“Hm?”
“When I was talking to your father, I asked him—”
“What?” Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “Please tell me you didn’t, like, ask for his permission to marry me or something.”
“Was I not supposed to … do that?”
“God.” She pushed out of my arms and rubbed her face. “So you told them we’re engaged? You could have asked me first.”
“I did ask you. In the field. What’s the matter?”
“It’s just silly. We’re not living in the eighteenth century. You don’t need his permission. And honestly, we’re not even properly engaged yet.”
“We’re not?” I white-knuckled the edge of the counter. “That’s news to me.”
“Yeah. No. I don’t know.”
Women are the most confusing creatures on earth.
Exhibit A: my maybe fiancée.
“Bird, talk to me.” I moved behind her and massaged her shoulders. “Is it about a ring? I’ll get you one tomorrow. Tonight even. I’m ready to—”
Hannah turned abruptly and kissed me. I froze. What the hell? Her kiss was ravenous, steel-edged. Her hands scoured my chest and she yanked at my slacks.
“God,” I gasped, breaking the kiss.
Her intensity pulled me out of my worries and into arousal. Fuck, I loved this woman. Her desire went toe to toe with mine.
I stiffened rapidly and ground my erection against her hip. She gripped my ass and I lifted her breasts.
And just like that, it was over.
“Sorry, I—” She backed into the counter.
My hands fell. I was already panting.
“Hannah, what … is going on with you?”
“Nothing.” She eased away from me. “Sorry. I must be wound up.”
“Yeah, join the club.” I tried to get a better look at her, but she moved toward the living room, keeping her back to me.
“I don’t feel great. I’m sorry. I should probably try to sleep.”
I glanced at my watch. Sleep at ten? That was early for me, but Hannah lived on a normal schedule. I sighed and dragged both hands through my hair. If I had learned one thing about women in my twenty-nine years, it was that they never talked until they were ready.
I waited a minute, hoping for some clue about her mood, but she remained silent.
“Okay,” I said. I trailed her to the living room and kissed the top of her head. “Whatever you need. You want company?”
“No, I’ll just sleep. Go do your thing.” She patted my chest and shuffled down the hall. I wandered into the office.
My body ached with doused excitement. My cock felt cumbersome in my slacks, half-hard and hot. I debated jerking off at my desk.
I typed a tweet.
The burning debates of the twenty-first century. To get off or to write.
I backspaced the tweet immediately. Fucking hell. Social media really catered to my special breed of narcissism.
I browsed the Net in a mindless circle—Facebook, Gmail, Colo Real Estate …
Arousal and anxiety mixed in me strangely.
I unlocked the drawer where I kept my writing papers.
My work in progress, Last Light, filled three notebooks. It was nearly complete. I found myself holding off on finishing it because I had no new project. Not even a ghost of an idea.
Beneath Last Light lay my notebook from Mike. I fished it out and reread the first entry. I expected to feel revulsion. Instead, my excitement heightened. Exhibitionism …
On the second page, I began to write:
HUMILIATION
Writing this without judging myself is impossible.
What’s wrong with me?
I’m ashamed of myself. Confused by myself. But I know what I feel. Even as I think about this, my body is …
I love to see Hannah blush. I love to embarrass her during sex. I know she likes it, too.
When I mock her for coming early, when I toy with her and call her names, it gives me the strangest, deepest pleasure.
I want to see her at the end of a leash. I want to tell her what to wear—tiny, strappy, revealing things. I want her begging, struggling, and
Midsentence, I dropped my pen.
“God damn,” I whispered, my hand shaking.
Erotic images flooded my mind—Hannah, the star of every scene. I flicked open my slacks and my cock swelled into my palm. I closed my eyes and gripped the desk. How could I be unfathomable to myself? Dark water. Disturbing things beneath. I didn’t want to see.
I jerked off quickly, hunched over the desk and gasping.
When I came, I felt a surge of shame, which crowned my pleasure. If only Hannah could see me now, and see into my mind. She was an innocent accomplice to my passion.
I cleaned up and stripped down to my boxers.
In the long, lucid moments after orgasm, I gazed at the print on the wall—A Street in Venice, 1880. The woman in the painting stared back at me. Her subtle smile unnerved me. She was caught in the act, or she had caught me in the act.
Hannah gave me that same smile and dark-eyed look.
I was the fool, mesmerized.
Around midnight, I climbed into our bed. I moved as quietly as possible, but as soon as I stretched out alongside Hannah, she rolled to face me.
She nuzzled her features into my neck and kissed my throat.
I fit her body to mine.
She sighed—sadly, not contentedly—and said, “My sister is pregnant.”
Chapter 7
HANNAH
I scanned the tables outside the Mediterranean deli, searching for my sister. She was supposed to meet me on my lunch break. And she wasn’t here.
My phone chimed with a text from Chrissy.
Running late. Be there in 10.
I huffed.
My sister and I needed to talk—properly. Last night at home wasn’t the time or place. Chrissy didn’t want Mom and Dad to hear, and I didn’t want Matt to know everything … yet.
A flash of gold caught my eye, the accent on a stranger’s handbag. My gaze focused. Bright interlocking C’s … Coach.
I sucked in a breath.
She was here.
The brown-haired woman sat alone at a table, preoccupied with her phone.
Matt’s proposal, my promotion, and Chrissy’s news had put the woman out of my mind completely. Now the memory rushed back.
You are so brave to be marrying him. Is he really into all that weird stuff?
I approached her table and she blinked up at me.
“Hi,” I said.
“Oh, hey.” Her face relaxed into a smile.
“Could we talk for a moment? I’m expecting someone, but—”
“Of course.” Her eyes swept my left hand. No engagement ring, still.
“Thanks.” I took a seat across from her, fiddling with my phone and trying to organize my thoughts. I had ten minutes, more or less, to grill her about Matt. Where to start? “Um … sorry to interrupt your lunch…” I gave a meaningful pause.
“Katie,” she said.
“Katie. Thanks. I can’t stop thinking about what you said last week. About Matt and…” I forced a laugh. “The weird stuff he’s into?”
Katie’s brow rumpled. Her smile tightened and she took a sip from her drink.
I hadn’t ordered any lunch; Chrissy’s news had killed my appetite.
“I probably shouldn’t have said anything,” Katie murmured. “I thought you knew.”
“Is your friend who dated Matt … Bethany Meres?”
She nodded.
I dug my fingers into the edge of the table. Stay calm. Milk this stranger for info. Then forget about her forever.
“I know you must hate her,” Katie said. “That’s understandable, but she’s not the witch that book makes her out to be.”
“I just want to talk about the ‘weird stuff.’ I know Matt’s a little kinky.” My face heated and I lowered my voice. “I think anyone who’s read Night Owl knows that.”
“It’s more than that.”
“Could you tell me?”
“I don’t even know if it’s true.” She chewed on her straw. “Beth’s pretty bitter about how things went down with Matt. Maybe she’s mouthing off, you know? I wouldn’t worry about it. You two seem really happy, and I—”
“Please, just tell me.”
Katie swallowed and stared at the top of her soda cup.
“Okay. She said he went … too far sometimes. Wouldn’t stop when she asked, got too rough. Like he’d hit her when they were, you know. And he…”
I leaned forward, willing my posture to relax. She might stop talking if I looked too tense, and I felt poised to snap.
“Go on.”
“I guess he wanted to do things she didn’t want. He’d get angry about it.”
“Like what?”
“Weird stuff. Too crazy for Beth.”
“Come on.” I gave a feathery laugh. “Like … threesomes?”
“God, no.” Katie smirked. “That’s tame.”
“Uh, true…” I shrank in my chair.
“He wanted to do some really hardcore stuff with her. Think whips.”
Whips? I searched for any memory of Matt mentioning whips. He’d mentioned riding crops, half-jokingly, and plugs … and last fall he took a belt to my bottom. Nothing about whips, though. Katie was right. Whips definitely fell under the “hardcore stuff” category.
An image surfaced in my mind: Matt standing at the foot of our bed, shirtless, a whip coiled in his hand.
Scary, or hot? I clenched my thighs beneath the table. Both.
“Whips,” I repeated dumbly.