Typist #1 - Working for the Billionaire Novelist (Erotic Romance) Read Online Free Page A
Author: Mimi Strong
he was narrating.
Detective Dunham was visiting his client, Sheri, at her mansion, to get more details about the case. She seemed to be handling her grief well, focusing on adjusting her posture to display her tits at the best possible angle. I rolled my eyes and kept typing. Dunham kept going at her, probing. He probed and probed until he penetrated her veil of secrecy.
I stopped typing.
“Probed and penetrated?” I asked.
He calmly replied, “What would you say my vocation is?”
“Um … writer?”
“And what's yours?”
“Typist.” I withered in my chair.
He put his hands on my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. His voice soft and deep, he said, “And neither of us is the editor. The editor reins in the writer, pulls the writer back from the edge of the cliff. That happens later, though. The writer's job is to climb onto that motorcycle, rev the motor, and fly through the ring of fire.”
I whispered, “I'm sorry.”
He massaged my shoulders for a moment, his touch making my heart ache as much as my loins.
“I know you're more than a typist. I will come to a point where I'll need you. I'll need you more than you can imagine. And I'll ask you for something.”
I turned and looked up at his face—so sharp and intelligent-looking. Was it the nose? His was refined, almost pointy at the tip. He was so smart, probably a genius, and he knew it.
“I'm ready to resume,” he said, giving me a nod and a smile.
I shifted my position in the chair, straightened my back, and put my hands over the keyboard.
He stayed near me for a while, his hands casually touching the back of my neck under my hair and rubbing my shoulders as I typed. His confident touch took my mind to carnal places, and I had difficulty keeping my fingers moving over the keys, but we fell into our rhythm once more. At times, I felt like his voice was coming from within me, telling a story I'd always known.
We worked all morning, stopped briefly for lunch, and got straight back to work again. Detective Dunham was peeling back layers of the case, and history was revealing itself, like layers of paint and ancient wallpaper. Just when he thought he had his client Sheri figured out, we switched to her point of view for a chapter.
Sheri's back story included a difficult childhood, growing up without a father. Her mother was smart and worked hard, but their hold on a middle-class life was tenuous. As I typed the words, I felt a lump rising in my throat.
I didn't know how Smith knew, but he was telling me my own life.
In high school, I/Sheri fell in love with a teacher. Sheri's was a gym teacher, mine taught math. She'd fallen for his cunning lies and sad story about how his wife was cold and uninterested in sex, and this caused him to have an unbearable aching in his loins—an aching only a woman's touch would heal. They met after school, once a week. He picked her up at a skateboard park a few blocks from the school. They'd drive to an industrial area and he'd tell her how special she was as she performed oral sex on him.
Once, she'd worn red lipstick on one of their “dates,” and he'd yelled at her when he realized she'd gotten the lipstick on his underwear. He called her a dirty little whore and slapped her face.
On the drive back, she cried and cried. Instead of taking her home, he kept driving. She wondered if he was going to take her to a forest and strangle her, and she didn't care. Without him in her life, her days had no meaning. She sobbed until she was gasping for breath.
Bright, neon lights shone overhead. He pulled into a fast food drive-thru and told her to order anything she wanted, his treat.
He smiled at her, and she felt special again.
She felt …
I stopped typing. There were no more words.
Smith was absolutely quiet. I turned to find him sitting on a chair just behind me, his chin in his hand.
My voice shaking, I said, “Break time?”
“I think that's enough for today.”
“Are you sure?”
He got up from
Detective Dunham was visiting his client, Sheri, at her mansion, to get more details about the case. She seemed to be handling her grief well, focusing on adjusting her posture to display her tits at the best possible angle. I rolled my eyes and kept typing. Dunham kept going at her, probing. He probed and probed until he penetrated her veil of secrecy.
I stopped typing.
“Probed and penetrated?” I asked.
He calmly replied, “What would you say my vocation is?”
“Um … writer?”
“And what's yours?”
“Typist.” I withered in my chair.
He put his hands on my shoulders and gave them a squeeze. His voice soft and deep, he said, “And neither of us is the editor. The editor reins in the writer, pulls the writer back from the edge of the cliff. That happens later, though. The writer's job is to climb onto that motorcycle, rev the motor, and fly through the ring of fire.”
I whispered, “I'm sorry.”
He massaged my shoulders for a moment, his touch making my heart ache as much as my loins.
“I know you're more than a typist. I will come to a point where I'll need you. I'll need you more than you can imagine. And I'll ask you for something.”
I turned and looked up at his face—so sharp and intelligent-looking. Was it the nose? His was refined, almost pointy at the tip. He was so smart, probably a genius, and he knew it.
“I'm ready to resume,” he said, giving me a nod and a smile.
I shifted my position in the chair, straightened my back, and put my hands over the keyboard.
He stayed near me for a while, his hands casually touching the back of my neck under my hair and rubbing my shoulders as I typed. His confident touch took my mind to carnal places, and I had difficulty keeping my fingers moving over the keys, but we fell into our rhythm once more. At times, I felt like his voice was coming from within me, telling a story I'd always known.
We worked all morning, stopped briefly for lunch, and got straight back to work again. Detective Dunham was peeling back layers of the case, and history was revealing itself, like layers of paint and ancient wallpaper. Just when he thought he had his client Sheri figured out, we switched to her point of view for a chapter.
Sheri's back story included a difficult childhood, growing up without a father. Her mother was smart and worked hard, but their hold on a middle-class life was tenuous. As I typed the words, I felt a lump rising in my throat.
I didn't know how Smith knew, but he was telling me my own life.
In high school, I/Sheri fell in love with a teacher. Sheri's was a gym teacher, mine taught math. She'd fallen for his cunning lies and sad story about how his wife was cold and uninterested in sex, and this caused him to have an unbearable aching in his loins—an aching only a woman's touch would heal. They met after school, once a week. He picked her up at a skateboard park a few blocks from the school. They'd drive to an industrial area and he'd tell her how special she was as she performed oral sex on him.
Once, she'd worn red lipstick on one of their “dates,” and he'd yelled at her when he realized she'd gotten the lipstick on his underwear. He called her a dirty little whore and slapped her face.
On the drive back, she cried and cried. Instead of taking her home, he kept driving. She wondered if he was going to take her to a forest and strangle her, and she didn't care. Without him in her life, her days had no meaning. She sobbed until she was gasping for breath.
Bright, neon lights shone overhead. He pulled into a fast food drive-thru and told her to order anything she wanted, his treat.
He smiled at her, and she felt special again.
She felt …
I stopped typing. There were no more words.
Smith was absolutely quiet. I turned to find him sitting on a chair just behind me, his chin in his hand.
My voice shaking, I said, “Break time?”
“I think that's enough for today.”
“Are you sure?”
He got up from
Readers choose
Jillian Hunter
T.A. Foster
Lynn Raye Harris
Orson Scott Card
Clive Cussler
Annelie Wendeberg
Julie Gerstenblatt
Tim Miller
Steven Savile
Nancy Kelly