Page 56 of Smut

He wags his brows. “Because I’m a lot more persuasive in person.”

He’s right, which is exactly why I need to be away from him to make a sound decision. Writing self-published erotica with Blake can only lead to one thing and I’m too afraid to find out what it is.

Blake is still staring at me, waiting for an answer. The drinks are getting to my head, making it easier to just give in, but I have to stay strong.

“I’ll let you know tomorrow,” I tell him firmly.

“You promise you’ll read the whole thing and keep an open mind?”

“I promise.”

“Okay…” He puts his hands behind his head, showing off his wide chest, the thickness of his biceps, and of course I’m staring at him like I’ve never seen a man before. He knows what he’s doing. What an asshole.

“Get a good look?” he asks smugly, all damn dimples.

“Whatever,” I dismiss him, averting my eyes and keeping them locked to my beer. Seems like I do a lot of staring at my drink when I’m around him.

“What should our pen name be?” he asks.

I shake my head. “You really are full of yourself, aren’t you?”

“I refuse to accept that you might turn me down.”

“And I refuse to accept that no woman has before.”

“Oh, I’ve been turned down before.”

“By who?”

His lips quirk. “You,” he says pointedly.

I stare at him for a moment, my mind racing. “When did you proposition me?”

“I don’t have to proposition you to know how you’d react.”

“Oh yeah?” I ask, raising my brow haughtily. “And how would I react?”

“You’d kick me in the balls. You told me that once.”

He sounds so sincere that I have to laugh. “I was just letting you know I could defend myself in case you wanted to take advantage of me.”

“Amanda,” he says, his eyes going soft. “I doubt anyone could take advantage of you.”

“Too smart?”

“That and scary.”

“I’ll take both of those as compliments.”

“Did I mention you’re insanely talented and I need you desperately?”

A thrill runs through me at that thought and I don’t even bother to ignore it this time.

“Seymour Butts,” I say.

He stares at me blankly as I sip my beer. Eventually he spits out, “What?”

“Seymour Butts,” I repeat, straight-faced. “Our pen name.”

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