How's this fine hump day treating you? 7am here and I'm back to doing a little sewing. I can't print onto many, many things, so I think I'll be making myself an Edward/Robert book sleeve today hehehe.

I did What?!

What goes where?

I'm not talking about fitting Peg A into Slot B; I'm talking about where body parts end up. I know some authors have said that they let their characters write themselves, but are the authors paying attention?

Do they realize that these characters are trying to re-write the Karma Sutra? Not only can their characters perform circus tricks, it seems that most of the time, the men have worked out a magical way of levitating over the woman without touching her while his hands are on her chest, head, arms, and clit . . . all at once. Where did the extra hands come from?

Here's a tip from a non-writer: Think before you type. Maybe draw stick figures or role play with Barbie dolls so you can see the scene before you write it and determine if it's physically possible.

Or at least think while you're typing. By the time you're finished with writing a scene, the poor reader will be standing on their heads singing the national anthem and trying to read what the hell you put down onto paper. We're only human, just remember that when your characters are going at it.

~Prick-a-Doodle-Do~

The girl is driving me insane. My mind and body just react to her in a way I've never had before. I mean, you know those little prod things that tell you when a turkey is cooked? That is how my cock reacts around her. One look at her and my cock goes badoink.

I'm in her house, her bedroom, and I've just seen Princess in her panties. White lace with a black trim. I am so screwed.

"I didn't want to come to work yesterday," she mumbled sweetly while I pulled the covers up higher on her body. I don't think I've ever been this close to a woman, seeing her with so little on, in her bedroom—and not had sex.

Yet here I am, in the Princess's bedroom, seeing her voluptuous ass for the first time, and she's drugged up to her eyeballs. How the hell had I gotten myself into this mess? How had this beautiful little creature managed to wrap me around her finger so quickly? And when will my cock understand that he isn't going to get wet any time soon?

"Why didn't you want to come to work?" I murmured then sat down next to her on the bed. Her eyes were closed. Now that she wasn't in bitch mode with me, it was rather easy to talk to her. Granted, her voice was slurred, and half her words didn't make sense at all, but non-bitchy seemed to be good.

"Because," she replied just as quietly, her speech slurred.

"Because isn't an answer, Princess." I laughed a little. "I want you to be happy at work. If you're not, then I need to change things," I said gently and stroked her forehead. I was worried that she didn't enjoy the work, because like I said, I want her to be happy. I like how she makes the office come to life each morning and keeps people, including me, in their places.

"You made me come with your fingers. I didn't want to face you after that—"

Her slurred speech didn't hinder what I'd heard, and I nearly slid right off the bed. When the fuck did I do that?! I hadn't touched her like that! I think I'd fucking remember.

"Uh, when, Princess?"

"In my dream," she replied dreamily, then started to snore.

Now that I knew it was in her dreams, and not in real life, I felt a little better. I would have been really pissed off at myself if I'd done something like that and not remembered it.

Then I started to think about what it would be like if I could do it in real life, with her, without dreaming.

.

"I'm going downstairs to make some coffee. If you wake them up while I'm here, tell him that I'll have to kill him for being on my daughter's bed."

The sound of a man's voice grumbled through my sleep, and I tried to work out where I was and who the man could possibly be. Shit.

"Well, at least he isn't in her bed, dear," a woman said with a laugh, and I knew instantly who it was.

Everything came rushing back. The broken butt, the drugs, the dream confessions, and oh, god . . . why the fuck is my body wrapped around Princess?!

"It's okay, dear, you can open your eyes now, he's gone downstairs," Bella's Mom said.

When I opened my eyes, the woman was grinning madly at me.

"In typical cliché fashion, this is not what you think. I called to see why she wasn't at work. She was crying, and on the verge of peeing herself, so I didn't have any other option than to come around and help," I said, giving the woman a stern look. I didn't want her to get any ideas at all. Especially ideas that might filter down to her husband.

"So, helping her go to the bathroom equates to sleeping in the same bed with her?"

Damn, she's got me there.

"Consoling her after a bad dream?" Hey, she'd told me she had a dream about me and then didn't want to face me at work. That excuse could work.

"I never said it was a bad dream, Bossman," Princess mumbled then tried to snuggle up closer to me. Her whimpering through pain put a stop to that, and her Mom was in, well, Mom mode in a flash.

"You need the bathroom, food, and then more pain meds. You shouldn't have them on an empty stomach," she said, and Princess giggled into my chest.

"Yeah, that's already been explained to me, thanks."

The following hours were spent with Princess showering and eating, and me trying to dodge her father. It took Bella shouting at him, and then crying like a little girl before he would stop staring at me over the dinner table. Yes, I'd been invited—more like ordered to stay—for dinner by Princess. All had actually been going well until I accidentally called her Princess in front of her father.

"She is my princess. Only mine. You got that, young man?" He growled across the table and even Mac, the huge rug of a dog, whimpered and left the room. So much for being the protector of the house.

"So, if this is all innocent, why do you call her Princess, hmm?" her mother asked, and Bella laughed.

"Because I wore a tiara to work one day. I don't mind it, and it's better than my nickname for him," she said with a grin before making a start on her potatoes.

"And what's your name for him?" her mother asked, and dare I say she sounded all dreamy?

I was sure she was expecting a romantic reply from her daughter. Her father, on the other hand, snorted into his dinner.

"Prick-a-Doodle-Do," Bella replied.

Excuse me? "You call me what? Why, when?" I stuttered.

"In my head obviously, Bossman. I'm not stupid enough to say it out loud. Until now, of course, but I totally blame the drugs. They made me do it."

"You make me sound like an evil cartoon character, Princess. I'm not evil, am I? I know you call me a prick, but that at least has some ruggedness to it, but why the 'Doodle-Do?" What thirty-year-old pouts. Well, apparently me!

"It sounded good at the time." She shrugged. Shrugged!

"Oh, yeah, you can just feel the love radiating between these two," Mr. Swan muttered.

.

False advertising

Another huge bug-bear of mine and this is real life as well as books.

Let me set the scene for you.

A man is sitting at the bar, slowly sipping his scotch and throwing 'come to bed' eyes at the mystery brunette at the other end of the bar. They've been flirting for what seems like hours, and he's desperate to know if she'll go home with him.

By the end of the night, their chairs have gotten closer, and the couple have struck up conversation. She's giving the man all the right answers, and he knows that he's got a lucky lay for the night.

They're now back at his place, and she's gone to 'freshen up' while he gets undressed and settles into bed, his 'monster cock'— see what I did there? — is aching and weeping for the woman.

When she emerges from the bathroom, his poor cock deflates like a clown's balloon at a kid's party.

Gone are her luscious lashes, her boobs are deflated, her love handles have rounded out a little, and she's shrunk at least six inches.

So, what's happened?

Well, while preparing for the night, the woman thought about what she wanted. She wanted to make an impression with a man and to also make herself feel a little better after a shit week at work.

Her boobs had always been a little on the small side for her, so she thinks, and she hadn't been to the gym in months, but she had a cure for that. Out came her chicken fillets and tummy-controlling body stocking. Those two little things instantly made her feel better, but she then noticed more 'imperfections' which had always bugged her. She never liked that she wasn't as tall as her sister and thought she was too plain, compared to her best friend.

There's nothing wrong with wanting to make yourself feel and look better, but it's like selling a budget burger to a man who wants a ten-ounce steak.

We women like a man to look good, maybe six-pack abs and a little facial stubble, but what if we saw a 'monster cock' through his jeans and at the end of the night we found out that it was just a pair of rolled-up socks? Exactly.

My point is proven.

As you can tell, my mood is a little iffy this week, and although this post is about books, it's mostly about real life.

.

"I'm starting to enjoy reading her posts each week, son. She certainly knows how to keep you on your toes," Dad said over breakfast.

I was in two minds. On one hand, I wanted to agree with him, but on the other, I didn't want to spend another Sunday with my mother ignoring us.

"Well, I think she just sounds trashy, no matter what family she comes from. How on earth can her parents condone what she's up to?" Mother muttered while she buttered an English crumpet.

"Yes, well, from what our son has said, she seems to be pulling in a fair few readers to the site and social networking pages. That's good for business, dear. The more clicks they get on the site, the more revenue it brings in."

I tuned them both out and looked on my phone to see that Princess had more people following her Facebook page. I was still fighting with her to actually get on there and interact with people, but so far, she was standing firm on not doing it.

It hadn't helped that I'd hardly seen anything of her this week. I didn't need to see her for work reasons, so I had no excuses to go to her house.

"Why don't you go around and try and persuade her to do more than one post a week? I'm sure you can come to an arrangement, maybe pay her more?" Dad suggested, and Mom scoffed.

"Dad, trust me when I say that she doesn't need the money. She's doing this because she likes to, so I doubt anything I say will get her to do more," I replied and got on with my breakfast.

I was getting too old for this. Sunday dinners were one thing, but breakfast, lunch, and dinner with my parents, all in one day, was just too much. Only three days ago, Mother had tried setting me up with Tiffany. I can't even tell you how many 'friend of a friend's' daughter she was. I was proud that I managed to get out of any 'date' that Mom had set up so far because quite frankly, she tried selling me the idea in a business way.

"Yeah, I think I might go and see her this morning," I mumbled back to Dad, thinking about lunch. Mom had some friends coming around, and I had a sneaky suspicion that those friends included a single daughter.

"Will you be back for lunch, dear? We need you here, I have visitors coming, you know. Mrs. Spence from Seattle is bringing her beautiful daughter, too," Mom tried to say sweetly. It really didn't suit her.

"No, I don't think I will. I have a lot of work to do later that can't wait. And then, of course, I'm having dinner with Bella and her family." After my answer, I hightailed it out of the breakfast room and headed to the front door.

"Edward, you can't be serious about this girl. Honestly, you need to step away from her. She's no good for you!" Mom wailed as she followed.

"Esme, dear?" Dad said as he followed, too.

"What?" She snapped.

"Shut up."

Go, Carlisle! LOL. More tomorrow, of course!

Next teaser:

...placing the bag and his phone on the kitchen counter and then scratching Mac behind the ear. My body wanted to scream, "Me next! Me next," but I held it in.