everything changed between us the night I came home and found her on my laptop. And not just on Facebook.
She had found the motherload.
My erotic fiction folder.
After I tried and failed to convince her that it all belonged to my sister-friend-mother-great-great-aunt-twice-removed, and that I would NEVER write about Daenerys Targeryen sucking Robb Stark’s cock until they both passed out (that was my Game of Thrones period) she turned to me, and that was when I got my first taste of Business Marie.
Business Marie shoved my face in her computer, scrolled through a seventy-thousand-word romance novel, and showed me the blank pages where the two characters needed to be banging, blowing, and licking or something of the like.
“I can’t write it,” she’d said. “But you can.”
She promised to give me a third of her advance if the book ever sold. I did it mostly out of pity, and because writing sex comes to me as easily as water—or used to.
Imagine my surprise when, five months later, she landed a sixty-thousand-dollar deal with Harper fucking Collins.
That’s right. Sixty thousand.
Which isn’t a normal advance for a first time author, just so you don’t decide to quit your day job. Somehow her book got caught up in a vicious bidding war with Penguin, and suddenly…dollar signs.
She made me swear I’d never tell anyone that I wrote her sex scenes. She said she’d lose all credibility as an author, especially considering the first book did well enough to warrant a sequel.
And so I never told.
Until Adrian.
Curse that gorgeous green-eyed bastard.
In my heart, I know it’s not actually his fault. But something about the way he looks at me makes me want to spill all my secrets.
Even the secret I swore would stay locked up inside me until the day I died.
“Cleo!”
I look up. I’ve been meandering across campus, lost in thought. Tanisha is waving at me. She and a few other girls are stretched out on a hill, enjoying the last of the September sunshine, textbooks lying neglected in the grass.
“Has she broken down yet?” asks June-Ann, lying on her back under a tree and peeking out from between her fingers.
“No,” I sigh. “Although this morning I covered her bedroom in little paper hearts that say ‘Cleo + Marie 4ever’ and I think I’m wearing her down—”
“Not Marie!” June-Ann says in horror. “You. Regarding the Sex King.”
“Adrian?”
“How many Sex Kings are there at Statham?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I’m a sex empress,” June-Ann clarifies.
“Right. Well, first of all, you shouldn’t say ‘she’ if you mean ‘you’, that’s very misleading. Second of all, no, I have not broken down yet, and the Sex King is the least of my concerns right now. My best friend hates me!”
“The Sex King is the least of no one’s concerns,” says Elise in a hushed voice, and I wonder if a cult has been initiated in my absence.
“Cleo. Honey. Darling. Sweetpea.” June-Ann sits up, shakes a few bits of grass off her back, and takes me by both shoulders. “You need to think about the rest of womankind here.”
“It’s like how they say beautiful words of art belong in a museum for all of humanity. Like the Mona Lisa. Adrian’s cock belongs to us all,” says Elise in her sweet Catholic schoolgirl voice.
I blink. “You’re saying his cock is like the Mona Lisa?”
“No, because everyone’s always surprised at how small the Mona Lisa is.” June-Ann licks her lips. “I bet Adrian’s sweet piece of meat is huge.”
The girl’s all sigh as the mental image of Lower Adrian floats to them on a golden cloud, winged cupids trumpeting its arrival. I bat my hands around my head to drive away any unwanted imagery. “One—ew. Two—what are you guys even talking about? I haven’t cast a spell on him or anything.”
“Oh, but you have,” says Tanisha tragically. “You haven’t heard? He’s sworn off other girls.”
They all nod solemnly.
I laugh. “No way. The
She had found the motherload.
My erotic fiction folder.
After I tried and failed to convince her that it all belonged to my sister-friend-mother-great-great-aunt-twice-removed, and that I would NEVER write about Daenerys Targeryen sucking Robb Stark’s cock until they both passed out (that was my Game of Thrones period) she turned to me, and that was when I got my first taste of Business Marie.
Business Marie shoved my face in her computer, scrolled through a seventy-thousand-word romance novel, and showed me the blank pages where the two characters needed to be banging, blowing, and licking or something of the like.
“I can’t write it,” she’d said. “But you can.”
She promised to give me a third of her advance if the book ever sold. I did it mostly out of pity, and because writing sex comes to me as easily as water—or used to.
Imagine my surprise when, five months later, she landed a sixty-thousand-dollar deal with Harper fucking Collins.
That’s right. Sixty thousand.
Which isn’t a normal advance for a first time author, just so you don’t decide to quit your day job. Somehow her book got caught up in a vicious bidding war with Penguin, and suddenly…dollar signs.
She made me swear I’d never tell anyone that I wrote her sex scenes. She said she’d lose all credibility as an author, especially considering the first book did well enough to warrant a sequel.
And so I never told.
Until Adrian.
Curse that gorgeous green-eyed bastard.
In my heart, I know it’s not actually his fault. But something about the way he looks at me makes me want to spill all my secrets.
Even the secret I swore would stay locked up inside me until the day I died.
“Cleo!”
I look up. I’ve been meandering across campus, lost in thought. Tanisha is waving at me. She and a few other girls are stretched out on a hill, enjoying the last of the September sunshine, textbooks lying neglected in the grass.
“Has she broken down yet?” asks June-Ann, lying on her back under a tree and peeking out from between her fingers.
“No,” I sigh. “Although this morning I covered her bedroom in little paper hearts that say ‘Cleo + Marie 4ever’ and I think I’m wearing her down—”
“Not Marie!” June-Ann says in horror. “You. Regarding the Sex King.”
“Adrian?”
“How many Sex Kings are there at Statham?”
I raise an eyebrow.
“I’m a sex empress,” June-Ann clarifies.
“Right. Well, first of all, you shouldn’t say ‘she’ if you mean ‘you’, that’s very misleading. Second of all, no, I have not broken down yet, and the Sex King is the least of my concerns right now. My best friend hates me!”
“The Sex King is the least of no one’s concerns,” says Elise in a hushed voice, and I wonder if a cult has been initiated in my absence.
“Cleo. Honey. Darling. Sweetpea.” June-Ann sits up, shakes a few bits of grass off her back, and takes me by both shoulders. “You need to think about the rest of womankind here.”
“It’s like how they say beautiful words of art belong in a museum for all of humanity. Like the Mona Lisa. Adrian’s cock belongs to us all,” says Elise in her sweet Catholic schoolgirl voice.
I blink. “You’re saying his cock is like the Mona Lisa?”
“No, because everyone’s always surprised at how small the Mona Lisa is.” June-Ann licks her lips. “I bet Adrian’s sweet piece of meat is huge.”
The girl’s all sigh as the mental image of Lower Adrian floats to them on a golden cloud, winged cupids trumpeting its arrival. I bat my hands around my head to drive away any unwanted imagery. “One—ew. Two—what are you guys even talking about? I haven’t cast a spell on him or anything.”
“Oh, but you have,” says Tanisha tragically. “You haven’t heard? He’s sworn off other girls.”
They all nod solemnly.
I laugh. “No way. The
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