what he was offering—a deal. Ten pages for the pain I craved and the pleasure that always, always followed afterwards.
Nate knew what I needed. He understood that my fantasies went far deeper than a simple hand-spanking before sweet sex. He accepted my demons and my desires and he worked through the night to make each of my darkest dreams come true.
Afterward, I’d feel limp, demolished. But, oddly, Nate had figured me out. Even after he had whipped me, or cropped me, or fucked me until my body felt liquefied, I could still manage to slip out of the bed, grab one of Nate’s T-shirts, and head back to my room. A glass of chilled white wine at my side, or even a shot of tequila,and I was off. Writing. Lost in a new world. Ten pages—2,500 words. The count came easily to me. I have never had a fear of putting words on a page. And I always made sure that I knew what would happen next before stopping, printing off the fresh pages, and sneaking them back to Nate’s room.
I got less sleep than I might have needed, but I’ve always been an insomniac. My mind is clearest around one-thirty in the morning.
Sometimes when I was finished writing, I climbed back into bed next to Nate and he’d stir in his sleep and wake enough to cuff me into place or tie me back down. Sometimes I put my head down on my desk and slept there. Six weeks went by in a hazy blur.
This is what I can say about my first novel. It was short (barely two hundred pages). It was fierce. And I wrote it in six weeks.
Nate gave me everything I needed. Total support in the form of X-rated inspiration and a vicious hand as an editor, cutting parts he didn’t like, suggesting scenes he thought would be more appropriate.
The original title of my book was
Dark Secret Love
, from that Blake poem:
Oh, rose thou art sick,
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed of crimson joy
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
The book was as dark as the poem, as demon-filled.
When I finished, I went out to my favorite bar. It was four o’clock in the afternoon on Monday, my day off. I told the bartender, Jason, that I wanted a shot of tequila. He had names of all his ex-girlfriends tattooed on his biceps.
“Celebrating?”
“Mmm-hmm. I finished my first novel.”
“Reading one or writing one?”
I grinned. I loved the question. Who would have a shot after finishing reading a book? “Writing one.”
“Then that shot’s on me,” he said, putting out a glass, a sliver of lime, and a shaker of salt.
I did the shot quickly, no accessories, and then sat there quietly as the bar filled with the pure, shimmering light of the golden hour.
Several tall, well-dressed men in their forties entered the bar. We were the only people there at this slow time before happy hour. I eavesdropped easily on their conversation. They were cajoling one of their friends to have a drink with them. The man insisted he had to go, but finally he said, “I’ll have one if she has one with me.”
Jason sidled over to them. “She drinks tequila, straight.” He sounded impressed, as if I looked more like someone who would celebrate big events with a milkshake.
The guys laughed, as if I’d challenged them, then bought a round. We toasted, their friend shook my hand, and then he left.
One of the men came to my side afterwards. “That was Mr. — who bought you that drink,” he said, naming a famous L.A. athlete. “You ought to remember that,” he told me. “It’s an honor.”
After they left, Jason came back to stand in front of me. “It’s an honor for them to drink with you,” he smiled. “That’s what you should have said.”
I headed back to Nate that night wondering what our new arrangement would be, now that I had finished. The book was done. I’d sent it off. What was I going to do next?
Chapter Fifteen:
The Offer
I don’t know if I’ve made it clear: I was writing all the time. Every spare moment.
Nate knew what I needed. He understood that my fantasies went far deeper than a simple hand-spanking before sweet sex. He accepted my demons and my desires and he worked through the night to make each of my darkest dreams come true.
Afterward, I’d feel limp, demolished. But, oddly, Nate had figured me out. Even after he had whipped me, or cropped me, or fucked me until my body felt liquefied, I could still manage to slip out of the bed, grab one of Nate’s T-shirts, and head back to my room. A glass of chilled white wine at my side, or even a shot of tequila,and I was off. Writing. Lost in a new world. Ten pages—2,500 words. The count came easily to me. I have never had a fear of putting words on a page. And I always made sure that I knew what would happen next before stopping, printing off the fresh pages, and sneaking them back to Nate’s room.
I got less sleep than I might have needed, but I’ve always been an insomniac. My mind is clearest around one-thirty in the morning.
Sometimes when I was finished writing, I climbed back into bed next to Nate and he’d stir in his sleep and wake enough to cuff me into place or tie me back down. Sometimes I put my head down on my desk and slept there. Six weeks went by in a hazy blur.
This is what I can say about my first novel. It was short (barely two hundred pages). It was fierce. And I wrote it in six weeks.
Nate gave me everything I needed. Total support in the form of X-rated inspiration and a vicious hand as an editor, cutting parts he didn’t like, suggesting scenes he thought would be more appropriate.
The original title of my book was
Dark Secret Love
, from that Blake poem:
Oh, rose thou art sick,
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed of crimson joy
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
The book was as dark as the poem, as demon-filled.
When I finished, I went out to my favorite bar. It was four o’clock in the afternoon on Monday, my day off. I told the bartender, Jason, that I wanted a shot of tequila. He had names of all his ex-girlfriends tattooed on his biceps.
“Celebrating?”
“Mmm-hmm. I finished my first novel.”
“Reading one or writing one?”
I grinned. I loved the question. Who would have a shot after finishing reading a book? “Writing one.”
“Then that shot’s on me,” he said, putting out a glass, a sliver of lime, and a shaker of salt.
I did the shot quickly, no accessories, and then sat there quietly as the bar filled with the pure, shimmering light of the golden hour.
Several tall, well-dressed men in their forties entered the bar. We were the only people there at this slow time before happy hour. I eavesdropped easily on their conversation. They were cajoling one of their friends to have a drink with them. The man insisted he had to go, but finally he said, “I’ll have one if she has one with me.”
Jason sidled over to them. “She drinks tequila, straight.” He sounded impressed, as if I looked more like someone who would celebrate big events with a milkshake.
The guys laughed, as if I’d challenged them, then bought a round. We toasted, their friend shook my hand, and then he left.
One of the men came to my side afterwards. “That was Mr. — who bought you that drink,” he said, naming a famous L.A. athlete. “You ought to remember that,” he told me. “It’s an honor.”
After they left, Jason came back to stand in front of me. “It’s an honor for them to drink with you,” he smiled. “That’s what you should have said.”
I headed back to Nate that night wondering what our new arrangement would be, now that I had finished. The book was done. I’d sent it off. What was I going to do next?
Chapter Fifteen:
The Offer
I don’t know if I’ve made it clear: I was writing all the time. Every spare moment.
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