His Dirty Author: An Age Gap Romance

“You’re writing my book for me and I get to fuck you? Yeah, I’m pretty sure I’m getting the better side.” He gently pulls out and goes back to the bathroom to take care of things, and I move, diving under blankets that feel like a fucking cloud.

While he’s gone, I glance at the nightstand and see a picture of Malik and an older man that looks like a carbon copy of what he might in a few decades.

Malik finds me buried when he comes back, and laughs. “Comfortable?”

“Yes.”

He slips beneath the comforter and we find each other beneath the blankets. It’s been a long time since I’ve been held skin on skin. “This is the last thing I expected,” I whisper.

“Same,” he says.

“Is that your dad?” I nod my head at the picture.

Malik immediately goes stiff, and his face is cold. Sad. “Yeah. It is.”

Okay, there’s something there, but I’m not going to touch that one right now. So, I lean up and lightly kiss him. “Tomorrow I need to go home to get things. Then I’ll be back and writing words.”

He relaxes again, and in the dim light I see him smile. “And I’ll be waiting for you as soon as you’re finished.”

Warm, happy, and spent, I sleep.

7

Malik

The days slip by, and ten days after Erin starts staying at my apartment, it’s crazy how natural it feels. She disappears into the small office for the day, and after, I pull her upstairs and we fuck like rabbits until we’re hungry or too tired to continue.

I’ve tied her to my bed and teased her till she was begging. I’ve reenacted her favorite scenes from my books, and some of mine as well. Everything between us matches up. She doesn’t care about the age difference and neither do I. Her version of submission is perfect for me. There’s nothing that I don’t like about this arrangement, and frankly, time is moving far too fast for me.

After the sex, I read her pages, and we talk. About life. About writing. She makes suggestions to the outline that are brilliant, and I want her to take them and run.

This is the happiest I’ve been since everything started happening with my dad. But thankfully Erin hasn’t asked about him again since that first night in bed. I want to tell her everything, but it’s so heavy and so full of emotion, I don’t want to dampen what we have. Not yet, anyway.

Michael calls. He wants to talk about how things are going, but Michael is meticulously paranoid, and doesn’t want to talk about ghostwriting over the phone. His paranoia has served me well in the past, so I don’t mind.

Erin’s at her apartment switching out her clothes, and it’s still hours until I’m meant to drown her in pleasure, so I head down to his office.

I love New York, but Michael’s office is in my least favorite neighborhood, the Financial District. It’s all high rises and concrete, no green space whatsoever. There are other neighborhoods in Manhattan and the other boroughs that are far nicer.

But at least it’s a direct shot on the subway.

Michael’s receptionist waves me back toward his office, and I let myself in. It’s still early in the afternoon, but he already has a glass of whiskey in his hand. A pretty common sight. It’s actually gotten more common in the last couple of years.

When was the last time I came to the office that Michael hadn’t been drinking?

“That was fast,” he says.

I shrug. “I had the time.”

“I imagine so, since you’re not writing at the moment.”

His tone is snide, but I decide to ignore the dig, since the fact that I’m not writing was his idea in the first place. Michael offers me a drink, but I shake my head. I don’t want to encourage the early drinking. I’ve participated before, but now…something feels different, and I can’t put my finger on what.

“How’s it going with Erin?” he asks.

I sit down in one of the plush chairs by his desk before answering. “Great, actually. She’s got talent and she’s really embraced the outline and the story.”

“That’s good to hear. And anything else?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well,” he smirks, “she’s young, beautiful, your type.”

Michael doesn’t need to know the extent of my physical relationship with Erin, but something occurs to me that makes my blood cold. “Did you pick Erin because you thought I’d want to fuck her?”

It’s Michael’s turn to shrug. “Not necessarily, but I didn’t think it would hurt your muse any to be working with someone like that. Barely-eighteen is en vogue, or so the rich celebrities seem to think if you follow the papers.” He snorts.

I narrow my eyes in anger. “I thought you picked her because she could write.”

“That too,” he says, downing what’s left of his drink.