Page 2 of Courtney
Quinn’s smile disappears. “Are you serious?”
“He may not have liked doing it, but I can assure you,” Michelle says, patting my arm. “There are plenty of guys out there willing and eager to return the oral favor.”
This new information changes everything about my sexual history. It's like it's gone from black and white to technicolor in a span of few seconds. A mixture of emotions hit me at once, and I jump from one to the next with each passing sexual memory flashing in my mind. Stupidity—for letting this one man's personal preference dictate the future of my sex life after him. Anger—for all the times he had no problem urging me to blow him but never returning the favor. Shame—for thinking something was wrong with me, even though I know I keep it neat and tidy down there.
"Are you okay?" Fiona asks concern creasing her brow.
"Not yet," I tell her and pick upThe Juiciest Fruitfrom off the table. "But I will be when I get done with this."
2
MAX
Despite having two cups of hot coffee knocked into my lap and nearly scalding my dick, I think I'll recover. It helped that the cute girl at the table next to mine, who was the culprit for the spill, tried to clean it up and inadvertently gave me more action with a pat-down of my lap than I've seen in months. Too bad the burning sensation offset any arousal I would have felt from her "help."
I put my keys into the dish on the side table near the door when I get home and toss my laptop case on the couch. I need to shower off my afternoon mocha exploits.
I’d headed out to The Story Brew today, despite a deadline looming, for some writing inspiration.
A few weeks ago, I’d inadvertently stumbled on a small women’s book club meeting there. As a writer, I’m always looking for inspiration and finding it in the craziest places. And the day they walked into my coffee shop was no different.
I'm about to strip out of my coffee-covered clothes and jump in the shower when my phone rings. My agent's name flashes on the screen, and I cringe. I've been avoiding her calls for the last few days. I'm past my second deadline with the publisher. If I don't pick up now, she might send out a search party for me to make sure I'm not dead and being eaten by stray cats.
I swipe my finger across the screen and answer the phone. "Hey, Daphne."
"So, you are alive," she says by way of greeting. "I was worried you might have been lying dead in a ditch somewhere, but now that I know you're alive and just ignoring my calls—I may kill you myself.”
I sigh, knowing full well that I deserve that. “I’m sorry, I’ve been staying off the grid to try and get some words down.”
“You’re writing again?”
“Umm, yeah.” I think back to how I spent all morning rereading my latest novel at the coffee shop looking for inspiration. “In a way.”
“You’re lying. I can actually hear your nose growing over the phone.”
“I was doing research.” If you call eavesdropping on people at the coffee shop research—which I do.
"Max, you know I love you, but I can't keep the wolves at bay much longer. The publisher is starting to call my office every day asking for your next book."
"I've given them six bestsellers in three years; you'd think that they would be willing to give a guy some slack."
“You’ve missed two deadlines already. They are running out of slack to give you.”
“I’m working on it.”
"Yeah, that's what you said the last time you picked up when I called."
"The writer's block is getting worse, and I'm not sure what I can do to fix it."
“I know,” she sighs heavily on the other end of the line. “That’s why I’ve come up with a way for you to get the creative juices flowing in you.”
“At this point, I’m willing to try anything.”
"Good, I thought I was going to have to twist your arm and call in one of the favors you owe me for getting you to agree to this."
My heart sinks like a rock in my chest, landing with a heavy thump in my stomach. I can't imagine anything she has planned will be good if she was willing to pull out all the stops to get me to go along with it.
“I’ve organized a small book signing for you.”
