“Yes.” I nodded.
“It’s much simpler. Not … dumbed down, but faster. No philosophy, no cultural commentary. And the characters…” She laughed shakily.
“Go on,” I said.
“You—Matt, whoever—he feels very authentic. My character…” Hannah’s nose wrinkled. I kissed it. “Okay, my character feels a little 2-D at points. Sort of cliché.”
I laughed and backed out of Hannah’s legs.
“Thank you. Mm, I know. I know you don’t always ring true in that book. It’s hard to get in your head, Hannah.” I flashed a smile at her. I wanted to reassure her, to let her know that I wasn’t upset. Criticism from Hannah I could handle. And, from what I’d seen of her work at the agency, her editorial instincts were spot-on. “You see, I want us to be able to talk like this.”
“Me, too.” She smiled. “I loved it, by the way. For what it was, it worked. It succeeded.”
“Do you want to know how I feel about my books?”
“Of course.” Hannah took my hand. We walked through the cabin hand in hand as if strolling through a park, me in flannel pajama bottoms and Hannah in a bit of lingerie.
“They bore me, Hannah. They bore me before they’re even done. I outgrow them. I become better, and they embarrass me. By the time the world is reading them, by the time the critical acclaim starts rolling in, I’m sick with it. The books in my mind are better. I have something more, something greater in me. Do you understand?”
Hannah nodded and squeezed my hand. When I talked like this, I tried to detect if I was boring her, but I only ever found interest in her expression.
“They never sing,” I went on. I grimaced and tugged at my hair. “The books never really sing. You have to make sense for people. People are scared of anything that doesn’t make sense. But we need a new alphabet, a purer language. I want to get it right. Will I? Will I ever?”
“Oh, Matt.” Hannah sighed over my neck. Her fingers wandered over my bare back and awoke my desire. I pushed against her. “I don’t know what to tell you. Even when a book captures an emotion and I feel it, it’s only for a moment.”
“Exactly,” I said. “Exactly. A moment. I want to hold on to them. Hannah…” I lost the sense of my talk. She understood, and that meant more to me than anything she could have said. I filled my hands with her breasts and nudged my cock against her.
“Come with me, Matt.”
Hannah led me toward the bedroom, then through to the master bathroom.
The corner tub there was far larger than our claw-foot at the condo, where we nevertheless tried to bathe together. The results were comical: Hannah on one side of the tub, me on the other, my long limbs cramped, and finally a lot of splashing and swearing when we got mixed up. I chuckled at the memory.
Hannah plugged the drain and ran a bath.
“What’s up?”
“Oh, thinking about the condo.”
She lifted her baby doll. She drew the lace off over her head, and just like that, Hannah stood naked before me. I gaped.
She still stunned me. Still. Hard nipples peaked her round, heavy breasts. Her * was bare, the way I liked it.
“God,” I whispered.
I grasped her wrist and yanked her to me, pressing her naked chest against mine. My hunger, always simmering, boiled up. I pulled at her sweet body—harder and harder, closer and closer. Sweet, yes. Soft and sweet. Hannah’s curves provoked me; they were the stuff of my wildest fantasies. “I love your body, Hannah…”
She shifted against me, her luxurious thighs rubbing along mine.
“When I fuck you … I love to watch your breasts tremble.” I bit her neck. She shuddered. “When I hit your ass … I love to watch it quiver. I love your name. I love to moan it. You know I moan your name when I jerk off alone. Hannah … Hannah…”