by Carrie Quest
Shit. I should want that for him. I should be moving heaven and earth to get him that fucking video.
“Does it really matter?” God, I’m an asshole.
He shrugs. “Maybe not. I’m still gonna ask her, though. She’s always got her fucking phone out, you know? Maybe she caught something.”
“Maybe.” I stand there, wanting desperately to put my fist through the wall and run. I guess my thirty-day reprieve is over.
“I’ve gotta go,” I say. I can’t be in here right now. I need to run until I’m too exhausted to think. My shorts are in my car and I could be on a trail in twenty minutes if I leave now.
“See you tomorrow?” He looks pale. This conversation can’t have been easy for him either. Fuck.
“Yeah. I’ll bring you some lunch.” I wave and then I’m out the door, fleeing like the coward I am.
When I get home a few hours later, I’m sweaty and dirty, my legs torn up from a couple falls.
“You’re here!” Nat comes down the stairs toward me and I step back, not wanting to mess her up.
“You look nice,” I say. She’s got on a short black silky dress I haven’t seen before. Her shoulders are bare, and her hair is flowing down her back.
“Thanks.” She stops on the bottom stair so our heads are level and leans over to drop a sweet kiss on my lips.
“You’d better hurry,” she says. “We’re supposed to meet them in half an hour.”
Shit. I forgot we had plans to meet Syd and a bunch of Nat’s other friends for dinner. I actually enjoy hanging out with Syd, in small doses anyway, but there’s no way I can deal with a crowd tonight.
“I’ve kind of got a headache,” I say. One more lie can’t hurt, right?
Her forehead crinkles in concern, and she reaches up to check if I’ve got a fever, her hands soft and cool on my cheeks. “Do you want me to stay home with you?”
“No, you head out. That dress is too good to waste.”
“I’ll let you rip it off me when I get home if you’re feeling better.” She shoots me a saucy smile and runs back upstairs to get her stuff.
I wait until she goes and then take a shower so hot it practically burns. It takes five beers to calm me down enough to sleep, and when Nat comes back a couple hours later, I don’t rip her clothes off for once. I just pull her close and breathe her in, drawing comfort from her soft skin and sweet smell and the fact that she still wants to be here with me, because it feels like Autumn’s email started a countdown, and who knows how long any of this is going to last?
23
Natalie
My revisions are so damn close to being finished that I’m starting to dream about the moment I type The Fucking End and save the document. The email outlining the changes and thanking all the agents for looking at the new manuscript is sitting in my Drafts folder, waiting for me to open it up, attach the completed file, and press send. I think about the characters morning and night, and if Ben didn’t entice me into the shower with him on a regular basis, then I would probably be an unwashed disaster with greasy hair and mossy teeth. It is consuming me alive.
I need to finish.
I can’t finish.
Every day I open up the document and scan the familiar words. At this point I know whole sections by heart. Monique and my writing group are thrilled with the world-building. They love the characters and all the loose ends in the mystery plot have been woven into place. It’s all ready to go, except for the love story.
I can’t get it right, which is ironic considering my real-life romance is going like lovey-dovey gangbusters for the first time ever.
So why can’t I get these characters to behave?
I tried making them kiss in front of the most romantic landmarks in Paris, but it always fell flat. So I cut the whole thing, deciding they’d be better off as friends. They weren’t. In desperation, I waited until I knew Ben would be out, got myself tipsy, and attempted a sex scene. I quit when I couldn’t come up with enough age-appropriate terms for penis. The only ones I could think of were related to swords, and the whole thing ended up reading more like a fencing match than an epic night of passion. It was enough to scare any teen reader off sex for life.
I really need a break, but time is not my friend. I promised the agents I’d send the manuscript by the end of the summer, and my parents are going to be expecting my summer school grade in a couple of weeks. My big plan to surprise them with an agent instead is going to be a total bust unless I get my ass in gear and finish this book. I think Monique will write me the letter, but that’s not going to be enough for my parents, not when they keep sending me emails about grad schools with good business programs.
They would be furious if they knew that I officially signed up for the creative writing program last week.
I want the chance to be a better writer. Even if I don’t get an agent. Hell, even if I don’t manage to finish this book—I still want to keep going. I need it. It isn’t about a publishing contract or fame or anything like that. It’s about me figuring out how to be the best I can be at something I love, and I’m going to need help and time getting there. The universe even chipped in with a really late sign: My favorite author is going to be teaching a one-time workshop class during the fall semester and it’s only open to creative writing students. Clearly, it’s meant to be.
My parents won’t understand that, though. They only understand results, and with no agent and no finished manuscript I can kiss my tuition money and my relationship with them goodbye.
Stress is at an all-time high. Luckily, so are orgasms, which are the best form of stress relief ever, so I’m doing all right.
Still, when Ben’s alarm goes off way too early on a Tuesday morning, I’ve already been awake for hours, worrying about what’s going to happen if I don’t crack this story soon. He fumbles on the nightstand for his phone, shuts off the hideous buzzing, and pulls me against his warm chest.
“What are you doing awake?” His voice is gritty with sleep. “Are you getting up early to write this morning?”
I shrug. I should get up to write, just like I should unwrap myself from his body, so he can go out and run before the day gets too hot for him and Thor to hit the trails. But I’ve never been much good at doing what I should do (just ask my parents), so instead I sneak my hand down his body and grab his cock, which is a hell of a lot more awake than the rest of him.
“I had something else in mind,” I whisper.
“Yeah?” His lazy smile makes my belly flutter. “What’s that?”
“It’s not really something I tell you, more something I show you.”
He sighs as I slowly kiss my way down his chest, shoving the sheet down to his feet.
“I love waking up with you,” he says when I hit the waistband of his boxers and start pulling them off with my teeth. “Have I told you that lately?”
“Mmmm hmmm.”
His stomach muscles jump as I hum against his cock, and I can’t resist moving up a little to trace the lines of muscles over his hips with the tip of my tongue. His body is a work of art.
His breath hitches when I peel his underwear down his legs, taking a minute to drop a kiss on his injured knee. I know a kiss can’t make it better, but it also can’t hurt.
Or maybe it can, because he jerks his leg away so fast I almost get a knee to the nose.
“Shit!” He hauls me up and cradles my face in his hands, making sure I’m not hurt. “You okay?”
“I’m fine. Did I hurt you?”
He shakes his head. “You just surprised me.” He reaches down to rub his knee, and I crane my head, trying to see if it’s bruised or swollen. When he sees me looking, he pulls the sheet up over his leg self-consciously.
“Do you want me to get you some ice?”
“The knee is fine,” he says. His voice is tight, like he doesn’t want to talk about it right now, and really, why would he? It’s obviously still not right, even though the brace is history and he’s been running. I f
igure he’ll bring it up when he’s ready, but now is not the moment to push. Discussing a career-ending injury doesn’t exactly make for sexy foreplay. Time to change the subject.
“I wasn’t talking about ice for your knee,” I say. “But you seem to have another situation down there.” I wave my hand gently back and forth, grazing the tip of his cock with my fingers.
His face relaxes, and he groans. “A situation?”
“Mmmm. A swelling situation. Also, some redness. Ice might be required.”
He shivers. “Maybe later.”
I start to move down his body again. “I’ll take a closer look, but fair warning: If a knee kiss surprised you that much, I might have to tie you down for what comes next.”
His eyes go hot, and he flips me over so I’m on my back and he’s holding himself over me. “I already know what comes next,” he says. “You.”
I sigh as he kisses his way down my neck, stopping to trace a line of freckles on my collarbone with his tongue.
“I’m not complaining,” I say, “but I was in the middle of a very important job there.”
He glances up at me through his lashes, then grins and sucks one of my nipples into his mouth hard before releasing it with a loud pop.
“A job?” He asks.
“Best job in the world,” I say.
I squirm under him, reaching down to try and grab his dick, but he pins me with his hips and starts to move, rubbing little circles over my clit that make it impossible to think about anything except how amazing he feels.
“You’re off the clock,” he says, dragging his tongue back up my chest and swirling it around the secret spot on my neck that somehow sends sparks shooting through my bloodstream. “My turn.”
I moan, but manage to grab his face and pull him up so I can look in his eyes. “I want to make you feel good,” I whisper. And I do. Blowjobs have never been my favorite item on the menu, but I love seeing Ben lose control. The noises he makes, the way he strains to keep still and then starts rocking his hips, pushing himself into my mouth, helplessly chasing release. I love the feeling of his dick getting impossibly harder in my hand right before he comes with a shout and then the gentle way he pushes my hair out of my face and pulls me up his body to hold me afterwards.
And sometimes, like now, I love the control.
Because my parents and my writing problems and my agent search all make me feel small and powerless, but knowing I can reduce Ben Easton to a sweaty pile of satisfaction with my hands and my mouth makes me feel like a goddess who can shoot rainbow lasers out of her eyes.
“Everything you do makes me feel good,” he whispers, but he doesn’t roll over so I can keep going, and when I reach for him again, he presses harder against me and shakes his head. “I want to be inside you,” he says. “Fuck, Natalie. I want to live there.”
I nod, and he reaches for a condom on the nightstand, then rolls off me onto his side.
“Let me,” I say, pushing him gently to his back. He reaches up to trace little circles around my breasts with his rough fingertips as I rip the foil packet open. His eyes flutter closed when I roll the condom on, and when I’m done, he starts to sit up, but I shake my head.
“Let me,” I repeat, crawling over him. I straddle him, rubbing the tip of his dick against my clit, teasing him until he’s fisting the bed sheets, then grabbing my hips to pull me closer.
“Need you,” he says.
I rise up a little and try to lower myself down on him slowly, but I’m so wet and ready that when he nudges his hips up, I lose all control and sink down hard, gasping at the way he fills me, so good and real and right. I stay there for a moment, staring into his eyes until he pulls me down to kiss him, growling as he licks his way into my mouth and tangles his tongue with mine.
I finally move, circling my hips, searching for the friction I need as he rocks up into me. He reaches down and finds my clit, matching the rhythm I’m setting, and suddenly I have no idea which one of us is in control, and it doesn’t matter anyway. Because we own each other and I’m in love with the way we move together, and when we both come a minute later, my orgasm sneaks up on me, a burst of pure pleasure that zips out from my core into every part of my body and leaves me a melted puddle of a girl.
I kiss him one more time, brushing my lips softly over his cheeks, and then nuzzle into his neck. His arms tighten around me when I try to roll off.
“Not yet,” he says, and I don’t argue. There’s nowhere else I’d rather be, and I love these moments.
Ben and I have been together for almost six weeks now and we’ve had a lot of sex. I’m pretty sure I’ve at least doubled my lifetime orgasm count in the last thirty days alone, maybe even tripled it. And while I am definitely a fan of coming long, hard, and often, the scorching hot sex is not my favorite part of our relationship.
The part that really blows my mind is what comes after the sex, when we’re hanging out in bed, enjoying each other’s company. It’s a first for me. I’ve slept in people’s beds before, but I’ve always had my eye on the clock. There’s always been an undercurrent of restlessness, or maybe just an awareness that our time together was a break from our “real lives” of friends, family, jobs, etc.
With Ben, it’s different. We’re in each other’s real lives: right at the center. I go see Adam with him and he grins at me over the table later that night when Syd launches into another story at the bar. He knows all about the deal with my parents, and I helped him fill out his application for school and then pick out some classes to take this fall. We have so much to talk about it actually scares me sometimes, because I know how easy it would be to just stop talking to anybody else. Who needs other friends when I can hole up in bed with the funniest, sexiest guy on the planet?
“What are you going to do today?” He hands me a cup of coffee ten minutes later and climbs into bed, carefully balancing his own. I try and fail not to smirk at his outfit: boxer briefs, thick wool socks, and puffy slippers covered with snowboards. Chuckles toe protection.
“Write, I guess.”
“You sound real enthusiastic there, Rowling.” He eyes me over the rim of his mug. “Still not going so well?”
“There is a distinct possibility I will never finish this book,” I admit.
“You’ll finish.”
“You don’t understand, Ben. I am stuck. Like, ‘Little Timmy’s down the fucking well’ stuck. It’s not looking good.”
He doesn’t say anything, just gently takes my coffee cup and puts it on the bedside table with his own. Then he pulls me close.
“You’ll finish,” he says, his mouth moving against my hair.
He smells like clean skin and sex, and I burrow in and shut my eyes.
“And when you do,” he continues, “and those agents start begging to represent you, I’m taking you out to celebrate.”
“What kind of celebration?”
“Champagne,” he says, dropping little kisses along my hairline. “And those green chili tempura rolls you love from the place off Pearl. The weird ones with the cream cheese.”
“Mmmm. What else? Will you sing karaoke with me?”
He groans. “I will gladly watch you sing karaoke. Especially if you’re wearing that black dress.”
“It’s my celebration, Easton. You’re getting your ass up there.”
“Fine.” One last kiss on my forehead. “You finish your book and get an agent, and I’ll sing whatever you want.”
“I kind of suck at finishing things,” I whisper. “What if I don’t have it in me?”
His arms tighten. “You do.”
I shake my head. “I’m not so sure. My track record isn’t so great.”
“That’s because you were starting the wrong things,” he says. He lets me go a little, so I can look up and see his face. “This is the right thing.”
I shrug. His confidence in me means a lot, but he wasn’t around for Natalie: The Early Years. He hasn’t seen the Closet of Shame crammed full of unfinis
hed projects at my parents’ house. He doesn’t get it.
“Hey,” he says. “I’m serious. You’ve always written, right? Even before this, when you weren’t trying to get published?”
“Yeah, little stuff for fun. But that was just fooling around.”
“It was practice, Natalie. It’s what you do, even when you don’t have an endgame. That’s how you know this is right.”
When I raise a skeptical eyebrow, he sighs. “Look, why do you think I made it in snowboarding and a guy like Eli didn’t?”
“Um, because you’re an athletic god with abs of steel and Eli’s an idiot?”
He grins. “You think I’m an athletic god? Tell me more. Don’t hold back, okay? Use plenty of those big writer words.”
I punch him in his steely abs and he doesn’t even flinch. Honestly, it’s not natural.
“Get back to the point, your magnificence.”
“The point is, I was willing to work, and he wasn’t. He might have as much natural talent as me, but he wasn’t out there on the snow every day. I was. At some point it became about training and winning, but before that, when I first started out, it was just the way I wanted to spend my time. That’s what writing is to you. It’s what you do, and if you keep going with it, you’re going to be fine.”
“Then why am I stuck?”
“Probably because you’re about to break through. Getting stuck is part of the process.”
“Did it ever happen to you?” I watch his face carefully, hoping it’s okay to ask him about this, especially after he was so self-conscious about his knee earlier.
“All the fucking time,” he says. He’s smiling, his eyes gazing up at the ceiling now, remembering. “Sometimes it took me months to land a trick. Literally months of getting up in the morning, spending the day falling on my ass, and crawling home knowing I’d most likely be doing it all again tomorrow.”
“How did you keep getting up?”
“Because winning is about the boring shit as much as the break throughs. The endless practicing. The strength training. Eating fucking broccoli when you all you want is ice cream and beer. Once you figure that out, you can hold on, because the breakthroughs are coming, even if it feels like they’re taking forever.”