“Fuck,” he hisses, and then slowly starts to rock his h*ps into me, as his breathing turns erratic and stilted. Then faster, heavier breaths, his chest rising and falling rapidly. I glance up at him, and as promised he’s watching me, his gorgeous blue eyes wild with desire right now. His mouth is open, he runs his tongue along his teeth, and I quicken my pace, wanting to devastate him with a powerful orgasm. I want to make his vision go blurry, reduce him to only the tremors in his body as the world around him is obliterated.
This is nothing like getting back on a bike. This is a million f**king times better because I’m about to send him off the cliff with my mouth and my lips and my hands and the fact that I’m the woman he wants.
He grasps my hair, and groans my name so loudly that his neighbors might hear him, and nothing in the world could thrill me more than this reaction as I make him come, his hands gripping my head tight as I finish him off, and he shudders once more.
Then, I crawl up to him, and flop next to him on the bed, feeling the greatest sense of accomplishment.
Fine, it was only a blow job.
But still, for a woman who was unwanted by her man for years, it’s like I got my groove back, and hell if that isn’t absolutely fantastic to me.
He shifts on his side. Runs his hand from my br**sts to my waist to my hips. “So, yeah,” he says in a deadpan voice, nodding several times. “That worked pretty well for me. What do you think?”
I laugh. “Glad to hear that.”
Then he wiggles his eyebrows, and plays with the waistband on my jeans. “My turn?”
I shake my head.
His eyes widen with surprise. “You deny me the great and absolute pleasure of going down on you?”
I laugh deeply, loving the way he talks. “You have no idea how much I want that. But I need today, right now, to be one-sided, okay?”
He loops his hand around my neck. “You little American vixen. You broke down all my resistance in a second. You found a way to turn me into a completely 100 percent, biased journalist who can barely do his job properly anymore by offering me a fantastic f**king blow job,” he teases. “And you won’t even let me bury my face between your gorgeous legs and taste you?”
I’m dying for him to do that, and the sweet ache in my body nearly answers for me. But I remain resolute. “Maybe holding out will help me write and that will be good for us,” I say.
“You better write really fast, then.”
…
from: [email protected]
time: 11:01 PM
subject: How Many Songs…
Have you written since this morning? Please say enough for a whole album.
from: [email protected]
time: 11:08 PM
subject: None
But I am lying down in bed now, thinking about what I denied you. And maybe doing more than thinking ;)
from: [email protected]
time: 11:09 PM
subject: Same Here
Funny, because the exact same thing is on my mind too…
from: [email protected]
time: 11:12 PM
subject: Still thinking?
???
from: [email protected]
time: 11:15 PM
subject: I hope I’m doing a good job
I trust the imaginary me is representing well?
from: [email protected]
time: 11:19 PM
subject: Leave me hanging
He better not have put you to sleep.
from: [email protected]
time: 11:21 PM
subject: Mmmm…
I lied…I was thinking and doing more than thinking about what I denied you, and what I did to you…both kept me occupied…perhaps tomorrow I will wake up singing.
from: [email protected]
time: 11:23 PM
subject: Until tomorrow
A man can dream.
Chapter Sixteen
Jeremy stands like a sentry outside the door to Gnarled Sunrise Studios, one floor below Glass Slipper. His beefy arms are bare as usual and crossed in front of his chest. The underbelly of the blue dragon tattoo on his forearm has started to fade over the years. “Another day at the office,” he says, then gives me a burly sort of a hug and a clap on the back.
“Rough life as a cubicle dweller, is it?”
He holds the door. We walk into the studio, where Owen is already parked in his regular swivel chair, massive earphones resting around his neck. His feet, swathed in lace-up, scuffed-up, beat-up black boots are perched on the soundboard.
“So let’s review the plan,” Jeremy says, laying out the dates he needs—mixing and mastering, then pressing the album, then shipping it to stores, and online. I gulp as he rattles off details. I have less than two months to write an album I’ve only just begun. An album I should have finished before I even went into the studio.