Page 79 of Role Play
Forrest sets me down gently on the edge of the bed, then steps back, studying me. “You comfortable?”
I swallow hard. “Yes,” I lie.
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m not in control of it,” I say, covering my cheeks with my hands.
He doubles back, pulling my hands from my face. “Don’t hide. I need to see you, and read your reactions.”
“Huh?”
“I realize I’m taking you out of your comfort zone here, for the purpose of research of course,” he says with a wink. “But I don’t want to push you too far and upset you. I see you. I study you.” He cradles my face, running his thumbs over my temples. “I know how your eyes turn down at the corners when you’re about to cry. I know how the little veins above your temples flare when you’re pissed but you’re holding back what you really want to say. And I know you blush when you’re lying. Like when you tell me you don’t want me, you light up like a Christmas tree. Because you do, don’t you?” He’s standing between my knees, holding my head in place, looking down at me with an intensity that makes it hard to breathe. “I bet you want me almost as much as I want you.”
“I don’t know,” I murmur, knowing without a doubt my cheeks are betraying me.
“You’d like to learn how to write good dirty talk, right, Sora?”
Call the cops and arrest this man, because the way he says my name should be illegal. “I suppose.”
“Because your muse is right in front of you.”
I swallow loudly, surrendering to his burning gaze without flinching. “Fine. We can talk about it.”
“Just talk?” His hand comes up to my face, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “Or do you want me to show you, too?”
I nod slowly, not trusting my voice.
“Use your words,” he murmurs, and the demand in his tone sends another rush of heat through me. “Tell you or show you?”
“Show me,” I whisper.
His smile is predatory, and now I’m all too aware of the impatient tingling in my nipples. Without warning, he tugs the bandana from my hair. I blink in confusion as he stretches it between his hands.
“Close your eyes,” he instructs.
I comply, my heart thundering like a stampede of beasts.
The soft fabric of the bandana slides over my eyes, blocking my vision completely as he ties it securely behind my head.
“Is this okay?” he asks, his voice closer now, breath warm against my ear.
I nod, then remember his instruction. “Yes.”
“Good girl,” he praises, and something about the simple phrase makes my insides clench with need. “Now, just listen.Feel.Try to get out of your head.”
The bed dips as he sits beside me. I can feel the heat of him, even though we’re not touching.
“The problem with dirty talk,” he says, his tone conversational, as if we’re discussing the morning traffic, “is that people overthink it. In writing, don’t try to make it poetic or clever. Real dirty talk is raw, gritty, and above all things, it’s honest. Just saying exactly what you want when you want it. No etiquette, no apologies. Simply primal. That’s what drives a woman to the brink.”
His hand lands on my thigh, just above my knee, and I jolt slightly at the contact.
“Now, some women want to be praised,” he continues, his hand sliding upward with agonizing slowness. “Told how beautiful they are, how good they feel. Others want to be degraded a little—called names, ordered around. The key is knowing your partner, understanding what makes them respond. All women have little tells. You have to pay attention.”
“I can’t exactly see my readers through the page, Forrest,” I complain. “And books are written long before the reactions they elicit. So that’s not exactly helpful.”
He groans. “Sora, I’m trying to do a thing here. I realize my metaphors aren’t perfect, but can you roll with it, killjoy?” His fingers trace maddening patterns on my inner thigh, not quite high enough to provide any real satisfaction, but enough to make me want to close my legs down on him.
“Sorry. Continue. I’ll behave.” I suck in a sharp breath when his hands graze an inch higher.
