by Shandi Boyes
I giggle even louder than earlier. Pepper is my best friend. We've been friends since pre-primary. Her real name is Quinn, but we all call her Pepper after her disastrous karaoke rendition of the Salt-N-Pepa song “Shoop” at my twenty-first birthday party four years ago. Ever since that drunken night, Pepper’s nickname has stuck.
Me – No images. It's against the law to photograph people without their consent. Isn’t it?
Pepper – And stalking them for the past several weeks is entirely legal?
I grimace.
Me – True….
My breath hitches when I raise my eyes back to Archer and discover he has vanished from the large living room at the back of his residence.
Me – BRB. My target has slipped the net.
Pepper – Go get him, Tiger!
Me – Roar!!
Laughing, I place my phone onto the counter at the edge of the kitchen and pace closer to the window. I have the shades open, but all the lighting in the three-bedroom rented wooden bungalow is switched off. I'd hate for Archer to catch me spying on him before I’ve finished penning my entire first draft.
Failing to locate Archer within his house, I head for the back deck. I’ve noticed the past few weeks he has a slight fascination with adventurous outdoor activities. The crisp coolness of a late fall night blasts my face when I step onto the wooden deck of the patio.
The hunch I was running on is accurate. Archer and his companion have taken their libidinous twist to a more scenic location. Although, I have no clue why. Neither of them are looking at the spectacular view of Bronte’s Peak.
Even in the darkness of the night, I can still recall the marvelous views that distracted me from my writing goals the first four days I arrived here. Crystal blue waters, pristine white beaches, and little pockets of caves hidden throughout like treasured gems make Bronte’s Peak a spectacular destination. It's so beautiful, millions of tourists invade its pristine beaches at all times of the year. Luckily for me, the beach below is for the private residents who live in this elite gated community.
That reason alone was why I chose to rent this bungalow. I wanted seclusion and privacy. My plan had been to hide away from the world. No social media, no television, and no mobile devices to distract me as I finish my fourth book in a five-book series. My well-thought plan lasted a total of three hours.
Thank god I stumbled upon Archer. Otherwise, I have no clue where I’d be right now. The night I first spotted him, I sat down and scribbled relentlessly on an old notepad I found in the kitchen drawers. I’d always been an electronics type of girl when it came to writing, even jotting down book ideas on my iPhone while standing in the queue at the bank, but with words flowing from my brain more quickly than my hands could write them, I couldn’t risk the chance of losing my inspiration since my Mac was broken.
I had to get every word down while they were fresh. And thus began the fictional story of Archer Boyd: an alpha male billionaire who lives in a crystal house. Although I’ve been using my backup laptop the past five weeks, my notes and sketches on Archer have continued as they did the first night I spied on him.
When Archer curls his female companion’s torso over the glass railing of his back patio, I drop my eyes to the notepad in my hand and sketch their position. Surprisingly, his companion’s cries of pleasure are only just heard over the scribbling of pencil to paper. Usually, I can’t even hear my pulse over the volume of his date’s squeals.
A crass smile tugs on my lips when I finish my rendition of Archer and his companion’s lust- filled pose. To call this piece “art” would be a grave injustice to the art community. It's horrific. Although many people class writing as an artistic craft, you can be safely assured it's the only creative bone I have in my body. My sketch looks more like two dogs having fun at the local dog park than the romance novel cover I was aiming for.
My immature giggle dampens when a disappointed moan jingles through my ears. I’ve not once heard that type of response from one of Archer’s companions. Even with him kicking them out immediately after the deed has been done, displeasure has never been voiced.
Raising my eyes from my notepad, I discover what has caused the brunette’s devastated cry. Archer is no longer tangled in a mind-hazing adults-only game of twister. He's angrily storming down the glass stairs and stomping across the small patch of sand that divides our patios.
Oh crap!
I plaster my back to the outer wall of my cabin, cowardly trying to hide. I don’t know why I bother. From the expression crossing Archer’s face and the white-hot glare reflecting from his eyes, I have no doubt he has spotted me spying on him. If I were smart, I’d scurry into my cabin, lock the doors, and book the very first flight home. Unfortunately, my brain has never been able to think on the spot. So instead of scurrying, I remain glued to the glass door, watching Archer’s quickly advancing naked frame span the distance between us.
The veins in my neck twang when I catch sight of his… umm… package that's generally hidden from view in numerous female crevices. Even though I’ve been watching Archer for weeks, I’ve never seen him this up-close and personal. The hardness of his cock is as firm as his fists are clenched, and it’s an even more spectacular view than I’ve witnessed from a distance.
My throat becomes scratchy when Archer stops in front of me. His hasty movements stir up an intoxicating smell of salt and sweat-slicked skin, accelerating my pulse. I’m taken aback when my eyes lift from the hairless ridges of his tattooed torso to his face. I’d always imagined his eyes were light brown in color, so I'm somewhat surprised by their unique dark blue coloring.
His heavy-hooded gaze roams over my face, absorbing the blush blooming on my cheeks before locking in on my wide grayish-blue eyes. “Are you only a voyeur or do you also participate?” he asks with his lusty eyes focused on me.
Even in the intense circumstances of our meeting, a dash of euphoria pumps through my veins from the husky roughness of his voice. It reminds me of Tom Hiddleston. Rough and gritty but as smooth as chocolate.
Archer stares at me with his brow bowed high, irascibly waiting for an answer.
“Am I a what?” The shakiness of my voice makes it come out more seductive than normal.
My wildly beating heart hastens when a smirk tugs Archer’s lips. “Are you a voyeur?” he repeats.
My eyes expand even more before I shrug. “I don’t know what that is.” My voice is as weak as my reply.
My body slightly tremors as the battle to keep my eyes on Archer’s face moves into dangerous territory. Even standing in the brisk coolness of a fall night, wearing nothing but a cocky grin, the thickness of his cock hasn’t subsided a bit. If anything, it has become firmer. He's primed and ready to go.
“A voyeur is a person who gets sexual satisfaction from watching others have sex,” he explains, not the slightest bit embarrassed he's explaining a sexual term to a virtual stranger.
When I remain quiet, he asks, “Do you only watch people have sex, or do you enjoy participating as well?”
You’d think his question would have me blushing like a naïve virgin, but it doesn’t. I’ve watched Archer enough the past six weeks that he seems like a close acquaintance. Second only to Pepper, he's one of my dearest friends—even without knowing his real name.
Okay, I think I may need to seek professional help.
I swallow to relieve my parched throat before saying, “I participate too.”
Blimey, I can’t believe I just openly admitted I’ve been watching him.
Any concern about him calling the police to report me for stalking fades when a brash grin etches on his kiss-swollen mouth. My brows stitch together when he pivots on his heels and stalks back down the stairs without another word seeping from his lips.
When he reaches the bottom step, he cranks his neck and stares me straight in the eyes.
“Are you coming?” His tone is laced with sexual innuendo.
I stare at him, more confused than ever.
“Coming where exactly?” Now I’m blushing like an idiot.
My heart thrashes against my chest when Archer replies, “To join us,” while nudging his head to the brunette splayed over the railing of his patio, patiently awaiting his return.
My eyes widen as my throat works hard to swallow. I shake my head. Although I’ve been extremely deviant the past six weeks watching Archer in a range of lust-driven exchanges, I'm not perverted enough to participate in a threesome. No way in hell.
Archer’s blazing gaze scorches my skin when he rakes his eyes up my body, from my French-tipped toenails, past the frilled edges of my mid-thigh denim shorts, to the white knitted one shoulder sweater I am wearing. When his heavy-lidded gaze locks with mine, my breath hitches. This is the first time in six weeks I’ve spotted disappointment in his eyes.
“If you change your mind, you know where to find me.” He awards me a brazen wink before he continues on his journey.
Chapter Two
The instant Archer steps foot on his glass and steel patio, I slip into the bungalow. My heart hammers against my ribs, and my eyes remain planted on my bare feet scuttling across the wood floors. The rattle of my hand runs up my arm when I yank on the blinds covering the large window spanning the living room.
A quiet squeal emits from my lips when my harsh pull on the cord causes the mechanism to lock into place. After a few inaudible swear words and a couple of gentle tugs, the blinds finally lower into place, concealing Archer and the busty brunette from my view.
I dash into the kitchen, snatch my phone off the counter, and scurry into the writing cave I've created in a room in the upstairs attic. Taking the stairs two steps at a time, I log into Skype and connect to Pepper's account.
“Wow, that’s an all-time low for Archer. I don’t think you’ve ever called me within half an hour before,” Pepper says down the line, not bothering to issue a greeting.
“He busted me spying on him,” I confess, grimacing.
Pepper’s pupils enlarge to the size of dinner plates as her mouth gapes. “During…” She stops speaking, allowing the shocked expression on her face to ask the question her mouth is failing to produce.
“Yep, right in the middle of the deed,” I respond, entering the darkness of my writing cave. The trembling of my heart is apparent in my tone.
After flicking on an overhead light, I stroll to my old cracked leather chair stored behind an even more outdated desk.
“Are you sure he saw you? Maybe he was just peering in your direction?” Pepper asks with humor in her tone.
I slump into my chair, causing a massive creak to bounce around the small, dingy space.
“I’m certain he busted me.”
I spin my office chair around to look at the extensive collection of notes and sketches I have of Archer taped around my office space.
“He didn’t just bust me, Pepper, he walked over and invited me to join him.”
My attention turns from the inaccurate description of Archer's eyes I have in his profile to the screen of my phone when Pepper's loud chuckle thunders down the line. She's chuckling so hard, her face is nothing but a blur as she rolls around on her bed in her apartment. I huff at her absurd craziness before standing from my chair and pacing to the storyboard on my right.
“He asked if I was a voyeur,” I inform her, scrubbing out the light brown coloring of his eyes and switching it to a murky blue.
When Pepper’s laughter settles, she wipes under her hazel eyes, removing her cackling-induced tearstains. “Technically, you are a voyeur, Paige.”
My eyes narrow into thin slits.
"You've been watching a man sleep with a range of different women over a six-week period. If that isn't voyeurism, then I'm Mother Theresa," Pepper argues, her words brittle with laughter.
When I roll my eyes, Pepper moves in closer to the screen. “Did you just roll your eyes at me?” Her tone switches from a playful chatter to a deep, commanding voice. “If you roll your eyes at me one more time, young lady, I’ll take you over my knee and spank you until you beg me to stop.”
I daintily laugh. “You’ve been reading my manuscript.”
I sent Pepper the first half of my draft two days ago hoping she'd beta read it for me to ensure the storyline was heading in the right direction. I'm surprised she has already begun reading it.
Normally, Pepper does anything in her power to avoid perusing my rough drafts. Once, she even faked having pancreatitis, hospital stay and all, just to get out of reading my months of hard work. It isn't that Pepper doesn't like reading, she just prefers smut and erotic novels, not clean young adult only reads.
Pepper waggles her brows and nods. “Damn, Paige, when you said you were switching your genre from young adult to steamy romance, I didn’t think you’d pull it off.”
I stick out my tongue and roll my eyes again.
Pepper cocks her brow high into her rich, chocolate brown locks. “Come on. The hotness scale of your last three novels was pathetic. I’ve seen kindergarten kids get more action than your characters did.”
Even though my ego cops a sting from her catty remark, a smile tugs on my mouth. I'll be the first to admit I've never felt comfortable adding sex scenes to my storyline.
Don't take my admission the wrong way. I lost my V card only a few weeks after my eighteenth birthday. Unfortunately, it was by the same guy who stabbed my heart with a spear gun twelve weeks ago. The same guy who was the cause of my decision to fly to the other side of the country.
Trying to ignore the twisted mess of confusion in my heart, I flop onto my office chair and spin around to face my outdated laptop screen. Stream upon stream of beautiful words reflect back at me. Although Riley tore my heart out of my chest, I'm still grateful he was a part of my life. If it weren't for him, I would have never stumbled upon Archer. I have no doubt the words displayed in front of me are pure brilliance, an absolute bestseller. That would have never happened without Riley, my first high school boyfriend, my one and only sexual conquest, and up until three months ago, my fiancé.
My focus returns to the screen of my phone when Pepper taps her finger on her iPad speaker, dragging me back to the present with a loud donk sound.
“Oh, you're still there. You went all stiff and robotic. I wasn’t sure if it was a glitch or if you were letting that asshole invade your thoughts again.”
Other than huffing softly, I remain quiet. I can't argue with Pepper; she knows me well enough to know where my mind strayed to. We've been friends since the day we started kindergarten, and at times, I swear, she knows me better than I know myself.
Pepper adjusts her position, folding her legs under her bottom before lifting her mischief-filled eyes to me. “Why are you spending your Thursday night thinking about he-whose-name-will-never-be-spoken-of-again when Mr. I’m-going-to-spank-your-ass-until-you-beg-for-mercy offered a chance to join him for a night of crazy monkey sex? I know what opportunity I’d be taking, and it most certainly wouldn’t be recalling memories that aren’t worth rehashing.”
"It isn't that simple, Quinn.” I sink deeper into my chair. "Riley and I were together for nearly seven years. I can't just simply forget him and jump into bed with a random stranger."
“Uh, yeah you can,” she responds with a nod of her head. “And don’t think pulling out my real name will change the facts. Riley is an asshole. You deserve ten times better than he could ever give you. I can see it; everyone in our hometown can see it. The only person who doesn't see it is you, Paige."
Pepper leans in closer to the monitor, so her head engulfs the entire screen. "I love you, sweet pea, but it's time for this momma bear to bring out the big guns."
A grin curls on my lips, loving her use of our favorable nicknames.
“You need to get your skinny derriere off that hideous writing chair you dragged across the country, march your pasty white butt over to the Adonis-assed male specimen living next door, and climb aboard his sex train for the ride of your life.
You're well overdue to cash in your earth-shattering climax ticket.”
Any pain festering my heart eases from the playfulness in her tone. Pepper can always bring me back from the ledge.
“I love you, Pepper.” My tone relays the truth of my statement.
“I know you do. But right now, I only want to see your back end walking away from me.”
I screw up my nose. “I can’t. Even if I wanted to ride Archer’s sex train all the way to climax station, he isn’t alone. His brunette friend has been happily keeping the neighborhood awake the past two hours.”
“And? What’s wrong with that?” Pepper interrupts with her brow arched high.
My heart beats triple time. “I could never do… that.”
“It’s called a threesome, Paige. Look it up the next time you're googling research for your steamy romance novel.”
A set of heavy lines groove into my forehead. “Whatever,” I scowl. “I’m writing steamy contemporary romance - not ménage. My readers don’t want to read about my heroines doing the deed with other people. They want a loving, heartfelt connection crammed with the warm and fuzzies.”
Pepper gags. "No, they don't. They want mind-hazing, multi-climaxing, sheet-clawing, can't-walk-straight-for-days sex! Trust me, if you're going to dip your toes into this genre, you need to go in deep. Hard-cock-thrusting-to-the-brim deep."
I roll my eyes and shake my head. Pepper’s arched brow becomes lost in her dead straight hair as she stares at me, daring me to negate her claim. Everything she's saying is true. Steamy contemporary romance readers want steam; that's the whole reason they pick that genre. But I don’t necessarily believe I have to practice what I preach. I’ve never stepped foot in an ice hockey rink, but I penned a very sweet hockey romance two years ago that's still selling well today.
My eyes shift around at the numerous notes pinned to the wall about Archer. “Even without having a bucket load of sexual experience, I have enough encounters between Archer and his female companions to pen at least ten steamy novels.”
