“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.