Page 27 of Not That Impossible

“Um. I can…brew coffee well. Chop wood all day long. And oh, sir, I will sweep your hearth and lay your fire, I will make your bed in the mornings and—”

“I have enough maidservants. Again.”

There was only one more thing I could do. Shame singed my cheeks even as I whispered bravely, “I could dance for you!”

He made an interested noise.

Another secret I’d been protecting my long and lonely and under-appreciated life: I was trained in the art of sensual erotic dancing, despite being otherwise completely innocent of the ways of the flesh, untouched and saving myself for my soulmate. It wasn’t weird or anything.

“Yes,” the warlord said, visibly excited by the thought of me dancing for him. “You shall dance for me.”

“But I shall never surrender my innocence!” I said, tossing my head.

“You will beg me to take it from you before we are done,” he said with a confident laugh.

“Never!”

“Oh yes, you will.”

“I loathe and despise you! You are the despoiler of the kingdom and I will never cease fighting.”

“And yet you will still beg for my touch.”

“I shall never betray my king or my country.”

“We’ll see.”

“There is nothing you can do that would—oh!”

The warlord clasped me in his brawny arms and pressed his lips to mine. A strong, demanding hand cupped the manly bulge in my war breeches and rubbed knowingly. I shuddered and moaned in his grip, and—

“Really, Jasper?” King Adam broke in. “In the throne room? Gross.”

He was standing right there beside me, with the other captured soldiers.

“Good point,” I said.

I stopped typing and critically read over the story.

I sagged a bit. It was okay, and definitely about to get to the good stuff, but things never quite read back the way I was expecting. When the words were flowing and I was in the zone, it was as if I was there, living every second.

When the words had stopped flowing and I read them back, I felt stupid.

It was fine. I could edit. I always edited hard, it was fine.

I glanced up at the clock. Oh, shit. Well, that took a lot longer than ten minutes.

Reluctantly, I exited the encrypted and password-protected notes app where I wrote all my sexy stories that no one but me would ever read, and opened up no-nonsense, businesslike Word.

I stared at my nemesis: the cursor.

Stop thinking about the warlord Nash and how he nearly rubbed one out of you in a crowded throne room, I told myself, and think about thecommunity. Like a journalist. Like aproperwriter.

What issues were important right now?

How did people in Chipping Fairford feel about…?

I racked my brains.

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