Smut

by Karina Halle

Ironically, Alan’s family is so wealthy that I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that somewhere along the line he’s related to a duke. It would explain why he walks around like he’s got a stick up his ass

I’m not offended. I know that out of everyone in my private school for rich bitches and the silver spoon elite, I was the resident weirdo. I tried to hide it, and still do, lest I risk the look of utter disappointment on my mother’s face every time I slip into geekdom.

I want to feel fucking alive from my fingers to my toes—I want to capture the lightning and hold it in my chest until I burst.

Nothing pisses him off more than when I let out a burp, but believe me, I can’t help my acid reflux.

I’m not socially awkward, but to be honest, most people are total morons, and my tolerance for them isn’t very high.

“Oh, Amanda, you really are a nerd.” She pronounces the word like she’s proud to know what it means. I shrug, learning long ago not to let that label bother me and making a mental note to never let her read my Reylo fanfic, nor my Benedict Cumberbatch erotica (in which, naturally, all the stories star me).

“I joke about a lot of things, but not about sex.”

The fact that we’re both done working together and he still wants to hang out is nothing but bad news.

Do I unleash more of my nerdiness or not?

I shoot him daggers over that fucking peach nickname. At this point I’d rather be Tits McGee.

“We work well together. Writing with you has not only been inspiring to my own work, but it’s actually been a lot of fun. Who would have thought, right? Me, life of the party, and you, girl who sits in the corner and makes snarky comments about people.”

“The indie market is all cheap romance and erotica.”

“Bloody hell, woman, are you blind as a bat?”

My idea of romance is a guy who will take me to see an Avengers film and doesn’t mind dressing up like Loki afterward.

Thank god for e-readers. You can read the filthiest shit and pretend you’re engrossed in War and Peace.

I just paid my weed guy with a check. I think I’ve got the hang of this adulting thing.

We’ve gotten together every night this week, and by the time she leaves I have blue balls the size of Donald Trump’s head.

“Come for me,” I growl at her, knowing I wrote a line like that earlier, but I don’t fucking care. I want her to come with me, again and again.

The bed is shaking. She’s shaking. I’m shaking. Then I’m coming. Hard.

“My fucking god,” he rasps, leaning against the shower wall, the water still spraying on us.

He studies me. “You agree, don’t you? I mean that’s what you want. To be partners that fuck on the side.” I manage a stiff smile. Sometimes I forget how crude he can be. “As long as writing is the priority.”

If she were any other girl and this were any other situation, I would have just said “see ya, I have no time for your daft bullshit." But because I do like her, you know, as a person, as well as her being a good shag, and I work with her, that really wasn’t an option.

Somehow when we hated each other we were able to get a lot more writing done.

“I’m certain all vestiges of decorum will vanish the moment I get you alone.”

This man. This gorgeous specimen of a man, who fucks me with all he has. I want this man forever.

At this point I’ve probably kissed Amanda a hundred different ways, but this kiss is different. This kiss reveres her. In this kiss she should know she’s a goddess, a fantasy priestess, a ruler of my world.

This is more than falling in love. Fuck it. I am in love. And I think he can feel it.