As I typed, he paced the room behind me, his sock feet quiet on the thick carpet. I zoned out, focusing only on one word at a time, coming from a disembodied voice that moved around like sound effects on surround-sound speakers.
He used my moose, but at least the woman, Detective Dunham's new client, wasn't named Tori. She was Sheri, and she had waist-length red hair, unlike my own shoulder-length red hair. I had a bunch of freckles on the bridge of my nose, but she had a “smattering of delicious angel kisses.” Her chest measurements were also more impressive than mine, and yes, he did describe her bra size. On the front page. I found it difficult to type while rolling my eyes, but I forged on. I kept up my pace, never falling behind his narration, for nearly two hours.
At the end of the second hour, Smith clapped his hands abruptly. “Tori! Time for a break.”
“But … why did Sheri hire Detective Dunham instead of going directly to the police?”
I twirled around on my fancy chair to find a smug-looking Smith Wittingham, his face working hard to look even more self-satisfied.
“Gotcha,” he said. “Good to know. I'm off to take a shower. You can join me if you like, or do whatever your heart fancies for the next two hours, then we'll reconvene.”
My left eye twitched. Join him for a shower? He'd removed the light jacket he'd been wearing when I arrived, and wore only a tight-fitting T-shirt. The man either had good genes or spent some time at the gym—perhaps both. As I was watching him, he dropped to the carpet and started doing push-ups. “You should do something to get your heart rate up,” he said between presses. “Increased blood flow is good for the brain, too. Maybe go outside and get that scary moose to chase you around.”
“Good idea,” I said, stepping around him. I paused at the doorway long enough to get a good look at his butt, on display in that position.
I wondered how sleeping with him would change me, besides increasing the number of guys I'd been with, sexually. Despite all my big talk with my friends, and the dirty things I'd say over email and text messages, the truth was I'd only been with Todd through most of college. There'd been a few breaks and other people, but not as much experimentation as I'd hoped to have done by the time I graduated.
Todd and I had broken up half a year earlier, and I'd heard through friends he'd moved on. And on. He was dating his third girlfriend since me, last I heard. Wouldn't it be great if Todd heard about my affair with a wealthy author?
Smith finished his push-ups and jumped up, his face red from exertion, his brown eyes looking bright and golden. “Shower time. You in?”
I turned and walked away down the hall. “Going for that walk you suggested! Have fun.”
“Oh, I will.”
His voice suggested naughty business, but it was all too soon. I ran away.
Once downstairs, I put on my shoes quickly and raced out the door.
From my vantage point out in the woods, everything that had happened in the cabin seemed surreal.
Was he allowed to flirt with me so brazenly? I'd signed so many documents, including one that acknowledged I understood the author wrote some scenes of a sexual nature. I'd agreed that I wouldn't be crying sexual harassment over typing some dirty words. The document said nothing about him inviting me to take a shower with him, though.
As I walked through the woods, I noticed a distinctive feeling happening between my legs. It was a sexy movie feeling, only the movie was playing in my head. I couldn't stop thinking about Smith in the shower, stroking his long, thick cock, his face contorted, then relieved, as he came in the water, his seed swirling down the drain.
Back at school, I'd always been disappointed when Todd took a long shower in the morning, because he'd be uninterested in making love the rest of the day. I'd wake up alone in bed, hot for him, but he'd rush off to class and leave me wanting, horny and desperate. Frustrated. Exactly the same way I was feeling at that moment in the forest.
Nobody was around, not even a moose, so I leaned back against a sturdy tree, took a deep breath of the fresh Vermont air, and slipped my hand down the front of my jeans.
Our second writing session of the day went even better, with us laying down a significant number of words. The mystery itself was convoluted, with a number of suspects in the “accident” that Detective Smith Dunham's sexy client Sheri suspected was a murder.
I found myself smiling and laughing internally at the dialog Smith gave Sheri. She wasn't just some cardboard sex object for him to bang, but a real person, with a sense of humor and a strong will. She was exactly the kind of woman he never put in his novels. I loved her.
This session went longer than the first, and by the third hour, I was exhausted and exhilarated. We'd fallen into a rhythm together, where I'd mostly sit and type, being his flying fingers, but now and then he'd pause as though searching his mind for a word. I wouldn't say the word out loud, but would type a suggested word on the screen.
For example, he paused when describing a hotel suite, and I typed the word sumptuous.
In a softer voice than the one he used to dictate the words of the novel, he said, “Ah, yes, sumptuous is even better than elegant. That word wouldn't come to mind because it was the wrong word. But you pulled the right word from my subconscious. You must be psychic.” He touched me on the shoulder.
I was so startled and excited by his touch, I moaned.
“Interesting,” he said softly. He resumed his pacing behind me, and the dictation.
He only uttered three sentences, and they were stilted and awkward.
I turned around to look at him and noticed his posture was drooping. “Time for a break?” I asked.
He collapsed on the nearby bed, face down. “Done for the day,” he mumbled.
He didn't move, and I wondered if he was playing a new game, or actually that exhausted. His eyes were closed, and he looked comfortable enough, so I got out of my chair and quietly left the room, shutting the door behind me.
Downstairs, I came upon a revelation: a land line telephone! I shook my head at my own stupidity. My cell phone had no coverage there, and there was no internet, but I was not entirely cut off from the rest of the world. I called my mother first, to let her know I'd made the journey safely.
My mother said, “Who is this mysterious author? I'm dying to know. Can you tell me?”
“I can't tell you, but she is a nice lady.”
“Oh.” She sounded disappointed. “I was hoping it might be a nice man who'll take care of you.”
“Mom! I can take care of myself.”
“Of course. That's not what I meant.”