The Romance Writer
The computer keys clattered and Cherie shifted in her chair. She was just getting to the good part.
Jake took her hand and led her up the long dark stairs into the lighthouse. At the top of the stairs, the lookout point showed the jeweled coast in every direction. Candles, placed were lit around the room, glowing, reflected in the glass. Soft velvet cushions were clustered in one corner, and he led her over to them. Her heart beat fast, her mouth grew dry. She wanted him.
“Come here,” he said, his voice soft and low, and Suzanne melted into his arms. He kissed her lips, her cheeks, her neck, his lips moving lower as his hands were lowering the soft folds of her glittering gown from her shoulders, until they fell around her waist. He unfastened her lacey bra and let it slip down her arms and onto the floor. Slowly, he began to kiss her chest, her breasts, and gently at first, then more firmly, he took her nipples into his mouth.
Cherie took a vibrator from her desk drawer, the soft hum of it turned her on even before she pressed it between her thighs, squirming in her chair to get it up against her underwear. She rubbed it back and forth until she felt herself almost ready to come, and then she returned to the keyboard.
He lowered her onto the cushions, and carefully finished undressing her, slipping her skirt from her hips to her thighs, to the floor, peeling down her stockings, lifting off one shoe and then the other, casting the stockings aside. They were both breathing hard as he continued to kiss her, his lips moving up now, leaving a moist trail from her ankles to her calves, to her smooth creamy thighs, to the golden thong of her underwear. He lifted the lacy triangle covering her pussy, and stroked her with one finger until she opened, melting.
Cherie pushed her own underwear to one side, and pressed the vibrator inside her. Oh yes, that was right, that was right…she closed her eyes for just a moment enjoying the rush, the tingle, her own wetness.
She couldn’t wait any longer. She reached for him, pulled him on top of her, “Take me now…” He released his cock and then he, too, could wait no longer. The time for slow moves was past. He tore off that silken underwear, and plunged inside her.
Cherie wrote erotic romance under the name Jewel Stevens. She was also a science writer for her dad’s environmental research firm, a single woman and glad of it. Her fiancée, such as he was – six years with no proposal – had jilted her — and maybe even more surprisingly, had abandoned her classic LP collection which she knew for sure he loved. He’d left her for another science writer who didn’t “live a double life” and “wasn’t into all this romance stuff.”
Frankly, Cherie was perfectly happy to spend her evenings alone with her characters on espionage missions and lounging on exotic beaches having passionate sex under full moons where the weather was always warm.
Mostly happy, any way.
Now she was standing on the windy dock of her decidedly not-yet-warm beach town, as she liked to describe it, three hours from Seattle and almost at the furthest western edge of the continent.
It was Saturday night, and she decided to take a break and head over to Anna’s Coffee House, a cute spot with a fireplace and hot chocolate, and a place to sit quietly with her lap top full of lovers. Nothing was much better than that.
The street was absurdly quiet, stars twinkling out, she was staring up at them look for the Big Dipper, when a crazy ridiculous thing happened: a flash of headlights speared her in their glare and a super-fast moving sports car took the hill leading to the dock so fast the bottom gave off sparks, and suddenly the car was literally bearing down on her. Cherie jumped back, but the car was aiming right at her, still, as if she hadn’t moved at all.
And then, she was lifted straight off her feet and half thrown onto the sidewalk. But not by the car. The car seemed to slow for a moment and then raced on, its engine throbbing through the quiet town. Or maybe it was her own heart pounding in her chest.
Strong arms were releasing Cherie. They belonged to a tall, well-built guy, and as she stumbled against him, she clung tighter to her lap top bag. Which was ridiculous of course, this guy had just saved her life or something.
“Sorry,” he said, “that wasn’t exactly a graceful rescue. But I saw you, saw the car, and – there wasn’t much time.”
“No worries I mean you – just thank you.” For a writer she was not being very articulate. His hands were warm against her back, brushing her hips. She stepped away from him and found her knees buckling under her.
Now his hands were around her waist. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine – just – a shock, you know…I mean. Look I’m great.”
He lifted his hands from her waist.
“I’m sure you are but – let me walk you across the street,” he suggested. “I have a feeling we were both heading for a cup of coffee.”
“By the way, I’m Mike,” he said, “Mike Logan.” He opened the door to the coffee house, ushering her in ahead of him.
His arm brushed hers, and for just a moment she caught a glimpse of his liquid chocolate eyes, and she thought, wow. If a car was going to try to run me over, this wasn’t a bad way to get rescued.
“You must be vacationing?” she questioned him, after she’d told him her name – her real name, not her double-life name. “I know almost everyone in town so…”
“Yes, I’m just visiting. My dad had some old photographs of lighthouses around here and I thought I’d come and check them out. Maybe you could help me out, tell me the best things to explore.”
Oh, she thought, what I’d love to explore is you.
That was her secret life side, thinking something like that. Her in-real-life persona said “I have lived around here my whole life, so, maybe.”
Sigh, she always sounded so much lamer than anything she could ever write.
But he didn’t seem to mind.
He paid for her hot chocolate, he guided her, his hand warm but discreetly placed against the small of her back to a table close to the warm fire. He showed her photos of his father’s photos on his phone and took notes about everything she said: the best order to find each place and every random thing she said about sea life and look-out points and everything that stretched the conversation on long enough that the coffee house lights blinked twice, and they found themselves back out on the dark, quiet street.
“Is there any place still open around here for, you know, maybe a bite to eat?” Mike asked. He was staying at one of the chain motels off 101, and there were certainly places open there, but Cherie, speaking for once like she was a character in one of her books, said “Well, there’s my place.”
Cherie’s kitchen was tiny, and she couldn’t help but stand close to Mike in her tiny kitchen as helped her chop the local fresh Tilamook cheddar and some spicy little peppers in with the eggs. They were coffee’d out, or at least she was, so she opened her best bottle of wine, a locally produced Sauvignon Blanc. He was impressed he said, with the bouquet. They started holding hands again at her kitchen table.
It felt weirdly right, like she’d known him a long time.
Mike searched through her record collection, found the first Gato Barbieri album and put it on.
“Nothing sounds like real vinyl, does it?” he asked.
He turned up the volume. “Even the pops and crackles…turn me on.”
The look he was giving her told Jenna it wasn’t just the music.
She’d never done anything like this before, although she’d written about it, plenty of times. Was she really going to seduce a guy she hadn’t even known six hours earlier?
Live a little, she told herself. It doesn’t always have to be just a fantasy. She felt her breath catch in her throat as he crossed the room and drew her up from her the table. He took her in his arms, and swayed with her, graceful, fluid, around the table, into the kitchen, out into the living room. She felt his body moving tightly against hers, she felt the heat of him touching her, of his palm on her back, guiding her effortlessly back and forth across her apartment like it was a ballroom floor.
He leaned close, so close she could breathe him in, a little bit of coffee, a little bit of leather, a light, coconut kind of scent on his skin.
How exactly did she write Suzanne seducing Jake in her latest book?
She took his hand in hers and lifted it to her lips, kissing his fingers, one by one. She placed his palm against her breast. “Do you hear my heart beating? I want to get out of this place and out of these clothes and into your arms.”
He didn’t say a word, but he danced her out of the ballroom and onto the balcony overlooking the water. He pulled a chair from the railing into the unlit shadows facing the garden. He took her hand again, and led her to it, and leaning over her, kissed her long and deep.
They kissed so long her lips were raw, and she was gasping for air.
He knelt down at her feet, and lifted the edge of her dress, higher, higher, higher, above her knees. He spread her legs gently, and pushing her panties aside, kissed the inside of her thighs, kissed the outside of her pussy, and then, she was gasping again as he moved his tongue inside her. “More,” she said, as she came, the heat rising inside her.
None of this would do, Cherie thought, feeling herself blush, feeling herself wish she could do something exactly like that. Instead –
“I like you,” she whispered.
“I like you, too,” Mike said, and swirled her around the room again.
She had this kind of girlish thing going, like she wasn’t used to a guy coming on to her, like she didn’t really know how sexy she was in that plain white tee shirt, through which he could see, in a certain light, the outline of what must’ve been a lacy black bra. He allowed himself to wonder if beneath those jeans her underwear was lacy and black, too.
It probably was. It was probably a thong, or maybe even crotchless. At least if she was one of the women she wrote about, that’s the kind of panties she’d be wearing.
He felt like he knew exactly what would turn her on. He felt like he’d already made love to her a thousand times and yet he was totally eager to make love to her again, like it was the first time, which in fact it would be. Just because he’d skimmed through every single one of her books – ten in all and she’d only been writing two years, she was prolific, he wondered what else she was prolific at – it was still the first time they would really make love. If he made love to her. What was he even doing here, dancing with her, holding her close.
He was an undercover cop, and her next door neighbor was under surveillance. He’d discovered her books by accident, doing the usual background check on everyone around Nathan Green. But once he found out, and he read them…was it wrong that he’d hoped he would meet her? That he hoped she would be someone maybe exactly like this?
She shared a common wall with Green, that was all. He was supposed to simply watch her, watch everyone in the building, find the right time to plant a bug and get the intel his team needed.
But when that car skidded toward her, when he wondered who was driving, and why the driver would be aiming for her – it really seemed like the driver was aiming for her – when he quite literally briefly swept her off her feet… well, then, no excuse but no apology either, here he was.
Slow it down, man, he told himself. But how could he when she was pressed in his arms, and her mouth was parted just a bit, her lips moist. And her cheeks were all flushed now, as if she was thinking the same kinds of things he’d been thinking. He felt his jeans growing just a little bit tight below the belt, okay, more than a little bit, more like he was going to burst right through them.
He was surprised, frankly, by how much he enjoyed her books. Fluffy, sexy, heavy on the romance tropes but it also had sort of a dark underbelly, some kind of longing to it. Something, anyway, that spoke to him, once he got past the pink and rose covers and all the heavy breathing. Well actually he sort of like the heavy breathing part, too.
He didn’t know why she refused to acknowledge her work, why she concealed it. He had a feeling that was this girl’s thing – much as it was his own, when you came down to it – concealing who she really was.
Anyway, he was intrigued by her. He wanted to press his lips against her full ripe, opened lips, to which she had so recently reapplied some kind of cherry flavored lip gloss. It was shiny and he could smell the cherries when his cheek brushed hers. He wanted to kiss every bit of it away.
He was holding her in his arms, moving her across the room, but he wanted to be moving his cock in and out of her body, watch those blue eyes of hers get wide when she came…
“I more than like you,” he said, hoping he hadn’t waited too long with his reply.
He kissed those glossy lips and kept on kissing them, his tongue playing across the shiny, sweet cherry stuff until he’d licked it all away, just like he wanted to do. Her tongue meeting his, teasing his, slipping in and out between his lips.
The kissing lasted a long time and they weren’t dancing any more. Somehow the record had ended and was making that popping noise an LP makes when the needle has reached the end of the record and there’s nobody to lift the arm.
He had her backed up against the wall, and his own lips felt hot and raw, like they’d been kissing forever.
Cherie felt like she was one of the women she wrote come to life. She was channeling her own vibrator-driven fantasies. She’d never done anything like this with her fiancée, but then she’d never really wanted to. There was something about Mike – that he was a stranger, not someone she grew up with? That he was absolutely gorgeous when he smiled? Something mysterious though, about him, something a little bit edgy – she just wanted him.
And what was wrong with that? She was a grown woman, he was a grown man, wasn’t she due for a little fun, fun she didn’t write?
She rose up on her toes, rubbing against body against him.
She found herself whispering again, and now it wasn’t “I like you,” it was “I want you,” as she was rubbing her hands across his chest, and he was whispering back “I want you, too.”
He lifted her T-shirt over her head and mussing her hair. He stripped off his own shirt, and tossed them both away. He ran his hands through her hair, tangling it, and she turned her mouth to his hand and kissed it, opened her mouth and gave him a little love bite.
His lips locked with hers again, and they were lost in it, she loved his body pressed against hers, pinning her up against the wall.
“More,” she said, just like Suzanne would’ve, in her latest book.
Mike unsnapped her lacy black bra – which looked even better with the T-shirt off than it had peeking from beneath the fabric.
He kissed her shoulders, lowering the straps of her bra, kissing her arms, moving his tongue lightly across her neck, her chest, closer and closer to her breasts, still contained, but barely, inside that black lace.
Now this was where he was supposed to stop. To say he didn’t want to take advantage, to remember he was on the job…
Another kiss to her lips. Full and moist and open. Another quick graze with his tongue across her shoulders, and down, down to the very edge of that drooping lace.
And now – he steeled himself, this was tougher than he thought, he looked at her, he smiled as wistfully as he could, and he said “I don’t want to rush you. We have time to get to know each other and -”
“Rush me?” she was incredulous. “You’re not rushing me. I think I’ve been waiting to meet you for years.”
She was kissing him again, her soft, warm body up against his. His own body was in great conflict with his mind. His cock was hardening, throbbing, aching, demanding an entirely different path here.
“I’m serious, mister. You’re not leaving now,” she said, and she took a step closer, and one side of that black lace bra drooped just a little lower, and that was it, whether he should or he shouldn’t went right out the window.
His hands slipped around her back and he unhooked that bra, and he tossed it on her couch right on top of her tee shirt and his jacket.
And he had her bare breasts in his hands, he flicked her nipples hard between his fingers, he circled them with his tongue, he nibbled on her tender skin. He unzipped her jeans, and lowered them slowly, helping her step out of them. Yes, her underwear was black and lacy, too.
He watched her face as he rubbed her, feeling her heat and wetness against those panties. He pulled them aside, pressing a finger inside her, and began to stroke her, wet and delicious between her legs. She tightened around his hand, she was moaning, she was coming, her hands unbuckling his belt, unzipping his jeans. She had him in her hands now, and she was stroking him, gently, roughly, gently, roughly, until he was stone. He could explode right there in her soft palm.
He stepped back, just to take her in, the bare breasts, the twisted panties, her legs slightly spread, her mouth open in a perfect round ‘o.’
“Okay,” he grinned. “Your way, but my way too, all right?”
He took her hands, he drew her up against him, her bare breasts tight against his bare chest, his cock rubbing against her legs.
He led her over to the stereo, he made her wait, he made himself wait, while he flipped the record, and the nice hot Latin jazz spilled out into the room again.
His tongue teased her lips, circled her breasts. Her hand was working him over again, now moving around to his buttocks, caressing him there, soft determined strokes.
And then they were dancing again, and he was pulling her underwear down, bending her back against the sofa, pulling them down her thighs. At last he lowered her on the cushions, and used his teeth to pull the band them down to her knees, to her feet. She was ready for him to stroke her, long, smooth strokes with his fingers; she was ready for his tongue, moving along the inside of her thighs, and then inside her, finding and circling her clit. She was even more ready when he lifted her off the sofa, her panties fell loose around her ankles, and she kicked them away. He picked her up and carried her into her bedroom. He was on top of her, and she had her legs wrapped tight against his hips like she was never going to let go.
She loved the way he climbed on top of her now, claiming her, trying to hold back, giving her wave upon wave of pleasure.
Could something this intense, this exciting really happen to her? Apparently it already had.
She cried out as she came again, she buried her face in his chest as she came yet again.
He pulled out of her, gently, flipped her around, and lifted her belly. One hand stroking her pussy over and over so that the sensation never ceased, as he pushed inside her again. Feeling his balls slap up against her buttocks was almost unbearably good, and it wasn’t just a cry but a shriek when she came that time.
“Can’t hold back,” he said, “any more.”
And he pounded into her, making the headboard dance against the wall. She bit down on her pillow when she came one last aching, magic time, as he quivered inside her.
The collapsed in a sweaty tumble on the bed, lying side by side on her rumpled sheets, hips and hands touching.
“You’re amazing,” he said. “Absolutely amazing.”
She propped her head on her elbow, she licked her lips, she wanted to finesse this a little, like she’d play out a scene on the page.
“You haven’t seen anything yet.” She kissed his lips and moved down to his chin, his neck, his chest, with its thick, dark hair; then lower to his smooth belly, and to the soft, damp hair that covered his crotch. She kissed, she licked, she kissed some more until his cock got harder, and harder, and the tip glistened. She took him deep into her mouth, and there was a rushing in her ears as she swallowed his come and he gave a thick low cry that made her shiver.
They stayed up all night. He took her standing by her bathroom mirror, her hands pressed against the glass, watching him as he pumped in and out of her. She kissed his thighs, his balls, sucked him dry again when they slipped into the kitchen to get water.
He took her spread eagled on her kitchen floor when they went back to the kitchen again for more wine.
Her cries rose up and faded; he licked and kissed and fucked every part of her, face and pussy and anus and yes even between those luscious breasts – he came.
And just before the dawn light crept in through her curtains, she pressed her herself on top of him, drew him hot and deep inside her, rode him hard and fast until they were both too tired to move.
It was only then, when she slipped off him, curled up against his hip with her head on his chest that she said sleepily. “I have a secret.”
“Yeah, what’s that?” he asked, stroking her tangled hair.
“I’ve never done half of this before. But I’ve written about it.”
He was drifting off to sleep. “I know,” he said.