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When It’s Not About the Word Count

So I’ve been rocking the words in July…. until last night.

I’m stuck in the same scene second night in a row.  I’ve attacked it from four different angles so far. And I’m still working on it.  I think I’m almost there.  It’s one of those seemingly easy scenes, but under the surface I have SO MUCH going on.  Fears and secret messages galore.    No toys, no bondage, no play…but all heart.  And it’s hard.  Very hard.

It’d be better if I could find the right theme song.  Poor Molly has been sending me ideas left and right but the Muse is fickle sometimes.  Lick by Joi is almost right… but not quite.  Something along those lines, although more like Closer by NIN.  Any recs?

Stress at the Evil Day Job is through the roof, which is complicating my evening writing.  (I’ve lost lunch writing too.  Just too much to do.)  But hopefully I can keep going a little at a time and finish by the end of the month.

56,500 and counting in The Billionaire Submissive (61,400 for the month)


“Mr. Morgan?”  Miss Wruthers squeaked, if possible even higher and more irritating than normal.  The way every one of her sentences seemed to end in a question put his teeth on edge, but he didn’t respond.  His temper was already legendary, and shouting at the poor woman to stop being so hesitant surely wouldn’t help.  “Miss Harrison is here?”

“Thank you.”  He forced himself to speak slowly and calmly.  “Send her in.”

This time, he wouldn’t rise and greet her politely.  I can’t.  Or she’ll see the massive hard on threatening to tear my pants.  She’ll just have to assume I’m being my normal arrogant self.

When Lilly walked into his office, he frantically thanked every deity known to man that he’d remained seated.  Because he would have thoroughly humiliated himself.  As it was, he nearly came in his pants.

She wore a high-collared, low-cut red blouse the same color as her painted toes, a tight black pencil skirt that hugged every inch of her glorious hips, and those shoes.  The ones from the pictures.  So high he didn’t know how a woman could possibly walk in them.  But she did, each step swaying her hips in a hypnotic dance that made his mouth go dry with lust.  When she sat down and crossed her legs, the short black skirt rode up enough to show him the top of her stockings.

He gulped, sweat breaking out on his forehead.  Real thigh-high stockings and a garter belt.  A thin strip of bare thigh tantalized him above the silk.  It made him think about sliding his hand up that skirt, seeking what else she might have on beneath the material.  Or better yet, nothing at all.

“Good morning, Mr. Morgan.”  She leaned down to set her portfolio beside her on the floor, giving him a good, long look down her shirt.  No bra met his gaze, just plump breasts lifted by what looked like a black corset.  “I trust that you slept well last night?”

Dear God.  A corset.  Stockings.  If she pulls a crop out of her bag I’m going to pass out when my dick explodes.

He jammed a finger at the intercom and barked, “coffee” at his secretary.

“Evidently not,” Lilly laughed softly, a deep velvety purr that made him quiver in his chair.  “Too bad.  You’re going to need all your wits about you for this contract negotiation.”

Ah, so that’s what this was.  She’d deliberately worn this outrageously sexy outfit to make sure she got what she wanted out of the negotiation.

With a glare, he retorted, “It’s not going to work.”

Her eyebrows rose and she looked at him innocently.  “What’s not going to work?”

“This.”  He waved a hand at her and averted his gaze, sure that he was blushing like a virgin.  That only made his cheeks burn hotter.  “Some sexy clothes aren’t going to make me lose my head and give you what you want.”

The door opened and Miss Wruthers scurried in with a cup of coffee.  Wide eyed, she froze at the corner of his desk, her gaze flickering between them both.

Lilly lounged in her chair in a sexy drape of negligent ease that made him want to leap up and pace frantically again.  Or better yet, maybe he’d just bury his face in her cleavage.  “You’re going to give me exactly what I want, Mr. Morgan and it’s not going to be because of my clothes.”


1 thought on “When It’s Not About the Word Count

  1. Hells yeah!

    July is your month, my friend.

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