
She sighed. “I don’t have one. And before you ask, I have over seventy books out at this point. If you want to know where to start, which I know you’re not going to do, start at the beginning. You can look me up on my website.”
She rattled off her website, and I pulled my phone out and typed it in, my brows rising when a photo of a shirtless man was the first thing I saw.
“You could probably model for my next book if you wanted,” she teased. “I’m pretty sure you have better abs underneath that shirt than he does.”
I grinned and lifted my shirt to show her but made sure to push my belly out so that I didn’t have a single ab in sight.
She poked me with her finger, causing me to lose my control on the stomach distention and laugh.
My abs definitely made an appearance then.
“You’re silly,” she teased, her eyes lingering on my belly.
Mainly my lower abs where my underwear rose up a bit higher than my pants. Oh, and where I had that defined muscle that led into my pants. The one that formed a V.
I rubbed my hand over my belly, letting my fingers go underneath the waistband a bit to push them down just a little bit lower.
“Are you done?” she asked softly, gesturing toward my bowl that I still had clutched in the hand that was holding my shirt up.
I allowed my shirt to drop and handed her the bowl.
“I am,” I said, “but I’d like more, please.”
Honestly, it tasted wonderful. It was the first thing that I’d eaten in two days.
She busied herself at the stove again, filling up my bowl for a second time, and I studied her ass in her shorts.