Olly became my muse.
Pages of plotlines infused with my imagination and Olly’s prolific experience gave my writing a new, spicier glow.
I managed to write decent novels before Olly came along, but after… with his confessions and my embellishments, I was able to give up two part-time jobs and focus on writing to pay my way through college.
It’s worked amazingly for two years. I’ve been able to bury my crush beneath the adoration of friendship—until one night a few months ago when Olly confessed to going home with two people.
I always knew Olly was confident with his sexuality and desires, but a ménage was on another level. A tendril of curiosity bloomed inside of me as I pictured myself in the scene, and just like that, my crush was back in full force.
The only way to cut it off was to stop picturing Olly in my scenes. But how am I supposed to do that and not writeanother boring draft?
“I know that look. What did Giselle say?”
The way he can read me is unnerving. “She didn’t like the new draft. It might be time for a genre switch. Women’s fiction, maybe.”
It’s relatively clean, so there is less chance of picturing Olly peeling open his zipper and telling me to call him Daddy…
“What are you talking about?” Olly asks, looking incredulous. “You’re not switching genres.”
I blink up at him in surprise, shocked by his outburst. “Don’t you get sick of having to recount all of your… extracurricular activities to me?” It’s a question but sounds more like a plea. If he says yes, life will be so much easier.
“Fuck no,” Olly murmurs. “Friends help out friends, and when helping you involves draining my balls… I’m all for it.”
An image of Olly draining himself all over my face imprints in my mind and sizzles in my veins. He is not making this easy.
I slip out from under his arm and turn to face him. “I need to make a living from writing; to do that, I have to know what I’m writing about.”
He looks confused.
So am I.
I should have prepped a lie before I blurt out the truth.
“Sex.” The excuse pops into my head and out of my mouth so quickly and loudly that a few heads turn in our direction.
“Are you playing at being a coy virgin?” He’s doing the smolder thing again. “Because your mind is too filthy not to know what cock feels like.”
“No, of course not.” But a few inexperienced fumbles hardly make me an expert. “I mean that I don’t know enough about sex,” I whisper the last part. “I’m going to switch to women’s fiction. I’m a woman who writes fiction. It can’t be that hard.”
Anything has to be easier than wanting what I shouldn’t.
Olly grips my shoulders, gently massaging the tension in my muscles before he slides his palms up to cup the back of my neck.“I don’t think this is about switching to a new genre. It’s about admitting what you want.”
Panic tightens my stomach. He can’t know. “And what is it that I want, Freud?”
His eyes darken as they roam over my cheeks and down to my lips. “Writing about sex isn’t enough anymore.” Olly tilts his head until his breath rushes over my ear and tingles down my neck. “You want a messy fuck that makes your toes curl and your pussy weep.”
His words slide through my veins like a promise, making my toes curl even more and something happen in the vicinity of my vagina. “My toes are perfectly happy straight, and my lady bits are… well taken care of at home.”
His wide grin is mortifying as I realize what I’ve admitted to. I clear my throat and step back, removing myself from his fluster-inducing orbit. “I don’t need sex. I need to write women’s fiction.”
“You’re killing me, Lacey.” He groans. “You write about sex like someone who craves it. A no-strings-attached fuck will give you all the inspiration you need.”
The thought makes me cold and clammy. I haven’t had casual sex—ever. “I’m… too busy.”
Too busy to screw up a friendship.
His mouth parts as he closes the distance between us, and his cherry-cola breath coasts along my lips in a slow exhale. “Too busy to come on something other than your fingers?”
