Not a journalist, but a novelist, or perhaps a screenplay writer.Two years of college did nothing to enhance my skills in that department either. I'd landed quite a few jobs, but none of them lasted.
Her toes curled against my jeans as she kneaded me like a cat pitter-patting with its claws.
Her purple toe-nails scratched against the rough fabric in an aggravating way. " she asked as she munched another bite of apple; its skin seemed to accentuate the dark color of her thick lower lip.
She tossed her hair over her shoulder and granted me an unobstructed view of both full breasts beneath the thin cotton nightshirt she wore.
I drew in a deep breath as I noted her nipples standing erect.
I detested the hours and following inane orders; I abhorred the disciplined style of life.
As long as I could remember, I wanted to be either a writer or an artist.
Our parents named us Sonny and Summer, a rather unfortunate joke on me. She had deep blue eyes and a stunning head of naturally golden-blonde hair.
It was smooth and silky, cut evenly below her shoulders.
" I grunted in response and sullenly pressed my hand to my jaw.