I know just what I’ll bring for dessert.

I shut the door to my cute new suburban house and resist the urge to lower myself to sit on the floor. What a cringe-worthy line! Gah. I’d never have my characters talk that way.

I blow out a breath instead and glance in the mirror. Ugh -- my hair is all sticking out and piled into a quick bun. I run a finger through a fallen strand and then let my long hair down, shaking it out around my shoulders.

It’s just my luck! I just stood face to face with the sexiest man I’ve seen in a long, long time, and I look like I’ve been out running errands all day.

That’s Helen’s son? She did tell me I’d like him, that he was handsome, but jeez! I had totally just brushed her off, thinking every sweet, older lady thinks their kids are amazing and perfect. It just so happens my lovely next-door neighbor, the one I’ve bonded with a little since moving in, is completely correct.

I finish putting away my groceries and I feel a tingling at the base of my neck. It’s a feeling I haven’t had in quite a while. Excitement, anticipation… creativity. The feeling of the fog lifting from my mind.

That novel I’ve been struggling with for weeks. The one with the looming deadline. I think I have an idea.

I slide into my computer chair, open my laptop and feel the sunlight streaming through the window hit the side of my face, warming me up. I love writing here, in this brand-new house -- the first I was ever able to afford. When I first moved in I felt inspiration left and right, but recently I have just felt utterly stuck.

I’m not exactly surrounded by romance in my life, and I think that’s why I’m having so much trouble right now. No inspiration; no new ideas. Everything I’m writing feels so dull and been there, done that.

But my run-in with the dashing Dane from next door has given me a great idea.

I click on the working title I chose. ‘Love at Sunset’. With determination, I highlight and backspace and tap out my new title.

BILF: Beard I’d Like to Fondle

I chew my lip and suppress a smile, highlighting and deleting huge chunks of my work in progress and feeling a surge of inspiration deepen through my body as ideas rush through my head. So fast I can barely keep up with my fingers on the keyboard.

I call my hero Zane… blushing at the intentional choice to choose a name that rhymes with Dane. Only I will get the reference, and that makes it even more delicious. Then I begin rewriting my latest sex scene while squirming in my office chair.

‘... I could see the setting sun through the open bedroom window, it was painted in oranges and reds -- and I moaned as Zane’s beard brushed over my inner thighs creating a masterpiece of our own. My skin was his canvas. His tongue was the brush…’

I bite down hard on my lower lip and lean back to reread my last paragraph. My fingers hover over the mouse, and then I highlight the word ‘skin’, and replace it with ‘pussy’.

I rarely ever use words like that in my steamy romances, but I feel like this scene calls for some more vivid language.

My cheeks are pink, and I’ve lost almost an hour typing nonstop. My eyes trail over the section I just wrote again. His thick beard tickled her inner thighs. My imagination just won’t let go of that thought. I shiver and squeeze my legs together, thinking about the beard I just met outside my house. Thinking about the way it might feel brushing against my inner thighs.

Before I know what’s happening I have pushed my fingertips past the waistband of my leggings and over the thin fabric of my panties, noticing how wet I am already. I run my fingers over my lower lip. Then I reach further, sliding my fingers up and down until I feel my core begin to tense, and suddenly I remember I’m going to see the man I’m thinking about in just under an hour, and I promised that I’d bring dessert!

But I can’t stop thinking about him. Not yet. I push my panties aside and easily slide my finger inside myself, imagining how skillful Dane’s tongue would be. I could see in his eyes, even in the short time we met, that he is a man who knows what he’s doing. Who knows what he wants. Who knows what I need.

My back arches as I climax, a pulsing clenching explosion of delirious ecstasy that feels almost never-ending. It’s been forever since I came like that… and I’ve never been turned on so much by a scene I wrote myself.

I catch my breath and hop in the shower--needing to cool off. After I’m all cleaned up, I head to the kitchen and tie my apron around my waist, realizing there isn’t much time to spare. But I figure I can whip up a batch of pretty good brownies in just over twenty minutes and then they’ll be piping hot and smelling delicious by the time I go next door.

I run my hand through my long hair, trying desperately not to cover my cheeks in flour and cocoa powder, and I mix the brownies up just the way my mom taught me before she passed away. I smile at the thought of Helen next door, and how much she reminds me of my own mom. Tough and strong but with a really sweet side too.

I lick brownie mix from my thumb as I slide the pan into the oven, and then go to the bathroom to get my face and hair as ready as I can in the short time I have. My thoughts move back to Dane as I blow dry my hair.

I don’t want a relationship right now, but to be honest, I could really use a great hookup. I spray perfume on my neck as I think about him leaning in close. The idea of his rough beard against my skin gets me excited all over again.

Maybe Dane could be the BILF I haven’t realized I’ve been looking for.

I shake my head, trying to stop fantasizing about this man I haven’t really even met yet -- a man I’m going to sit and eat with in just a few minutes -- when the oven timer goes off. I pull out my brownies and feel pretty pleased with myself with the way they’ve turned out.

I’m going to go sit with Dane and his mother and I’m going to be completely normal and engaging and charming. I’m not going to think about his tongue trailing up and down my wet--

No!

I pull off my apron and grab my tray of brownies. Walking with confidence next door, I knock three times and put on my best smile. This is a dinner, I remind myself. A nice, friendly dinner. Not the prequel to the romance novel I’m writing.

The door opens, and I have to raise my gaze by about a foot before I lock eyes with him. Dane. He is frowning down at me as if he’s totally forgotten I was coming over at all, and I brandish my tray of chocolate treats.

“You ready for me?” I ask, glancing past him into the house.

His face twists into a smile that makes his dark eyes glint. My core tightens all over again and I feel my fresh panties get wet. Great.

“Sure am,” he says and steps back to let me in.