Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 76527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 76527 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 383(@200wpm)___ 306(@250wpm)___ 255(@300wpm)
But I told myself it had to stop.
Because it did have to stop.
Shouldn’t have happened in the first place.
So, I forced myself to go out…and break the cycle.
After an evening at the bar, I found a woman exactly my type.
She had long brown hair, in soft curls the way Emerson wore most of the time, and she was young…just turned twenty-three. The conversation wasn’t great, because her immaturity bored me, but after our drinks were paid for, I took her to my place.
The sex was good.
She was flexible, enthused, wet.
I was lost in the moment, my thoughts on the woman taking my dick with a pussy so wet I could barely feel anything, but my orgasm was weak.
Really weak.
I rolled off her and lay there, staring at the ceiling, feeling the disappointment cast over me like rain clouds that covered the sky. Rain started to pour, and I could feel it on my skin because it pierced the ceiling.
Had my orgasms always been that way? Were they always weak?
Or did they just feel weak now after they’d become stronger?
How did a fake story I’d made up give me a better climax than actual sex? With a woman who had great tits, a great ass, and did her part of the work to make it good? Whenever I wrote stories, the characters felt real to me, and when they felt despair, so did I. But I hadn’t thought I would be so connected to a fantasy about a real woman.
She moved into me and snuggled with me, her hair all over the place, her perfume suffocating me like a blanket.
I stared blankly at the ceiling.
What the fuck was I going to do now?
Twenty-Five
Emerson
After Derek left for work, I let myself into his apartment.
He hadn’t added a new story since almost two weeks ago, and I had to be honest and admit I’d been anxious for something new—just the way I was anxious for his novels. But it never came.
I feared his desire was short-lived.
Diane would be there soon, and I had to collect his laundry to deliver to the cleaners.
My printed story was in my purse, so I moved to the dining table and set down my bag. I pulled the story out and looked at it again, my heart racing because I was actually going to do this. The first thing he did when he walked in the door was drop his satchel here…so he would see it.
And he would read it.
God, I was nervous.
Since I already knew how he felt, I knew I wouldn’t be met with rejection.
But he could have made a move at any point in time and never did, even though he knew he could have any woman he wanted.
Or maybe he didn’t because of our professional relationship.
I took a deep breath before I set it down, making my peace with whatever happened.
Footsteps sounded from the kitchen.
Shit, was he still here?
A petite brunette entered the kitchen, wearing one of his t-shirts that fit her like a dress. Her long hair was in loose curls, and it was a bit messy because she hadn’t combed it since she’d left her apartment last night. She was young, early twenties, and her heavy makeup was smeared because she’d passed out without washing her face.
I stared at her, my heart pounding even more now.
She stilled as she looked at me. “Uh, who are you?”
I needed to take a moment to digest the disappointment, the cold reminder that Derek could have a younger, fitter version of me…and that was probably why the stories stopped. It was a short-term thing. “Derek’s assistant. I usually come in after he goes to work and do his laundry and stuff.” He must have forgotten to tell me she was here.
“Oh…” She opened the fridge and helped herself to a bottle of water. “Well, I just needed something to drink. I’ll be out of your hair soon.” She gave me a perky wave then strutted down the hallway until she was gone.
My heart plummeted all the way to my feet.
Derek didn’t owe me anything…and I still felt terrible.
We hadn’t even had a single conversation about his feelings, and I felt like he’d betrayed me. I thought about how that woman was better than me in every way, how I wrote this story last night while he was fucking her…and not thinking about me.
I stared at the paper on the table and realized how stupid I was.
If I couldn’t handle this, what would happen after I did sleep with him and saw the next woman?
I would only handle it worse.
I picked up the paper and folded it in half, to be shredded when I got home.
This whole charade was stupid. He wrote those stories in private, and I never should have seen them, because he knew he didn’t want that fantasy to be a reality. I should have been professional and pretended it never happened.