Good Memorial Day weekend!
I know most of you are doing the things you want this weekend; barbequing, cartwheels, blowing bubbles, maybe building illegal forts in the woods. Catapulting watermelons. You know, Memorial Day fun. God bless all who serve and have served. Your sacrifice does not go unnoticed from me.
Here I am, I’m at my computer; evaluating poems for my creative writing class and thinking of awesome quotes to start my 3rd entry, debating what snippet to share…..will it be normal like the last one? Smutty? What are you waiting for? What do YOU want to know? There is a comment section. Just saying.
As the end of the school year approaches, I am in full book mode, which contrary to September happens all year for me. I have to write smutty content while my kids play Call of Duty in the next room. Creepy, inappropriate and completely necessary. Summer brings out my happy side as I enjoy having my kids to myself. No homework (for them), no ‘purple shirt day’ (every feckin’ day is a color shirt day!), no reloading school lunch accounts or dropping off musical instruments. Even the front desk ladies stopped making small talk with me and just give me a head nod, which in all fairness, I give one right back. We are tired of being nice. I get it. School is over, please let it be over.
For those who are following me, please do me a solid and recommend me to a friend. Email me at: email@example.com if you have any ideas on where I can publish more of my book before I get to the point where I am ‘actually’ publishing a book.
I love you, I mean it. Anybody want a peanut? Enjoy Snippet 2, derived from chapter 5.
Disclaimer: All material is subject to copyright. This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the authors imagination or are used fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, alive or dead, is entirely coincidental. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorizes, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
“I will have to check my schedule. But I think Monday works for me. I have no appointments that day.” He’s stands, and casually walks over to his massive mahogany desk. He picks up what looks like a fancy, old man pen and scribbles something; I assume our makeshift appointment, onto an equally fancy ledger. “Monday”, he says casually. “We have a date”. Date? I hold back giggles. So much so I have to put my hand over my mouth to suppress it. Okay, so I’m a teenager.
He senses something odd in me, as I have my hand pressed to my mouth and my body does a shift so great, that my dress makes a crunching noise on his expensive sofa. I look up to see his eyes on mine. The sunlight is coming in right to his left side, and it appears like he’s glowing. He really is stunning. His eyes are the color of emeralds. His black thick hair in a tousled casual style and his sleek nose looks like it was chiseled from a Greek statue. He is taller than I remember. His hands are immaculate and his steely blue tie looks sharp against his flawless complexion. His shirt matches his tie and is in a deep contrast against the stark black suit he is wearing. I watch him swallow, as his adams apple bobs, I am dumbfounded by the muscles in his neck and shoulders. Even behind the thickness of his suit, I can see them moving so slightly as he moves and shifts. I fear my mouth is gaping a little as I try and will myself to make sure my lips stay together, and my eyes blink. Although, by doing so, I may have looked like a puppet on strings with my body shifting from side to side, my lips tight and my eyelashes batting off beat. I take a deep breath, and as I try to go zenlike, I realize that it’s been a few moments since one of us has spoken. “You have a lovely office. It’s, um, very presidential.” Presidential? I suppress a laugh so hard, I think I almost pee a little. I’m such an idiot. He smiles on the corner of his right side. It’s very boyish and it makes him seem very real. I notice in this very instant as I am uncomfortably shifting from side to side that my thighs are on the moist side. Seriously?
Another long silence passes with unspoken things being assumed between my thighs apparently, he breaks the silence. “I think there would be a great many objections if I ran for President, Ms. Morris.” His smile goes away. Not political? I rebut, “I’m sure, Mr. Knight there would be some positive feedback going your way, what with all the lowly photography businesses you help to support.” Smiles back. Two points. “I do my best to help the lay person, Ms. Morris, but to be honest with you, I have never once thought of photography as a real fiscal career choice until I entered your dwelling.” I’m offended at the notion that Mr. Bossman has issues with my profession outright. “Dwelling? Did I step back a century? And what’s wrong with photography as a profession Mr. Knight? Besides raising my children, it’s the only thing I have ever wanted to do, and, might I add, am quite successful at it. I may not make millions, but I pay my bills and my kids are fed. It seems good for a lay person to me.” My cheeks are getting red, I can feel them, although I’m not sure if it’s from the sexual tension in the office, or from taking blatant offense at him mocking my profession. I sincerely doubt his dick even feels a twinge for a, according to him, a poor mom of two with a pitiful photography business.
His eyebrows go up and his stance changes. He shifts from side to side, and I can hear his expensive leather shoes creak. His mouth forming a straight line, he comes over and sits next to me. As I turn to face him our knees touch, and he looks as serious as a heart attack. “Ms. Morris, please do not take my comments to offense. I appreciate photography and I am a lover of all works of art. I’m excited to be working with you. I apologize that I offended you.” His eyes are blazing that amazing green, and for a second I forget what he says. I am caught up in them. “It’s just that, in my line of work, I often forget how the other half lives. The ones that actually make a living doing what they love to do. It’s remarkable really. You remind me of simpler times in my childhood,” I shake my head, bringing myself back to the here and now. Did he just say that? “Mr. Knight. I am quite sure you can afford a much higher regarded artist than me.” Trying not to show that his sentiment actually touched me. I wave my hand at the ludicrous surroundings. “Surly, in your circles there are several artists who can accommodate your needs.” I stare into him, pretending not to be affected by his presence, putting on my most serious mom face. No one messes with the mom face.
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