Page 13 of One-Click Christmas
How else could I do what I just did, then join the stream of wholesome folks Christmas shopping for toys and baked goods?
I wrap my arms around myself as the twinkling white lights blur before me and the light hum of Christmas music fades into the distance.
It’s a short walk back to my car but I realize somewhere between the wreaths and window displays that I’m not talking toone of Hunter’s characters. I’m not fantasizing about a life I’m never going to have.
I’mactuallyliving it.
Chapter Six
Hunter Black
I pour a glass of bourbon, staring down at the keyboard as the words fly from the tips of my fingers onto the screen. It’s the first time in years that a character has ever felt so real, so true.
Lana is the woman I’ve been searching for. She’s the love that’s haunted my pages, the muse I’ve never met but knew existed.
I stare at the screen, cursor blinking as I take a sip of liquor and begin the download of information from brain to print. I sharpen the details, leave special moments out, and enhance others to protect the intimacy we shared, but the reality is there in black and white.
She’s in every sentence.
Every breath of dialog.
Every ache between the lines.
She’s bold yet shy, sweet yet sharp, and her hair is a shade of gold reserved for only the most precious things on Earth.
I write her voice, remembering the way the heat felt between her legs, the way her breath caught when my fingers found her soaked and ready, the way she teased the actor and left me with the burn of jealousy and the thrill of possession.
Fuck!
‘She came for him in the dark, against brick and snow with silence, and he watched her fall apart like it was art, like she was his.’
I write her into every scene. A small-town bookstore. A relationship with an older man. A woman torn between responsibility and living the life she’s meant to live.
Every word is a confession. Every scene a prayer.
I need her. I need to know what happens next. I need her voice in the room, her body on the pages, her soul bared to me in a way that wakes me up.
Fuck!
Wind presses against the windows as the fire crackles in the front room. I’m sure my body will be aching for days with all the stillness, but I settle back at the laptop again, crafting another scene, one that tugs at my aching cock with desperation.
‘Victor leans back on the couch, the leather warmed by the nearby fireplace. It’s a cold night, far below zero, and with every flake of snow that piles, reality seems further and further away.
It’s that thought that gives him permission to do things he wouldn’t normally think of doing. That thought that has him pulling up the picture he snapped of Shana earlier that day at the bookstore. She wasn’t wearing anything particularly sexy. A simple sweater dress and boots, but the way her body moved beneath the fabric, did him in. Their age spanned decades of difference, and Victor knew it would cause a world of issues both personally and professionally, but he couldn’t stop thinking about her soft skin, about the ways he could tangle her curved frame.
Balancing his phone in one hand, he jerks his cock faster and harder, thinking about the way he’d bend her over, slide into her tight little core, suckle her hard firm nipples.’
I thought I could be a decent man. I thought I could quell the urges and move on with my night. Now I realize I was wrong.
My cock is too hard. The copper scent of Lana’s pussy still permeates my skin. The citrus in her shampoo still lives on my shirt. The sounds of her coming still ring in my ears.
I’m too desperate to relax and there’s no fucking way I’ll be able to finish this chapter if I don’t jerk off right now.
I pull up the photo I took of Lana earlier today. She was at the desk filing through paperwork. I zoomed in on her pretty face, on her round breasts, on that long golden hair, and I knew right then why I’d taken it, though I’d never admit to such filth. I’d say I was trying to photograph a bird on the lamppost outside, or that I was interested in a book on the counter nearby. Never would I ever admit to longing for this young woman so desperately that I took a photo to jerk off to later.
Leaning back, I brush my hand down over my cock as it pulses at my zipper. It’s not her, but the memory of her is close enough that I can imagine her breath against my neck, her thighs trembling around my fingers, the way she moaned into my mouth like she was giving me something sacred.
I close my eyes and let the image take over.
