Foreplay on words dirty.., p.1
Foreplay on Words (Dirty Words Series Book 1), page 1
Copyright © 2023 by E.L. Koslo
2nd Edition
All rights reserved.
No portion of this book may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.
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Contents
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
Also By
Social Media
Acknowledgements
Sneak Peek
Chapter One
Chapter Two
About the author
This book is dedicated to all the readers who encouraged me to embrace the characters who live inside my head and finally share them with the world.
It means more than you know that all of you have stuck with me on the wild ride this series has been on.
You are the Chase to my Evan.
All content warnings are on my website at ELKoslo.com/words-series
Chase Rodgers
Pen name: Chastity Rose
Occupation: Romance novelist
Boston
My eyes were unfocused as I stared at the edge of the desk in front of me, still trying to process exactly what was being asked of me. I’d heard Isobel’s request, but there was no way I interpreted it correctly. I had a deadline. There was no way she was asking me to do her a favor of this magnitude when the clock was already counting down.
While my life may have looked chaotic from the outside, I dropped into focus mode with blinders on once that release date was set and preorders were scheduled. I became the characters––ate, slept, and breathed their journey––until the last two magical words were typed into the first draft.
I didn’t have time for a special assignment. I certainly didn’t have time to understand the motivations of characters that weren’t mine. An author’s methods were sacred, and I wasn’t keen on sharing mine with someone who couldn’t get their novel on track.
“Oh, come on. You can’t expect me to hold some rookie writer’s hand,” I complained as I sat stiffly in the chair across from my editor in her office at the Boston offices for my publisher.
We’d worked together for the past several years, having met shortly after I’d signed with my current publisher.
“I can, and I do.”
“No. Not happening. I don’t have time to walk some amateur through developing a sex scene,” I adamantly refused.
With one perfectly groomed, arched eyebrow in response, I knew I was fighting a losing battle. “He’s not an amateur. He’s already published quite a bit, actually.” The way she said it piqued my interest, but I remained skeptical of being roped into a project when I didn’t have extra time to spare.
“Then what do you need me for?” The first book in my newest series was already in motion, and I didn’t have time to take on some charity case for Isobel, no matter how much I enjoyed our working relationship.
“You’re our highest-grossing romance novelist right now.”
“And?” I’d worked my ass off to get where I was, and I wasn’t derailing my career for someone I didn’t even know. Her words weren’t meant to inflate my ego, they were facts. It still didn’t work to convince me of my value in this situation. I was a novelist, not a writing consultant. There were dozens of people in this building with advanced degrees in English that would be a million times more suited to doing something like this.
“He’s currently got two books on the Times bestseller list.” My eyes narrowed at her smirk, and I suddenly felt myself sit up straight in my chair. Exactly who did she want me to work with?
“Cut the shit, Is. Why do you need me to hold this guy’s hand?” I was irritated, but had to admit the idea sounded intriguing with her last tidbit of information. This wasn’t some rookie writer; this was a pro. I’d yet to clear the top 1000. So how did I fit into this equation?
“He’s having some trouble with character development in his new novel.” The nonchalance in her shoulder shrug kept her body language casual, yet her voice had an edge. She needed me on board with this.
“I have a deadline. I don’t have time for this. Can’t you throw a junior editor at him?”
“The higher-ups were thinking more about collaboration,” she responded casually, as if she hadn’t just told me I not only had to work with this guy, but I also had to share the credit when he was the one who needed me.
Oh, hell no. I was not tying my brand to some other author and then practically writing their book for them. I was halfway through book one on a three-book contract and still needed to do some research to flesh out the male lead. I’d gotten more comfortable writing from the male perspective in my career, but I always wanted to ensure it didn’t come off as forced or too over the top.
“He could probably help you with your book,” Isobel hinted as she gave me an imploring look.
My hackles rose as I clenched my fists. “I don’t need help. I need my editor to not drop a babysitting gig in my lap right now.”
“I promise you’ll like this one,” she smirked as she tossed a hardback book across her desk and pulled open the cover to show me the inside of the book jacket. “Meet Evan––”
“You mean Stone Evans? What does a mystery writer’s new book have to do with this conversation?” I interrupted.
“God, Chase,” she sighed loudly, “quit being a royal pain in my ass and let me get through a sentence.”
“Go on.” I motioned as I slumped in my chair and crossed my arms.
“Stone Evans is a pen name. His real name is Evan Stineman,” she explained as I continued to look at the black-and-white picture. “He’s writing a new thriller, and one of the main characters is a call girl.”
“I do NOT write porn,” I stressed as I stared at her, unimpressed.
Isobel smirked at me from across the desk. “You write erotic fiction.”
“There is a difference between a book with a romantic plot leaning heavily toward the spicy side and writing about a prostitute.”
“Is there?” she asked, clearly amused. “Is there really?”
“I’m leaving,” I huffed as she burst into laughter and threw a pen at me. I’d dealt with a lot of bullshit stereotypes in my day and thought she had more tact than this. The quickest way to get under a romance novelist’s skin was to demean their work as something tawdry.
“Sit down. You know I’m just joking.”
“Why me?” I failed to keep the whine out of my voice as she laughed. “It’s not like pretty boy Evan needs help reeling in the chicks. I’m sure he could find a lady of the night to help him with his research.”
“He is pretty, but...” she trailed off, clenching her teeth.
“Oooh, is he gay? I mean, that’s totally cool and would explain why he’s having trouble if he doesn’t understand lady parts––”
“No!” she practically shouted at me from across the desk. “For the love of God, Chase, stop talking.”
“But how...?”
“He doesn’t get out much.”
“What does that mean?” This was starting to sound suspicious again. Even with the black and white photo, it was clear that Evan had piercing light-colored eyes framed by long dark lashes and a chiseled jawline dusted with a light layer of facial hair. If I ran into him on the street, I’d do a double-take at that face.
“He doesn’t have contractual appearances. I don’t think he really dates either,” she said casually, avoiding eye contact. She was keeping something from me.
“Is he a...” I leaned in close, making sure no one would over
Isobel lost it again and slapped her hand down inadvertently pushing Evan’s book off the edge of her desk. I caught it before it hit the floor and propped it up on my lap to study his picture again.
“I don’t think he is, but maybe.”
“How old is he?”
“Twenty-seven,” she replied. So only a few years younger than my thirty-one. At least he wasn’t too much younger. I think I’d feel dirty consulting with him otherwise.
“There’s no way. But he’s so...”
“So...” she coaxed with a curious smile.
“Cute?” Her smile grew as my voice rose. He was more than cute; I think we both knew that, but I wasn’t going to tell her anything about the visceral reaction I had to simply seeing his picture.
“So, you’ll meet him?” she asked, glancing down at her phone on the desk.
“Why are you so desperate for this?” I was wondering how Isobel had gotten dragged into this too. I knew Evan wasn’t one of her authors, so there had to be a reason besides my acumen for romance that was drawing the both of us into this project.
“His new series is assigned to Adrian. He sent me some pages. It’s...”
Being one of Adrian’s authors was explanation enough. “The scenes are too rough?” I filled in when she didn’t finish her thoughts right away. Most men who didn’t know how to write a passionate scene used aggressive male archetypes to make it seem sexier.
As a romance novelist who’d written hundreds of drafts of sex scenes over the last ten years, it physically hurt to read male writers who forced sex scenes. Unless you were into specific kinds of dark romance, consent was sexy to the reader.
“Not exactly. More like too awkward.” She handed me a page from a manuscript. As I scanned the dialogue and the interaction between the two characters, I had difficulty believing a bestselling author had written this. It was choppy and the actions didn’t flow. I felt myself cringing more than getting turned on.
“Is he in a slump? Surely his books have had sex scenes in them before.” Suspense writers often had tumultuous affairs between characters to build up some relationships in their plots.
“Not really. He’s always written very well-researched mystery novels. The plots haven’t lent to romantic storylines.”
“None? Not even a hot scene with the protagonist nailing someone out of frustration or because they were in danger?” That seemed to be popular in more than one mystery or suspense book. When in danger, fuck a stranger.
She shook her head, and I was a little taken aback. Sex was a prerequisite in my genre, but others drew on sexual encounters too. There was a reason the phrase “sex sells” existed.
“What exactly am I supposed to be helping him with? Surely Adrian can give him some pointers on structure and flow.”
“He needs someone who’s used to writing something more graphic that draws the reader in,” she explained. “The plot is there, but he needs help getting the passion on paper. And we know if Adrian handled the rewrites, the character’s voice wouldn’t resonate the same way.”
“Does he know you’re pulling in a consultant on his book?” I didn’t want to be put into an awkward situation if I wasn’t wanted. “Isn’t he going to be pissed at Adrian?” Everyone was pissed at Adrian at one point or another…but still.
“He does,” she nodded with a sly grin. “He asked for you.”
“Adrian asked for me?” He was another editor in the publishing house’s mystery/action/suspense/thriller (MAST) department. He was not a fan of mine, but he did have a huge crush on Isobel.
“No,” her smile grew. “Evan asked for you.”
“Me?” I clarified, confused. “Has he even read my work?”
“He has. Adrian said he wasn’t willing to meet with anyone else.”
“Have I met him before? You’d think I’d remember that face, but I know sometimes the book jacket doesn’t match up to the person.”
Even in black and white, I could see how his light eyes sparkled with hidden mystery. It seemed fitting that the mystery writer would have an allure to his appearance. His hair was curled slightly, and he had an open expression that wasn’t quite a smile. He was an incredibly attractive man, but there was something more...
“He doesn’t do industry events.”
“Writer’s conferences?” I had no idea how he would know who I was if we didn’t run in the same circles. Being the talent for the same publisher didn’t mean that authors knew one another. Sometimes there were hundreds of authors simply in your genre.
“Nope.”
“And you’re sure he requested me?” I repeated, a little baffled.
“Positive.”
Something wasn’t adding up. Why would a successful mystery novelist be familiar with my work? I didn’t always read in the genre I wrote, but if he was a spice-writing virgin, chances were he hadn’t read any of my open-door romances.
“Evan wants to meet you the day after tomorrow. He’s got some specific scenes drafted that he wants you to work with him on,” she told me, easily dropping back into business mode while I tried to figure this situation out.
“So, coffee shop? Park? Where does he write?” I liked to sit in a quiet corner of the library or a park if the weather was nice.
“Well...”
“Spit it out, Is,” I urged.
“He needs you to come to his house.” It seemed like a simple enough request, but the way she said it made it sound like it wasn’t something I would readily agree to.
“And that’s bad?”
She sighed as she avoided eye contact. “Not exactly, no.”
“Is there something wrong with his house? What neighborhood does he live in?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but her eyes widened as she glanced over my shoulder toward her door.
“Hey, Is?”
I turned my head as a knock sounded, and Adrian stepped into the doorway. I would have thought he was handsome if I didn’t know what an egotistical jerk he was. His athletic frame filled the space inside the doorway, with broad shoulders and an impeccably fitted suit clinging to the obvious muscles in his arms.
“Yes?” she responded, and I glanced between them. There was always tension in the air whenever they were in the same room. Part of me knew my imagination liked to create romantic scenarios where they didn’t exist, but the looks Adrian sent Isobel’s way weren’t subtle.
“Oh, hey, Chase. Did Is talk to you about the consult…” he started to ask as he stepped into her office and sat in the chair next to mine.
He was classically handsome––tall, full head of slightly wavy dark hair and gorgeous dark blue eyes—it was a shame he was such an asshat. Isobel said it was a trait only I seemed to bring out in him, but I was skeptical. He seemed to hate most romance writers based on genre alone.
“Evan? Yes.” I nodded as he straightened and turned to face me.
“And?”
“Well, she said––” Isobel interrupted. I held up my hand to cut her off and turned back to Adrian.
“She said, what is the benefit of doing this favor for your author?”
“You really need to ask that?” he asked, looking at me like I was crazy. “You’d be getting byline credit for consulting on a Stone Evans book. He blows his nose and it hits the Times list.”
“I’m not exactly struggling to get my name out there.” I bristled at his tone, arching an eyebrow in his direction. He didn’t need to know I’d already agreed to hold Evan’s hand.
“Yeah, but your demographic is slightly different than his,” he laughed. Jackass.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Isobel inquired as she shot daggers at him with her narrowed eyes.
“Um.” He cleared his throat, and his cheeks colored as he looked at her. “Just that the female nineteen to thirty-five demo is a little bit less selective than the twenty to sixty, male-female that Evan pulls in. His draw is bigger.”
“It may be a larger pool to pull readers from, but there are a lot of female readers ages nineteen to fifty-five. I don’t only pull the NA demo.”
“I know you don’t, but his books have a wider reach. This collaboration could be good for you. Get your name out there to a new potential audience.” The arrogance was back in his voice. Now I was starting to second guess my decision because it meant working indirectly with Adrian.
