The Girl Who Wrote Erotica, Book One: The Method (Contemporary Romance)

by Jordan, Angela

  I didn’t respond, but I reached up with my idle hands and fisted them in his hair and using the grip to force him into a closer, more ravenous kiss. He didn’t seem to mind. In fact, he groaned against me, seeming to take advantage of the opportunity to completely devour me, starting with my head and working all the way down my body.

  This, I was okay with. In fact, this was incredible.

  I didn’t realize he’d moved his hands until they were curled around the back of my upper thighs and hiking me into the air. I gasped in surprise, but he was already planting me firmly on the countertop I’d been leaning on, and he stood directly between my thighs, spreading my legs wide and giving me an idea of the size of his cock as it thrust its erectness against my upper leg. Holy shit, I thought to myself. If Jamie kept this up, I knew he’d turn into one of the most convincing, unique characters I’d ever written.

  If only he knew…

  I’d become distracted with the thought of writing and somehow missed the removal of my panties as well as the drop of his pants to his ankles, exposing the hard length of his penis to me. It was well formed, with smooth skin, a great shape, and a nice length and girth that wouldn’t tear or press too deep while also filling me completely.

  As if reading my mind and wanting to prove a point, he touched my moistened pussy with the tip of his head and began to press, the length of his cock sliding erotically into me with a slow, single stroke. The walls inside me tensed and throbbed at his movements, and I seized his shoulders, thrusting my hips forward to feel his length deeper and deeper inside me as I clawed at his back through his shirt. I let out a groan, soft and low.

  Frantic now, I peeled the shirt off his shoulders and dove for his shoulder, licking and nipping as we found our rhythm. He pushed against me harder, fucking me while holding my body firmly down against the counter. I knew neither of us would last long in this position.

  He finally drew my dress over my head, and his hands were everywhere, exploring and grabbing as we moved together in a fast and furious movement. I exploded with a quick orgasm, with a starburst in my eyes and tingling nerve endings that made me feel so alive I couldn’t see straight. Me cumming made him shake and sweat, and he finished in a frenzy, burying his cock deep in me and holding himself still inside me, waiting for his orgasm to subside.

  He leaned into me, resting his chin on my shoulder and breathing heavily. I, too, was having difficulty restoring my wits and my breath. Finally, I pushed at his shoulder, forcing him to stand up, and he withdrew with one slide, making me gasp.

  I hopped off the counter, pulling my dress down and straightened it, not bothering with my panties. It was, after all, my house, and I could clean up my personal mess at my leisure.

  He didn’t ask any questions, just went with the flow and redressed himself, looking a bit chaotic but otherwise satisfied. Our encounter had lasted less than two minutes, but I knew it had given us the release we’d both craved. I debated the next step, and decided it made sense to fill his glass again and let him stay for one more drink.

  He smiled and accepted the drink, though there was a strange look in his eyes. I waited for whatever bomb he carried to drop. Finally, it happened.

  “Do you do this often?” he asked.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “That depends on what you mean by ‘often’. I do it from time to time. But with your charisma, your looks, and that little pick-up routine you just pulled on me, don’t tell me you don’t do it, too.”

  He shrugged. “I might pick up a girl here and there. It’s rare to find someone as casual about it as you, though… to be honest, it’s nice to be able to talk and tease about it after the fact rather than have some weepy chick profess her undying love to me.”

  I rolled my eyes. “Hon, I haven’t even professed my undying love for anyone’s cock.” We both laughed, but something clenched at my chest at the admission. It had never bothered me before to be eternally single, and for all intents and purposes, it was perfect for me. I was happy, and I spent my single life meeting new people and writing erotica for the lonely people. I even got to live out most of my stories as real life fantasies.

  There was nothing missing. …Right?

  But suddenly, it didn’t matter. He’d said something that made me uncomfortable, and whether that was his fault or mine for having some strange neurosis, I needed to change my environment.

  “Listen, Jamie, this has been fun, but I think I’m going to hit the sack. It’s been a long week, and I’m tired.” I tried to be polite, but I could tell by the look on his face I had come off as harsh or irritated, or something other than kind and casual. He nodded, his face hard, his lips a thin line on his face. “Okay. Well, I’ll leave you my number, and if you ever feel like having a drink, hit me up.”

  I suddenly felt a twinge of guilt, which was not a familiar emotion to me. I sighed as he put a business card on the counter and headed toward the front door, not even looking behind him.

  “Jamie, I’m not trying to be rude, and it’s not that there’s anything wrong with you. It’s just the way I am. No emotional attachment, no second dates. I’m a loner, and that’s how I want to stay.”

  He turned around, and his eyes held a surprising sadness in them. “That’s a harsh way to live, you know. For the other person, sure, but for yourself too. What are you so afraid of? That you’ll actually like somebody?”

  The words stung more than I could have imagined, but rather than dealing with the pain, I grew angry. It was safer. “I don’t know, Jamie, you tell me. Maybe I’m selfish. But at least I’m doing what I want to do, and I don’t have to depend on anyone.” I strode past him now to the door, opening it with flourish and holding it.

  “Have a good life, Jamie.”

  He shook his head in what I assumed was disappointment, and left without another word. It took all of my willpower not to slam the door behind him, feeling pouty and immature. It had been a long time since anyone had hurt my feelings, and I wasn’t sure why his words had bothered me so much tonight. Nonetheless, I had removed the source of the problem, and I poured myself one more glass of whiskey, sipping it slowly while my nerves calmed.

  By the time I’d drained the glass, I practically laughed at myself, and I felt like an idiot for being so easily disturbed.

  I headed to bed, no longer wanting to ponder my actions, just ready to move on. I had a story to write, and I had the perfect setup for a new idea.

  Jamie may have come dangerously close to tearing open some old wounds, but at least he’d removed my writer’s block…

  Chapter Five: The Encounter

  Sam showed up at the coffee shop with a big smile, about twenty minutes behind me. I’d just set up my laptop and was finishing off the first of what would likely prove to be several black coffees today, considering I’d slept restlessly and was feeling drained.

  I smiled as she slid into the seat across from me. “Good morning,” I greeted her, with a bit of a yawn.

  She laughed. “I thought I might surprise you by dropping in and ask how your night went. Judging by the look of you and those droopy eyes, it was a long night.”

  I scoffed. “Actually, he was gone before midnight. We had a good time and all, don’t get me wrong. It just wasn’t an all-nighter. I just need to get something to help me sleep better.” I looked down at the screen of my laptop. I’d been putting off the start of my new project by telling myself I needed the perfect name for my newest character and that, if I started out with the wrong name and changed it later, I’d write the guy with the completely wrong personality based on the temporary name.

  It was a B.S. excuse, and I knew it. But I just didn’t feel like writing today.

  I turned my attention back to my distraction. “So, what happened with your boy last night? Anything sordid and raunchy?”

  Sam shook her head and blushed. “We talked a lot, shared a few kisses. Which were amazing, to tell the truth. But no, nothing hot enough for your storyline. We do have a date tom
orrow night, though.”

  “Nice work.” I was happy for her, even though her night sounded a bit too ‘normal’ for my tastes.

  She motioned to my laptop. “Got a start on your latest yet?”

  I shook my head, sighing. “No, but I’ve only been here a few minutes. It should go pretty fast, once I get started. My editor will love me for getting it in so quickly. I figure it’ll take about a week to get all the rough spots smoothed out so I’m ready to send it over.” Now, I was just rambling, my focus nowhere near what it usually was, and my interest lacking severely.

  “Do you want me to leave?” she asked, concerned. “I mean, I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

  I was torn. I knew I had to get started on this project, but at the same time, I had a sense of loneliness I couldn’t quite shake, and her presence was helping. Besides, I really wasn’t ready to start writing. “No, it’s okay. Like I said, this one won’t take long…”

  We chatted for a little while, and I refilled my coffee. She was excited about a new part it looked like she’d landed, and while I said the proper congratulations and smiled and nodded at the right times, I wasn’t paying enough attention to the details to know what part it was. I was too distracted, my mind a desultory mess of jumbled thoughts and feelings. I found myself people-watching again: feeling sorry for the stressed-out mother with the crying infant; smiling at the older couple walking in the door together; watching the young corporate guy in a suit trying to carry a dozen drinks back to the office. All around me, life was happening – a million people, a million stories.

  And then I froze. There he was again.

  I instantly turned to Sam, trying with all my might to give her a hundred percent of my attention. I wanted to ignore him, wanted it to be okay that we were in the same location at the same time. But something about his presence made me so jumpy and uneasy that I kept scanning the room to keep track of him, kept casting furtive glances in his direction.

  “Tasha, are you okay?” Sam finally asked. “You seem a little edgy all of a sudden.”

  I shook my head and pasted on a false smile. “I’m alright.” I picked up my empty coffee mug, trying to shake off the moment. “I’ll be right back, I need a refill.”

  I stood up abruptly and rushed to the counter before Sam could say anything more. I tried not to look around the room for him, but my curiosity was just too much – I scanned the room, but I didn’t see him anywhere. Coffee in hand, I hurried back over to the table to find Sam packing up her purse and readying to go.

  “Leaving already?” I asked, a little disappointed.

  She shrugged. “I’ve distracted you long enough, considering I know that for some reason, you’ve been putting off your work for one reason or another. You’ll feel better and healthier once you get this writing done and off your chest.”

  She was right, but that didn’t mean I wanted to accept it. I nodded reluctantly. “I’ll see you later, Sam.” We said our goodbyes as she gathered her things and leaned down for a quick hug.

  And then, once again, it was just me and the blank screen in front of me.

  I had a fresh refill, and I wasn’t hungry, so I didn’t have any excuse not to get started writing. I did my best to try make my surroundings disappear, to focus on nothing but the story. “Just write one paragraph,” I told myself. “That’s all you need to worry about right now.”

  I took a deep breath and began typing. My little mental trick had worked: as soon as the first sentence was down on the page, I got totally into the zone. By the time I took a deep breath and leaned back to stretch, two hours had passed, and I had several pages of excellent work down. I hit the save button and packed up my things. I was ready to be home sweet home, away from the public, curled up in front of my television with a blanket, some snacks, and a drink to sip. It sounded heavenly, and after the work I’d done, I felt I deserved it.

  Except that, upon arriving home, I felt a sense of emptiness, something I’d never felt in my own home. There was nothing in my house that should have made me feel this way. I’d lived here for over four years, slowly creating my own space, turning the house into a home. I’d been content here, and felt more out of place with guests than alone. Now, however, it seemed as though some sort of life force the house had previously possessed was now missing.

  But why?

  Whatever the reason, I knew I had to try and shake it off. Instead of holing up in the living room instantly, or allowing myself to wallow in my bed, I decided to run a bath, a full tub of hot water, complete with bubbles and aromatherapy candles. I turned on some soft, relaxing music and laid back, clearing my mind and just… existing.

  Unfortunately, my thoughts quickly turned to Jamie. The look on his face as he left… The hollow feeling inside when I was alone again, as I’d requested. The way I’d been satisfied sexually, and yet still felt like something was missing. The way I’d questioned that feeling, for the first time in my life.

  I sat up in the tub, frustrated and scowling. What the hell was wrong with me? I wasn’t the type of person to want what everyone else had. I didn’t covet my neighbor, I wasn’t looking for happily ever after, and I certainly didn’t want to share my life and my space with someone – even temporarily.

  And of all people to make me consider this stuff, why Jamie? Why on Earth would I be thinking of someone I barely knew – and was fairly certain I wouldn’t even get along with?

  Come on, Natasha, I tried to reassure myself. It’s just that he’s fresh in your mind. There’s nothing special about Jamie… nothing at all. It made sense if you thought about it – I’d simply given Jamie a place in my mind because he was the only face I could picture.

  It angered me, though. After all, I really felt my life was perfect – in a way – and I really didn’t need any men in my life, complicating things. I had everything I wanted, everything I could ask for. I had an excellent career and made great money at it, had a name that people recognized. This home was beautiful and all mine. My car was nice, something I’d chosen, and I had good friends, good acquaintances. I could get almost any guy I wanted, have him in my bed for a night, and say goodbye without guilt or emotional attachment. I had what all men craved and many women envied.

  I was happy.

  …Wasn’t I?

  With a violent shove, I pushed myself up out of the tub, wrapping myself in a towel and stomping to the kitchen. I reached into the drawer where I stuffed all the miscellaneous items that would eventually be deemed trash, the things I held onto as though they might have value until I was completely sure I had no use for them. After a moment, I found what I was looking for.

  Sitting down on the barstool, I studied the business card in my hand and tried to convince myself that this was a terrible idea.

  But I had a plan. My stories happened in one of two configurations: either it was a short story with a single erotic scene, or a longer work where the heroine carried on a sordid affair with the hero for a brief period before they parted ways, with multiple sex scenes. But even those longer works were usually based on a single encounter I’d had, simply embellished to create more of a storyline.

  If my heroines could carry on a sexual relationship with someone for a week, two weeks – even longer why couldn’t I? What was I so scared of, anyway? If I tried hard to keep my head above water, there was no way I’d grow more attached than I wanted to. It would just be sex, and at the end of it – when I wanted it to end – I’d have gained a new perspective, a new experience to fuel my writing. What could be better?

  I gritted my teeth and bucked against the idea, rubbing the business card between my thumb and forefinger. If I was going to do this and make it work without going against every fiber of my being, I had to set boundaries for myself. I had to set some ground rules, some limits to live by.

  I gave myself two weeks. I would call Jamie, invite him over and take him to bed, and I could carry on in that fashion for the extent of two weeks. At the end of the two weeks,
I would say goodbye. I would be finished with my current story by then, and I’d have nothing left to gain by being with him.

  And in order to assure I didn’t go back on my decision, I would plan a vacation: a trip that would take me out of the country and away from everyone and everything, including writing, for at least another two weeks. The hard-stop, I called it. It was brilliant.

  I let out a long sigh. This was a decent enough plan to settle my nerves, and I had no more excuses. So before I could second-guess myself any further, I reached for my cell phone, dialed the number, and hit the send button. I closed my eyes and gritted my teeth, forcing myself to remain calm. You’re doing a good thing, I told myself. And it’s true: this was a good thing, something that would fuel my creativity and make me stop feeling so damned sorry for myself for no good reason. Plus, it would take away any doubts I had that I was better off alone. After all, by the end of the two weeks, I’d be sick of Jamie and ready to move on – I was sure of it.

  He answered on the third ring, and I cleared my throat.