Yes, as long as I don’t act on it. If I keep my thoughts in my head, we’ll get along just fine—or at least as well asanyonegets along with me when I’m working. Besides, chances are he’ll quit within a month like everyone else Valerie has sent my way.
I pick up the phone, find her number, and call her. She picks up the phone in record time.
“Hamish!” She always sounds far too fucking perky. And fake. I hate fakers. “What did you think of Archie?”
That he had exceptionally kissable lips?
“He made good coffee.”
"That's…great. What about his PA skills? Were they up to your standards?”
What does she expect me to say? That I tested his fucking typing speed and gave him a party to organise in the ten minutes he was in my house?
“Aye, they were.”
“When should I ask him to start?’
“I already told him he’s starting in the morning at nine.”
“Oh, that’s wonderful. I’ll get all the paperwork sorted. I hope this is the start of a long working relationship.”
I bet she does. She’s probably sick of sending PAs to me, only to have them wind up in her office sobbing about how horrid I am to work for. Whatever. I’m not going to feel guilty for who I am.
I hang up and look at my words again. For some reason, I had to stop halfway through Jack and Kaleb's sex scene. Probably to take a call from my editor, after which I'd have focused on Orion fucking King again. Normally, I’d be rubbing my hands with glee at the thought of starting or carrying on a sex scene, but my mind is blank as I stare at the half-finished paragraph.
I growl in frustration before opening a blank document. I start to write, my fingers tapping furiously on the keyboard as a new character comes to life on the screen. He’s a nerdy twenty-something with light brown hair, swept back off his forehead, thick black glasses, and gorgeous green eyes.
I know full well I'm describing Archie, right down to his killer cheekbones, square jaw, and pronounced Adam's apple, but I don't care. These words are just for me. No one—least of all Archie Morris—is ever going to see them.
The words pour out. Archer—it’s the best I can come up with at the spur of the moment—is in a bar, drinking shots after being dumped. He’s looking for rebound sex. When a big, huge bear of a man walks into the bar, he knows he’s found the man he wants to take home to fuck him.
They flirt, but I’m impatient to get to the sex, so I make Archer bold enough to lay his cards on the table. He demands the bear take him home for a good hard fucking. The bear is only too happy to oblige.
From my limited knowledge of Archie, I can’t imagine him being so forward, but I’m writing a fantasy, not reality.
They tumble into Archer's apartment, all hot kisses and rough touches. Then the bear is screwing Archer against the wall.
Fuck. They didn’t take their fucking clothes off. Or turn the lights on. Can they see in the dark? Are the curtains open or closed? So many minor details standing between me and writing a wish fulfilment sex scene.
I delete around two hundred clumsy words. They’re definitely not good. The bear orders Archie—DELETE—Archerto kneel. He does without hesitation. Oh yeah, this is getting good now. I hold my breath as I write how the bear undoes his trousers. Wait, would jeans be better? Or chinos, like I’m wearing right now? He undoes his jeans, draws the zipper down, and tugs his cock free. How come no one ever wears underpants in Lee’s novels? He orders Archie—DELETE—Archerto suck his cock, and the obedient sub does so without hesitation, taking him deep.
I suck in a shuddering breath, my chest quivering as my cock starts to get hard. My chinos aren’t nearly roomy enough for that.
Someone picks that moment to ring me. I think about ignoring it, but it’s probably better to take it and throw cold water on the fantasy unfolding on the screen in front of me. There’s a reason I haven’t named the bear—he’s me.
“It’s Hamish,” I say as I answer the phone.
“Useful as that’s who I called.”
“Hi, Calvin. What do you want?”
Calvin has been a close friend for a few years. We started out knowing each other on a purely professional basis—he was the portrait photographer my publishers asked to do headshots for my back covers, website, and social media. We hit it off, went for coffee, got talking, and realised we had two big things in common—we’re both into kink, and we both identify as Doms.
“Is that any way to greet a friend?”
I snort. Calvin is used to my surly nature.
“What are you doing?”
