‘I was slow to start with, but now I can write quite fast,’ he says. ‘I average around 700 to 800 words a night.’
I still can’t quite believe it.
‘Surely, you don’t package them up in brown paper and send them off to a publisher?’
Dain shakes his head, laughing. ‘Can you imagine? No, I give the pages to Bridget to type up as I go. She prints the whole thing out, and I edit it. She makes the changes, gives it a final proofread, and publishes it for me on Amazon under my pen name. She sourced a great cover designer who isn’t too expensive.’
‘Do you pay Bridget?’
‘Of course, I wouldn’t expect her to do all that for free.’
I peer over at the lower shelf; there seems to be at least half a dozen titles sitting there. ‘Is it a series? With the same character?’
‘There’s a three-book series about Sophronia and another three-book series featuring her cousin Rayne.’
‘And ... and is it all the same theme ... sexually?’
He shakes his head. ‘No, Sophronia is into threesomes, and Rayne is a lesbian.’
My eyebrows shoot up. ‘Diverse! And the one you’re writing?’
‘It’s a stand-alone featuring Sophronia’s younger sister, Azalea, who’s into BDSM,’ Dain explains. ‘If my fans like it, I might make it a duology.’
My head is spinning that he’s doing this. Publishing books. Spicy, kinky books! And making money from them too!
This must be the secret that Klint keeps going on about. How on earth did he find out?
‘Does anyone know you’re Tabitha Lavish? Apart from Bridget?’
‘Only a few people. It’s a strict secret punishable by death. Since you’ve found out, you’ll need to take the blood oath tomorrow.’
‘W-what does that entail?’ I have visions of him cutting our palms until they bleed and pressing them together in a candlelit ceremony.
He grins at my concerned expression. ‘Don’t look so worried. It’s only signing an NDA.’
I let out a breath.
He sits back down at the table and picks up the quill with his ink-stained fingers. ‘Anyway, feel free to have a read. I won’t be offended if you don’t like it. What I write isn’t everyone’s cup of tea.’
With Dain’s parting words, ‘happy bedtime reading’, ringing in my ears, I head off to my room, clutching book 1 of the Sophronia’s Secret Lifeseries and feeling apprehensive about what it contains.
As I suspected from the pages I read on the table, there’s a lot of spice in this book, more than I would normally be comfortable with. But I still devour it at a feverish pace by the light of my kerosene lamp. There’s everything from corset ripping, smutty talk, and heaving bosoms to open-door scenes featuring Sophronia and each of the two gentlemen as she gears up for her ultimate fantasy of a threesome (however, ‘gentlemen’ is too nice a word—these guys are hot, horny, and up for anything!). I’m trying not to imagine Dain as one of the main characters, but it’s difficult, especially as the men dress like him and wear fob watches.
Halfway in, the threesome scene occurs, and my eyes widen. Reader, it’s graphic—so much so that I have to close the book momentarily. I stretch out in bed, close my eyes, and press my hands to my hot cheeks. Oh my lord, I need a fan to cool down.Dain Whitmore or, should I say, Tabitha Lavish, you have a dirty little quill!
God knows what Bridget thinks about his books. Or maybe she’s used to it by now?
After five minutes, I sit up and flip open the book again, craving to know what happens next. Damn him and his cliffhanger chapter endings!
***
The next morning, I’m up at the crack of 9.30 and in the kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil when Dain appears, hair mussed and damp from a jug bath. Oh god. Feeling unprepared to see him quite so soon after last night’s tumultuous reading experience, I turn away quickly, pull out the grill, place two slices of bread on it, and pop them back in the oven to brown.
‘Well, Lizzy?’ Dain says gruffly from behind me. ‘Don’t keep me on tenterhooks. What did you think?’ He sounds truly concerned about my opinion of his book, which, judging from the subject matter, isn’t surprising. Maybe he’s been lying awake all night, regretting telling me about his side gig.
‘Why do you want to know?’ I say slowly, still not brave enough to look him in the eye.
‘Well, you’re my target audience: female, between 20 and 50 with an interest in historical novels, and hopefully not averse to R18 content.’
