by Logan Chance
The rest of the morning, I stay sequestered in my office with Jacqueline Carter, a wealthy socialite who has a cheating husband. His philandering ways have diminished her sex drive to non existent. I listen as she takes the blame on herself for his affairs. The non professional part of me wants to tell her to find a man who can keep his dick in his pants, the professional part knows it’s not that simple.
Sometimes I love what I do, other times, like now, I question my choice. When I first went into medical school, I had my whole career mapped out with the end result as a plastic surgeon. Since living in LA is a goldmine for surgeries in that field, easy choice.
Except, the Sun Valley is saturated with doctors who had the same thoughts as me, so I remapped my life and went where I was needed, where I could actually make a difference—in the bedroom. And it was great for a while, but now I feel like I could be doing more. I want more.
Once Jacqueline's session has ended, and I’ve finished my notes, I head outside for fresh air and cross the lot to my favorite once a week food truck: ‘Wanna Taco Bout It.’
It’s late, so the normal throng of employees waiting in line is nonexistent. Except, a lone redhead at the neon yellow truck’s order window.
Rose.
“You know it’s Thursday, right?” I say, stepping up behind her.
She turns to face me, taco in hand.
“Who says you have to only have tacos on Tuesday?”
“Same people who say you have to have pizza on Fridays.”
She gives me a glimpse of a smile. “They just don’t understand the Thursday craving for a taco.”
“Exactly. They aren’t true taco aficionados.” I step up to the window and glance back at Rose. My eyes examine the glints of gold in her dazzling red hair, the graceful lines of her exposed neck, and the, well, I don’t want to be that asshole guy objectifying women, but her breasts are stellar.
She turns away to grab a few napkins. “Are you here for a taco?”
“Are you offering me yours?”
She spins back around, and I can’t help but focus on her upper lip line. According to a study in The Journal of Sexual Medicine, prominent upper lip tubercles indicate a woman’s ability to have a vaginal orgasm. Ok, let me leave out the medical jargon—Rose’s lips tell me she wouldn’t need my finger on her clit to get her off.
Irritation grips my shoulders, knotting them, that I would even notice. That I want to test the theory.
“Well, no,” she finally says, breathy and innocent.
Of course she wouldn’t give me her taco. Not that I would take her taco, but I’m sure it’s delicious. Furthermore, I will never know because Rose is my employee, not someone I can fuck and forget. I can already tell that about her. She’d claw her way in and spread until I was trapped in love soaked brambles, unable to break free from her intoxicating taste. And that just can’t happen.
So, I step up to the window and order, because again, she’s a fucking thorn in my side.
3
Rose
“Write what you know.” —Mark Twain
I’m a hot mess. Was his question about my taco a euphemism? It’s a little disturbing I wanted to scream ‘yes, take my taco’ and shove it all over his beautifully sculpted face.
When he confronted me about the angry sex note, I wanted to curl into a ball and roll away. How could I even explain to him the note? I couldn’t exactly say, ‘You drive me nuts, and I want to shove you against the wall and have angry sex.’
So I can obsess over him undetected, I find a secluded bench in the shaded courtyard to dine on my taco and watch as Declan talks to the guy working the truck. It’s hard to believe a man like him is single. As far as I can tell from managing his life, he’s not involved with anyone. Long term, anyway. He’s so self assured, so composed as he lounges against the window counter without a care in the world. Like he has all day to stand there, talking to the man behind the counter. Lust emerges in a sheen of sweat between my breasts as I watch him. I’ve never had any man affect me in this way. Well, I haven’t had many men, so there’s that, but none of my previous boyfriends made me want to write about them. They were all very bland. Dry toast to his buttery croissant. They certainly never made my boobs perspire.
To avoid staring at him, I pull out my phone and plot a quick scene in my notes for Love Doctor. My romance book that started out as an homage to Declan, has turned into so much more with real, breathing characters I torture each day. I should probably abort this mission to publish a book loosely based on my boss, but I’m too attached to the characters. They won’t stop flitting through my head.
When I’m done creating havoc for my heroine, Annette, I toss the remainder of my lunch in the trash and glance up to see Declan striding toward me with purpose until his black leather shoes stop right in front of my bench. Rather than give into my primal instinct to bolt, I slip my phone into my bag and meet his encompassing stare.
“I’d like to go over a few things with you after your lunch. Make a to do list for an upcoming trip I’m taking.”
“Sure,” I stand, “I’m on way back now. I’ll meet you there.”
“I’ll walk with you.”
“Ok.”
We don’t say a word to each other on the walk back inside, and that suits me just fine. His voice does things to me, so I’d rather not hear it right now. Thankfully, a small crowd of employees await the elevator, so I won’t be alone with him.
We step into the elevator and I shuffle to position myself in the corner where it’s safe. I need at least three arm lengths between us.
He’s too fast, going for the same spot, and as I step back, my butt cheeks make contact with his groin in the crowded space. It feels like someone stuck an electrode to my ass. He must’ve felt it too, because what sounds like a whisper hiss sounds from his lips before his hand grips my hip. Dena, a tall blonde from accounting, blocks me from moving forward, so I tilt my pelvis forward a bit to no avail.
He releases me, and I’m grateful for the drone of polite elevator chatter to drown out the thunderous rhythm of my heart as the elevator ascends at an achingly slow pace.
After what seems like centuries, the lift dings and a few people vacate. And so do I. Out of my peripheral, I see the bewildered look on Declan’s face as I exit, but I keep moving toward the door that leads to the stairs.
On the three remaining flights up to his floor, I compose myself as best I can now knowing that Dr. Sincock is indeed Dr. Bigcock. When I named the character Eclan Bigcock, it was sort of a joke, but um, yeah, he’s packing. And if I’m not mistaken, he was semi hard.
As I approach, through the glass windows of the office, I see him standing by my desk. Mentally, I take a deep breath before opening the door.
“Just needed to work off that taco,” I use as an excuse when I enter the office.
“Ah,” is his only response, as if he knows exactly why I left.
“Where would you like me?” I ask, bending over to put my handbag in the bottom drawer of my desk. When I lean up, and turn, he’s right there, and my breasts make contact with the steel muscles of his chest. He steps back as if I burned him with my nipples. And then he makes everything worse.
“I’ll need you to accompany me on the trip.” Before I can object, he stalks toward his office door. “I’ll just email you the specifics.”
The specifics, right. Hopefully, they’ll include instructions on how to handle myself professionally with my boss for a trip out of town.
“Bad day?” Julie texts in answer to my crying emoji I texted her as I sit parked in Christian’s driveway for my weekly critique meeting.
“The worst.” Not just a bad day, it’s been a bad week, actually. Ever since Declan told me I’d have to accompany him to Santa Maria, things have been tense. Why does he need me there? All week long, I’ve tried to come up with a reason I can’t go—fear of bridges, sudden food poisoning, cramps—but, unfortunately there isn’t one that will work. And now, to ad
d insult to injury, I have to sit through hours of sex scene shaming. “I’m not really looking forward to tonight,” I confess.
“I thought you liked going?”
“I used to.”
The writing critique group was so much fun when I first joined. Interacting with other authors made me feel as if I was actually moving toward my seemingly unattainable goal. But now, I just feel so out of place. I feel as though I’m moving backwards. The other writers have a formula they follow that doesn’t fit into my vision of being a published author. I always pictured it as lazy days behind a desk, writing the words I want to write, not pumping the same old garbage out again and again. Is that so wrong? Are these people really the ‘say all’ in books?
“What’s really going on?”
“Remember how Pru called my scenes tame? Well, maybe she’s right, and it’s because I’m not very sex savvy.”
“Sex savvy?” She laughs a little. “You need to get laid.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. Let’s go out.”
“I have my writing group to go to.”
“I’ll meet you after.”
I’d much rather curl up on my couch and Netflix. It’s easy to get caught up in my head and forget an outside world exists, because, in my mind, I’ve been so many places. Real life kind of sucks sometimes.
She finally convinces me and we make plans to meet at Patty’s Pub after I’m done. Maybe she’s right, and I need to get laid. Just let myself go and have sex with no commitment.
With dread, I grab my handbag and make the short trek up the drive to Christian’s front door and knock.
He opens the door of his rambler-style home and welcomes me in. “The others will be here any minute,” he informs me as I step inside.
We’ve had numerous meetings in Christian’s home, and I still get goosebumps when I see the wall-to-wall bookshelves in his spacious living area. I love books. I just do. Everything about them—the smell, the feel, what’s inside. Christian has enough books for his own library and every time I'm immediately drawn toward the floor-to-ceiling shelves.
“This is cool,” I say, moving to check out his new design on the center shelf.
“I have them organized by color.”
Every week he does something different. This week it’s a mini rainbow. I smile, moving closer to inspect his handiwork.
The first book in the spectrum of colors is thick and red, and I run my finger down the spine. “Dracula. Good choice.”
“It’s a favorite.”
There's a knock at the door and Christian turns away from me to answer. The voices of Rebecca and Pru sound from the entry, cutting short my book envy. Instead of the leather sofa, where I might get stuck next to Pru, I take a seat on a yellow wingback chair and grab a few bite-sized hor d'oeuvres from the tray on the coffee table, shoving them in my mouth so I won't have to make idle chit chat.
“Let’s get started,” Christian says, leading them into the living room. “Rose, why don’t we start with you.”
Pru and her ego take a seat on the couch across from me. “Yes, let’s save the best for last,” she jokes.
“You mean the one with the best ghostwriter,” Rebecca mumbles, sitting in the chair beside me.
The cocktail wieners threaten to come up at the thought of sharing my work again. My short probably reads like a children’s book next to theirs, and everyone will say the scene is still too tame, even though I used the word pussy—twice. Reluctantly, I pass out the printed copies of my five-hundred word fuckfest.
This time, to really stretch my writing flexibility, I went with vampire sex. In an elevator. Ugh.
The elevator doors swoosh closed and Eclan grabs me from behind, his fangs dangerously close to my neck.
“Your pulse is racing,” he whispers, sweeping my hair off my shoulder. “Are you afraid or turned on?”
“Both.”
My pussy aches with need, wanting more than anything for him to claim me right here. Right now.
His fangs prick my neck in a slow tease, just enough to barely puncture my soft skin. The searing pain is overshadowed by primal pleasure. He licks the love bite, and I brace my hand against the metal wall of the elevator, pushing my ass against him.
“Fuck me,” I plead.
For a moment, I think he’s going to deny me, until I hear the distinct sound of his zipper inching down. He’s a master tease, brushing his dick against my ass. It's huge.
Chills fan across my skin when he runs his warm hand up my thigh to play with my pussy. I moan.
And then with a guttural growl, he ends the sweet agony, pounding inside me with vampiric force. My blood boils with desire. This is wrong, I tell myself.
But, my heart is too far gone to listen.
Christian’s eyes meet mine as he places his paper on the coffee table. “Much better,” he says, coughing a bit. “This isn’t from the book you’re working on, is it?”
I smile, feeling like I’m finally getting the hang of this sex stuff. Obviously, I’d love for people to take something meaningful away from my stories, feel that tug in their gut, but if I can turn people on from my writing, and they feel it in their vaginas, I’ll take that too. “No, this was just a little scene I threw together.”
My temporary high is short lived when Pru’s critique brings me down to Earth. “I wouldn’t touch myself,” she says. “I think you need to get naughtier. Your sex scenes are not there yet. He should’ve fucked her in the ass. Maybe had his vampire buddies participating, watching in the mirror.”
Pru is a best-selling author, and I should be honored she’s even reading my scenes, but I’d be lying if I said her criticism wasn’t getting on my last nerve.
If I were a confrontational type person, I’d tell her to shove a dick in her mouth, but I’m not. Instead, I save my animosity to be worked out between my characters. I blink and then finally find my words to respond. “Well he’s huge, so they’d need lube. It kind of ruins the moment to pull out a big bottle of lube?”
Rebecca laughs. “Plus vampires don’t have reflections.”
“It’s fiction,” Pru shoots back. “They can do whatever they want.”
“Well he doesn’t like to share,” I add. And neither do I. After all the scenes are read, Christian dismisses us, and I can’t get to the bar fast enough.
The Irish pub is packed when I arrive and I squeeze through clusters of people until I find Julie in a booth by the stage. Her short black hair with periwinkle streaks is easy to spot in a crowd.
After a few drinks, some of the tension slips away. “I need sex scene help.”
Julie chews on the black stirrer from her drink. Her brown eyes focus all on me. “Ask me. I know a few tricks.”
I shake my head. “It isn’t just tricks. I should write from my own experiences. Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should have sex tonight.” I’m so missionary position. It never even crossed my mind to go for anal in that scene, or ménage.
“Yes,” Julie grins, nodding her head, “now you’re talking.” She swivels in her seat, taking in the whole place. “Let’s see.” She points to a man by the door in a black sweater and jeans. “How about him?”
“I didn’t mean right now,” I say with a laugh.
But, Julie ignores me. “Seriously, what about him?” She points to the same man again.
“Too short.”
“Him.” She points to his friend wearing a red Polo and khakis.
“Too tall.” He is really tall, like Jack and the Beanstalk tall. I’d need a ladder to reach him.
“How about Doctor Sex?”
“Who?” I know exactly who she’s referring to, although I pretend I don’t.
“Dr. Bigcock.”
I shush her. “You can’t mention that name out loud.” I glance around to be sure no one overheard.
“How’s the book coming along? Aren’t you excited?”
I shrug. “I’m not really sure.” Maybe it would feel better
if Julie wasn’t the only person on the planet who knows I’m writing it. Since I can’t share the news with friends and family, it’s lackluster at best. It’s like a celebration with no one there. Not to discount Julie, of course.
“Well, any plans on when you’re releasing it?”
I laugh. “Maybe never.”
“You can’t not publish it,” she chastises me before eating the olive from her martini. She points the toothpick at me. “People will love it. Believe me. And I’ve got connections who can help.”
“I don’t know.” Despite all the knowledge Julie has bestowed on me from her experience designing covers for some of what she says are the hottest romance writers, I’m terrified.
“Wait.” She fishes another olive out of her martini glass and pops it into her mouth. “You aren’t letting your critique group read your book, are you?”
“No. I’m just doing little random scenes here and there for them.”
She takes a sip of her drink. “Good, cause they steal ideas.”
I grab my own drink. “I don’t think anyone would want to steal my ideas.” And it’s true. I’m not a noteworthy author or anything.
“Um,” Julie points toward the door, “isn’t that your boss?”
In an exorcist-like move, I twist my head and spot Declan walking into the club with a dark haired man. “I swear hot people hang out with hot people,” she muses. “You really need to have sex with him. For me.”
I finish off my Cosmo, taken aback by the sight of casual Declan in jeans and a black button down. “He’s not really my type.”
Julie’s brown eyes narrow, calling out my lie. “Successful and gorgeous aren’t your type?”
”He’s my boss, that automatically makes him not my type.“ I watch them approach the bar where two leggy blondes set their sights on them. I’m sure he'll be all over them in no time and I don't want to stay to find out. “Let’s go before he sees me.”
