Take Me Twice - Two Erotic Novellas by Black Emma

Author:Black, Emma [Black, Emma]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
Published: 2013-08-17T21:00:00+00:00

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I slept phenomenally, far later than I usually did. I walked around the house, called my editor, updated her and promised her pages in the afternoon, then handled a few business emails. I only saw Jeremiah once, briefly at lunchtime, when we both passed through the kitchen to eat the meal Ms. Hecate made for us the night before; chicken salad sandwiches, the kind with grapes and apples in it. He barely looked at me though, brushing by me in the kitchen and vanishing down the hall toward his office. I opened my mouth, moved to call after him, to ask for an update—

“Fifteen done,” he shouted to me before I had a chance to ask the question, his voice sharp.

At three o’clock, he found me in the living room, watching reruns of Friends on TV. He dropped a stack of papers on the ottoman, gave me a pointed look.

“Twenty?” I asked.

“Twenty-seven,” he said. I smiled at him, an expression he mostly ignored. I rose, went to fax them in immediately, a sigh of relief escaping my lips as I did so. That should keep my boss happy for a while, at least, I thought, turning away from the machine. I was surprised to find Jeremiah standing behind me.

“How do you do that creeping thing?” I complained. He looked like he might smile, but then didn’t.

“Ms. Hecate is making quesadillas tonight. I was planning to eat on the patio. Interested?” he asked coolly.

I paused, then nodded— it’s not like I could pretend to have other plans, and I did desperately want to sit out on that patio— it was gorgeous, with a fireplace and fountain and lights strung up over an arbor.

“Good. Meet me there at six,” he said. “I’m wearing a dress shirt.”

“Why? It’s just your house,” I said, motioning to the pajamas.

“Because staying in pajamas all day turns you into Salinger,” he answered as he walked away.

Because he was wearing a dress shirt, I felt like I needed to wear something other than jeans. I pulled on a summer dress, a designer label I found at a thrift store, and made my way downstairs. It was still bright out, enough so that I needed my sunglasses when I went outside and sat down at the teak table. Jeremiah was standing on the edge of the patio, arms folded, looking at the expanse of trees and mountains before him. His shoulders and back looked strong, even through the shirt, and the sun glistened on his hair.

“Do you read my books?” His question was loud, hard— I was surprised. I didn’t know he even realized I was there.

“I have to,” I said. “I’m your editor’s assistant.”

“Would you read them if you weren’t?” he asked, finally turning. There was something scrutinizing in his stare, like he wouldn’t take a political answer.

“Doubtful,” I finally admitted. “They’re not my thing.”

“Love isn’t your thing?”

“Love stories aren’t my thing,” I said. “And love…isn’t love everyone’s thing?”

“No,” he said, as if this were obvious. “That’s why it’s so hard to write.

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