“I’m aware. I read Night Owl.”
“The fuck?” I gaped.
“I read everything you publish. You’re my client. It’s part of my job. You know this, Matthew. Holistic mental health.”
I rubbed my face. Good God.
“Look, to answer your question…” My mind traveled back to Hannah. Last week, she’d put her finger in my backside, then made me confess to liking it. And before our brief breakup, she’d asked me to jerk off for her viewing pleasure. On my knees. On the floor. “She, ah … she sometimes … has the upper hand, yeah. I don’t mind.”
“You enjoy it?”
I shrugged.
“Well.” Mike tapped his desk, soliciting my attention. “It’s one thing to have these desires, and to explore sexuality with your partner, and quite another thing to punish her in bed for problems within your relationship. Can you see that?”
“Nope.” I twisted the lighter in my pocket.
“I think we’ll end this appointment early then.”
“Huh?” I glanced at the clock, which said we had twenty minutes to go.
“You’re closed off, embarrassed, defensive. We’re getting nowhere. Spend a week remembering that I am on your side, trying to help you. Get comfortable with the idea that I know about all that”—he pointed to my notebook—“and come back on Monday ready to talk.”
“Fine.” I pushed out of the armchair. Getting dismissed by my own shrink kind of sucked, but I wasn’t about to turn down freedom.
“Homework, Matthew.”
“What?” I snarled.
“If you feel so inclined, try asking Hannah how she felt about the punishment. And if you won’t do that, at least try to imagine Hannah striking you in bed, or withholding your orgasm or even sex, with no explanation or verbal contract, based upon an argument—”
I stepped out and slammed the door while Mike was still talking.
And I lit my goddamn cigarette in the elevator.
When I got back to the condo, I sprawled on the couch and texted Hannah.
Sweet bird. I need a fix.
She replied immediately.
Little Bird: Hi you.
Matt: Hi.
Little Bird: What happened to your appointment?
Matt: I left early.
Little Bird: Oh …
Matt: Mike sent me home. Said I wasn’t cooperating or some shit.
Little Bird: Bad boy.
Matt: Mm, exactly. Are your office doors shut?
Little Bird: Yes …
Matt: Touch your breasts for me. Just a little.
Little Bird: Matt …
Matt: Are you wet?
Little Bird: I am now.
Matt: And your pussy. Slip a finger into it. For me …
Little Bird: God, Matt. Want you …
Matt: I could drive over.
Little Bird: No! Not at work.
Matt: In my car then. Don’t you want me in you? And my cum.
Little Bird: Matt. Jesus.
Matt: I want to put it in you. Make you take it. Come in you.
Several minutes passed. I gripped my dick through my slacks and sighed. All that skeevy talk in Mike’s office had done a number on me.
And Hannah … lately, she was more adorable than ever. When she cried over the damn bridal magazines, I wanted to drag her into the nearest bathroom and have my way with her. What gave? I couldn’t keep my hands off her.
At last, my cell buzzed.
Get over here Matt.
I grinned and slid off the couch. “That’s my girl,” I murmured.
I parked a block from the agency, which was desolate that day. The slap of my sandals echoed around the lobby. At the top of the stairs, I tousled my hair and checked my reflection in a glass case.
Golden boy, I thought spontaneously. What had I ever done to earn that nickname? Behind my pretty face was a consummate jerk.
Hannah leapt from her chair when I breezed into the office.
God damn, she looked good. She wore her hair in a high, messy bun. Her blouse hung open enough to give me a view of her cleavage. She pushed her glasses up her nose and shot a look at Pam’s office door.
“Matt!” she hissed. “What happened to … the car?”
I lifted a finger to my lips. Silence. I locked the door behind me, then locked the door between Pam and Hannah’s offices. My erection strained against my jeans. I slid smoothly into Hannah’s chair and pulled her onto my lap.
Mm—there.
I exhaled against the back of her neck. I gripped her hips and moved her bottom over my lap, letting her feel my hardness. She shivered.
As I hiked up her skirt, her hands fumbled between us, undoing my fly and freeing my cock. I shifted her thong and she sat, impaling herself. I inhaled swiftly. “Hannah,” I gasped.
She reached back at an ungainly angle and covered my mouth with her palm. Fuck, yes. This forced silence would drive me mad.
She bounced on my lap—I bucked to meet her motions—and when she gave a reedy moan, I sealed my hand across her lips. My free hand traveled her body, cupping her breasts through her bra and rubbing her clit.
I began to yank her down onto my cock, forcing a fast tempo.
Pushing her over the edge.
She came moments before I did, her hand braced against the desk, our bodies pinned and shuddering together. Ah, the things I wanted to say to her …
Her hand fell, streaking sweat and saliva over my jaw. I wiped my cheek on my shoulder and whispered in her ear, “You have the tightest pussy I’ve ever fucked, Hannah Catalano.”
We adjusted our clothes hastily.
She perched on the desk opposite me. A beautiful flush gilded her cheeks. Her chest surged with hungry breaths; her eyes glittered with excitement.
“You look very pleased with yourself, Mr. Sky.” She grinned.
“Oh, I am.” I chuckled and stroked her leg.
Absently, I scanned her desk. A magazine lay atop a stack of manuscripts, and when I reached for it, Hannah snatched it.
I recognized the cover immediately. The Knot. I laughed.
“Babe, are you playing on the job?”
“No, I…” Her voice hitched and she glared at me. Fucking hell, was she trying to be cute, or was my Hannah addiction in overdrive?
Sticky notes protruded from the magazine.
I smiled—encouragingly, I hoped—and tilted my head. “Show me.”
“No, just…” She played with the magazine. “I’m not, like, planning. I…”
“Then start planning.” I cupped her cheek. Her eyes widened.
“The—the wedding?”
“Why not? God knows I’m not going to plan it. Have you got some little-bird ideas?” I hauled her back onto my lap. Her flimsy office chair swayed. She swiveled sideways and plopped the magazine on her thighs.
“You make me feel like a little girl,” she whispered.
I frowned. “I do?”
She touched my lips. “In a good way, Matt.” She squinted at the magazine—a nervous tic of hers—and flipped it open to a page displaying “do-it-yourself string accents and lanterns.” She pointed to a nighttime photo of a large, sprawling oak with dozens of mason jars hanging from its branches, tea lights shining in the glass.
I kissed her shoulder.
“That’s lovely,” I said.
“Yeah?” She searched my expression. “It’s … simple and … intimate.”
“Mm. Great atmosphere.”
Hannah practically vibrated with happiness on my lap. This side of her—the feminine “ooh”ing and “aah”ing over bridal magazines—surprised me, but pleasantly. I wanted to make her happier. I would give her anything. A fucking fairy-tale wedding. A cake ten stories tall.
I opened to another tagged page displaying more candlelit nighttime scenes. Jars filled with glass beads and lights, papier-mâché luminaries.
Hannah peeked at me continually.
“An evening ceremony, then,” I said.
She plucked the magazine from me and tossed it onto the desk.
“Oh, I don’t know. Whatever you want. Something … simple.”
“I want what you want.” I slid her off my lap and stood. “You know I love the evening. The night.” I moved to lean against the door. Now I needed a little distance from Hannah. If she kept giving me those coy looks through her long lashes, we’d have to go another round.
She scooted up to her desk.
“Cool,” she said, her eyes downcast. Her fingers danced over the keyboard. She straightened a pile of papers.
“Work.”
“Hm?” Her head shot up.
“I want to watch you work.”
“Um. I can try.”
“Forget I’m here.”
“No chance of that,” she said with a giggle. After some dithering, she began reading from the computer screen and typing. She glanced at a paper, typed some more. Licked her lips. Looked at me. I smiled and shook my head.
With a huff, she refocused on the screen.
I stood very still, and Hannah’s work finally absorbed her. Calm confidence came into her expression. She reclined in her chair as she read, then leaned forward to jot down notes.
The future Mrs. Hannah Sky, working the job she’d refused to give up for me. Good for her. I felt clean, happy pride watching her, and Mike’s questions passed back through my mind.
Would you be comfortable if she felt this proprietary about your body?
Would you allow her to humiliate, dominate, and punish you?
I slipped out of the office while Hannah wasn’t looking.
I just might, Mike. I just might.
Chapter 15
HANNAH
I ate lunch at the Mediterranean deli every day that week, but I didn’t see Katie.