7
My fingers flew over the keyboard, hammering away at one of the desktop setups instead of my laptop like usual. I was starting to get used to these keyboards, with their loud clacks and their heavy feel. It was almost like writing on a typewriter, which I used to do at my grandpa’s house years ago. The feeling was nostalgic. That was what I needed right now to get through the stress.
I had been so occupied with the boys, I hadn’t given much thought to my new project, or my existing ongoing story. I just knew that once I finished the one I was currently publishing, I would have to roll right into something fresh. I wanted to be ready with a new story to give to the mob. I was already overwhelmed with the number of comments and suggestions flooding my inbox with every installment.
The one consistency with my feedback, especially lately, was that they all wanted steamier scenes. I hadn’t expected this to be the writing that made me well-known, but here I was, trying to satisfy a large population of readers who were clamoring for more — and hotter.
I wondered if all writers went through this. All of this pressure, this need to serve the story conflicting so hard with the desire to make sure every single reader was happy with my work. I poured so much of myself into this every single week. There hadn’t been many negative comments so far, but maybe they would start coming in more rapidly if I didn’t pick up the heat.
I’d rarely had to deal with that kind of negative feedback before now. Helpful critiques from teachers and fellow students, sure, but nothing like the few mean comments I’d received recently. Those had affected me more than I cared to admit. I didn’t know how I would be able to deal with a deluge of them. I’d worked so hard for all of this. It made me sick to my stomach to think about losing everything because the readers started hating it. It would put me back to square one in this place, and I felt like I was dealing with an uphill battle as it was.
Still, they weren’t wrong. I minimized the document I was writing in, and clicked around until I was looking at one of my previous chapters. I was still relatively inexperienced, but so many of these words were influenced by taking my real life experiences and magnifying them by a thousand.
I’d had encounters with all the boys, and each of them had been memorable. So memorable I could feel the heat rising inside me even now as I read back though my stories.
I leaned back in my chair, falling into daydream space, imagining myself with Riot, opening myself completely to him and letting him slide into me. I would gasp with the size of him, and wrap my legs around him to encourage more.
Then my brain went somewhere… different. Luka and Jaeson appeared next to Riot, coming towards me from either side, running their hands over me, running their tongues and teeth over me, taking my nipples between their lips and sending that beautiful electricity right through my chest.
“All good with you, lady?” Cynthia asked.
I jumped, sitting up in my chair, feeling overheated and turned on. How inappropriate. I couldn’t believe I was fantasizing here in my workplace instead of getting my story done. And all three of the boys at once, worshipping me like that?
“I’m good,” I said quickly, trying to compose myself, smoothing out my skirt. “Just thinking things through.”
“Oh, that scene,” Cynthia said, leaning over my shoulder to read the published installment from before. “That one was a hell of a thing.”
“I think it was the hottest one I wrote,” I said, following along with the subject. “Maybe if I try to harness what I put in it, I can make it even bigger and bolder for the one I’m working on now.”
“Or,” she said with a grin. “Instead of just reading about it, you could go out and get it.”
“Cynthia, come on,” I said, blushing.
“I mean it,” she said. “You’re pretty. You’re sweet. You could have anyone on this campus.”
“Anyone?” I caught myself asking before I could stop it.
Cynthia nodded before groaning. “Oh no. Brace yourself.”
Great. Vanessa was marching toward me. I didn’t know how to describe her expression. Some kind of combination of upset and determined. I wondered what barbed words she might have to say this time.
“Hey, Van,” Cynthia said with a raised eyebrow.
“Hey, Cyn,” Vanessa replied in a clipped voice.
Just as I thought she was going to stop and talk to me, she breezed right past us. She didn’t even bother acknowledging me. She sat herself down at a station a few down from mine, turning on a computer and getting her notes out of her bag.
“What is her deal with me?” I asked quietly to Cynthia.
“I know it’s rough for you right now,” she said. “But maybe keep a low profile for a while, see if that helps. You don’t need to deal with her pissy mood. You have more important things you should be focusing on.”
“I do,” I said. “All I want to is to knock these pieces out, do my schoolwork, and get one decent night’s sleep for once.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’ll all blow over soon, I promise.”
“You’re a good friend,” I said. “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it,” she said, winking and patting me on the shoulder before heading out.
