Yes, Savannah is the most efficient personal assistant ever. Hell, even her research is quick and spot-on, further speeding up the process of finishing my manuscript. At this rate, I will definitely be done within a week. I had vainly hoped to stretch it longer just to give myself some more time with her. At least I’m taking her to Chicago with me on Wednesday, and we’ll be gone a few days. Maybe I can extend my trip there, lengthening the time frame within which I can complete the manuscript, and thus prolonging my time with her.
Lindie called me again yesterday, reminding me that I had a deadline, and I told her to fuck off… that I’d take another month to write the damn thing if I felt that is what was needed. She responded with her ever-present question, “Are you drinking, Gavin?”
Deeply… from between Savannah’s thighs, I thought to myself. And oh, the intoxicating rush of it all.
I assured her I was fine, but that you could not rush creativity. That must be a standard response from her other authors because she got quiet and didn’t push at me anymore. I then gave her the power punch and reminded her that the book wasn’t set to be published until the following year, so we had plenty of time. I had the sneaking suspicion that my editor had set a deadline on me with plenty of cushion in case I couldn’t meet the original schedule.
My manuscript was changing in flavor, and those changes would often spill from laptop to real flesh. It happened on more than one occasion this week. I’d be writing an intensely erotic scene between Honey and Max—Max, by the way, having given up his philandering ways—and I would be so immersed in the scene that I’d get a massive erection.
I didn’t need Freud to point out to me that the sex scenes between Honey and Max were nothing more than my own subconscious desires for the depraved things I wanted to do to Savannah being played out across my laptop screen.
I’d come out of my writing haze, read back over the intense eroticism I had just written, and would be struck with a massive yearning and a raging hard-on for Savannah. I’d merely push back from my desk, stalk around my house until I found her, and then I’d play out that scene for real.
Once I took her out on the back deck, with the frigid, late January wind blowing around us, and the beach thankfully deserted. Pulled her pants off, left the rest of our clothes on, and set her ass on the deck rail. I did nothing more than free my cock from my zipper and fucked her fast and furiously. I immediately carried her inside afterward, her nipples erect from the cold, and put us in a hot shower, where I went down on her with the warm water pelting my body.
Another time, I found her sitting at my kitchen table, her nose practically plastered to her own laptop while she did research for me on Jack the Ripper. I had a sub-plot where one of the demons in my fantasy universe was actually a reincarnation of Jack, who liked to shred his victims from the inside out. I merely walked up to her, grabbed her by the ponytail she had ensnared her beautiful hair in, and tilted her head back to look at me.
“I want you,” I told her simply, and her eyes burned like the setting sun.
I pulled her up from the chair, sat myself on the warmed seat, and ordered her to strip. She didn’t hesitate. When she was completely naked, I told her to ride me. My cock was already hard, but I let her do the rest of the work. Her hands were slightly shaking and her breath was already shallow by the time she freed me from my jeans and climbed onto my lap. Just before she lowered herself to me, I told her to wait, and I brought my hand between her legs. She was already damp—I’m sure she started to glisten the moment I pulled on her ponytail—but I worked her with my fingers for a while until she came close to climax. Then I dropped my hands and let her finish us both off while she rode me with abandon.
She had me groaning like a ravenous animal when I came, gripping her hips and grinding her down hard on me as I unloaded.
“Sweet,” I had growled.
When we both stopped shuddering, she nuzzled my neck and whispered, “I’m going to call you Filthy.”
She leaned back and looked down at me with tenderness and humor wrapped up in a pretty bow, and I felt my heart turn over in my chest.
“I’m the filthy to your sweet?”
“You’re many things to me,” she murmured before kissing my lips. “But filthy is my favorite.”
I took Savannah whenever I wanted, and she never once said no. On the contrary, her eyes always fired hot and she gave in to my every desire. And yes, I was playing out all my desires from laptop to flesh, but I’d be ten times the fool if I didn’t admit to myself that there was something more going on inside of my not-so-fictitious manuscript.