Sex And Writing|| 18+ [{Completed}]

8

This chapter is the reason this story is mature. So without further ado, I've given you the "writing", now here's the "sex" part. Enjoy.

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I took another shot of vodka, my mind still on the conversation with my mother. My step-brother was in prison and was soon to be on trial and I needed to know why. And how. And who in the hell did he kill?

"You need any food?" I asked, searching through the fridge, my stomach speaking to me in long grumbles. C.J. shook his head and continued typing, not bothering to look at me.

I had only known C.J. personally for a few days, but I was starting to get used to his responses, or lack thereof. The grunts and groans in place of yes and no, were unmistakable.

I whipped up some scrambled eggs, sausage, and some bacon to start with. Hoping a nice, hearty breakfast would speed up mine and his work productivity. And coffee. Dear God, lots and lots of delicious coffee for both of us.

After setting plates down on the coffee table, I began my work. Or tried. I read and reread paragraphs amazed at how accurate his grammar was. Trying to write notes on possible plot points and changes. But all seemed to flow perfectly. His characters seemed to be developing at a slow and steady rate, their flaws and eccentric behaviors portrayed flawlessly. Honestly, I was beginning to wonder if this man even needed an intern like me checking his work. Then came the first set of erotic scenes between his characters. 

Hot. 

Sexy. 

Scenes. 

I couldn't contain myself at the rawness they shared on the page. The words he pieced together like an articulate puzzle, made me squirm in place. I wiped my forehead, mind lost in his deliciously erotic world. Not noticing the sneaky groans spilling from my lips. My teeth sinking into my bottom lip at the mental image of this man and woman locked in a passionate embrace, moving and grinding together.

Get yourself together.

I swallowed hard, closing my eyes. I couldn't focus on the grammatical aspect of the story with my senses heightening at the thought of their actions. I needed more vodka to continue my work, but first I had to get myself under control. Here I was sitting in front of the very author who managed to write these very words on paper, basically having an orgasm. 

I leaned my head back against the recliner and sighed, rubbing my temple vigorously like it was the very button I wanted to touch. My thighs uncomfortably rubbed together creating friction where needed it. As I tried to think of anything besides dick.

Sex. Fucking. Fuck. Dick.

My sexual dry spell had gone on too long for my liking. And reading his work only made my need pulsate more, begging for him. Clenching for him. Wanting him to touch me like he had before. If worse came to worse, I was going to have to go to my dresser, lock my bedroom door, and utilize BOB until his batteries died a glorious death of providing multiple orgasms.

Oh, Gods, I could imagine him. On top of me, thrusting deep inside of me. Begging him to fuck me harder, choke me.  Making me cum over and over again on his cock. Oh God, his cock. I wanted to lick him.....I wanted him to lick me.

Fingertips drifted up my thighs at a slow and miserable pace leaving goosebumps in their wake. Jolting electricity through my nerves at the slightest touch, my brain lifting out of the sexual fantasy it was consumed in.