Research For My Book

Georgia Jones and Sofi Ryan hadn’t seen each other in months. They were swapping stories over a bottle of wine when Georgia dropped the real reason she’d called. She needed Sofi’s hands. Her new chapter had flat-lined at a massage table, and she figured who better to pump some blood back into it than her friend who did it for a living. Sofi told her to stretch out on the bed. Georgia was quick to peel her clothes off, insisting the scene had to feel raw, skin on skin. When she lay there naked, heart slamming, she wondered if Sofi could hear it. Then she flipped the script. Research had to be fair. Sofi laughed, stripped, and started guiding Georgia’s palms along the curve of her spine, lower, until the coaching turned to slow, wet breaths between every command. Georgia paused, fingertips hovering. “The chapter still feels unfinished,” she admitted. “Should the characters… finish happy?” It hit Sofi then—the book wasn’t romance, it was filth, and Georgia was fishing for details only another woman’s tongue could spell out. Her grin said she was game. She dragged Georgia into a kiss that tasted like red wine and heat, bodies locking thigh to thigh, heat sliding against heat. They rolled, tongues busy, mouths slick between spread legs, then twisted into a greedy sixty-nine. The only sounds were wet, sharp, hungry—every lick answering the question Georgia hadn’t finished asking. If those pages ever saw print, the room would fog just reading them.