“As much as I don’t want to stop doing this,” he whispers inmy ear, “I’m starving.” With one final peck, he releases me and rounds the small kitchen island. “And if we’re to give Peg and Fran a show later,” he waggles his brows as he digs through the takeaway bag, “I need fuel.”
He sets the to-go containers on the counter, next to my pen and notebook. I bought it at the Athens airport and almost refused to use it; it’s so pretty, with its thick golden spiral and a hard cover hand painted by a Greek artist.
“Were you working on something?” he asks with a nod at it.
My eyes widen and my heartbeat quickens. Horrified, I snatch it up and clutch it to my chest. The contents are for my eyes only.
“What?” He gapes. “Is that for your rated-R writing class?”
“It’s not rated R.” I snigger. “It’s a course on writing mature material.”
The extension Talulah offers is for writers who want to explore and experiment in writing more “explicit content.” (Okay, it’s smut. We’re writing smut.) Talulah did not hold back in the first exercise whatsoever.
“Tell me,” he says, his voice low and smooth. “What are you writing about?”
I suck in my cheeks, stifling a sheepish grin. “You don’t want to know.”
“Now I’m intrigued.” He abandons his dinner and crowds my space, leaning his hip against the counter.
I slap my notebook to my face to hide my blushing cheeks, like a kid discovering her father’s stash ofPlayboymagazines.
“Joey,” he croons. “What was the assignment?” He crooks a finger over the top of the pages and pulls back the corner of the front cover.
Exhaling a long breath, I clutch the subject of this little discussion to my chest. “If I tell you, you have to promise not to laugh or get all weird about it.”
“Scout’s honor.” He holds three fingers high in the air.
“That’s the volunteer sign fromThe Hunger Games, not the Boy Scouts’ sign, you nerd,” I laugh. Dropping my work-in-progress on the counter a little harder than intended, I gather my courage and dive in. “You remember how quirky my instructor is, right?”
“Yeah, Ari’s grandmother.”
“Yes.” I shake my head at the memory of her excitement over this exercise. “She created an assignment where penis-owners have to write about what sex would be like if they had a vulva. And those of us with a vulva have to write about what sex would be like if we had a penis. It’s a personal exercise only, thank god. Standing up and sharing this with the group might be a little too far out of my comfort zone.”
He raises a brow.
“I think the point is to get outside ourselves, see things from a different perspective.”
Cam steps in closer. “And how do you expect to do that?”
I roll my lips between my teeth. “I was trying to imagine beingyou… fuckingme.”
His Adam’s apple bobs, and he dips so close the heat of him warms me. “Did it work?”
A shiver runs down my spine. “Did what work?”
“Imagining you’re me… fucking you?” The way he emphasizes the -ckin “fuck” causes pinpricks of painful pleasure along my skin.
“Yes and no.” I lower my chin and consider how detailed I want to be.
Beside me, Cam’s breathing picks up.
“I don’t have a dick, so I can’treallyknow.” I press a hand to the notebook, guarding the embarrassing words I wrote only moments ago.
“I have an idea.” He pushes off the counter and towers over me.
“Hmm?” My heart lodges in my throat at his proximity and the suggestion framing his words.
With his lips against my ear, he rasps, “What if we gave you a dick?”
