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It would help Suzi out, but she couldn’t stand to be parted from her.
I write and study until Suzi gets in from the bar.
After a brief chat with my exhausted sister, I haul my laptop into my room. I have an early start and I should get to sleep. I can’t drift off, so I read some more.
My concentration slips away and back to the big dick. I tense up, thinking I don’t have a way to contact him, but I think that’s for the best.
A man like him is always out for what he can get. Having his number, or him having mine, would only open me up to a dozen shades of heartbreak.
I remember the penetration of his eyes, the strength and the heat of his body as I pressed against him. How he rubbed against me. That kiss.
Was that a kiss or was it a dozen kisses? Omigod. I would give anything for another few more minutes of that.
I don’t dare open the little piece of writing that I started on my phone.
When I realize that my fingers have strayed, wandered into my panties, I jolt. I can’t think of him that way. I can’t. It will hurt too much. I’ve had all I’m going to get of that low, hard, thick voice, those long, strong fingers.
My fingers flick and tease. The smoldering beams of his eyes are not going to hold mine again. I’ll never know the scent of his dark places, the strength of his clenching ass. My arms will be empty of him forever.
I’ve got to stop. Wipe the memory of his lips off mine. Forget his tongue slipping into my mouth. The long, living hardness of him. Oh, god. My thighs tremble. My chest prickles, and my nipples harden and sting.
I want him in my mouth. On my lips. I want him so hard. Between my thighs. Images burst, brimming and spilling in explosive jolts. I have to bite my arm to keep from hollering.
Rivers of crackling, clamping, flexing tensions gush in tumbles of sensation. It leaves me sobbing, giggling and panting.
Damn him.
Chapter Eleven
Ella
Three days of workshopping, seminars and writing exercises gives me a feeling of being in another world.
The writing workshop is in the grand old Sykes-Coughan mansion in the Garden District. Oak trees hanging with Spanish moss surround the old house. Inside, it’s quiet. The still, sweet-scented air is cool. It feels like a step into another era, completely removed from the world outside.
Because of the single big scholarship prize, I’m nervous, expecting a hard and competitive atmosphere. Spiky, like many writing groups in the city are, where writers often shout to be heard, not always respectful of others’ work. We’re a diverse group of a couple of dozen students, from all sections of society.
Everyone seems to be helpful. They’re all supportive and completely accepting. We all share a raw enthusiasm for writing, and we pretty much all have different takes. There’s a rapper, a historian, two writers dedicated to crime fiction, a Creole poet. Along with several fantasy and sci-fi writers, we have two children’s authors.
It’s a dream to think I can make a living doing this, but at least I can learn and, when I get my degree, I can teach. Help to nurture and inspire others.
I tried to avoid using the snippet that I started in the elevator at The Main Event, but it wouldn’t shake out of my head. Nothing else I have feels anywhere near as alive. So, I try to develop it into a superhero fantasy.
But I can’t stop it from coming out as a romance. Even worse, it turns out to be a tragic romance. It leaves me in tears.
I think it’s a terrible piece, but it is all I have to turn in for the competition. At the start of the last day, I submit it and forget it.
I never expected to win. I was hoping I could write something that might be worth a mention, but I guess it’s not to be. Not this time. I take myself out to walk among the trees and forget about it. My phone rings, and it’s Suzi.
“I know I promised not to call. Sorry.”
My heart is in my mouth. “Is everything okay? Nothing’s wrong, is it?”
“Nothing at all. I thought you might not have heard, though.”
“What?”
“The thing you were at, the launch at The Main Event? The big, hunky billionaire has a million dollar hunt.”
