You know that moment in a love story when two enemies are arguing and fighting and screaming and thrashing and so fucking mad at each other that they can’t see straight?
Then suddenly, there’s this bolt of lightning, and they crash together like two fucking cars colliding head-on at a hundred miles an hour?
That’s me right now as I press my lips to Miles perfect mouth.
I don’t even know that much about him, but I have to kiss him. It’s a knee-jerk, instinctual thing that tells me this guy is worth kissing. I have to shut him up and kiss the person that has been talking nonstop to his sister for the past five minutes.
With one simple phone call, this hot mechanic has squashed every thread of doubt I have been lying to myself about not having. I joke about writing at a tire shop. I call myself a porn writer and let’s face it, I kind of am.
But deep down, I know I’m more. I’m a creator of stories. Stories that have a plot and an arc and a journey. Yes, they experiment in BDSM. Yes, they do anal. And yes, you will probably get horny when you read them, but they still mean something to me. I’m still proud of them when I type The End. And I love the fact that I have readers who get to escape their regular lives for a while and pretend that they’re someone else.
I give them book boyfriends like Miles.
But he is not fictional. He is real, and he went to great lengths to prove how many fucks he doesn’t care that I write smut for a living.
And fucking hell, this giant of a man feels so good under my hands. I had to yank him down by his neck to bring our lips together. God, he’s tall and firm. So firm. Every muscle in his body is tight and hot beneath my touch. I can’t help but run my hands appreciatively over his triceps as our lips dance together in the best kiss I’ve had in years.
Years!
Dryston was a terrible kisser. His name totally matched his romantic abilities. Let’s just say it’d be a cold day in hell before I ever used the name Dryston in a book.
He never used tongue and never moved his head. He kept it at one angle and just opened and closed his mouth over and fucking over like a guppy fighting for his life on the shore.
Miles, on the other hand, kisses like a shark.
I may have started it, but damn, this guy has taken the lead. He moves his hands all over my body—squeezing, groping, and fondling as he wishes. He even turns his head from side to side, like a shark nipping at his dinner, savoring every scrumptious bite. It’s pure frickin’ magic. When his head tilts to the left, he gives me tongue. When he tilts right, he caresses my lips. And just when I think I’ve figured out his pattern, he changes it up. Biting my lower lip, he pulls it into his mouth. His big hands squeeze my ass and pull me flush against his hard groin, leaving me with no doubt about the effect this kiss is having on him.
Jesus Christ.
And the fact that I’m wearing this short, stretchy skirt makes the barrier between us basically nonexistent. If I was writing a book about this kiss, now would be the point where the bad boy steals his hands up the girl’s skirt, rips off her panties, and marvels at how wet she is for him. He’d pick her up, press her against the wall, and slam his bare, hard cock into her tight, soaked cunt.
Or something like that.
I’m making out with a hot guy, I can’t be a great writer right now!
“Mercedes,” he husks, pulling away from my lips, panting. “What are we doing?”
I drag in huge gulps of air, not realizing how much I needed oxygen while swallowing down the stab of guilt that he still doesn’t know my real name. But I don’t want him to know me as Kate. I am Mercedes at this moment. I’m not the girl still living with her ex because she can’t get him to move his shit out. I’m Mercedes, sex goddess in fiction and in life!
“I don’t know,” I reply, touching my fingers to his hot lips. God, they are sexy. “I just kissed you, I guess.”
“Yes, you did,” he replies, and a muscle in his jaw ticks like he’s in pain. He presses his forehead to mine and pulls his groin away from me. “And as hot as that was, we have to stop.”
I swallow and nod. “Totally. We’re in public.”
“And I don’t think this is a good idea.” He pins me with his steely blue eyes that sparkle even in the darkness. Piercing through his dark lashes like shining beams of sapphires.
“Wait, what?” I reply, pulling out of his arms and mourning the loss of his warmth immediately. “After all that shit you said inside and just now on the phone with your sister…you…don’t want this?”
He grimaces as if I kneed him in the balls. And maybe I should have. “I like you, Mercedes. But I’m not in the position to like someone right now.”
I have to laugh at that. What a line for a book! And what a twist—the sex writer who can’t get laid. How perfectly ironic. “Got it. Well, sorry to put you in such a difficult situation.”
I turn on my heel and move down the sidewalk to go back inside the pub. Fuck this guy. Fuck this bar. Fuck leaving the sanctuary of my fictional story and trying to live in the real world for one night.
A large hand snakes around my elbow and spins me back around. “Mercedes, wait. I don’t…want things to be weird.”
“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have flirted with me so much then!” I snap and bite my lower lip, hating the fact I’m being so uncool about this.
It’s not like he proposed to me. He flattered me and bought me pizza and beer. Miles didn’t even make a move except for that one kiss on the cheek, and he was clearly uncomfortable about that.
Jesus. I write about this shit, but I don’t see it for myself. Idiot, Kate. Idiot, Mercedes. Whichever personality you are, you’re an idiot!
Miles runs a hand through his hair, causing his shock of black locks to stick out all over. “I’m sorry. I…don’t know what to say.”
I sigh and take mercy on him. “There really is nothing else to say. I’ll just…I’ll see you around, Miles.”
I turn and stride away, humiliated by the fact I was just rejected by my real-life book boyfriend.