Mortimer handed his glass to the nearest attendant. The room was spinning. He needed to sit down.
The strength of her perfume stung his nostrils. She took his hand and led him away from the
crowd, and he followed blindly for he suddenly had an overwhelming urge to be
elsewhere. They passed a set of doors
which she closed. The click of the lock
sounded final.
“Sasha?” Mortimer whispered.
“Shhhh.” She pushed
him back against a soft surface – a couch perhaps.
His mind was racing, but unable to grasp a single
thought.
“Sasha,” he struggled to sit up. “Sasha, wait.
Please, just give me a moment.
Give me a moment to think about this.”
Her hands wandered adroitly over his body, sending through
him a series of tingles that were simultaneously revolting and rapturous.
“Just relax and let me do the work,” she purred into his
ear.
His eyelids fluttered shut and his body surrendered.
As I said... is it me, or is it the whiskey? Because I don't think I've this sort of sauce inside of me. Other kinds of sauce, sure, but not this. I've been reading more romance. For... er... research purposes I swear! And the thing that Birthday Presents lacks is drama. There's no villain, no problem. It's about Sasha realizing that she can be a woman and a fighter.
I've discovered that that's a trend with most of my stories; I don't have any sort of frustrating scenes that make you scream "Why? Why are you doing this to me?!?!?". I guess that's because I've always hated those sorts of scenes in books that I read. But if I'm going to write a sequel, it has to be about tackling scenes I've never written before. Someone must get... I don't know... slapped or something. That's been my whole exploration into romance so far. It's always been a question of how far I can push myself, even if my face contorts permanently into a cringe.
Cause that's what I call fun! :)
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