Typist #1 - Working for the Billionaire Novelist (Erotic Romance) (7 page)

But I could stay. And I could help this man write his story.

I turned around to look at him, naked, in an unflattering, slumped pose. His face was hopeful.

I dropped the bag to the ground.

“Fine,” I said. “But no more games.”

He smiled and rolled onto his back on my bed.

“Come, cuddle with me,” he said. “Let's take a nap together.”

I hesitated, still standing at the door.

He waved me over. “Come on, nap now. It'll recharge your energy for tonight.”

I walked over and lay on the bed next to him, resting my cheek on his outstretched arm. “What's tonight?” I asked. “Are you going to be
my
dog?”

“I thought you said no more games?”

I rolled my eyes. “Like that's even possible for someone like you.”

He sighed pulled me in closer. I felt something unmistakable poking into my side.

I said, “You have no intention of napping, do you?”

He pulled me on top of him and started kissing me.

“What about writing?” I asked, my question muffled by his lips. “The drying paint? The sticky words?”

He grunted and pulled my mouth down against his, then rolled me onto my back.

I had no idea what was going on, but I had another eleven days of it coming.

* the end of part 1 *

Read on for a
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of Typist #2, Spanking the Billionaire Novelist

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.

Smith Wittingham had quite the kiss; he made me hear bells ringing.

I sighed into his kisses, enjoying the taste of his lips after arguing. He'd tricked me into a game where I'd pretended to be his obedient dog, and I had not been too happy when the truth came to light.

Now, though, there were bells. And his tender lips on mine, both of us on my bed.

Smith abruptly shoved me off him and sat up.

“Someone's at the door,” he said.

“Those bells are real? And here I thought I was hallucinating.”

He scratched his cheek. “Well?”

He was completely naked and in my bedroom, which was
downstairs
in the Vermont cabin. His clothes, however, were in his room,
upstairs
.

I feigned ignorance. “Oh, did you want me to get the door? I don't think that's in my job description.”

He grabbed my nightshirt from a hook next to the bed and pulled the shirt onto his manly frame. The thin fabric clung to his broad chest and the hem ended near his navel, doing nothing to cover his manhood, still tumescent from our kissing.

He shrugged. “I suppose I could answer the door like this.”

I giggled into my hand. Somehow, I didn't think they were quite
that
relaxed in Vermont.

I said, “What'll you give me if I go get the door?”

He smirked. “The exact same thing I'll give you if you
don't
answer the door. But harder.”

I shook my head and ran out of the room, to the door. I imagined it would be some lost hikers or perhaps a neighbor in need of an egg or cup of sugar.

I ran through the mudroom and pulled open the front door. My mouth dropped open in shock.

Standing before me was a handsome young man, about my age. He had black hair, straight and long in the front, falling across one eyebrow. His eyes were blue and sharply focused on me, his lips full and delicious-looking, and … oh, my goodness, the brawn on him. He wore a sleeveless sports shirt, all the better to show off strong, muscular arms. His biceps were popping out, standing as he was with a box of something. It could have been a box of rattlesnakes and I wouldn't have noticed, not with those tanned arms and that face, so boyish and coy.

He said, “Mrs. Wittingham?”

I giggled and crossed my arms in front of myself shyly. “Oh, I'm not married to Smith. I hardly know him.”

“I hear he's a fancy author, a famous bestseller, but I've never heard of him.”

“I'll be sure and let him know you said that.”

He laughed and glanced down, adjusting the cardboard box around to his hip. “I'm just joking. Of course I know Smith Wittingham. My family has known him for a while.”

“Ah, shoot, that's not nearly as much fun.”

... to be continued in ...

Typist #2, Spanking the Billionaire Novelist, now available