Written for a Sensual Infusion contest - an author and his agent.
A LITERARY AFFAIRE
The weather formed a perfect counterpoint to Tony Delroy's mood. Rain, squally wind and lowering clouds matched his gloom, and he could see no prospect of improvement, either for the weather or for him.
Being a successful author carried demands with it, principally to maintain his output. His "Hank Braxton/Julie Jordan” thrillers had made his name in literary circles with seven best-sellers in ten years. But number eight was elusive; he’d managed only five thousand words in six months, and writers' block had a stranglehold. None of his usual strategies worked, and he wondered whether he would ever get back into harness.
As usual when surrounded by gloom, Tony reflected on his past. Described by his contemporaries as ‘the living, breathing definition of a nerd, a geek, a wimp,’ Tony realised he didn’t fit in. He knew they saw him as weak and ineffectual, but he didn’t really care too much. He had no interest in sport or popular music, but turned to writing as a way of defending himself. The high school newspaper became his second home, and he garnered praise both as an editor and a contributor. The senior English teacher encouraged him, and writing became a barrier against belittling and taunts.
His limited social skills atrophied as he focussed increasingly on his writing. Women tended to avoid him, seeing only a driven, boring introvert. In turn, Tony made a seemingly conscious decision to ignore feminine charms.
He maintained an index of potential characters for his novels, although in his heart of hearts there was only one character who really mattered to him; his agent, Claire O’Connell. Early in his career, Tony had hawked stories to various publishers, with a litany of rejection notices. He realised he would need an agent, and eventually was recommended to Claire, who had recently started her own business.
When he first met her, she reminded him of a pixie he had seen in a children’s' book. Small, slim with a mop of red gold curls, green eyes and a tip-tilted nose, she captivated Tony. Claire was clear; theirs was to be a strictly business relationship, although, over time, she started to change. She saw him as a nice guy; shy, gentle, warm and funny.
The cloud cover grew worse, the wind rose and the rain drummed. Grateful for his open fire, Tony attempted to relax, but kept returning to his ruminations about the past and his failings as a writer.
His introspection was shattered by a pounding on his door. To his surprise, Claire stood in the porch, shaking herself like a wet dog. He stood gaping at this apparition until she asked, with an edge to her voice, "Are you going to invite me in, or do I have to stand out here while we talk?"
"Oh, er, yes - please come in, Claire. Give me your jacket and go through to the lounge where it's warm."
He followed her through. “Can I get you something to drink? Coffee or something stronger?”
“Both thank you Tony. Scotch and soda, please, but easy on the soda.”
Claire’s set face and scowl showed she was far from pleased. “Tony, what the hell are you playing at? You don’t answer my e-mails, your mobile phone is permanently turned off and you won’t have a land-line. How am I supposed to get in touch with you?”
“You could always try writing me a letter.”
“Oh yes, very funny. You’d treat a letter the same way as my e-mails. So why the prolonged silent treatment?”
Astonished, Claire saw tears forming in Tony’s eyes. “Tony, what’s wrong? What’s happened?” She laid her hand gently on his forearm.
He turned away. “Nothing. That’s the whole problem. I’ve completely dried up on number eight. I guess I’ve only written about five thousand words in six months, and there’s no inspiration in any of them.”
She remained silent, hoping he would continue.
“My characters have deserted me. Hank has kept to his place, drinking and bitching about the world, and Julie has hooked up with some guy she met at a photographers’ convention. They’re just not interested in continuing the stories.”
Claire interpreted his words as a severe case of writer’s block. “You’ve been there before, Tony; I remember in ‘The Cathouse Murders’ you got hung up for weeks.”
“I know, but then it was a plot problem and I was able to work through it. This is different. Part of the problem is I’m not driven any more. I can take it easy on what I’ve made from the first seven books. But …”
“You won’t be able to let go, Tony; the way you talk about your characters is a complete giveaway. And the idea of an author needing to starve in a garret went out with Queen Victoria’s bloomers.”
He smiled. “Claire, you’re a good friend, but I don’t know how to break my own deadlock.”
She looked deeply at him, watching this charming and special guy while unexpected sensations started to course through her. And then a beaming smile spread across her face.
“I know exactly what your problem is Mr Delroy, and I reckon I can help you fix it.”
“Oh really? How?”
“Will you give me a straight answer to a simple question?”
“If I can.”
“Okay—when did you last get laid?”
“I … you … what?”
“You heard me. When were you last bumping uglies?”
“Claire, you have a very odd turn of phrase.”
“Don’t avoid the question. Tell me when.”
“Oh god, I don’t know; I just don’t remember.”
“Hmm. As long ago as that. Okay, Dr O’Connell’s prescription to jolt you back into motivation is for a prolonged bout of hot, sweaty sex.”
“I see. And who do you suppose will fill such a prescription?”
She gazed at him, her eyes softening into a warm smile.
“Would I do?”
Tony looked stunned, but then a deep flush stained his face, and he stammered, “Claire … I can’t … I can’t agree to … to just … sympathy sex. God, you’ve never been out of my mind since we first met. I’ve fantasized about being with you in all sorts of ways, but this just seems like a consolation prize.”
“You idiot. Don’t you understand? I wouldn’t offer myself to you if I didn’t care deeply about you, if I didn’t want to be with you, too?”
“Claire, please forgive me—I’m so stupid about these things. I don’t have much experience with women, and I’m so sorry for insulting you.”
“I don’t think you could ever really insult me, Tony, and …”
Any further comment was silenced as he pulled her into a close embrace. His kiss was a dramatic revelation. She expected something rather clumsy, rather gauche. But his mouth closed on hers with a completely unexpected sensitivity and confidence. His tongue just touched the tip of hers, and then traced across her lips in a sensual invitation. Their kiss deepened and Claire could barely breathe as his lips moved to her ear, then behind it and down her neck, nibbling and kissing. She tried to capture his mouth with hers but he persisted in his exploration, causing a flood of excitement to engulf her.
“Mmm, you taste delicious, Claire—I’d like to explore further. Please, take off your top.”
Her captivated eyes sought his as she slowly removed her oversized cashmere top.
Tony gasped when he saw she was not wearing a bra but her delicious, compact breasts stood firm and urgent, seemingly demanding to be kissed. They were covered with an enchanting dusting of freckles and her nipples stood proudly pointing to him.
“Please, Tony, kiss me.”
He knew what she meant and lowered his head to her breast, kissing and suckling. Claire whimpered and trembled as sensations flooded through her body.
She moaned as he picked her up in his arms and laid her gently on the thick, soft rug in front of the big open fire. He removed her socks and shoes, then opened the snap on her jeans and drew them off. She was left wearing only small silky panties.
“If you want us to reach paradise, Claire, you must take off your panties and give them to me.”
She looked at him through smoky, half closed eyes and slowly removed the filmy excuse for an undergarment, handing it to him. As she did so, Tony pulled a condom from his pocket but she slapped it out of his hand. “Pill!”
His hands were arousing as they stroked along her ribs while he continued to feast on her breast as she sobbed and whispered meaningless sounds of lust and desire.
Tony pulled back briefly. “I’m not sure I trust you,” she purred. “Here am I a poor, vulnerable maiden completely naked, at the mercy of the wicked man still fully clothed and about to ravish her.”
He growled, deep in his throat, and then must have broken the world record for a man to remove his clothes, to the accompaniment of her warm laughter.
“You’ll pay for that, wench,” he teased, and lying beside her, ran his tongue along her stomach and teased through her red/gold fur into her opening lips.
She screamed as his tongue probed deeper and then slid up into her centre. Claire held onto his head, begging for more. He continued this diabolical delight until her breathing became shallow and fast, and her body trembled as her climax grew.
“I want you, Claire, I want you so much—I need you right now.”
“Yes, my love, please, please … inside me right now.”
“My way, then Claire—I want you on top. Ride me.”
“Yes,” she breathed and as he rolled onto his back, she threw one leg across him and lowered herself towards his rigid manhood.
“Such a beautiful weapon, Tony,” and she poised herself over him, slowly descending until he barely penetrated her hot and welcoming body. He held her hips and then, with one thrust and a scream of ecstasy, she impaled herself on him.
Tony groaned his pleasure and looked up into her eyes, deep pits of green flame. She gasped his name as they established a sensual rhythm, moving with each other in growing ecstasy.
This couldn’t last for either of them. Claire flew towards her climax, her sobs and moans changing to a scream of joy as she plunged into an orgasmic rainbow, her body shaking and shuddering as she climaxed. This was enough for Tony, whose own climax had been building from the erotic delight of Claire’s body and the lust obvious in her voice and embrace.
As the tempest passed, she fell forward, pressing her breasts into his chest and they kissed, softly and languorously.
They moved apart, kissing and touching until Claire said, “I’d better get dressed and get going. The rain has stopped so it shouldn’t take me long to get back to town.”
“Claire, stay the night—please. It’s getting late, and anyway I’d love to sleep with you, really sleep with you.”
“Tony, I’m not sure I’m ready for a long-term committed relationship, although if I was, you’re the one I’d want to be with.”
“Okay, Claire, no pressure. But please stay tonight and we’ll work on our future later. Besides,” he grinned, “I think Hank is ready to leave his man cave and Julie has dropped her new guy and wants to get back in the game.”
She looked deeply into his warm smiling eyes and in a true epiphany, saw her future there. Realisation bloomed inside her and all her hesitations vanished. “I love you, Tony Delroy, and I want to be with you.”
“Well, what a coincidence, Claire O’Connell. I love you too, and I want to be with you.”
A full moon cast its silver glow into the room. “A lover’s moon, Claire. How could this wonderful day have ended any other way? It’s magic.”
She snuggled under his arm. “Mmm—you’re right. Magic.”
(1995 words, including title)