Peaches

It doesn't have to be a best seller.
It doesn't have to be something new no one has ever read before.
So why am I over thinking and making this so damn difficult?
I need to focus.
To push past the writer's block, the fear, the taunting rejection that they'll all think this new book of mine sucks a big fat dick!
Am I allowed to say that?
Screw it because I just did.
I don't need distractions. Especially mouth-watering, panty-dropping, dirty talking, self-gratifying distractions. Distractions that cause my breath to catch, my thighs to clench, my center to quickly dampen, and my brain to scream only two self-gratifying words.
Yes fucking please!
OK, that was three.
Never mind the fact that he's my new boss. Forget the idea that he corners me into a fake engagement the first day we meet. Ignore the obvious attraction and the fact that I can't, for the life of me, stay away from Mr. Brettly Beckett. What's more, I don't want to, and he doesn't make it easy.
No, he's not backing down without putting in some very hard-to-resist, self-pleasure seeking efforts.
Gifting me with the nickname Peaches, he makes it known he's dead set on claiming my peach the first chance he gets, and the sooner the better. But I quickly learn that could prove too self-destructive if we let it. After all, it's like they say, not everything in life can be as sweet as a peach. Or can it?