How does it feel, little bird?
I sighed audibly as I spread the lotion across my pecs, down my abs, lower. Hannah’s gaze flickered to my hands. I slipped the tips of my fingers under the band of my boxers and circled my waist slowly, lifting my hips.
“There,” I murmured. I sat up and smiled languidly at her.
“All done caressing yourself?” She smirked.
“You tell me.” I crawled toward her. “I know you like to watch…”
Her eyes widened, her lips parting.
“Here.” She shoved a sandwich at me.
Damnit
.
I sat beside her, staring out at the mountains and chewing on a gluey peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She handed me a Coke and popped open her beer.
“Thanks for packing this,” she said.
Finally, finally, she smiled at me.
“Of course. There’s a slice of orange in there.”
She blinked and fished the small Tupperware out of the cooler pack. I knew she liked orange in her Blue Moon. I watched her squeeze the juice into the bottle, then pop in the rind.
A blush crept into her cheeks.
“You thought of everything,” she whispered.
“Oh, I doubt that.” I chuckled and took another bite. Warm wind rolled up the hill, fanning over us. My head cleared as my lust cooled.
“Is this … the bread you bought for Chrissy?”
“Mm. We might as well get some use out of it.”
“We could still give it to her.”
“No.” I shook my head. “That’s an unequivocal no, Hannah. If she’s getting help from Seth, we’re not helping her.”
“Well, I’m not okay with that.” Hannah lowered her sandwich and turned to face me. I took a deep breath. This, after all, was what I’d actually intended to do today. Talk.
“And I’m not okay with Seth being in her life. She’s in your life. You’re in my life. If he’s in her life, he’s…” My appetite disappeared. I tossed the corner of my sandwich to a squirrel. “Then he’s in our life. In
your
life. I won’t have that.”
Hannah stared at me as if I’d grown two heads.
“Say something,” I said.
“S-sorry, it’s just—it’s nice to—” She shoved the remainder of her sandwich in her mouth, her cheeks puffing out. “Nice to talk.”
I frowned and cocked my head. Did we not talk enough?
“Um, the thing is … Chrissy
is
in my life,” she said. “She’ll be in my life no matter what. She needs me now, and I don’t really want Seth in her life either, but I’m not going to try to control her. I’m just going to help her.”
“Do I have any fucking say in the matter?”
“Of course you have a say, Matt.” She touched my cheek. Her hand grazed the faint trace of my cut. “I won’t do anything without consulting you.”
“I don’t want you seeing him.” My jaw clenched. Cold anger and shame gusted through me. “He touched you…”
“Oh, love.” Hannah climbed swiftly onto my lap and wrapped herself around me. I shivered—with rage. She stroked my hair and neck and whispered sweet, soothing nothings into my ear. “It’s okay. Never again. I love you.”
I clung to her.
God, pain is sharp. Even old pain. Past pain. Or maybe that’s the worst kind, because it stabs unexpectedly into our present happiness.
“It’s my fault he came into your life in the first place. He’s my brother. You met him at my idiotic memorial. I should never have—”
She touched my lips.
“No ‘what-if’s,” she said. “This is our reality, remember?”
We shared a soft, slow kiss, and I broke it before I lost myself.
“About last night.” I tucked Hannah’s head under my chin. It was easier to address the mountains. “I lost my temper. I’m sorry. I should have told you I bought food for Chrissy and planned to give her a check. Bird, I’m not used to this … unified-front, joint-decision thing. I’ve told you my money is yours and I meant it. Bear with me. I’m still getting used to all this.”
Her breath on my neck distracted me badly.
Her small hands roamed my torso.
“Okay,” she said.
Okay?
Too easy …
I mentally revisited my “FIX SHIT” list.
Talk about things
.
Money: check. Chrissy: check. Therapy: fucking hell …
In my ideal vision of this conversation, I told Hannah everything. I showed her my
Black Book of Aberrant Desires.
We discussed the things I’d discussed with Mike. She was amenable, excited, unafraid. And then we had hot, sadistic sex all night.
In reality …
This peaceful picnic blanket seemed like no place for talk of pain and shame. Hannah’s mood had done a one-eighty. She kissed me and I tasted beer and citrus.
“Hannah, is—” I gasped. She straddled my lap and began to grind on me, rolling the apex of her legs along my dick.
“Is what?” She threw back her head, her curls sliding off her shoulders. Instinctively, I tugged on them, eliciting a moan.
“Is there … anything else you want to talk about?”
I gazed down, mesmerized by the motion of her body on mine. My dick rose readily.
“Another time,” she whispered.
Fuck, yes. Another time …
I groaned and braced my hands on the blanket behind me, letting Hannah do her thing. My lust sprang back to life. I closed my eyes and moved my hips, making damn sure she felt my hardness, and when Hannah scampered up to undo her pants and slide down her thong, I flicked open my pants and freed my cock.
She resettled on me, gripping my shoulders for leverage. Skin to skin. Now, when she ground her body on my lap, the lips of her sex spread desire up and down my cock. But she didn’t slide onto it. She pinned it to my belly, an aching hardness, damp at the tip, and glided over it until she was soaked.
“This is fucking good,” I hissed.
I tried to angle my hips so that I pierced her, but no dice.
“I know you need it,” she whispered in my ear. “You’ve been staring at me all morning. At these…”
My eyes slipped open.
Hannah had yanked up her sports bra and tank. Her breasts hung down, full and bare.
“Ah, fuck. Fuck yeah.” They spilled into my hands. As I squeezed them, Hannah changed her motion, tilting her pelvis so that her clit rubbed up and down my dick. I wanted her. To be in her. I wanted to be on top of her, taking her. But this? Watching her pleasure herself on my body? This was so fucking hot.
“You—are you”—I rolled her nipples to stiff peaks—“gonna make yourself…”
“Yes,” she breathed. She moved faster, harder, and her hand darted between us. She positioned my shaft and slammed onto it.
“Fuck!
Hah
… babe.” That tight, sudden grip hurt. And then it felt better. And better. I sank onto my back and arched. “God, ride me.”
Hannah bounced on me once, twice, and began to quake.
Her climax clenched my arousal. I seized her hips, willing her to continue, but she climbed off of me and collapsed with a groan.
“God, that was good.” Her hand twitched on my chest, her fingers grazing my nipple.
“Hannah,” I snarled, reaching for my shaft.
“No, no.” With a tsk, she batted away my hand and forced my cock back into my boxers. The fabric grated against my head. My whole package throbbed, overheated, oversensitive, damp. I sat up and glared at the ridiculous tent in my boxers.
“What the hell?”
Hannah shimmied back into her thong and pants. She pulled her bra and tank into place.
“I wanted to punish you,” she said simply. She knelt and began to do up my pants, imprisoning my hard dick. I moaned and reached for it.
No fucking way …
“Love, please.” I grimaced. “This shit is not funny.”
Again, she batted at my hand, and when I tried to undo my fly, she pinned my wrists to the blanket. “Don’t, Matt.” She gazed at me earnestly.
“Fuck!” I flopped onto my back and lay there panting, burning with pent-up desire. God, I wanted to fuck. Hannah held my hand. She brushed her thumb over my wrist.
“Good boy…”
“You.” I glared at her.
“I know it’s not funny. It wasn’t funny for me, either. It was confusing and … agonizing.” She bit her bottom lip. She laid a hand over my crotch and I sucked in a breath. “And sort of … a crazy turn-on,” she mumbled.
I scowled. Was this a turn-on? Well, in a manner of speaking …
A really fucking unfortunate manner
.
I closed my eyes and debated the wisdom of forcing myself on Hannah. Negative, we weren’t playing like that right now. She couldn’t stop me from jerking off, though.
But that would be a defeat.
“You’re so beautiful,” she whispered. I opened my eyes and squeezed her hand. Her gaze strayed over the bulge in my pants. “You’re hard to resist. Was it hard to deny me?”
“Very … hard.” I rolled my eyes and she giggled. “Shush. Your bird giggles aren’t helping. Finish your beer.”
She scooted away and sipped her beer.
“I need a moment to…”
Get a grip. Literally.
“Relax.”
And I did relax, after what felt like forever. Hannah watched me, her boldness diffused into timidity, finished her drink and ate a pear. The juice dribbled down her chin. I smirked and looked away. At least she wasn’t sucking on a goddamn banana.
My dick settled down and I sighed. Blessed relief. But a touch from Hannah, a certain sort of look, and I’d be hard all over again.
I pulled on my T-shirt and stretched.
Hannah ventured a smile. Cute … how shy she’d turned.
“You look mighty pleased with yourself,” I said.
She shrugged and busied herself with repacking our picnic.
I leaned over and kissed her shoulder.
Mm, the taste of her skin …
“You know I plan to pay you back for this.”
She glanced at me through her lashes. A familiar glow spread over her cheeks.
“I know,” she said. “I was hoping you would.”
HANNAH
On Monday morning, I strolled into work feeling like a goddess.
I could hardly believe what I’d done to Matt—what he’d let me do!—and every time I remembered the stormy anger in his eyes, I got a shiver of triumph.
I plan to pay you back for this …
Please do, Mr. Sky; I have just the thing for it.
No sooner had I settled behind my desk than I heard a knock.
“Come in,” I called as Pam entered.
I shrank when I saw the look on her face: eyebrows in a severe V, lips tight.
Pamela Wing would always be my boss, even now when we were partners at the agency. Maybe that was a good thing. A little authority goes a long way.
Unbidden, the image of Matt with a whip flashed through my brain.
Gah!
Not now.
“Hi, Pam.” I squirmed.
“Hannah.” She nodded and plopped a manuscript on my desk.
I scanned the title page.
LAST LIGHT by Matthew R. Sky Jr. writing as M. Pierce.
My good mood deflated.
Oh …
So Matt had finished his second novel about us. And sent it to his agent. And said nothing to me.
“Great,” I mumbled.
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Pam said dryly, “but it is what it is. I think it gives him some secret pleasure, being a byword among the critics who adored him. Any idea when this phenomenon will run its course?”
A byword? Phenomenon?
I tightened my hands under the desk. I knew Pam wanted Matt to get back to his literary roots—she’d hinted at it more than once—but she didn’t have to be so rude. This book, after all, was about us. About me.
A terrible thought jabbed at me. Did Pam blame me for Matt’s career shift? And
was
I to blame? Her bestselling author of acclaimed literary fiction—the brightest feather in her cap—had morphed into a bestselling author of erotica.
His style and his voice had changed. His themes. His audience.
The only common denominator between Matt’s career prior to me and after me was his unchecked popularity.
“I don’t control what he writes,” I said, willing strength into my voice. “I never know what he plans to write. We don’t talk about it. In fact, I didn’t even know he’d finished this.” I glared at
Last Light
. “But I’ll stand by any decision he makes with his writing.”
I met Pam’s stare—maybe a little defiantly. What I wanted to say was,
You should stand by his decisions, too.
Pam cocked her head and smiled frigidly. “So you stand by his decision to tell the world what really happened when he ‘died’ last year?”
“We already told everyone what happened.”
“This tells a different story.” She pointed at the manuscript. “No less romantic, though. The two of you plotting his disappearance. You, sneaking out to the cabin to see him. I suppose you’re right. It does make for a …
great
story.”
I froze in my chair.
Oh … shit.
How had I never considered this? I knew Matt was writing
Last Light
, I knew he planned to publish it, and I knew what it was about. I’d even read a chunk of it in April when I ambushed him at the condo.
Last Light
, quite simply, told the truth behind Matt’s faked death and my part in it, and Nate’s part in it, and … oh God, all the stuff that happened with Seth …
The drugs. The hookup.
My office teetered. I held on to the desk.
Matt had already fed a standard lie to major magazines and papers, not to mention anyone who saw us on the
Denver Buzz
. Our story was that he orchestrated his faked death alone. No one knew. I believed it was true and mourned him, just like the poor, exploited public.
And in our story, I emerged victorious. I was the girlfriend who loved her neurotic artist so much that she forgave him for doing the unthinkable. Angelic Hannah—love’s saint.
Nate looked equally heroic. After Matt reappeared, shocking and disgusting the public, Nate had made several statements in support of his youngest brother.
Of course I forgive him. The loss of him, the grief, was horrible. That he’s alive is nothing but miraculous.
But if
Last Light
got published …