Total pages in book: 153
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 145123 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 726(@200wpm)___ 580(@250wpm)___ 484(@300wpm)
Today, I’m being naughty. Daring, bold…wanton, even—I can’t wait another second, even as we’re about to broadcast live on the air, to feel Clive’s mouth against my sensitive skin.
He takes his time, tracing his tongue along the hem of my panties. His mouth is warm and intense and a shock of pleasure rolls up my spine. My hips fidget, and two strong hands grip my thighs, forcing my legs to spread open as far as they can go.
Everyone around me is hustling to get in position. Cameras click on. Spotlights shine down on me from the ceiling. And the guy behind the teleprompter gets into place.
But Clive doesn’t stop, and no one else but me is aware of his presence beneath my news desk.
The mere thought makes me feel bad, dirty, insane. And it’s so arousing that I can feel how wet I am without even touching myself.
My fingers clutch at the edge of the desk, and a moan sits at the base of my throat when I feel my panties slide to the side.
I can’t see Clive, but God, I can feel him.
His mouth is right there, hovering over where I ache and throb. My heartbeat has relocated to between my thighs, and a steady bum-bum-bum makes my toes curl inside my heels.
“Quiet on the set,” fills my ears just as Clive’s mouth latches on to me, and the rush of pleasure that floods my veins is so intense, my eyes threaten to roll into the back of my head.
“And we’re live in three, two, one…”
Even though I know that River is just having the kind of explicitly vivid dreams I’ve had a time or two about my new editor Chase Dawson, and not actually getting her vahooch licked live on the evening news, my hands feel clammy and sweat rests uncomfortably above my top lip. The secondhand embarrassment is almost overbearing. To be honest, I’m one grease-and-debris-smeared T-shirt away from looking like a main character in a Michael Bay movie.
I need to walk. Take a shot. Smoke a cigarette. Something. Although, I probably shouldn’t do either of the latter two because the last time I took a shot of liquor, I threw up instantly, and since I’ve never smoked anything in my life, I’m pretty sure I’d just hack myself over the rail of my balcony. But I should definitely do something that gets me away from my computer and dulls the edges of both my unbridled manuscript disgust and my inappropriate lust for my very nice—and far too attractive for my own good—book editor.
I stand up in a huff again, but this time, Benji manages to scoot out of my way. I grab my glass of wine and chug it down for the sole purpose of creating an empty vessel for my next heavy pour.
I may not be the kind of woman who can do shots of hard liquor on a Sunday evening without re-creating The Exorcist, but by God, I can handle a bottle of wine.
After one cold, hard swig from the bottle, I fill my stemware again and take a deep breath and try to reassure myself before I fall off the cliff of crazy.
Okay, so it’s not that big of a deal, right?
I mean, sure, I have a little crush on my editor, but it’s completely healthy…I think. Instead of bumbling my way into a sexual harassment suit, I put my feelings to the cursor and, as a bonus, got to put good practice hours into my writing craft.
Even if the content of Accidental Attachment is a little off genre for my career, it’s still exercising the sensitive muscles of my creativity. It’s honing. It’s refining. It’s breathing new dimensions into my prose.
Right? Right.
I look at the time and see it’s nearing midnight, which means I have about forty minutes left of my final deadline day for Garden of Forever.
Wow, Brooke. You’re really cutting this one close…
I puff out a breath that blows a few loose pieces of my brown hair out of my face, and I quickly readjust the messy bun on top of my head, my eyes never leaving my computer screen.
This is it. I have to send it. I have no more time left.
I look down at Benji, who is in a half-asleep, half-awake phase of his napping by my feet.
“I should just bite the bullet and do it, huh?” I question, and he barely moves his eyes up to meet mine. “I could do another thousand read-throughs of Garden of Forever, but it’s not going to change anything, Benji. Not to mention, I don’t have any more time.”
He searches my face but, eventually, settles his snout back between his paws and lets his eyes start to get heavy again. I imagine this is his way of saying, Look, lady, you handle the writing, and I handle the vasovagal syncope. I can’t help you here.