The Randy Romance Novelist (10 page)

“Don’t call it a button; it’s your clit, and no book talk right now. This isn’t a book you read, this is Rosie and Henry,” he groaned, clearly starting to feel his impending orgasm.

“Just thought I would share. Maybe you can press my . . . clit,” I choked out the word, not hating the word 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 down 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.

“Gahh! No, nope, don’t like that!” I shouted, pulling away, but trapped in his leg wall.

“Well, you wanted it,” he blamed me.

“The books all say go past the slit, straight to the clit, for a number one hit.”

Henry started rocking his hips inside of me, 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, exposing 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 corrected him, swatting his nipple. “Don’t make me get out the floss.”

“Floss? What kind of floss?” Horror flashed over his features.

Breaking character for a small portion of time, I said, “I read this book where the main character is a domme, and she uses floss to tie the guy’s nipples.”

“Why?”

“Don’t ask questions.” I pinched his nipple this time, 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, then you can’t hide those areolas forever!”

“Get. Off!” he cried out, finally shoving me to the side so 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.

Thanks to Henry’s brute force, I felt more like a human bowling ball rather than a sex temptress with an imaginary flog.

Scrambling around to cover my naked body from mortification, I went to grab one of Henry’s shirts, when I saw Sir Licks-a-Lot crouched on top of it, so it was 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 my antics.

“Fucking Charlie horse,” he huffed out.

Charlie horse! How did you cure a Charlie 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 racked 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 that was sitting 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 yellow pasty fruit straight up his nose.

Horrified, I brought my hand to my mouth and stared in shock at Henry, who had half of 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 Charlie 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 that was still 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 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, covering his vision, while his body settled into the bed, relaxing from his recent attack.

We sat there in silence while he regained his composure. I’ve had a Charlie 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, “Surry with a Fringe on Top” in the background.

Not being able to handle the silence anymore, I said, “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.”

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 up and walked over to a mirror that was in the living room. I took in the black 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 go 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.” The way he spoke to me was so vulnerable, like he was trying to offer me the world, but was nervous about it.

My lungs seized on me 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 down the timeline of my relationship with Henry, the highpoints 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—and he was there after I farted on a chin for the first time, and 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, telling 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 was on my mind, but I didn’t realize it at the time.

If I’d learned anything from writing this book, it was that no matter how you might read characters in a book, 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 quite 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 call 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 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 was. This scene made it so evident that all the best friend wanted was one single night with her, but Meghan was too blinded to see that.

It’s a turning point for the readers; it’s a frustrating moment for them, one that causes angst and for the reader to feel for the boy who just wants to catch the girl.

Just go out with the best friend!!!

That’s what I would shout. It was so obvious.

It was so blatantly and completely obvious to an outsider, but being 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 then 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 was going to be finished with this book.

Checking the time, I realized I needed to get ready, or else I was going to 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 out my skirt and stared up at the little shop front of a bookstore in SoHo. Last Saturday, I looked up some local writing clubs and found SoHo Romance Writers. To my fortunate luck, they met on Wednesdays, which was today. Henry thought it would be a great opportunity for me meet some other authors and pick their brains, so he encouraged me to email them. Within an hour I got a reply back 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 Jane’s were full of foot sweat, and just to match, my upper lip started to perspire as well. I wasn’t nervous to meet them; I was more nervous of the requirements for a newbie to join. They 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 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.