Page 77 of Smut

“Well, what do you know,” he says lazily. “The word fuck works too.”

And the way he’s saying it, the way it rolls off his tongue all slow and languid, works for me too. But he doesn’t have to know that.

I look back to my work and do my best to ignore him, even though he’s right there, so fucking close and representing so much I shouldn’t have.

The chapters we have left are short and I’m a faster writer than Blake, so I push through my writer’s block by pulling out some secret desires and finish mine within two hours.

While he’s still writing, brow furrowed in deep thought, which I always find comical considering what we’re writing, I go and get a bottle of Diet Coke from the vending machine. I normally don’t drink anything with corn syrup and chemicals in it but I need something to stay awake.

Or do I? When I get back to the table, feeling the aspartame and caffeine leach into my system, I see Blake’s taken my laptop and is reading my chapter. My heart somersaults and I know it’s not because of the soda.

I stop by the edge of the table, tapping my fingers nervously along it until he eventually looks up at me.

“I can’t believe you just wrote all this,” he says softly. His voice is gruff and threaded with amazement.

“You like it?” I ask.

He murmurs an agreement, nodding as he looks it over again. “Darling. You’re fucking filthy.”

Is it strange to be proud of that? I give him a half-smile, feeling a little self conscious. “You said it needed to go out with a bang.”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think it would be an anal cream pie kind of bang,” he notes, clearing his throat a few times after.

“Those are the best kind of bangs,” I tell him, sitting back down. “Let’s see what you wrote,” I tell him, taking my laptop away from him and reaching for his.

“No way,” he says, shielding it. “This is rubbish. I need to top you. You can’t out-smut me.”

“I think I did.” I take a sip of my Diet Coke and grimace at the chemical soup. Felt like a good idea at the time.

There’s not much for me to do while he fervently tries to up the smut in his chapter, so I get up again, tossing the almost full can in the trash and head down the aisles to my favorite section: fantasy. It’s tucked away in the back on this level, and with the library being practically empty during these summer hours, it’s like a ghost town. In fact, I think Blake and I are the only people up here and even Treebeard isn’t anywhere to be found.

It’s just what I need. Writing the anal sex scene between Shasta and Ford in the principal’s office got me riled up enough, but now that I’ve seen Blake’s reaction, that heat in his eyes, I can’t pretend I’m not turned on. I need the peace and quiet and the wonderful smell of old books to calm me down, so I can regroup and refocus.

But even as I flick through a few Terry Goodkind novels I haven’t read, my mind tumbles through the world of “what ifs.” What if the book sucks and doesn’t sell a single copy? Will we write another one together or is that the end of it? The end of us?

But what if the book does amazing? Am I prepared to keep writing more? Will we work as a duo still?

Will I be able to handle being around Blake over and over again without anything more happening between us?

What if I can’t?

I have no answers.

What I do have is his sudden presence at my back. I feel his heat, his height, his strength, his build standing right behind me. I was so wrapped up in my thoughts that I didn’t even hear him approach.

I swallow hard, gripping the worn copy of Sword of Truth in my hands like it’s a life raft. I’m too afraid to turn around because he’s right there, waiting for something, for me. I can hear his raspy breath, smell the sage and salt, and feel the electricity thrumming between us.

He doesn’t speak. I hear him shift and his hands are at the back of my head, fingers carefully sliding the elastic down the length of my hair. I close my eyes and try to steady myself as he runs his fingers through my loose strands, spreading it out on my shoulders and breathing it in, before pushing it to the side, leaving the back of my neck bare and exposed.

I inhale sharply, my skin prickling in nervous anticipation.

He places a soft, warm kiss at the back of my neck and my limbs immediately want to turn to jelly from the current of his touch running down my spine.

Stop him, I tell myself. This wouldn’t happen otherwise. You’re both just getting high on your own supply.

Yet I want to get higher.

I want to stop thinking.

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