Total pages in book: 150
Estimated words: 143633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 718(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 479(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 143633 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 718(@200wpm)___ 575(@250wpm)___ 479(@300wpm)
That hit a nerve, remembering the goodbye letters.
“Right now, I guess I am.”
“I don’t think that’s going to fade any time this century.”
“It definitely isn’t going to change for me.” I smiled. “He’s so amazing, I don’t know what I’d do without him.”
She leant in close, with a giggle. “Put your own whisk inside you?”
I laughed with a shh. “I don’t think it would feel the same somehow. I won’t be trying it.”
“I might be trying it with a whisk,” she said. “You inspired me. And Peter, too. He said it sounded hot as fuck.”
It felt bizarre in that moment, Peter being here, knowing Julian and I intimately enough to be able to imagine me spread open on this very sofa with a whisk stretching my pussy open. But then, was it? Was it that weird for friends? I hadn’t any experience to judge it by.
I knew a billion things about what Peter had done to Lola. Handcuffing her and whipping her with a cable. Slapping her thighs over and over with a wooden paddle. I wondered if she had bruises up her thighs tonight. I had marker pen on mine under my dress, spelling out dirty bitch.
I listened out some more to the conversation from the kitchen. The words were nothing but mumbles, but the laughter wasn’t. Lola was right. Peter’s laugh was loud, and definitely getting more confident.
Lola took a swig of her wine before she spoke next.
“Think Julian will let me read some of his chapters after dinner? I’d love that.”
“Hopefully. Ask him after he’s had a few more whiskies.”
“Does he doubt his writing that much? That he wouldn’t want to show it off? He didn’t want to show you the thrillers at first, did he?”
“No, not at first. But he’s getting more used to handing over his writing for me to take a look at. He’s getting more proud of his work. I see it every day.”
“Is he writing other stuff as well, or just the dirty scenes for you?”
I’d been wondering about that. He always had one chapter written for me after college, without fail, but I know what he’d said before, when talking about the writing process. He said it ate you up a lot of the time when the words started flowing, and they wouldn’t stop. You were possessed for hours. I’m sure one chapter that good would take a long time to get so perfect, but I didn’t know… I just felt like there might be something more he wasn’t showing me yet… maybe another thriller. Who knew?
“I don’t know,” I said. “I’d love him to try publishing again. His work is too good not to.”
“Thrillers?”
“I guess so.”
“Or dirtier? Erotica?”
I smirked. “He’d be an absolute beast at erotica.”
“Hopefully I’ll find out for myself later. He doesn’t seem shy. Not around us, anyway.”
When I heard another of Peter’s comfortable roars of laughter from the kitchen, and Julian’s chuckle alongside it, and the clink of a fresh toast of whisky, I was pretty sure she would get to read some of it.
I couldn’t wait to see her reaction.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Julian
Peter was quite at odds with the people I’d known back in Oxford. Katreya and I had usually associated with business colleagues, and outside of that I’d had my circle of university friends, who’d been raised in the same kind of educational background. The contrast was palpable.
Peter was grounded, very down to earth, with a battered self-image that I recognised in myself. I liked him.
He peeled potatoes while I herbed up the steaks. His hands were huge and rugged, unlike mine. My hands had never seen what Peter would call hard graft, much more suited to a keyboard than anything labour intensive. Amidst our laughter and chatting, my mind whirred through the things Rosie had shared with me about his relationship with Lola.
I knew Peter was as sex-obsessed as I was. Well… almost. I also knew he was an extremely rough player, and that Lola had taken his entire hand in her sweet little pussy.
“Do these look alright?” Peter asked as he finished up cutting the potatoes into chunks.
“Perfect, thank you.”
“Got to admit, Lola does the cooking, usually. She learned it from her mum.”
I used that as the opportunity to dig into their dilemma.
“How does Lola handle being without her mother? I know she and Rosie have shared some similar emotions on that front.”
“It’s shit,” he said. “Can’t help but blame myself. I’ve tried talking to Steph to smooth things over, but she won’t have any of it. Screams that I’m a sick fuck and slams the door in my face. Lola doesn’t get it much easier.”
“Do you think that will ever change?”
“Gotta hope, haven’t you? Don’t think I’ll ever be invited over for a Sunday roast, but if Steph finally speaks to Lola again, I’ll be a very happy guy. She needs that.”