Page 1 of The Haunting Plot

CHAPTER 1

RAVEN

“What’s a taint?”

“What? Oh my God, you scared me! Don’t say that word. It’s nothing,” I lie, covering my screen with my hand. Fuck, how long was he standing behind me?

“If it’s nothing, why can’t I say it?” Jonah asks.

“It’s a body part grown-ups talk about.” Normally, I’d sit him down and have a conversation about this, but I’m on a deadline.

“Are you almost done working?”

I bite my lip, holding in the heavy sigh that wants to escape, thankful he’s changing the subject. “I need to finish this chapter.”

“How long will that take?”

“I don’t know. But I do know that the more you keep interrupting me, the longer it’ll take.”

He lets out a frustrated groan as he stomps toward the door, trailing his hand along my desk as he goes. I swipe the candle from his path before he can make contact with it. Jonah is autistic and needs routine. I’m the same, but right now I’m in a flow and on deadline.

Once the door shuts behind him, I stare at the blinking cursor on my computer screen. Is there a sexy way to describe a taint?

She took him to the back of her throat, nearly gagging on the size of him as she slipped a finger under his balls, grazing his taint… pushing against his perineum… Do guys have a perineum?

I think they do, but now I’m questioning myself. The internet will know. Huh. They do, and it’s also called a gooch. There’s no way I can call it a gooch. People will DNF my book.

Resting my fingers against my laptop keys, I let out a deep breath. I can do this. I’m Ayana Cox. International best-selling romance author.

Her finger traveled further back, tickling the skin between his balls and anus…no one uses anus in a spicy scene, Raven. Oh my God, why are you writing your thoughts into your manuscript? Just write the scene. You’ve written hundreds of these.

Ugh. This is terrible. It doesn’t matter how many romance novels I write, I still feel like a shitty writer every time.

And with all the different ways to say dick, you’d think there’d be more words for taint.

“Mom! Come quick.”

Sure, I’ll be right there. Once I think of a word for the skin behind a guy’s testicles that doesn’t give my readers the ick.

“MOM! There’s a fire!”

Yes, there is. In Wyatt’s loins, burning only for her. When does school start? It’s so hard to accomplish anything when the kids are home and constantly interrupting me.

“MOOOM!”

Wait, did he say fire? I jump out of my chair and race out of the room, practically knocking over my desk.

“Jonah, where are you?” I yell, running through the house.

“Out here!” he yells from the front porch. “Your swing is on fire!”

“What?” When I get to the porch, I stare in shock as my favorite writing spot goes up in flames. And then my adrenaline kicks in. “McKenna, grab the fire extinguisher. It’s under the kitchen sink,” I say to my daughter as I toss Jonah my phone. “Here, call 911.”

I take in the scene before me. The wooden swing is only partially engulfed. The metal chains supporting it are fine, and so far, the flames haven’t reached the nearby posts. I turn and grab my sneakers, slipping them on as I run over and karate-kick the swing in an attempt to get it off the porch. The flames crackle, but it’s hard to tell if I’m making any progress.

We have no neighbors out here, no one who could come help. And normally, that’s how I like it. But I can’t catch a fucking break lately, and I could really use some rescuing right now.

What am I talking about? I’m Raven fucking Hawthorne. I don’t need a man or anyone else to rescue me.