Page 7 of His Cabin Obsession

She led him up fading stairs with flickering strips of light, past notice boards and abandoned toys and plants slowly dying on communal windowsills. She led him up to a door marked 301 and inserted the key, and when she turned to close the door he trapped her up against it, a whirl of blonde hair as she spun to look at him.

“How about it?” he said. He was tall, forcing her to look up at him, and the arms that encircled her were thick and strong. He was dressed all in black, like some villain in a movie. His wicked sharp smile.

“Alright,” she said, and rose up to meet him on the balls of her feet, heels discarded on the floor. They made a trail for adventurers to follow. Coats not quite hung on the peg but dropping down below it, a shirt in the hall, an elegant dress pooled on the threshold of the bedroom, suit trousers by the dresser.

He touched her in all the right places until she moaned and begged to be free of the bonds of the last barrier between them. Her nipples rose like volcanoes under the rough pad of his thumbs. She tugged the last strip of fabric from his naked body and worshipped it, casting her hands down sculpted lines and memorizing him.

He entered her there on the bed, her head thrown back in animalistic joy. “Oh, Aaron,” she moaned, and outside a street cat yowled in anger, and the lights of a passing car momentarily cast a shadow on the wall.

“What are you writing?”

I jump, my pen leaving a streak of ink across the page. I was so deep into the story that I didn’t even hear Aaron come in, totally oblivious to anything except the words and the damp heat between my legs.

I look up to see Aaron reaching for a pot of coffee on the counter and pouring himself a cup. He glances back at me and catches my expression with a frown. “I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says.

“It’s fine,” I say, my mouth dry and my words barely loud enough to be heard, trying to hide the red flush over my cheeks by turning away from him as quickly as I can.

Chapter Six

Aaron

It was just a casual question, but now I’m really intrigued. The flush that came over Olivia’s face, coupled with the soft concentration she wore before – I could almost swear she looked aroused, not that I know how that looks on her face, yet. I will, when she’s mine. I don’t have long to wait.

Still, this story of hers has me interested. What could it be that had her so intensely focused, and now leaves her embarrassed after my interruption?

“Were you working on a short story?” I ask. I pick up my mug of coffee and start to move towards her, thinking that I might read it over her shoulder.

“No!” Olivia blurts out, quickly closing the cover of the notebook she’s been working in. “I mean, yes. But it’s very much a work in progress.”

I laugh. Is she embarrassed that it might not be good enough? “It’s all in progress, right? That’s the point of your stay – to practice?”

“Yes,” she admits. “I just… I’m just doing some quick exercises. To get into practice.”

“Well, let’s read it, then,” I suggest. I stand next to her, setting my coffee down on the table beside her.

“No!” Olivia exclaims, her eyes widening with alarm. “No, I can’t possibly…”

Alright, now I need to read it. I reach out and take the notebook from the table, so fast that Olivia doesn’t have time to react to stop me. She makes a desperate grabbing motion, chasing after my hands, but I’m already out of reach.

“I’m sure it’s not that bad,” I tell her. “Let me read it. I can give you some feedback to help.”

Olivia makes a noise of disagreement, but seeing that I’m already on the other side of the table, she gives up and sinks back down into her chair. Then her eyes drop to the tabletop in front of her, her cheeks burning red. For some reason, she reminds me of a kid caught with her hand in the cookie jar. Now, why would that association come to my mind?

I open the front cover to the first page, where Olivia was writing a moment ago. I quickly skim the text, it sounds like a noir-style romance, something a bit old-fashioned but not too badly done, and–

Oh.

When she said she liked writing romance, I didn’t realize she meant erotica.

I turn away from her slightly, feeling the hit of arousal deep in the pit of my stomach. I angle my body so that she won’t be able to see my hardening length making a bulge in my pants – somehow, the idea of Olivia writing something like this goes right to the primal side of me.

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