And like she's thoroughly enjoying being scandalized by my apparently surprising creative depravity.
I'd given her the manuscript maybe forty minutes ago. Told her it was a rough first draft, very rough, and that I'd appreciate her honest feedback as my target audience demographic.
She'd eagerly settled onto the couch with it, promising to be gentle with her criticism. I'm starting to think 'gentle' isn't in her vocabulary when she's excited.
She looks up at me suddenly from where I'm sitting in the oversized leather armchair across from her, pretending to read my own book but mostly just watching her reactions to my work. Her vanilla-caramel scent spikes dramatically with excitement and amusement and something that might genuinely be arousal.
I love watching her read. The way her expressions change with every paragraph. How she gasps at plot twists. How she bites her lip during tense moments. How she fans herself during spicy scenes. She's so expressive, present, and engaged.
"Grayson Alexander Wilde," she says using my full name—all three parts—which immediately makes alarm bells ring loudly in my head because nothing good ever follows someone using your full government name. "This is the most raunchy, steamy, explicit, spice-level-madness I have ever read in my entire life?! And I've read some pretty spicy books!"
I feel heat creeping steadily up my neck. Blushing. I'm definitely blushing like a teenager who just got caught with inappropriate magazines.
This is precisely why I don't usually let people read my work before it's been through multiple rounds of editing and polishing and is safely published. This exact reason. The mortification. The vulnerability. The exposure of exactly what goes on in my head.
She waves the manuscript pages at me accusingly, like evidence in a court proceeding. Her expression is a complex mixture of genuine shock, barely contained laughter, and what might be impressed admiration.
"You—you look like this nerdy innocent rancher with hidden six-pack abs under your flannel shirts and your sweet Southern gentleman manners and your polite 'yes ma'am' responses!"
She pauses for dramatic effect, gesturing wildly with the manuscript.
"And meanwhile you're writing detailed explicit scenes where a possessive Alpha is bending this poor unsuspecting girl over a motorcycle—a freaking motorcycle—that's wrapped entirely in Christmas lights by the side of some highway! With her leg propped up on the seat for leverage! And she's getting pounded hard enough and fast enough to feel it in the next town over?! Like, she can't walk straight for a week after this scene! There are stars involved! And screaming! And?—"
My blush intensifies significantly.
I can feel my entire face burning hot with embarrassment. My ears are probably bright red. Even my neck feels warm.
"When you say it like that out loud with explicit details and specific imagery, it sounds considerably more raunchy and pornographic than I intended when writing it in the privacy of my creative process," I mutter defensively, looking down at my book without actually seeing the words on the page.
It was supposed to be sexy and romantic and passionate when I wrote it. Hot. Steamy. The kind of scene that makes readers need to fan themselves. Not...whatever she's making it sound like with her summary. Though to be completely fair and honest, it is pretty explicitly detailed.
The motorcycle is definitely heavily involved. And the Christmas lights are absolutely wrapped around it for aestheticand symbolic purposes. And there's definitely a leg situation happening.
Writing romance is vulnerable. Putting your fantasies and desires onto paper for others to read and judge.
Exposing the inner workings of your mind. Especially omegaverse romance with its inherent intensity and biological imperatives. Every scene reveals something about what you find compelling, attractive, erotic.
And now she's reading it.
Reading every word I wrote.
Seeing directly into my creative mind.
Knowing exactly what scenarios I find compelling enough to write in explicit detail.
It's terrifying and exhilarating simultaneously.
She laughs—bright and unrestrained and absolutely delighted by my obvious embarrassment.
"A bit?! A BIT?! Grayson, what position or scenario even motivated this particular scene?! Like, where does this level of creative detailed specificity even come from?! Do you just sit around thinking about motorcycles and Christmas lights and creative uses for both?!"
I blush even harder, which I genuinely didn't think was physically possible. Heat spreads from my face down my neck and probably across my chest.
"Your Pilates workout the other morning," I admit quietly, refusing to make eye contact.
The memory is vivid. Watching Theo film her going through those positions. The way those pink tights emphasized every curve. The flexibility. The strength. The controlled movements. My imagination went absolutely wild with possibilities.
Her eyes go comically wide. Her mouth drops open.
