“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.”
Chapter 17
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 …
It would shine a spotlight on all our scheming and deceit. Matt’s aunt and uncle would know I’d lied to their faces. My parents would know. Everyone would know. And whatever public support we’d rallied with our “epic love story” would vanish into the ether.
Matt, did you consider this?
“Hannah?” said Pam.
I gazed up at Matt’s agent, another person we’d deceived. She’d comforted me during Matt’s memorial, and she’d arranged all the interviews and appearances through which we disseminated our lie.
Now she knew the truth—obviously—and I saw hurt under her stony exterior.
“It’s … fiction,” I managed.
Pam laughed, her lips curling. “I’m sure. Whatever it is, it will be a sensation.”
We stared at one another in a deadlock. Oh, Pam. This woman had been so good to me, so loyal to Matt. She deserved the truth.
My eyes watered and I looked away.
“I’ll leave it with you, Hannah. You might as well read it, unless you already have.”
“Th-thank you.” I touched the stack of papers. I did want to read it. I’d only skimmed the book in April, and it wasn’t complete at the time. Now I could read every grisly detail.
Pam moved toward the doorway. I listened as her heels clicked to a stop. She spoke with her back to me, her voice softer.
“For six years I guarded his identity. I handled his privacy with the utmost discretion, and kept his secrets, when it would have behooved me and his career to reveal him.” She shook her head slowly and turned her face so that I could see her profile. “But he’s not right in the head. What I don’t understand is how he brought you in on it.”
I stayed quiet, knowing I’d break into tears if I spoke.
Pam clicked her tongue. “Well, he’s very persuasive. An occupational hazard, I’m sure.” She shut the door behind her and my vision quivered with tears.