When faced with all the opportunities in the world, and the funds to make any dream come true, I came up blank. Smith teased me about this, but he didn't start writing until he was over thirty, so I told him I still had a few years to figure it out, and maybe I never would. Couldn't I just be his typist? Nothing else could make me as happy.
In the meantime, I kept busy overseeing the decorating of our new apartment. I stayed in touch with my old friends from back home, but their lives were so different from mine that we had less and less in common. How my mother managed to keep everything balanced was a testament to the quality of her friends.
I made some new friends in New York, and got involved in some charities, and by the time the next Christmas came around, my life felt more real.
We'd gone to the Vermont cabin twice that year, and Smith had really worked hard to finish two Dunham novels that year. In the first, his beloved Sheri met a tragic end (of course), but he was no longer the same Detective Dunham. He'd become deeper and more layered, and I knew these novels would be the best ones yet.
In December, we returned to Mürren, as a one-year anniversary of dating.
In the elevator, I hit the button for the top floor, and he smiled and hit the button for the first floor of rooms.
He led me into the room, which was a room, not a suite. An old-fashioned typewriter sat on a round table, cramped into the corner by the window.
We'd played a number of roleplaying games recently, but this was a new one for me. I stayed quiet and waited for him to give me my cues.
"I'm Gregory Nash," he said, shaking my hand. "The agency said they were sending someone with experience, but you seem too young."
I gave him a coy look. "My name is … Rose. And I assure you, I'm experienced."
"Miss Rose, stop undressing me with your eyes. I have to get my work done, so if you'll take your spot at the typewriter, we'll get started."
I glanced over at the bed, the area between my legs already aching for him. "Yes, sir."
He paced behind me. "Rose, put the paper in the typewriter."
I picked up a sheet of paper, absolutely clueless about how to feed it into the typewriter. I was familiar with the device, of course, but I'd never actually used one.
He leaned over me from behind, putting his hands on my hands to get the paper fed between the black rollers. As he did this, he rubbed his groin against my shoulder, allowing me to feel his growing bulge.
"Mr. Nash! I'll thank you to not rub your filthy dick against me."
"Rose! I'll thank you to put your hands on that keyboard and watch your mouth."
I stifled a giggle and sat up straight, sticking my chest out.
I glanced over my shoulder at him as he undressed. He was already shirtless, his smooth chest and toned abdomen as appealing and mouthwatering as the fresh fruit in the room.
His voice deep and husky with lust, he said, "Are you ready?"
I held my fingers over the circular antique keys. "I'm ready."
THE END