by Meghan Quinn
“I read about this position in a book once,” I said, continuing to move my hips. “The guy put his finger on the girl’s button and she came immediately.”
“Don’t call it a button; it’s your clit, and no book talk right now. This isn’t a book you’ve read, this is Rosie and Henry,” he groaned. I loved that groan, because it meant he was about to orgasm.
“Just thought I would share. Maybe you can press my . . . clit.” I choked out the word, not hating it completely. “I wonder if I would come real fast like the character. You never know until you try.”
“I know if you keep talking, this isn’t going to end well for you.”
“Just press it,” I said. “Press my clit.”
He rolled his eyes, brought his hand to my clit, and pressed it gently, rubbing it with the same motion my hips were moving in. What I thought was going to feel nice, didn’t feel good at all. It kind of felt like he was jabbing the head of a pin through my flesh.
“Gah. No, nope, don’t like that,” I shouted, pulling away but trapped in his leg wall.
“Well, you wanted it.”
“The books all say go past the slit, straight to the clit, for a number-one hit.”
Henry rocked his hips, aiding in the end goal. “Like I said, this isn’t one of your books. This is real life. What works for some people, might not work for others.”
“Don’t get mad at me.” I mirrored his frustration.
“I’m not.” His voice rose, turning me on a little.
“Yes, you are.” I pushed his chest, creating a look of shock on his face.
“Did you just push me?”
“I did . . . you . . . you naughty boy.” I bit my lip, wondering if I was going too far. “You liked that, didn’t you? You want to be spanked, you want Mistress Rosie to spank that cock.”
His hips stilled for a brief moment. He leaned forward slightly, and said, “What are you doing?”
“Shut up before I slap that handsome face of yours. Now, give it to me . . . big boy. Give it to me hard.” I flicked his nipple, drawing another shocked expression from him. “Don’t just sit there. Move.”
Confused, he thrust his hips.
“That’s it. Just like that. Keep going. Now moan for me, show me how much you like to plunge your sword inside of me.”
“What? Rosie—”
“Mistress Rosie,” I said, swatting his nipple causing him to fly forward and cry out.
“You liked that?” He groaned some more, moving rapidly under me. “Oh, you did, you naughty little nipple boy. Big daddy wants his nipples massaged? Let Mistress Rosie see those nipples.”
“No . . . off,” he squeaked out.
“You’re not wiggling out of this that easily.” He groaned some more, tipping me back and forth as his hands reached behind me. I tried to push him back to grant him some more nipple time, but he wouldn’t budge. “If you’re going to be a naughty nipple boy, you can’t hide those areolas forever.”
“Get. Off.” He shoved me to the side. I fell off the bed and onto the nightstand, causing the bedside lamp to tumble onto the floor and the bulb to shatter across the ground.
I felt more like a human bowling ball rather than a sex temptress with an imaginary flogger.
Scrambling around to cover my naked body, I went to grab one of Henry’s shirts, but I saw Sir Licks-a-Lot crouched on top of it, bunched under his pelvis, where he was slowly humping it. I went to grab the shirt, but he hissed at me and continued to shove the shirt against his undercarriage, excreting a carnal meow.
Looking for a pillow, I turned to face Henry, only to find him wailing on the bed, holding his calf in the air and screaming about some kind of horrific pain. I studied him closer, a partially limp penis flying about and the big toe on the leg he was holding sticking straight up in the air, as if someone was electrocuting it.
His toe was more of a boner than the eggplant between his legs.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” he repeated over and over again, breathing heavily, still holding on to his calf while he rocked back and forth.
“What is going on?” I asked, finally realizing he was in pain and not necessarily disgusted with me.
“Fucking charley horse,” he huffed out.
Charley horse. How did you cure a charley horse? Put your tongue on the roof of your mouth? No, that was for an ice cream headache. Chew a pack of gum? No, that was for popping ears. He was supposed to eat something. I wracked my brain, looking for a solution to end the pain Henry was going through and then it clicked . . .
Potassium.
Without even thinking, I ran to the kitchen, boobs flinging side to side, ripped a banana off a bunch on top of the counter, tore the peel off, and ran toward Henry, phallic-shaped fruit in hand. But instead of handing it to him, I tripped over an empty beer bottle, fell forward, and slammed the banana right in his face, shoving pasty yellow fruit straight up his nose.
Horrified, I brought my hand to my mouth and stared in shock at Henry, who had half a banana shoved up his nose.
“Christ,” he mumbled before snorting out a chunk of banana.
Not knowing what else to do, and frankly not wanting to make the situation any worse, I sat in front of him and waited for his charley horse to settle down. I itched to grab his calf and massage it out, but was too afraid to make it worse. Keeping my hands to myself seemed like a better plan.
After a few minutes of rocking back and forth and breathing through his mouth, not his nose, he finally released his calf and sat back on the bed. He wiped away the banana on his face and then took a deep breath.
I hated that, even in his misery, I still wanted to get back on top of him and finish what we’d started. Seriously, there was something wrong with me.
“Are you okay?” I asked timidly.
“I think so,” he huffed out. His arm fell over his eyes, while his body settled his cramp.
We sat in silence while he regained his composure. I’ve had a charley horse before in my big toe. I remember being in so much pain that chopping off the phalange seemed like a serious plausible solution.
Minutes ticked by in silence; Sir Licks-a-Lot was practically smoking an e-cig off to the side from the sexual display we gave him, and Billy Crystal was singing, “Surrey with the Fringe on Top” in the background.
Not being able to handle the silence anymore, I asked, “Did you at least like the nipple plucking?”
At a snail’s pace, Henry lifted his arm up so our eyes met, mine full of curiosity, his full of surrender. “You’re going to be the death of me, love.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Wolf Fleece Wendy
ROSIE
“Dressed like that?” he asked, looking me up and down.
“Yes, what’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Seems a little revealing, don’t you think?”
I stood and walked to the mirror in the living room. I took in the fitted outfit I had on. I was wearing black pants and a black top, but the top had some lace in the front neckline, not really showing anything.
“No. It’s fine.”
“I think you should change, and while you’re at it, change into a swing dress so you can go dancing with me tonight.”
“I told you; I have a date.”
“Cancel,” he said, as he came up next to me, grabbing my hands so he could pull me in closer to his body. His head lowered to mine so our foreheads were touching. “Come out with me, Meghan. Let me take you on a date.” He sounded so vulnerable, like he was trying to offer me the world but was nervous about it.
My lungs seized and I knew I was going to start hyperventilating. Why was he doing this? He was changing the dynamics of our relationship. It made me so incredibly scared.
Trying to not hurt him, I said, “We have a date Sunday. We’re going to brunch.”
With the touch of his finger, he lifted my chin and gazed into my eyes.
“I want a real date, Meghan. I want a date with you and only you
, not your parents and not our friends. I want to take you out, open doors for you, spoil you, and take you home. I want it all, Meghan.”
I sat back and read the words over and over again that I’d typed on my computer.
“I want a date with you.”
Ugh, I was so naïve back then. Any person reading this story would have thought, can’t you see the man is in love with you?
I’d spent the last two months writing the timeline of my relationship with Henry, the high points and the low points, the mishaps and the fortunate occurrences. Reliving losing my virginity had been an epiphany of sorts. I’d had to recount my interactions with Henry, go back into my journal that I retired after Henry and I became a couple, and read word for word every missed opportunity I’d had with him.
He was there when I wanted to watch porn—not in a creepy way—he was there after I farted on Phillip’s chin, he was there to help me after I kicked a man in the balls, and he was there to hold my hand during the crazy dating world. He told me time and time again how beautiful I was.
I wrote about him; the hero in my book was an exact replica of Henry. He’d been on my mind, but I hadn’t realized it at the time.
If I’d learned anything from writing this book, it was that no matter how you might read characters in the fictional world, real life was always different. It was easy for a writer to spin a story to make the hero or heroine seem smart and intelligent, for them to make the right moves, take the correct steps toward their future, but when it came to real life, it didn’t happen that easily.
People were constantly making mistakes and showing insecurities, even when they didn’t realize it, and being so imperfect that it actually made them perfect . . . because they were human.
Those were the kind of characters I wanted to write; they were the ones I wanted to portray. The characters who made mistakes, who were flawed, who acted stupid, because in reality, there was not one person on this planet who hadn’t made an error along the journey we called life.
Were these flawed and apprehensive characters annoying to read in books sometimes? Yes, I’d seen plenty of reviews that claimed the heroine was irritating, indecisive, and naïve, but that’s what made them relatable to the average woman.
The average woman was a size twelve to fourteen. She was tough but scared. She was an inspiration, but she was also a menace. I didn’t want to write the typical heroine in a romance novel that I used to read. Blonde hair, fair skin, ravishing looks with a heavy, heaving bosom that drove every man sword in the village to pant like a dog.
I wanted to make her like me: a curious, loveable, but wide-eyed girl with the inspiration to lose her virginity. I wanted to share my experiences, make people laugh, and talk about this crazy, all-consuming thing called love.
Reading my words over again, I sighed with satisfaction. Meghan was so oblivious to her best friend’s advances, just like I had been. This scene made it so clear: all the best friend had wanted was one night with her, but Meghan had been too blinded to see that.
It was a turning point for the readers—a frustrating moment for them—one that caused angst and for the reader to feel for the boy who only wanted to catch the girl.
Just go out with the best friend.
That’s what I would have shouted. It had been so obvious.
It was so blatantly and completely obvious to an outsider, but in that moment, being that naïve girl, you had no clue that the man of your dreams was sitting right under your nose.
If only life was that easy.
I pressed save at the top of the screen and shut my computer. Looking through the notes I made, I checked off another scene in the timeline of my life. Only a few more to go and I’d have this book finished.
Checking the time, I realized I needed to get ready, or else I’d be late. I pulled the printed first few pages of my book from my printer, put them in my folder, and then inserted the folder in my purse. I tore off to the closet to find a cute outfit for tonight.
I had some new friends to meet.
I was nervous, really nervous. I straightened my skirt and stared at the little shop front of a bookstore in SoHo. Last Saturday, I looked up some local writing clubs and found SoHo Romance Writers. Fortunately, they met on Wednesdays, which was today. Henry had thought it would be a great opportunity for me meet other authors and pick their brains, so he’d encouraged me to email them. Within an hour I received a reply saying they met on Wednesday around five thirty.
That’s how I found myself standing outside their meeting place, trying to calm my nerves. I made sure to wear a cute fifties-style dress and red cardigan to match my glasses. My Mary Janes were full of foot sweat, and just to match, my upper lip was perspiring as well. I wasn’t nervous to meet them; I was more nervous of the requirements for a newbie to join. They’d asked me to bring the first few pages of my current work in progress for everyone to critique as “initiation.”
I wasn’t aware of writing clubs hazing newbies; I wasn’t sure if this was a normal practice or not. Henry encouraged me to go, despite my reservations about people pawing through my work. He said I had to get used to people judging my words at some point, so why not by some people who could offer guidance and constructive criticism? I hated when he was logical.
The only thing propelling me forward through this meeting was the date I had planned with Henry after. Seeing him right after was what caused the vomiting reflux to slightly appear.
To make matters worse, Delaney called me this morning and asked how the bachelorette plans were coming along. I lied and said everything was looking great, when in fact, I’d planned nothing, absolutely nothing. Despite the detailed list she gave me, I still felt helpless in planning, so Henry kindly agreed to help by taking me to an adult store where we could find some penis paraphernalia. I’d stuffed some of Delaney’s ideas in my purse for reference before I left the apartment, so I didn’t get the cheap penis items she found so distasteful.
Taking a deep breath, I steadied myself and walked through the doors of the little bookstore. It was quaint, kind of reminded me of The Shop Around the Corner from You’ve Got Mail, but instead of children’s books, it was full of romance novels—all kinds of romance novels. There were westerns, period pieces, contemporary, new adult, romantic comedy, paranormal, sports romance, and of course . . . the millionaires and billionaires. This was my kind of place.
Feeling a little excited now, I walked to the back of the shop, where there were a handful of women sitting around a table, drinking coffee, and gabbing away. They were all older than me . . . like way older. Youngest member must have been at least ten years my senior. Not quite what I was expecting, but still a nice treat to be able to meet some other authors.
“Um, hello. Are you part of the SoHo Romance Writer’s club?” I asked, instantly feeling shy again.
A heavyset woman with a nest of white hair stood from her chair and held out her hand. “That would be us. You must be Rosie. I’m Sally. We spoke through email.”
“Hi, Sally.” I shook her hand, which was quite clammy, and then looked around the table. With a small wave, I said, “Hi, everyone. Thanks for having me.”
“Please, take a seat,” a woman to Sally’s right said. “I’m Myrtle, the vice president of the group. To my right is Betty, our secretary. On Sally’s right is Sue and then Wendy.”
Sue and Wendy both waved at me and said hello. Sue was wearing a paisley scarf over a mauve turtleneck and big pearl earrings. Wendy was sporting a fleece wolf-patterned jacket and a bolo tie. She looked very out of place.
“Nice to meet you all.”
“We were just talking about the new trends within the romance community. Have you noticed any?” Sally asked me.
“Um, trends? I’m still new at this, so I’m not quite sure what you’re talking about. I joined a couple of Facebook groups for book lovers . . . they post a lot of penis pictures. Would that be a trend?”
“That’s not a trend, that’s a staple in thi
s community.” Myrtle laughed.
Betty spoke up over the other ladies’ chatter. “A trend would be something you see authors do often within their stories.”
“For instance, everyone’s hero has a beard right now,” Sally stated. “Full, thick beards.”
“There was also a lot of stepbrother love last year,” Sue said.
“Stepbrother love?” I asked, not having ever read a book about a stepbrother.
“Oh yes, a very popular trope. Hmm, billionaires are always famous with the ladies. I mean, who doesn’t like a rich man being brought down to his knees by a woman?”
Wendy fanned her face, causing a ripple within her wolf fleece. “I sure enjoy a good billionaire.”
“Remember when you used to be able to slap a half-naked cowboy on the front of your book and sell thousands of copies?” Myrtle asked. “I miss the good old cowboy.”
“I’ve read some cowboy books,” I said, joining in. “They were really good. I always liked the scenes where the heroine is whisked off to the barn to have a roll in the hay.”
All the ladies giggled around me, making me feel at home. “Everyone loves a good barn sex scene. I believe I’ve written at least ten in my day,” Sally said. “I rode that trend out for as long as I could. Maybe I’ll revisit the stables in the future. Maybe a BDSM version, since that’s all the rage now. Think of the rope possibilities.”
“Oh, Christian Grey gone cowboy. I like it,” Myrtle replied. “Instead of a tie on the cover, a lasso and a spur. I think you have yourself an idea there, Sally.”
“And none of you biddies better steal it. You hear me?” Sally pointed her finger at all of us. I nodded, fearing her sharp nail stabbing me in the jugular.
“Tell us, Rosie, what are you working on?” Betty asked me, drawing the attention away from Sally’s death finger.
I cleared my throat, trying to relax my nerves. “Well, I started writing a book that took place in medieval times, but realized I wasn’t really good with chastity belts, so I tried writing something from the heart. It’s kind of an ode to my current relationship.”
