Page 57 of The Final Draft

“I can imagine you in turn-of-the-century garb. You’d make a hot Bridgerton brother.” I put my hand to my chest and pretend to swoon.

“For your information, I happen to like regency romance. Not the part where women are married off like property, but the formality and tension. It’s hot.” He says that without breaking eye contact. He’s dead serious.

I look around to see if they can turn the heaters down because it’s a bit warm out here. His genuine laughter only encourages my blush.

After amusing him throughout lunch with my menu adaptations, we take Noodle for a walk through Central Park. His little legs work double time to keep up with us, and he tires quickly. You want to know what actually makes me swoon? It’s when Julian picks him up and carries him home. It’s incredibly sexy how he cares for others, even Noodle. Being with Julian makes my stress melt away and I’m relaxed. He’s got me completely spellbound.

We arrive back at the apartment, and Noodle collapses beside his bowl with a dramatic flourish. Although typically midafternoon is prime writing time for me, I’m not in the mood for it. My creative juices are flowing, but the keyboard is the last thing I want to put my fingers on. I’m in the mood for Julian.

“What do you want to do?” I ask innocently. I hope he’s on the same page.

He looks at me, swallowing hard, and I celebrate that he’s thinking what I’m thinking. Yes!

“Let’s do a writing sprint. Thirty minutes. We’ll both write the next chapter and then swap.” I’m astonished at his suggestion, and not in a good way. That’s what the practical me would have said if I wasn’t trying to follow my heart. A writing sprint?

Sure, writing sprints are fun. You let the stream-of-consciousness flow. No worrying about the right word, punctuation. The focus is getting the words on the page. As a perfectionist, I’ve never let anyone read a sprint, so I’m a little hesitant.

“Nervous?” he asks.

“No, why would I be nervous?” I put on an air of fake confidence. I’m always self-conscious when someone reads my writing. That’s one reason I haven’t published yet.

He chuckles. “I’m setting the timer for thirty-five minutes. I’ll give you a few minutes to get settled. And go!”

I dash to the comfortable reading chair I’ve claimed as my writing spot. I have a lap desk and lots of pillows. I snuggle in and wake my laptop up. I reread where I left off and gasp. Shit. Julian’s laugh fills the apartment.

“Tick-tock, gorgeous,” he teases. I close my eyes and take a deep breath. I forgot we’re at the sex scene. Gavin and Charlotte have fallen in love through notes they leave on his counter when he’s away. It’s a twist on the pen-pal trope. They’ve been on a few dates now, and when she comes over to walk the dog, she’s surprised to find him at home because he got benched. They can’t deny their attraction any longer, and it’s time for their first sexy scene.

Okay, I can do this. Write a sex scene from a male point of view. Easy. A little boob play, maybe a fingering, a few tugs and then wham-bam-thank you-ma’am.

I write, my fingers flying over the keyboard. The strokes. The growly words. His commanding touch. It’s carnal. Hard, rushed. He’s not at all hesitant, and his tongue does things I’ve never experienced, but I’m open to it. He’s so turned on he takes her against the wall, their clothes a tangled mess around their feet. It’s quick, hard, necessary.

Of course, the entire time, I’m imagining Julian. His kisses are possessive and claiming. I imagine his lips on mine and squirm. Is it hot in here? Did he turn up the heat? I take my sweatshirt off, leaving me in a t-shirt and leggings. I glance up and find Julian staring at me, a smirk on his face. It’s like he knows exactly what’s running through my mind.

“What? It’s hot in here.” He shakes his head and focuses back on his laptop. A few minutes later, his alarm goes off, and he brings his laptop over, eager for the exchange. I shut mine and hug it to my chest, protecting it from his eyes.

“I never do this.” The disclaimer just rolls off my tongue. His critique of my writing matters to me. So does how well we work together as partners. Both on the page and off.

Apparently, I amuse him as he laughs at me. “What? Write? Because we’ve been doing it for a few weeks now.” His teasing sends my nerves into overdrive.

“I mean this. Writing without obsessing over every word, nuance. I’m nervous.”

His blue eyes darken, any hint of humor removed in response to my distress. “Harper, you’re always safe with me.” He’s on his knees in front of the chair, pleading with me like a desperate man. His words drip with sincerity and I have to trust him.

“I know,” I sigh. I reluctantly open it and hand it to him.

As he reads, I shrink down into the chair and pull a blanket over my head. After a minute of tortured silence, he laughs. A full out chortle. My worst nightmare is happening before my eyes. He’s laughing at my writing. Worse yet, he’s laughing at my sex scene. Every ounce of insecurity floods my veins, and I want to give up this writing folly. I’ll make dog walking a full-time gig.

A few minutes later, he peeks under the blanket, a concerned look on his face. “Harper, what’s wrong?”

A tear escapes and I quickly wipe it away. “I didn’t write a comedy,” I say weakly.

He puts a finger under my chin and turns my face to his, forcing me to look into his caring eyes. “No, you didn’t. It’s good. Hot. But I’m confused because I don’t know if it’s what you want or what you think a guy wants. But from my point of view, I can assure you, their first time won’t be a quickie against the wall. He cares about her.”

His hand palms my cheek, and he wipes my tear away. “She’s not some puck bunny he’ll forget. He’s going to savor every single inch of her.” His look is so serious, it makes me forget he was even laughing. Every word he says is slow. Sensual.

“He’s going to memorize what his touch does to her.” His eyes drink me in, moving slowly down my body, taking me in inch by inch. His finger slowly traces down my arm, my body sparking to life at his light touch. “Pay so much attention to every detail of her body that he can recall it when he’s desperate for her and she’s not there. He’s going to take her to his bed and worship her.”

I can’t help but wonder if he knows how wet I’m getting, how turned on I am. “He’s going to lap at her pussy until she comes on his face and is ready for the ecstasy of coming on his cock.” Our eyes meet, and his tongue licks his lips. Oh, he knows all right.

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