I moved the cursor and deleted David.
He grimaced. “Can't. My detective character's first name is Smith.”
“So?”
“People will think I'm an egotistical prick, with this super-smart, handsome, stud of a detective who bears my first name. Ever heard of the term authorial insert?”
I giggled. “Insert?”
He crossed his arms and rested his sexy, dimpled chin on one fist.
“We'll just run with it,” he said. “I'll think of something better later. Maybe Sven. Or Carter. Or Humphrey.”
I put in a hard page return and cleared my throat. “I'm going to start calling you Smith now, so you can see how that feels.”
His gaze wandered down from my eyes, past my chin, then to my br**sts, my waist, and my crotch. His nostrils flared, and I wondered if he was smelling me, taking in the scent of my hair gel and perfume.
I could smell him, faintly musky, or was it just my imagination? I wondered what his skin smelled like, or what he'd do if I just leaned over and put my lips on his neck.
His voice low and gravelly, a different tone from his speaking voice, he said, “It was a dark and stormy night.”
I typed the words.
He snorted. “Delete that, it's just a joke.”
I scratched my head in what I hoped was an adorable way. “Yeah, that sounded a little familiar. Isn't that how all Snoopy's stories begin?”
He raised his eyebrows. “You're a Peanuts fan?”
“Of course. Nobody captures the pathos of being a child quite like Schultz.”
Smith uncrossed his arms and stood from his chair. “I want that. I want for people to say something beautiful like that about my work some day.”
I pointed to the blank page.
“Very well then.” He began to pace the room behind me, and in the low, serious voice again, he gave me a new opening line. It was better than the dark and stormy night line, but not by much. The story began with someone banging on Detective Smith Dunham's door while he was pleasuring a lady who was also his client. She had really big br**sts, and we spent a good paragraph describing them.
After a while, I got drawn into the story, and Smith (I had already stopped thinking of him as David or DSW) picked up speed. I felt like I was in a trance as the words flowed through me.
After two straight hours of typing, we stopped, and found I'd typed four thousand words.
Smith seemed shocked.
“Is that a lot?” I asked.
“Stephen King says he writes two thousand a day.”
“So… you're twice as good as Stephen King.”
Smith laughed, hard. “You're killing me, Lexie. I strive to be at least half as good as King.”
“Absolutely not,” I said, adopting the serious tone of one of my favorite teachers. “It's far better to aim high and fall short than aim low and succeed.”
Smith stopped laughing. “That's the most depressing thing I've ever heard. Lexie! Is that from a motivational poster or something?”
“Maybe.” Yes it was. It had been on a large poster in my homeroom throughout twelfth grade, and I'd stared at the words and the soaring birds often.
He shook his head. “There's nothing wrong with lofty goals, or modest goals. So long as you live with hope and take chances, you succeed.” He threw his hands in the air and waved his arms over his head wildly. “Woohoo! Party time! I wrote the whole first chapter thanks to my new friend.”
I chuckled, still sitting on my chair. He was being very silly for a grown-up man.
Breathing heavily, his cheeks pink, he said, “Dance with me!”
He clicked something on the computer to turn on some music, and he hauled me to my feet.
The song was “Fell in Love with a Girl,” by The White Stripes, and Smith's dance moves were unlike anything I'd seen before or since.
I tried to match his frenetic energy, waving my hands over my head, and after a moment, I stopped worrying about how silly I looked, and I threw myself into it.
He grabbed me by the hands, and we twirled around, then he spun me and dipped me. With his strong arm behind my back, he dipped me low to the ground. I gazed into his sapphire eyes, electrified by his hands on my body, and something took hold of me.
When he pulled me back up again, I threw my arms around his shoulders and brought my face to his. I didn't kiss him.
The song changed to “Cry Me a River” by Justin Timberlake, and we continued to sway, slow-dancing, our faces inches apart.
His arms encircled my waist, and he pulled me in tight. There was something in his pants, and it was way too big to be a cell phone. I ground my h*ps against his, enjoying the feeling of him against my body, and then, finally, when I thought I was going to die if he didn't kiss me, he did.
His lips fell on mine like ripe peaches coming off a tree, and when I parted my lips, I found he tasted as remarkable as he looked. His hot breath billowed like steam on my face, and I needed his tongue in my mouth like I needed his c**k inside me.
He pulled away. “Shower with me.”
“What?”
I stood dumbstruck as he unbuttoned his shirt, tossed it aside, and then pulled off his T-shirt.
He was so beautiful with his shirt off, all muscular and golden, with an even tan and a blond trail of hair down the middle of his taut stomach. He dropped his belt, then turned around and removed his trousers and underwear, showing me his butt cheeks, which were also taut and golden. I wanted that ass in my hands, so I followed him as he skipped out of the office, into the master bedroom, past the king-sized bed, and into the luxurious master bathroom.
He got the water running as I undressed myself, moving quickly so I didn't lose my nerve.
I held my arms across my chest as I stepped into the large walk-in shower with him.
As I'd never seen a penis in real life before, much less an erect one, I was understandably shy about looking below the waistline, but I did look, and I didn't have to look far.
There was his cock, thick and reaching up like a strong tree branch you could climb.
Smith kissed my face, lips, and neck, everywhere at once. Heaven found me in the midst of all the warm spray of the shower, my fingertips touching my first cock. It was surprisingly soft and hard at the same time, with the head having some squish at the top, but the shaft being hard just beneath the skin, like wood or bone, which made the names woody and boner make more sense suddenly.
I got to my knees before him and kissed the head, then ran my tongue down the shaft, my face close enough now that I could smell the musk of his skin.
I stopped for a moment to gaze up at him. I considered telling him I'd never given head before, but then decided to just fake it. I'd heard plenty of detail from my friend Laura back home. She'd just started dating Lars officially, and they spent a lot of time together with his c**k in her mouth, by the sound of it.