I’d found a naked redhead where I expected to find a naked redhead, but it was the wrong one. This one was just old enough to be way too young, even for a guy who’d been alone for ten years. She was also asleep or unconscious, which allowed my firm disappointment to subside to the point that it wouldn’t scare her off.
I felt only mildly dirty as I looked her over. They had to be related: same lovely face, same shaggy mane of red hair, same delightful freckles everywhere I could see without risking a felony. For a wild moment I thought that it was her, fucking with me in a way that didn’t involve actually fucking with me.
Then she sat up and screamed. In fairness, I hadn’t exactly been keeping up with my grooming.
It occurs to me that one influence on how I’m creating these bite-sized chunks is the regular email updates I get from Wen Spencer’s Patreon. She’s constantly tinkering with her works-in-progress and posting the results, to the point that I’ve read half of three different novels over the past several months, frequently revised and restructured.
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