Scandalous Temptations

by King, Kelsey

  When I’d finally calmed down, I sat down to reply, sending her my own novel-length response to her criticisms. Though I felt aggressive, I tried my best to be patient and explain my reasoning. I didn’t want to piss an editor off—especially not this one. What I thought would be the end of my communications with her, though, has proven incorrect.

  There’s another email sitting in my inbox. Begging me to open it. To talk to her. Unable to resist, I grab my laptop and pull it closer, clicking open to read her response. Her opening line makes me smile just a bit.

  “Allow me to quote Grace. ‘You’re all kinds of adorable when you’re pissed off.’”

  I read through her response, relieved to see that she’s not upset with my passionate email. There are a few things about pacing and plot that I can agree with her on, but she’s still persistent with her opinions on the affair between Grace and my hero. I pause, giving myself time to think. A new editor means learning her level of patience and willingness to compromise. She’s not an enemy, but rather, someone that wants me to succeed.

  I feel childish having to tell myself this, but it helps. I send back a response telling her that at the moment, my brain is fried. I don’t want to send back scrambled thoughts and incomplete sentences about my book.

  Just as I go to close out of my inbox, a new message pops up.

  “Take all the time you need. I’ll be ready.” I smile at her words. I have no doubt in my mind.

  “You’re up awfully late, aren’t you?” I respond.

  In New York, it’s almost three. I’m surprised she’s still around at this hour.

  “I’m a bit of a night owl,” is all she says, accompanied by a smiley face.

  “What a coincidence. So am I.” I reply.

  “You should use that to get started on the edits I gave you.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “But I’m having so much fun talking to you, Harlow.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “I’m also curious to hear your thoughts on Liza and Charles’ relationship.”

  “Someone’s been Twitter stalking me,” she writes.

  “Not stalking so much as taking a particular interest in what you’re up to. I like to get to know my editors personally. I feel like it helps us get on the same wavelength. We’re able to understand each other a little better.”

  Am I being flirtatious? The answer is a resounding yes. But I can’t help it. The picture of Harlow pops up in my head again, and suddenly I’m imagining those bright green eyes crinkling as she laughs at my emails. Is her laugh soft, or does she laugh loud and boisterously? I like the idea of both options.

  “Getting to know me personally is a lot of work.”

  “Why? Are you a lot to handle?”

  “So I’ve been told,” she replies.

  A smile creeps across my face. “Sounds like you just need to find the right man to handle you. We’ll see if I’m that man, I suppose.”

  Her next email takes a while to show up. Just when I start to close my computer, she finally responds with,

  “I guess we’ll see. Get started on those edits, Liam. Have a good night.” She ends her email with another smiley face, only this time it’s winking. I chuckle and put my laptop on the nightstand.

  In the morning, I make sure to sit down with my coffee and get started with some of the edits. With fresh eyes and a little bit more perspective on where she’s coming from, it’s much easier for me to make the minor changes. Word repetition and over-descriptors seem to be my biggest issues, so I start there, going through and tweaking and restructuring my sentences. Despite my grumpiness yesterday, I actually feel much better working on my manuscript today.

  By the time lunch rolls around, I’m worn out and in desperate need of a break. I take a quick shower and decide to trim my beard. There are weeks where I write eighteen hours a day and barely leave the house, I look like a homeless starving artist. I get lost in my writing for weeks on end, and once I’ve hit my deadline, I attempt to resemble some form of human again. However, after my manuscript gets slaughtered by edits, I need to try another approach.

  After I’m all cleaned up, I head back into my bedroom and pack a bag. When it comes to the extensive editing process, I prefer to spend it secluded, in the middle of nowhere with limited distractions. This trip will allow me to get a lot of work done, as well as start outlining the sequel to Dirty Little Secrets. With the twist ending that my main character experiences, the second book picks up right at the end, and I’m eager to get started.

  I stuff T-shirts and sweaters into my duffle bag along with shorts and sweats. After making sure I have all the supplies I’ll need, I zip up my bag and carry it to the front door. I pack a second bag with necessities and snacks, and take the two out to my truck and toss them in the back.

  My folks handed over the keys to our cabin a few miles out of town before they passed away, and I’m eagerly looking forward to getting out in the Colorado wilderness and spending some time alone, away from the hustle and bustle of my busy city. Once I’m sure everything is ready to go later today, I head back inside to make lunch. To my surprise, I find another email from Harlow. It’s short and sweet, and I smile wide. I’m already starting to like this woman.

  She writes, “I prefer Liza with Josh. He’s fun and spontaneous, even if he’s much younger than her. Plus, his six-pack abs don’t hurt either. I find Charles too obvious and…stale.”

  3

  Harlow

  I usually consider myself a rational person. Realistic. Someone who can weigh the pros and cons of a situation and decide the course of action based on what those results yield. But something about Liam makes me want to be reckless.

  Last week, I’d tried being professional, but even that was a struggle. “Maybe I needed the right kind of man to handle me?” It was something right out of one of his novels, and the way it made me feel…devilish, maybe? I knew I couldn’t tell anyone. It definitely crossed the lines between professional and personal.

  Even if I wanted to tell someone about his flirty banter, I never could. If I did, the judgment from my coworkers would be never-ending. Liam has a reputation as a being a real-life Casanova. He’s slept with more women than anyone can count, and I’m not too sure he knows the definition of a stable relationship. Not to mention, mixing business with pleasure is what they call a conflict of interest.

  This project is not only my first big book deal, but with an author as well known as Liam, the scandal would rock the publishing world. I’ve worked too hard to let myself fall that far.

  Something about him is just so magnetic—I can’t describe it. It’s the way that, despite only hearing his voice in interviews during my research period, I can hear his southern drawl and the twang in his words. I can hear his laughter, husky, masculine. And because I’m a glutton for punishment, I even imagine can smell him and his strong cologne.

  What makes it worse is that for the past week, we’ve been talking nonstop. At first, I thought he was just an inquisitive writer. It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve worked with one of those. During my second year at Hart Publishing, I had an author that would keep in contact with me at least twice a day. She had all kinds of questions for me, ranging from the development of her plot to certain phrases and whether they made sense in the time period her story was set in. While it had been stressful, the book had been a huge hit, and all that work was well worth it.

  This situation with Liam isn’t like that. I can tell that he’s being flirty. Whether he realizes it or not, the words he chooses are so obviously coated with innuendo, I’d have to be blind and facing the other direction not to see them. As guilty as I feel is to admit this, even to myself…I’ve enjoyed them.

  It’s something about the way he speaks, the way he can paint a picture with only a few words, that makes me cling to everything he has to say. In less than ten days, I’ve become a complete addict, waiting impatiently for the next time I hear the ding from my computer and find a shiny new e
mail sitting in my inbox.

  When I come home from work, I see that my wish has been granted. It takes everything I have not to immediately reply. I’m not that kind of woman. I rarely get giddy over men, and if I do, the feeling usually fades within a few weeks. So, to keep my head level, I put my bag down and begin working on dinner. I let Liam sit and wait for me.

  After I eat, I flip through TV stations, occasionally glancing back at my computer. It’s a lighthouse, steering me toward shores that I know aren’t clear, and into a situation that’s incredibly rocky and dangerous. I tell myself that the longer I hold out on him, the more work he can get done, and it’s enough to keep me planted on the sofa watching bad reality shows about housewives until almost eleven. Finally, I give in.

  He’s asked a simple question that I’m not stupid enough to think is all that innocent. “How does your boyfriend feel about you messaging me every day?”

  I smile and roll my eyes. He knows what he’s doing, and so do I. Why not have a little fun? “He’s into it,” I write. “I know it sounds crazy, but we’ve been trying this thing at bars where I flirt with random guys. Something about it really turns him on. And I get to flirt with hot guys, so it turns me on too.”

  “This is a surprise to me.”

  “We’re an experimental couple. But of course, he has nothing to worry about with you, does he? I mean, this is all strictly work-related. Professional.” I grin and hit send, biting my thumbnail in anticipation for his response. I can’t help but imagine him reacting in two ways. Part of me expects him to respond in disgust, suddenly put off by the idea of a man reading these emails over my shoulder. The reaction I secretly hope for though is excitement. I want him to be at least a little aroused knowing that this game we’ve been playing has just evolved into something more interesting. What I don’t predict is his actual response.

  “Strictly business, yes. I’ll talk to you tomorrow when I have more edits. Have a good night.”

  My eyes widen, and I lean forward, fingers poised over the keys. Is he jealous? Is he put off by the story I’ve told? Or is he just playing with me, trying to see how I’ll react to the possibility of him leaving me hanging? Without thinking, I send another email back.

  “I lied. I don’t have a boyfriend.”

  “What a coincidence. I don’t either.”

  I snort, slapping my hand over my mouth to contain the noise as I laugh. “You sounded a little like Max. Jealous of Grace’s boyfriend and pretending he’s not.”

  Though I find the affair aspect in Liam’s manuscript to be quite interesting, I know in the pit of my stomach that something like this is bound to alienate readers. Most women don’t want to deal with stories involving affairs, and to boost his sales as best I can, I made sure to note this in the editorial letter.

  “And did it make you feel like Grace?” he writes. “Did you get excited by the idea of someone being jealous?”

  I can feel a blush creeping up my neck, and I smile reluctantly. I don’t want to admit it, but I can’t help it. “Maybe.”

  “And would it make you feel good if Max came bursting into your house the way he did Grace’s? Annoyed with her games, the way she made him jealous, but also turned on knowing she was doing this on purpose. Intentionally getting him riled up.”

  “I’d probably let the story play out the same way.”

  There’s a moment before he replies. “What way? Say it.”

  I can’t help but grow warmer doing as he says. “I’d let Max push me against the wall the way Grace did. And when he slid his fingers up my thigh and down the front of my panties, I’d whimper and beg for him. Plead for him to touch me.”

  It’s almost embarrassing how I feel typing this out. Mildly ridiculous, but more than that… aroused. I’ve never done something like this. Online dating was always something my mother and her friends looked down on so that never seemed like an option. Not that this is dating, of course. This is something else entirely.

  “Keep going,” is all he says.

  I swallow hard. Continuing means crossing this boundary I’ve set up with all my clients. Keeping things professional despite the adult nature of the things that are written in their books. I’ve had people try to hit on me before, but not like this. Not in a way that I don’t want to turn down. So, I continue, taking ten steps over that line, crossing it entirely.

  “When Max slid his fingers inside me, I’d gasp and cover my mouth, not wanting to wake my roommate. But secretly, that’s exactly what I’d want. To have him finger me so well that I can’t keep quiet. That I end up begging for more, unfazed by the noise I made. Only focused on his fingers buried in my pussy.”

  My heart is pounding, and I run a nervous hand through my hair, brushing it from my face. What if he doesn’t want to play this game anymore? What if I’ve gone too far and he ends up asking for a new editor.

  My heart stops.

  What if he’s been doing this, leading me on this way so that when I crossed the line, he can take these emails to my boss Kristen? Fuck. Fuck.

  But his reply calms me down. There’s no aha moment. No “gotcha!” Nothing like that. Just the kind of filth that matches what I’ve sent him.

  “Would you let him lay you back on the couch? Spread your legs, inch your dress up over your hips, and press his fingers past your lips? I think you’d suck on those fingers. Taste how sweet you are.”

  Rather than letting him take control of the conversation, I take a deep breath and regain my bearings. “What about you, Liam? I have a feeling you’d happily work your tongue over Grace’s lips. Tease her, press into her warmth. Peck kisses up to her clit before sucking on it, long enough to bring her to the best climax she’s had in months. And after that, I think you’d fuck her.”

  “I would. Better than she’s been fucked in a long time,” he says. I can hear the authoritative tone in his words, and I bite my bottom lip, containing the groan just under the surface.

  I want to continue, to drop this game we’re playing about what we’d do with his characters, but I know I can’t. The rebellious side of me just wants to let go, to submerge myself in this wholeheartedly. It’s been so long since I’ve done anything like this. Since I’ve felt this turned on. Just the idea of Liam’s beard between my legs is enough to send chills through me, and really make me consider risking it all.

  But I remind myself that I need this job to be as uncomplicated as possible. I need to work on this book with Liam and prove that Kristen didn’t make a mistake by hiring me on as the senior editor. It takes everything I have to dial our conversation back, but I manage to steer clear of the sexual nature and distract him with professional business. I can tell from his messages that he’s a little let down—but that’s how things have to be.

  Maybe if things were different and I wasn’t his editor. Perhaps then we could keep up the game. The fact is, I am working with him, and I’d hate myself if I let something as stupid as sex ruin the biggest career opportunity of my lifetime.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask for your number,” he says, much calmer than we were thirty minutes ago.

  I narrow my eyes. Is this another ploy of his? “Why?”

  “I’ve been having to write all these emails through the phone because there’s no WiFi out here, and being the old man that I am, staring at this screen is giving me a headache. Plus, I’m interested in talking to you. Hearing your voice.”

  I can’t deny that I’d love to hear his voice. I’ve seen interviews, but nothing compares to actually talking to someone. My other clients have had my number before—but then again, Liam isn’t like my other clients. He’s a lot different than any of the others.

  “Alright. Here’s my number. Have a good night.”

  After I press send, I log off and sit back in my chair, shaking my head. Tonight was too much, and though I know I should feel guilty, all I can focus on is the unbridled excitement stirring in the pit of my stomach. The giddiness of doing something so wrong.

 
; I push myself out of my chair and head to the kitchen for another glass of wine to help clear my mind and take the edge off. It hits the spot, and soon I’m able to breathe again. With distance between us, I’m able to think clearer, and I smile.

  I’m playing with fire, but I like it.

  4

  Liam

  It’s getting harder and harder to focus on writing. Max’s voice has gotten lost in the background because all I want to do is focus on Grace. She’s one of my favorite characters I’ve written to date, so complex but simple at the same time. I can clearly see her wants and needs, and unlike Max, her voice comes so naturally to me. Rather than sitting in bed and trying to force myself to come up with words I know I’ll more than likely have to edit out once I finish the manuscript, I put away the laptop and go for a walk.

  The morning is chilly, and I can tell that it’s going to rain today. The sun is hidden behind an endless wall of clouds, making the entire morning seem dour. But it’s not. At least, not for me. Last night was something new, something I never thought I’d get into with another person. It seems that’s just how Harlow is. I’ve never had someone ride my ass about my book like she did, and I’ve never had someone play along with one of my games as easily as she did.

  It was apparent I wasn’t talking about Max last night. She’s smart enough to know that I meant me. What she’d let me do to her. What I’d want her to do to me. And despite it being just a little annoying to see her pull away when we were getting so close to something interesting, I can’t be mad at her.

  It makes sense. This is her first big job since being hired on. From what I’ve gotten to see of her, she’s a hard worker, and I don’t have any plans to ruin something so vital to her. Not only that, but I can tell by the effort she put into my editorial letter that she cares about Dirty Little Secrets. More than anyone else ever did, it seems.