“Really, I’m curious now. What do you for a living?” I fall into a deep silence again, but he isn’t about to give up “What’s wrong? Don’t tell me you’re a KGB agent or something?” He laughs, and I can’t help but relax a little.

“No … it’s nothing like that,” I tell him, but I still haven’t been able to find the necessary courage to tell him about what I do for a living. Being a writer is supposed to be a glamorous profession, but I don’t think most people find it all that glamorous when they find out you write — ahem — romance for a living. I mean, let’s be honest; I write the kind of romance that leaves Kindles on fire (and panties, for that matter). I mean, I’ve told other guys before and they looked at me like I did porn or something. I guess I’m just a bit worried because I really like WineBar, ya know?

“So?”

“Well, I’m a writer,” I finally confess, saying it so fast that I’m actually surprised he understood me.

“A writer? Like, a journalist?”

Fuck it. I’m a Top 100 Romance writer on Rainforest.com. If he has a problem with that, then it was never going to work out anyways.

“No, I’m a novelist. I write romance,” I chuckle, playing with one stray lock of hair. God, I’m already adopting Lana’s nervous ticks. Leaning back, I throw my feet up on the couch and run my tongue between my lips, thinking of the best way to answer all of his questions.

“Romance? That’s sweet. Why were you so ashamed of telling me that?”

“Well … uh, because sweet wouldn’t be the word I’d use to describe what I write,” I continue, now going from playing with my hair to biting my fingernails. Yeah, it’s a nasty habit, but anxiety isn’t exactly a nice thing.

“Now you’re confusing me,” he admits, that playfulness in his voice making my heart tighten up. “Why don’t you show me one of your books?” he asks me, and my heart tightens up so much I wouldn’t be surprised if it simply burst.

“I don’t know about that,” I stammer, but I know that there’s no way around it.

“Oh, come on. You’re a writer, and I’m a potential reader… I’m a sale waiting to happen, Emily,” he insists, and I take a deep breath.

“Okay… are you ready?”

“More than ready.”

“So… have you ever heard of Anna Angel?” I ask him, and I think that my heart has just skipped a few beats.

“Mm, maybe? Isn’t she a —”

“A writer, yes. She’s my pen name.” I close my eyes as I say it, nervously waiting to hear his reply. Instead of saying anything, though, he simply waits for me to keep on speaking. “Check out 12 Inches, that was one my latest hits.”

“I’m on it,” he breathes out, and then I hear a keyboard rattling like a machine gun from the other side of the line. “I’m seeing it,” he tells me flatly, and then his tone changes in a fraction of a second. “Whoa, this is amazing, Emily. I had no idea you were this fucking talented.”

“I’m not talented… I just write about what I like,” I say, his excited reaction calming my nerves. He doesn’t seem to think that I’m a sex-addict or something like that, so I’ll take it as a victory.

“So… you like big cocks, huh?” he laughs, and I feel warm blood rushing to my cheeks again. God, what is it with all the blushing lately? I feel just like a virgin again.

“Is it that obvious?” Despite how nervous I’m feeling right now, I can’t help but play along. Besides, his question is a valid one; after all, I just showed him a book called 12 Inches. Which is kinda ironic, since his own cock must be that big. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, but I’m tempted to call it destiny.

“I’d say it’s pretty obvious… After all, you seemed to be enjoying yourself with my own twelve inches,” Kirk says, echoing my own thoughts.

“Don’t get too cocky,” I tell him, although my own choices of words was kind of a tongue slip. Cocky? C’mon, I can do better than this!

“Cocky is my middle name, Emily… You should know that by now. So, anyway, are you going to start a new book tonight, is that it?”

“Well…” I whisper, pursing my lips as I wonder about my options. I was supposed to be on the phone with Lana right now, so that we could outline our next book, but I ended up calling WineBar instead… And I’ve been on the phone with him for some time now, which means that Lana’s probably pissed right now. “I was supposed to be outlining a new book right now,” I confess to him, sighing.

“But you aren’t.”

“No, I’m not.”

“You’re on the phone with me.”

“I am…” God, is this conversation going where I think it’s going? Because this time I won’t be able to say ‘no’. Why? Well, let me give you a hint; if I leave the house now, I’ll have to change my panties.

“Alright, I’m gonna say it again… Come on over, Emily. I want you in here, with me.” I swallow hard, my mind going at a thousand miles per hour. He has invited me to his place for the second time in a row… There’s no way I’ll be able to turn him down.

“Is this a, uh, booty call? Nothing more serious than that, right?” I ask him, the urge to know his intentions overpowering my rational side. What a dumb question to make — what the hell am I expecting his reply to be? Besides, I don’t even know what I want his answer to be.

I expected his reply to come fast, but he’s taking his time. “Are you there?” I ask him, and I hear him take a deep breath on the other side.

“I’m here… Yeah, just a booty call. So… you’ll come?”

“Of course,” I smile, though I’m not sure how his answer made me feel. But I try to be funny. “More than once if you’re good at what you do,” I say to him.

Booty calls are awesome, aren’t they? Then why the hell am I not feeling that awesomeness right now?

Whatevs, screw it, booty call or not, my body demands his. “I’ll be right over,” I tell him, and then I jump up to my feet.

I have no idea where this road will lead, but one thing’s for sure: I’ll have my fun, one way or the other.