Quick NaNoWriMo update: I’m at 32,978 words! If you look at the list of my current progress meters—that’s what I’ve achieved so far for November. And that novella I finished last week, Bad, Bad Girlfriend, was accepted by Ellora’s Cave yesterday!
I know, I’m cheating. NaNo is supposed to be about a writer completing a single 50k novel in a month, but it’s just not in me to work on one thing at a time. I’m working on three now. I’d wanted to keep it to just two, but yesterday this scene came to me, and I knew I had to get it down while it was vivid in my mind. Here’s a peek, but keep in mind it’s rough, unedited. But maybe a little fun too, huh?
They were going at it again, and he was gonna get arrested. Which would be pretty embarrassing, considering he was cop.
Like clockwork, the couple across the alleyway started banging the minute his car pulled into the garage.
He slid the overhead lamp switch off so that the light from his car wouldn’t beam the moment he opened the door. He’d already loosened the garage light bulb to make sure it didn’t give him away. Carefully, he closed his car door, pushing it with his hip to muffle the click as it locked, then sat with his butt against the trunk and watched the show.
They had to know he could see every damn thing—every drop of sweat, every curl of pale blonde hair. She faced the window, clutching the bottom sill, her breasts bouncing every time Boyfriend slammed her ass.
God, her tits were Grade A prime. Cherry nipples, round and high and quivering with her ragged breaths.
Her blue eyes closed, her mouth rounded, and he knew when she came because she always wore the same expression, the corners of her mouth curving like the cat that licked the cream. Her cheeks rosy, her eyebrows drawn together tightly.
And if he the wind hadn’t been whistling through the alley, he would have heard the little whimper she gave when her boyfriend milked the last little contraction of her orgasm.
Fuck. He needed his own woman. Maybe she had a twin. Because he sure as shit wouldn’t be satisfied with anyone who wasn’t her, Jane Peabody—Jane Hotbody in his own lurid mind.
They’d finished, and boyfriend was pulling her into his arms, wrapping them around her belly and cupping her breasts as she snuggled against his chest.
It was time for him to leave. The show was over for the night.
Then her eyes opened and Garret Masters could have sworn she looked right at him. He cussed softly, straightened and raised his arm, pulling down the garage door and shutting off the sight of her mouth stretching into a wide grin.
