But I can’t, so I write and I lose myself in stories where extravagance is king and pleasure is sacred. The love is sensual and passionate and hot.
So very hot.
I made Colt promise he’d never read them because the last thing I need my brother experiencing is the inner workings of my brain where sex is involved.
Dirty sex.
Hot, filthy, delicious sex.
I miss sex.
And that thought issonot helpful. Dropping into the chair behind my desk, I open my laptop and stare at the screen. I could open my work in progress, but today has me feeling a little off-kilter and I need to just purge this feeling.
Loneliness.
Desperation.
Anguish.
Because someone outside my window hatesme—not just my books or my writing butme.Just thinking about it makes me feel sick.
My fingers pound against the keys as the words appear before me, my cheeks wet with the tears rolling down my face as I mourn the person I’ll never get to be.
I hate the part of me that should be thankful for such a privileged life. But what is privilege if I have to make myself smaller to fit inside someone else’s narrative?
It’s exhausting.
Heartbreaking.
And still I write.
Strength blooms inside me at the thought that I might not be in this alone, that I’ve fought silently for so long and now someone has held out their hand for me to grab.
To pull me up.
To face this unknown together.
Tom’s face appears in my mind’s eye. He’s so handsome it almost hurts but more than that…Ibelieve him. I believe that he wants to keep me safe.
He’s the kind of hero I write about. The one that will level a city to avenge the wrongs done to his girl.
The thought has a smile sliding across my lips, my tears replaced with a full-body flush as I think about what it would be like to have all that raw masculinity focused on me.
There’s no doubt that he’d be wild in bed.
And probably out of it too.
I can imagine his roughened palms sliding up my thighs, the anticipation of his touch between my legs, the way I know he’d take his time teasing and edging me until I’m begging for release.
That kind of intensity would be addictive.
Deliciously torturous.
Fuck it.
My panties are already damp just thinking about it—abouthim—or the idea of him at least. I know I’ll regret my decision later but right now, I can’t bring myself to care.
Seeing the door is blessedly closed, I let my head fall against my seat, thankful I’d chosen the one with the high back as I prop one foot on the desk brace and let my fingertips trace along the skin between my sweatshirt and the top of my leggings. When my eyelids flutter shut, I can’t help but sigh, pushing my hand beneath the waistband, my heart racing a little faster knowing the door is unlocked.
