Bookish, brooding New York Times Best Seller Harlow has two secrets. One, she’ll try anything sexual once (it’s for the craft of erotic writing after all) and two, she has horrendous writers block.
When a mysterious muse from her past appears he’ll discover both secrets and push Harlow to overcome both. The only question is whether her family disappointment, the weight of the public’s expectations, or worse his explicit demands, will crush her first.
A preview of Muse...
“I inspired that?” He questioned like we were continuing a conversation from just a moment ago.
“Huh?” I was having a hard time pulling my concentration from my laptop even though it was him pressed up against me.
He pulled my book from his back pocket and palmed it down on the table next to my laptop. “I inspired the things in this book?” His long finger pointed down to the cover, his arms still tightly wound around me. I finally pulled my attention from the computer and shifted to look at him.
His nose was almost touching mine when I turned. His eyes were a blazing blue, focused completely on mine, his lips were parted ever so slightly. I had to resist the urge to lean forward and take them with mine.
“Answer me Harlow.”
“Yes,” I arched my neck away from him when I answered.
“I think I owe you a drink.” He swiftly moved from my body to the barstool next to me. I lifted my half full beer, indicating that I didn’t need one. Greyson took the glass from my hand and put the beer back in one swift chug. “Can I buy you one now?” I was drunk enough that I giggled and nodded.
He watched me silently until our drinks arrived. When Deanna set the beers down, she eyed both of us skeptically. Greyson paid no attention, instead lifting his glass. “A toast to Harlow Fields for being a fucking talented writer.” I flushed at the compliment, not even realizing he’d somehow discovered my actual last name too. He chugged a decent portion of his beer and I followed suit.
“Did you imagine me doing those things to Cheska or to you?” He was so blunt I choked on the last little bit of beer in my throat.
“Excuse me?” I finally managed.
“I asked, did you imagine me fucking an imaginary character or did you imagine me fucking you when you wrote it?” Jesus. There was a downright wicked gleam in his eye. I thought about how to answer. What would I say? Could I even answer? As in, could I find the ability to speak and get words out period? I thought about how my mind had wandered over the old fantasies not an hour or two ago. I swallowed, realizing I’d turned that lovely shade of scarlet again.
“Harlow answer me.”
Beer took over. “You fucking me.”
“Good.” His smile widened and he finished his beer.