Page 13 of Our Little Cliche
“My name is Jules, but can you sign it toyourgood girl?”
I suppose this is what I get for writing smut. “Of course, coming right up,” I say, beginning the three hundred and somethingth signature of the night.
“Don’t be scared to add your number, too, hmm.”
Was that a rhetorical question?
All night these women have been sticking to me like ants to honey, hoping and praying that I take one of them home. Just because I write about filthy, erotic sex doesn’t mean I’m ready to bend anyone over with their hands tied behind their backs.
I don’t want just a quick fuck.
I haven’t had a quick fuck in… who knows how long. But nonetheless, these women are not my type. Beautiful, yes, but the next woman I lay with, simply put, will be the same woman I spend the rest of my life with, and truth be known, that has to be one pretty fucking special lady.
I laugh, choosing not to shut her down and hurt her feelings with ano, how dare you, what am I, meat?I say, “Dangerous woman. Dangerous,” with a wink. When I lean over to hand it to her, something catches the tiniest corner of my eye. “Here you?—”
Here and now time stops.
Who the fuuuuck is that?
My eyes lock immediately to a short, golden-blonde woman in a beanie, dusting herself off from a light coating of snow at the entrance. She’s lugging a small, coral colored suitcase, and a canvas tote over her shoulder.
I cannot believe what I am seeing, so I take off my glasses and quickly wipe them against my sweater. She is the most stunning creature I have ever laid eyes on, and I’ve seen over three hundred tonight alone. From afar I can see that her face is mottled in red from the icy winds outside. The woman’s frizzled, plaited locks fall under the fluffy beanie, and her jeans hug her waistline.
Where is her sweater? She must be freezing! It’s seventeen degrees outside. She’s not even dressed for a fifty Fahrenheitday. She mustn’t be from here. And I don’t think she’s homeless, she’s far too pretty to be on the streets. I frown momentarily, trying to observe her further. I’m almost certain I’ve met her before.
My skin tingles with an unidentifiable amount of heat. Thankfully, the table is my barrier between the reality of my tented pants and embarrassment. I can’t put my finger on it but my entire body feels as though it is reacting to this woman like a string is attached between her and I, and she’s reeling me in.
Why do I feel like I know her?
Why does she look so familiar?
Reality hits me, and I know in an instant why.
Sheis the one I’ve been writing about in my new novel. She is identical to the main female character.
“Um, hello?” Jules tugs at the book that I apparently haven’t let go of yet. I say nothing when I release it. I don’t even look at her as I’m too busy staring at the reason my pants are now too tight.
I manage to re-adjust myself after Jules leaves so that my teepee isn’t noticeable and move to stand at the top of the stairs, looking down at this spectacular woman. Studying her attentively as she struggles with her luggage up the stairs, I tilt my head, debating whether I’m witnessing a drunk walk, or a two-left-feettype of walk. Assuming it’s the latter of the two as she doesn’t look intoxicated.
Without looking where she’s going, she begins to cart her bag up each flight of stairs… backwards. Grunting and groaning with difficulty. I don’t think for a second that this girl could make that look any more awkward, even if she tried to. The feeling of torturing myself comes to mind, because I know Ishouldbe helping her, but at this point in time the woman has bedazzled me so much all I can do is stand and stare.
On the last flight of stairs, her bag snags on the carpet. “Agh, come on, ya bloody bastard!” she sneers, tugging it with aggression. I detect an accent, but I can’t quite place it. Her efforts to pull the luggage only causes her to trip on thin air, and with one great bigoomphshe slams straight into my abdomen, sending her bag, and its contents flying halfway down the stairs.
Wherever she is going, or coming from, she sure is packed lightly.Struck with intrigue, I see a couple of pink and other pastel colored romance books, scattered around a few pairs of lace underwear, jeans and a few thin looking tees.
“Ah, far out. I’m so sorry, I didn’t see?—”
She freezes, her stare rolling slowly from her eye level, which sits at the lower part of my chest, upwards… and upwards, until she reaches my eyes.
Fuck, shedoeshave an accent. British? No, Australian, maybe? When I look directly into her eyes, I lose myself in the windows to her soul, and it’s like the world stops spinning. People are in my peripheral vision, but they’re just a blur. Hereyes are as blue as the ocean, so calm, and yet they hold a million untold stories that I would go to lengths unknown just to hear.
The blonde beauty remains breathless as her gaze holds contact with mine, neither of us moving. I don’t even know if I’m breathing. I tower over her, which makes it that much more exciting. She’s so… exquisite.
Stupidly, I make the mistake of assuming I can hide the fact that I just glanced at her breasts. How could I not? Her nipples are pinched tight, and absolutelynotun-noticeable in the pathetic excuse of fabric she’s wearing, and what I say next makes me want to hit a wall. “You look… cold.”
Stone, you fucking fool.
Have you no shame? Manwhore.
