“Tell me.”
I go through the pitch: five authors—us and two popular male authors that Colt and I are friends with—romance and erotica stories, all tied into some kind of central theme but otherwise different from each other. We’d sell it as the Wordsmith anthology, even though there would technically be guys who weren’t in our group, and we’d try our hardest to get on a list with it, like the New York Times. Evidently the elevator pitch isn’t even necessary. I see him smiling halfway through and I know we’ve got him.
“Sold. I think it’s great fucking idea!” he says enthusiastically.
“Oh, shit, really? I thought I’d have to convince you a little more.”
“Why?” he asks. “There’s no downside. We’d just have to work out timing and ask the other guys. Just logistical stuff, but I’m in. I love the idea.”
In my head I’m hoping to get True North on board, but that may be just a fantasy in my mind. I’ll have to work on that.
Dinner winds down, and as it does we keep talking. Wordsmith things, our own work, and just friends shooting the shit. After a while my mind starts to wander, and I’m there in body only. My mind goes twenty-four hours into the future, when I’ll be cooking for the woman who inspired this all. Even though I haven’t seen her in person since we got back, she’s been in my thoughts every day. Before I write, as I write, and after I’m done writing. We’ve been texting back and forth and we spoke a few times on the phone, but it’s criminal that I haven’t made more of an effort to have her in my life. I want her just as much now as I did then, so it’s time to get my shit together and make her understand how much she means to me. What the hell am I gonna cook?
We skip dessert.
I know I’m too full for all of that business, even though a nice piece of chocolate or tiramisu sounds fucking delicious. But I know everyone here already thinks we’re a bunch of thugs, it’d be a bad look to throw up all over the place on our way out, and that’s exactly what I’d do if I had another bite of food. There’s always a next time.
The check comes and our eyeballs open up wide even though we kind of knew how expensive it would be. “Holy shit!” Colt jumps. He’s right. That’s more than any of us have ever probably paid for a meal individually, let alone collectively. To my shock Gray grabs the whole thing from us and hands it and his card back to the waiter, who’s just a few feet away at the next table.
“Woah, woah, what are you doing?”
“Balling,” Gray says, smiling. “I had a good weekend, and I want to treat my friends to a great—albeit expensive—dinner.”
“Man, you don’t have to do that, it’s nuts, we can split it three ways.” Colton reaches for his back pocket but Gray puts up his hands.
“When you hit number 1 in the romance category on Amazon with this series you’re working on, or you, Mike, with this this standalone—you guys can take turns treating us all. Or maybe when we all hit it big with this anthology we can just rotate the expensive dinners. Who knows. But right now I’m taking out a loan on our future success. Just let me.”
I’m legitimately touched by the gesture. I feel bad because I don’t care how successful of a weekend Gray had, there’s no way he sold that many books as to be able to afford the whole bill tonight, but after what he said I let him pay. Colton does the same, but he lets go of his wallet grudgingly. “Thank you.”
“Yeah,” I repeat. “Thank you, Grayson.”
“You got it. Now let’s pay this and get out of here before anyone else stares at us like we’re a biker gang about to rob the place.”
After the bill’s paid we hug it out on the curb and go our separate ways, with a promise to touch base that weekend so we can discuss future plans. Almost the second I get in my car my attention shifts to Everleigh and our date tomorrow night. I start the car and close my eyes. There she is, standing in my doorway, looking as gorgeous as the first time I saw her at the bar. Soon enough this fantasy will be a reality, I just have to make sure I don’t blow it.
I open my eyes because I have an idea. I put on my signal, hit the gas, and I’m off to the grocery store to pick up a few things. Tomorrow’s going to be amazing.
22
Everleigh
I can’t wait to see Michael tomorrow. I can’t believe it’s the first time since the signing that we’re going to see each other in person. Things between us started out so hot and heavy, so intense, but then it seems to have fizzled out a little since we got back to reality. After the first few days of no contact I started to get seriously insecure. I thought sleeping with him was a mistake because maybe he didn’t really want me. That’s what I thought, anyhow. Maybe we’d just gotten caught up in the fake world of the signing, where everything isn’t like it is back here in our real lives.
Then I told myself to just shut up. I know he’s into me, and I’m sure as hell into him. I was starting to feel something for him that weekend, and I think he was feeling the same. I don’t sleep with guys I don’t have feelings for, so I hope he knows how I feel even if I didn’t explicitly tell him. Plus he was going through some shit with his missing book and laptop that I knew he had to clear up. I have no idea what happened with that, but I’m sure he’ll tell me tomorrow.
He texted me last night that he has something to tell me about his WIP. I’m excited that he even has a WIP. When we were leaving the signing I encouraged him to rewrite whatever it was that he’d lost on his laptop, but that was only because he seemed so worked up about it. I’m glad that he’s working on something new because that means it wasn’t a fluke, or some random idea that came to him. If he has a work in progress that means his brain is working like a writer’s again, and he’s producing things. That makes me happy.
But tonight it’s just me and Harley. Michael told me that he and the other Wordsmiths are having a boy’s night out, so I thought, why not have a girl’s night in? I invited them both over but Rowan has to work late, so it’s just Harley, me, and a bottle of wine. I’ve had enough going out and partying for a while, anyhow. To be honest a big part of all that going out was trying to meet guys and since I have Michael in my life I feel less guilty about not hitting up every bar in the area. My house, a nice glass (or two) of wine, and good friends are my idea of a great evening.
I dive into the wine a little early because Harley’s late as usual. I’m so used to it that I told her to be here thirty minutes before I even want her to come. Even with that extra cushion she’ll be twenty minutes later than she says. I give it about five minutes before my phone blows up with a bunch of update texts where she apologizes and tells me how she lost track of time and is on her way. My phone vibrates on the table. Sooner than I thought.
She comes in looking a little worse for wear, but then again she always looks frazzled. We order some pizza to go with all the wine I have. I’m already starting my second glass, and she brought a bottle also. “You got the blush?” I ask.
“You know it. I see you started a little early.”
“I expected you to be your usual late self. I figured the buzzed version of me would get less annoyed at your tardiness.”
“Very funny. I’m on time occasionally. And don’t get blitzed, I’m not Ro. I’m not holding anyone’s hair back. Vomit freaks me out.”
“Deal.”
We drink and eat once the pizza comes, and it takes Harley about ten seconds before she dives into the sex talk. “So tell me more about his dick, I’m curious.”
“Jesus, Har, why the obsession with his dick?”
“I’m not obsessed. I think about dicks in general, don’t you?”
“What?”
“Not like, random dicks. But when you meet a guy, or even when you’re just talking to a guy, you never wonder what he’s packing?”
“Sometimes, I guess, but not as a general rule, no.” My two best friends are such contrasts, yet they’re similar in some regards. Rowan’s the closet freak. But Harley? She puts it right out there for everyone to see. It’s funny, t
hough, because now that she’s talking about it I did have those thoughts about Michael when we met. But I usually don’t. “And I already told you.”
“No, you didn’t. You told me you’d keep me posted once you’d finally laid eyes on it. I assume he’s fucked you properly by now, so tell me.”
“It’s big, okay. Really big.”
“I knew it!” She says. “And you’re not just saying that?”
“Trust me, I’m not. It’s. . .something.”
“And?” She asks, looking at me like I should know where she’s going with this line of questioning.
“And, what?”
“How was it? Having an impressive cock is one thing. Knowing how to use it is another. There’s not always crossover in my experience.”
“The man can do things with his penis that you only ever see in a porno, or some late night HBO special from the 1990’s. I’m telling you, Harley.”
“Shit, like what?”
I grab her attention with that line. Normally Harley’s the one who’s spouting off at the mouth in way too much detail about whatever sexcapades she’s been on. But today it’s my turn, and it feels nice to be the one throwing out the shocking statements instead of receiving them.
“Like this weird thing he did with his hips. It’s hard to explain.”
“Did he make you come?” she asks. I don’t know why I get bashful all of a sudden, but I look down and snicker a little. Harley gets the point. “He did. He did make you come. Holy shit, he’s not just good at writing, huh?”
“He’s a man of many, many talents. Trust me.”
“So, like, what else did he do?”
I tell her more detail than I’m used to spilling. Not that there’s ever a lot to spill. I was with Jeremey for a few years, and our sex life had run pretty dry. In fact, if I’m being honest, it was never that amazing to begin with. It was fun in the beginning, like it always is at that point in a relationship. But Jeremey wasn’t a giving lover. He liked to get off as fast as possible and roll over. He didn’t give a shit about my pleasure.
Michael is nothing like that.
All he did was give. All he cared about was my pleasure. How many men care more about the woman’s sexual pleasure than their own? I honestly got the impression that he didn’t care whether he came or not, as long as he made sure that I did. When I orgasmed with him it was like he was. . .happy. It wasn’t a conquest or an accomplishment to him, making me come was something that made him happy to do.
“He sounds amazing,” Harley says, wide-eyed at my story. “I wish I could find a guy like that.”
“Wasn’t there that guy last month?”
“Gone. And not very good while he lasted. I mean that literally.”
“And before that? Wasn’t it James, or John, or. . .”
“Jason. Jason came and went. Again, I’m speaking literally. I haven’t really been with anyone who’s anything like what you’re describing Knight to be. I’m jealous.
“Don’t be,” I tell her. “Outside of this I think you’ve got me beat in the sex department.”
“It’s not a competition, Ev. You found a guy who cares about you, and you obviously care about him. I’d trade all the good, anonymous sex in the world to have that. Savor it.”
“I am. I really am. It’s almost too good to be true except for one thing.”
“What’s that?” she asks.
“The secrecy. I’m not into the secrecy, but I feel like it’s something we have to do to protect him. I’m not even sure what we are, or what exactly to make of what happened.”
“It’ll all work out. Right now, if you want my advice, don’t make rules. Don’t try to classify it. You’re getting fucked properly by a hot male romance writer who really cares about you. Don’t ruin that by analyzing it to death. Just enjoy it.”
Harley’s right. How lucky am I. Knight is fucking gorgeous. Before we officially met when he walked into the bar, all the women could talk about was how hot he was, how much they’d love it if he could reenact their favorite scene in one of his books with them, and how all he’d have to do was ask and they’d drop their panties right on his bedroom floor. But he doesn’t want them. He wants me, and I can hardly go a second without remembering what the girth of his cock felt like inside me. I’ve never been that wet in my life. I get lost in the thoughts of what he was like. How hard he threw his hips against my ass. How he’d pull out of me fully just so he could experience thrusting himself back in all the way.
It didn’t feel like sex.
And it sure as hell wasn’t love making.
He was fucking me. And he was doing it like I’ve never experienced before.
And all I’m imagining is all of the techniques he hasn’t shown me yet. The ways he could bring me to the brink of shaking in orgasm and then pull me back, only to take me there again. He has control, confidence, and more technique than Muhammad Ali. He was a master, and my pussy ached to have him in me again.
23
Knight
The Next Day
I meant it when I said fuck going out.
There’s honestly no need to pay a few hundred dollars for a nice dinner when I can cook it much better. I know that sounds cocky, but I can cook my ass off.
If I weren't a writer I'd say something trite like, "I'm a Renaissance man.” The truth is I'm a Polymath, a man of many talents, few of them related, and long before I stepped into the world of writing and publishing books I was a chef...well, sort of. That might be a slight exaggeration. I went to culinary and pastry school, and I was honestly one of the best students in my class, but I was young at the time and like most young guys I was dumb, listless, partied too much, and didn't know exactly what I wanted to do with my life.
Culinary school sounded about as good as any other option available to me at the time. There was learning how to become a chef, sitting on my couch and doing jack shit, going to community college, or getting some other job. I’d done the other three things already, so before I ended up getting my bachelors in literature when I was twenty six, I entertained delusions of being the next Bobby Flay.
That wasn’t in the cards. The long and early hours, the discipline, the shitty pay, none of it was for me. But I was damn good at the actual cooking part. Our chef instructors used to make competitions out of everything at school. Best prep, best meat cooked to the perfect internal temperature, best plating, best dessert. I won most of the competitions among my classmates. And even when I didn’t win, I came damn close.
Listen to me, bragging like I’m about to open up my own restaurant chain. I’m not, trust me. I’ve barely been productive enough to write a book, but I do really love to cook. I don’t know why I don’t do it more. I do, actually. It’s because I’m not willing to put in that type of work just for myself, and God knows I haven’t had anyone else to cook for in a long time. But now that’s changed. Now a lot of things have changed. Everleigh is on her way, and I think that even though we’re staying in I still have a nice evening planned for us. A non-date date. And I’m not just cooking for her, either. But I’ll wait to surprise her with that.
I do a bunch of prep work so that once she’s here the meal is ready to cook. It takes me about twenty minutes to get everything set, and just as I’m finishing up my doorbell rings. She’s here. I didn’t think I’d feel this way after everything that happened, but I’m actually a little nervous to see her again. It’s different now. Last time it was all about me and the signing. The setting was mine, the context of our meeting had to do with my career, and even the reason we couldn’t be together out in the open had to do with me. Now, back in the real world, it needs to be about us, her and I together.
I open the door to see a vision that’s far better than anything I could have possibly thought up in my limited imagining sitting alone in my car. Instantly those nerves that I was feeling seconds ago dissipate into nothing, and I feel something that’s neither nervousness nor total comfort. I feel something in between, like
a hybrid emotion that keeps me on my toes, but also makes me feel like we’ve had this date our entire lives, and now we get to live it out. “Wow.”
She smiles. It’s all I can think to say. It’s three inept letters that make up a word any child would use to describe something, but it’s the most honest reaction I can give. Just like that child, I’m in awe, and when you’re in awe of something you say wow. “Thank you, you look great, too.”
“You’re too nice.” I joke. I have crap all over my shirt, and my hair is a mess, and I really should have shaved yesterday, but this isn’t the first time we’re seeing each other, so I forego the perfect look for the perfect date instead, and I hope she’ll forgive me on that. She steps through the doorway looking gorgeous. I stare at her while she takes a deep breath and comments on how good everything smells.
“Caramelized vegetables,” I tell her. “Carrots, onions, and some garlic.”
“Oooh, fancy.”
“Not at all,” I say modestly. “The oven does most of the work with those. Just a little olive oil, salt and pepper, and let ‘er rip. I’m talking to you like I’m on some cooking show and you’re a judge, aren’t I?”
“No, you’re good,” she says, laughing. “I like hearing about it. It’s making me hungrier than I already was.”
She’s facing my kitchen, but when she turns around to face me I wrap my arms around her and kiss her. She seems surprised at first, but it only lasts a second, and then her body submits, her lips press into mine softly, and her arms wrap my waist. “It’s been too long,” she says when our mouths separate. “Way too long.”
“I know, I’m an asshole. I can’t believe we’re just doing this now. It’s all my fault, I take full responsibility.”
“I agree,” she jokes. “No, it’s never just one persons’ fault. How about we call it both of our faults. I could have been a little more pushy, but I didn’t want to bother you.”
Knight: The Wordsmiths Book One Page 16
