Sending My Erotica to the Chiseled Billionaire

POV: Clara

My eyes burn as I stare at the harsh glow of my laptop screen. Being an eighteen-year-old virgin erotica author is an absolute nightmare. Trying to craft steamy romance when you have zero practical experience is tough enough, but dealing with online trolls makes it a daily struggle. One reader, a user named Chelsea Wolf, seems to have made it her life's mission to destroy my confidence. She leaves biting, critical comments on every single page of my latest draft.

I refresh my browser, and a new notification pops up. I read her latest review, my jaw tightening.

'Haven’t you had sex before? It is supposed to hurt the first time! Why is the female not bleeding?!'

Before I can process the insult, a second comment appears underneath it.

'You are an absolute idiot.'

I grit my teeth, my fingers hovering frozen over the keyboard. She is calling me an absolute idiot in public for everyone on the reading app to see. I mutter to myself in frustration, a string of curses slipping past my lips. I know for a fact that first-time sex is not supposed to be an agonizing ordeal. It doesn't just automatically result in a gruesome bloodbath. I only know this because I subjected myself to a highly awkward, deeply embarrassing interview with my own mother just to gather realistic inspiration for my romance novel. I sat in the kitchen while my mom explained that if a man is gentle and knows what he is doing, it shouldn't feel like torture.

Before I can type out a defensive reply to put Chelsea in her place, a booming voice echoes from downstairs.

"Clara!" my dad yells. His voice carries up the staircase, anxious and practically vibrating with stress. "Have you finally emailed your resume to my boss yet? He is asking about the summer secretary position at the law firm!"

I drag my hands down my face, letting out a loud groan. "I will do it shortly, Dad!" I yell back down the stairs, keeping my gaze locked on my laptop.

Working as a secretary at a downtown law firm is the last thing I want to do, but I desperately need the money from this job. Following my recent high school graduation, the reality of my bank account is grim. I need to save up cash so I can finally move out of my parents' house and start my adult life. I cannot be a secret erotica writer living under their roof forever.

Muttering under my breath about demanding fathers and irritating trolls, I open a new tab on my browser. I log into my email account and draft a polite, professional message to Alistair Kincaid. I click the paperclip icon to attach my file. My desktop is a cluttered mess of documents, but I click on what I believe is my resume file, attach it to the email, and click send.

Once the email disappears from my outbox, my mind immediately drifts back to my erotic manuscript. My story features a brooding, intensely wealthy older protagonist named Vincent. I love writing the age gap dynamic. Thinking about wealthy older men makes me realize I know absolutely nothing about my dad's boss. I know he is the legendary CEO of Kincaid Enterprises, but that is the extent of my knowledge.

I decide to search his name on Facebook. I expect to see a stern, middle-aged corporate drone in a gray suit. I picture a man with a receding hairline, desperately trying to hide bald spots.

I type his name into the search bar. He is friends with my dad, so his profile pops up instantly.

When his profile picture loads, I nearly choke on my own tongue.

A loud gasp leaves my lips. Alistair Kincaid is a walking daddy fantasy.

There is no receding hairline. There are no bald spots. Instead, he has a perfectly chiseled jawline. He has striking blue eyes that seem to pierce right through the screen, messy brown hair that looks effortlessly styled, and a mischievous smirk playing on his lips. He looks like a man who knows exactly the effect he has on women.

My pulse kicks into a faster rhythm. I scroll down his timeline, my mouth going dry. I land on a vacation photo. He is standing on a beach, holding a surfboard under one arm. He is shirtless. His rock-hard six-pack is on full display, his skin golden under the sun.

I stare at the screen, stunned. My dad said his boss was a year older than him. I cannot believe a man nearing forty can look so incredibly youthful and attractive.

"Imagine working for a man who looks like that," I whisper to myself in the quiet of my bedroom.

I lie back on my bed. A sudden, intense wave of arousal crashes over me. I shift my hips, feeling a hot ache pool between my thighs. I realize for the first time that I have a massive thing for older, powerful men. Just looking at his digital footprint makes me wet.

Unable to resist the heat building inside me, I slide my hand down my sweatpants. I push my underwear aside, my fingers finding my slick folds. I begin to touch myself.

I close my eyes. Instantly, the image of Alistair's face flashes in my mind. I visualize his large, tanned hands reaching out to grab me. I imagine those palms exploring my untouched, virgin body, mapping every curve. I part my lips, letting out a soft gasp as my fingers go to work. I picture Alistair leaning over me, his hot breath brushing my skin as his lips kiss a deep path down my neck. I imagine his piercing blue eyes locked onto mine, dark with lust.

My breath quickens. I rub my clit, circling the swollen bundle of nerves. I press harder, increasing the friction, lost in the vivid fantasy. The thought of this wealthy CEO taking my virginity sends a jolt of electricity straight to my core. I arch my back off the mattress. I rub my clit faster and faster, chasing the edge. The tension coils tight in my lower belly until it snaps. I let out a muffled cry, my hips bucking upward as I reach a powerful climax.

I lay there, panting at my ceiling, a thin sheen of sweat coating my forehead. My chest heaves as the aftershocks ripple through my thighs.

Before I can fully catch my breath, a sharp chime alerts me to a new email.

I pull my pants up on shaky legs, a satisfied smile lingering on my flushed face. I walk back over to my desk and glance at the screen. The smile vanishes instantly.

The sender is Alistair Kincaid.

My heart stops dead in my chest. Why is he replying so fast? I click the message, my eyes scanning the text.

*Dear Clara Arden,*

*I have been waiting for your resume, and although what you sent me was a very interesting read, I suggest you send the correct document.*

*Your manuscript is a captivating read filled with private fantasies, but it doesn't serve as a professional qualification for the secretary position.*

*I trust this was an innocent mistake. When you have a moment, please forward the correct document.*

*Kindly,*

*Alistair Kincaid*

My blood turns to absolute ice. The lingering warmth from my orgasm vanishes, replaced by a cold dread.

No. No, no, no.

I stare at the sent folder. I click on the attachment I sent him just twenty minutes ago.

It is not my resume.

I realize in horror that I attached the wrong file. I sent Alistair my highly explicit erotica draft instead of my resume.

I clap a hand over my mouth to muffle a scream. He read it. He read the manuscript. To make matters worse, this specific draft contains a graphic scene where the characters have anal sex on an office desk. I wrote out every dirty detail of that desk-sex scenario.

My stomach churns. I realize in horrifying clarity that the male protagonist in my story is described to look exactly like Alistair himself. Brooding, striking blue eyes, messy brown hair, and a chiseled jaw.

He definitely thinks I wrote this filthy story about him. I just sent my dad's boss a document about taking it up the ass on corporate furniture.

A wave of pure mortification drowns me. I want the ground to open up and swallow me whole. How can I ever face this man? I can picture his mischievous smirk turning into a mocking laugh. He must think I am a deranged lunatic.

The reality of my situation grounds me. If I do not send the real file, my dad will ask questions. If my dad finds out I sent his boss a document detailing hardcore anal sex, I will die of embarrassment.

Desperate to appease my father and get the rejection over with, I force my trembling fingers to type. I need to fix this fast.

I attach my real resume. I type a brief and stiff apology.

*I am sorry for the confusion. Here is the correct document.*

I hit send. Then, I slam my laptop shut with a loud crack.

I sit in the quiet of my room, pulling my knees to my chest, praying to any higher power listening that I never have to face Alistair Kincaid in person.