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CHAPTER ONE: SAMANTHA
The cursor blinks on my laptop. The scene I’m working on is underway. Full of potential.
My roommates are still asleep. I haven’t had coffee, I haven’t eaten yet. I basically just rolled out of bed, powered on my laptop, and sat down on the couch with it. I’m bleary-eyed and tired, but this is when I do my best work—when I’m still half-dreaming.
Taking a deep breath, I begin to type.
“Fuck yes,” he said, his cock thick and punishing.
He thrust into her again and again and she welcomed him, welcomed the onslaught. She welcomed the way she would be sore in the morning, remembering this night for good. Forever.
It’s just a few lines but it gives me the strength to keep going. My shift at the library starts in forty-five minutes. If I type fast, I can finish this final, epic sex scene in My Ex’s Dad and be on time for work. I’ll be uncaffeinated, but that’s what the shitty break room coffee machine is for.
The next half-hour passes quickly, in a mad fever of my two characters moaning, thrusting, licking, sucking. They come, and they come hard. She comes multiple times, of course.
And then, the book is done. Yes. I punch the air over my head in silent celebration.
I save my work, then save it to my back-up drive, then I email it to myself to save there, too. Paranoid, much? Maybe. But I’ve been burned too many times by lost work.
I run the story through an error-finding program to get rid of pesky typos, and then through a book formatter. I make sure my pen name is safely in place. Sammie Starr. That’s me—or rather, my slutty alter-ego. The cover is ready to go—I paid way too much for it, but it was exactly what this book needed. A woman, blindfolded, faces the viewer. Behind her, a man is gripping the straps of her dress, and it looks as if he’s about to rip it off of her. The font treatment is chef’s kiss—fucking bright, girly, sexy. I love it.
Everything has come together to create this final product. I upload the files to my distributor. They are ready to go. People are going to buy this book, a fact which never ceases to amaze and humble me.
Next step, I upload the product to a free book distribution system.
And here comes the part that freaks me out. Every. Single. Time.
But I can’t stop doing it, I can’t quit. I can’t quit him.
I grab the option from the pull-down menu. GIFT THIS BOOK.
Then I plug in his email address.
Does he even check this email anymore? I haven’t received any “undeliverable” messages, but that doesn’t mean he sees these book deliveries.
Using my pen name’s email address, I’ve sent him every single book since I started publishing a year ago. I haven’t told him the books are from me. I haven’t contacted him in any other way.
And even though this freaks me out, even though it scares the ever-loving shit out of me, it’s also the highest of highs. I click send, and I’m so exhilarated, I could happily scream.
That would scare the ever-loving shit out of my roommates, though, so I hold back.
Just the idea that Gideon could read this book…
Just the thought that he might guess I wrote it…
Just the fantasy of him stroking his cock to my words…
…does it for me.
The story ended up perfect.
What’s not perfect?
Having to go to work while horny.
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