He growled, "I can't stop thinking about your milky-white tits."
I pushed his hand away. "Don't say tits."
He stuck his hand back down, reaching into my bra cup to handle my breast.
"Your lovely white lady lumps," he said, his breath hot at my ear.
I giggled and tilted my head as he nuzzled my neck.
He continued, "Your white chocolate cupcakes. I want to put frosting all over them."
"Ugh, you're so gross."
He nibbled on my earlobe. "You love it. You want my creamy frosting. Say you do."
"Fine. I want you to come all over my tits."
Someone coughed. Cassie. She said, "Here to collect your dirty dishes. Just, uh, hand me those cups."
I put my face in my hands and prayed she hadn't heard what I said. Smith handed her the stray tea cups and snack plates from around the desk.
She said, "Did this bed see any action?"
Smith sounded guilty. "Why do you ask?"
"Just wondering if I should change out the sheets. Laundry day, remember?"
"May as well, if you're doing that sort of thing."
I kept absolutely quiet, staring straight ahead at the screen.
Cassie stripped the bed and left. Smith came straight back to where he'd been, stuffing his grabby hands down my shirt.
I moaned and let him fondle my br**sts for a moment, then pushed him away.
"We should get some work done," I said.
"You're no fun."
"I'm plenty of fun and you know it. Now do your work."
He sprawled out on the bare mattress behind me, face down. "You write the story. Get started without me."
"Sure."
I typed half of a sentence then stopped. I hit the Backspace key and deleted the words, then tried again. Ten minutes later, I'd almost managed to finish the sentence.
Smith got up from the bed and leaned over my shoulder, chuckling. "Better stop there, or I'll have to give you a co-writer credit."
I reached for the Backspace key again, but he caught my wrist in his hand. "That sentence is just fine," he said. "We're not writing for the Pullitzer, so don't sweat it. That's a perfectly serviceable sentence."
"I was hoping for spark."
"Ah." He let go of my wrist and began to pace again behind me. "That was your first mistake."
"What do you mean?"
"I'll tell you later. Let's work now." He continued, in his dictation voice, finishing the sentence I'd nearly perfected, and moving into the scene.
Soon, I was swept up in the story, no longer limited by the screen in front of me and the document that was zoomed in two-hundred-percent on the large monitor so Smith could read the words. I was transported to the mansions and exclusive social clubs of the elite, where people murdered each other for control of vast empires, and risked everything for illicit encounters, ha**ng s*x in limousines and fancy hotels and even in dirty alleys.
Detective Smith Dunham saved Sheri from a stalker and she showed her appreciation by pulling up her expensive cocktail dress behind a dive bar. Dunham did little more than grunt and pull her thin g-string aside before he entered her. She smelled the garbage and cigarette smoke drifting through the alley as she cl**axed.
After, the detective pulled his c**k out and wiped it off on the silk scarf she'd had tied at her throat.
I stopped typing.
"Excuse me?" I said. "On her scarf?"
"Still going for that co-author credit?"
"Sorry," I said. "Go on. Your words are my commands."
"You ruined it. I was in the moment and now I'm not."
I turned around to see him scowling, which made me feel bad. I hung my head. "I'm really sorry, Smith. It's a great scene, though. You'd think the garbage smell would be off-putting, but it adds a dimension. It's gritty."
Still scowling, he said, "I need a typist, not a … complimentist."
"Can't win, can I?" I stood and walked past him to the stairs.
He ignored me through lunch.
Cassie joined us for some food, at Smith's insistence. The thought crossed my mind that it was odd of him to eat with his housekeeper, the paid help, but then I was no different from her, was I?
His chin in his hands, he gazed with adoration at Cassie. "Are you kissing anyone these days with those gorgeous lips?"
She glanced at me, then back at him. "There was someone back at school, but I think she's just college-gay, not full-time g*y."
"I hope she wasn't a redhead," he said. "Their lack of pigment is accompanied by a lack of humor."
I glared at him as I stabbed my fork into my lunch, but he pointedly continued to ignore me.
"You should write a short story about a redhead," he said.