“Melanie,” I snarled, “get the fuck—”
Her mouth covered mine. Between layers of fabric, her small breasts pillowed against my chest. Her hand darted between my legs and my cock sprang back to life, straining into her palm. Fucking Melanie! And fucking me! Why was I reacting this way? I tore my mouth off hers, but a soft, unbidden moan slipped from me.
Mel took my moan for encouragement. She began to stroke me through my jeans, coaxing my arousal into a raging erection.
“Stop!” I shoved her, hard, and she spilled over the console and crumpled on her seat. I lurched out of the car and slammed the door. I stalked into the grass.
“Ah, fuck,” I whispered. “Fuck.”
A few yards from the car, I stopped. I kneaded my neck and struggled to relax. In the cold night, I felt a hundred degrees.
I took deep breaths, one after another, and stared up at the stars, zillions of glittering flecks visible in the prairie darkness. My God, I wanted to disappear. Disappear completely. I felt that I stood right at the edge of reality, or maybe I had walked off that edge. Maybe I had succeeding in dying after all.
The thought didn’t frighten me.
My arousal cooled along with my anger, and I strode back to the car. I thought of Hannah, who was a woman and not a child. I remembered our violent passion over the last few days and how it fed this dark appetite of mine.
She satisfied me—completely.
With that thought in my heart, I opened Mel’s door and dropped the keys on her lap. I climbed into the back of the car, buckled my seat belt, and closed my eyes.
“Drive me back to the condo,” I said quietly. “That’s all you’re here to do, Mel. To drive. Don’t forget it.”
Chapter 29
HANNAH
I was on my fifth glass of champagne when I saw Seth.
I don’t know why I hit the bubbly so hard that night. Maybe it was because Pam kept calling me her assistant. I thought of myself as a lot more than Pam’s assistant. Sure, I’d only worked at the agency for nine months, but I was already responding to queries, vetoing manuscripts, overseeing contract negotiations—doing the work of an associate agent, at least.
“This is my assistant,” Pam said to a group of distinguished-looking ladies, and their eyes slid over me like a hand clears dust.
Assistant. Helper. Definitely not the future partner of Pamela Wing and Laura Granite.
And seriously, there was nothing to do at the party. No door prizes. No trivia. No reading. Just a bunch of literary types milling and getting toasted.
I let the crowd pinball me around. I caught snatches of gossip.
Seven figures, someone said.
Thought she was a shoo-in, said another.
James Frey waiting to happen. Short stories. No, they aren’t on speaking terms.
No one was talking about Matt or The Surrogate. In fact, except for a table displaying the book and a picture of Matt, this could hardly be called his book event. More like Pam and Laura’s excuse to hold a literary soiree.
Meanwhile, the man himself was hiding in my condo.
And I missed him. I should have stayed with him. Sweet, strange, broody Matt …
I found myself staring down at oysters on a bed of ice. The slippery-looking, discolored meat made me feel ill. The other snacks on the table were dwindling—toasted brioche with salmon, caprese canapés, focaccia cake, and a variety of tartlets.
“I wouldn’t eat seafood in Colorado,” said a voice too close to my ear.
I downed my drink and turned to face him. Seth.
My head spun—or the room spun. Oof … too much champagne.
I backed into the table. Seth caught me by the shoulder.
“Hannah, are you all right?”
“Get … away from me,” I mumbled. “You are sick and perverted and third time’s a … three strikes…” I set my glass on the table.
Three strikes and you’re out, is what I was getting at. Seth had tried to kiss me in New Jersey. He had tried to dry-hump me at the mall. I wasn’t giving him a chance for strike three.