The cursor blinked at me like it was mocking me. Blinking, pausing, waiting. My half-empty mug of coffee had gone cold hours ago, the cream forming a thin skin on top. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t get distracted today, that I’d hammer out at least two thousand words before lunch.
But the problem with writing steamy romance? It demanded a headspace I didn’t always want to be in.
I drew in a deep breath, rolled my shoulders, and let my fingers hover over the keys. And then, slowly, the words began to flow.
He leaned close, his mouth grazing my ear, each word a low rasp that lit my skin on fire. “You tell me to stop, and I will,” he whispered, but his hand kept moving, sliding lower, daring me to admit I didn’t want him to.
A shiver traced down my spine, ridiculous because these were my
