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I just finished writing the last line of my latest story - it’s a lighthearted look at a spunky young woman who ends up a secret undercover stripper. Here’s a sneak preview:
He leaned his elbows on the car door and I realized a moment too late that my shirt was loose, exposing my breasts for all Las Vegas to see. I tried to casually cross my arms over my chest and he laughed. Greg Callagan laughed at me. I blushed, something I hadn’t done since … well, since my audition. He laughed again, the big dumb sexy jerk. I scowled, feeling like I was back in high school.
“Did you forget to put on some of your clothing this morning or is that a feminist thing?”
I sighed and bent my head down to button up my shirt. “Fuck you, Greg. Feminists wear bras.” Why the hell had I kissed him, anyway?
He smiled, flashing a gorgeous set of teeth. Right. That’s why. “Then I guess I’m not a feminist.”
I rolled my eyes. “Look, I’m on my way to an interview. Can you please just let me go? I promise not to throw my one remaining copy of my resume out the window.” I batted my eyelashes in a semi-erotic, semi-not sort of way.
He didn’t move from my window. “How about we get a drink later? Catch up?” He smiled with a jawline would make put Paul Newman to shame and his brown tousled hair fell into his eyes. His breath smelled like Alpine mountains and his muscles rippled in the sunlight. He was holding his citation pad six inches from my face. How could I refuse?
In erotic books with themes didactic
Schoolgirl lessons prove ever climactic-
Such teasing young flirts
Lift their plaid pleated skirts,
Pockets filled with contents prophylactic.