Page 18 of Foreplay on Words

The ultimate honor had gone to my second college boyfriend, who had quite a few repeat performances, and I’d still give a standing ovation if his wife wouldn’t murder me. He was happy to let me explore his body—learning what he liked—and he was always up for trying new positions.

He was older and had scored a single room in the dorm next to mine. We’d had plenty of privacy for our anatomy study sessions. He was also the first guy to blindfold and spank me. I wasn’t fully into doing everything I’d researched and written in my fifth book, but limited sensory deprivation and corporal punishment excited me.

Working with a real-life Dominant was also a fun challenge. I was able to learn a lot about the Dom/sub roles first hand. Once, he’d even tied me up and suspended me from the ceiling of his playroom. No sexual contact was involved, yet it was still thrilling.

A startling thought occurred to me. Oh, God. What if Evan read that book?

No wonder he had a hard time making eye contact with me. My mother had difficulty making eye contact with me after that book was released.

Changing into pajamas, I curled up in bed with my laptop and notebook. I started transferring dialogue into a new text document and tweaking it to fit my current characters. It would be interesting to see if I could keep writing like this once I started to help Evan.

I had a feeling that Kallie, his female main character, was going to invade my brain once we started working on her POV.

After I’d finished transferring my writing onto the computer, I dug around in my suitcase for melatonin spray. I would never sleep with all the conflicting voices running through my brain.

Anyone else who said that would need to be medicated, but authors always understood what it meant to have voices in your head that were not your own. Some louder than others.

The next morning, I woke feeling rested. Sometimes I had trouble sleeping, and I was worried it’d continue while sleeping in a strange bed.

What time was it? I blindly reached behind me to the nightstand for my phone. I probably should have set an alarm to ensure I didn’t sleep the morning away, but I was so anxious it hadn’t occurred to me last night. Did I mention that authors also commonly spoke to themselves inside their heads?

It was still early—7:18 am. That had to be a record, but my growling stomach distracted me from the early hour.

The owner told me the previous day that she served a home-cooked breakfast each morning, and I was enjoying having other people cook for me on this trip.

Unsure of what to wear today, I finally settled on a pair of skinny jeans paired with a white button-down shirt tied at the waist. Evan would have to get used to me wearing clothes that weren’t dresses. My usual writing attire was leggings and a baggy sweater, so this was dressy for me.

I could already smell something delicious as I came down the main staircase. The dining room was set up with several smaller tables, neatly set and waiting for diners.

“Hello?”

“In here!” I heard a shout from the room adjacent to the dining room. I assumed that was where the kitchen was located.

“Good morning,” I greeted Marian, the owner of the inn. She stood over a gas range, turning a sizzling piece of thick-cut bacon over as a pot with poached eggs simmered on another burner.

“Morning dear, you’re up earlier than I expected.”

“I was a little surprised, too,” I laughed as I watched her move around the kitchen effortlessly.

“I hope you’re not a vegetarian.”

“Nope, I’m a big fan of meat.”

She laughed and smiled at me over her shoulder.

“It’ll be done in a few minutes. You’re welcome to chat with me for a few moments, or you can sit in the dining room, and I’ll bring it out to you.”

“If I’m not in the way, I can wait in here.” Sitting alone in the other room, I’d feel weird waiting for her to serve me.

“Just sit on one of the stools, and you can tell me why you’re here.” She nodded to the side of the kitchen island.

“Well, I’m a writer,” I started. It was still awkward for me to out myself to people.

“Hmm. Anything I may have read?”

“Maybe?” I shrugged. “I write under a pen name.”

“And...?”

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