Firelight fell across the table, illuminating my notebook and piles of loose pages. Hannah picked up the first pile. I watched her face as her expression changed.
Emboldened by the bourbon, I wanted to demand to know why she had never returned my zillions of calls, texts, and emails. Why, if she was so worried, did she leave me alone this long? Why? Why couldn't she forgive me? And why couldn't I forgive myself?
I was still too scared to ask.
If Hannah really couldn't forgive me, I would never find my way. She left me alone in the riddle. I needed her because I loved her—or I loved her because I needed her. Why had the feelings turned to a maze? Now I was lost in the dark. In my dreams I ran paths walled with high hedges. Always the leaves brushing me like laughter. Always the long night.
"I couldn't... get you to hear me," I said, speaking carefully so I didn't slur.
"So you did this?"
She lifted the handwritten pages of The Surrogate. I nodded.
Hannah was silent a long while. I could see her thinking... a parade of questions, answers, realizations. She must have looked like this when she first learned I was M. Pierce.
Finally, she set down the pages. She came toward me. This time, I was scared.
I closed my eyes and braced myself against the couch. Hannah slipped the bottle from my fingers. I heard her set it on the floor.
She hugged me from behind, folding her hands over my heart.
God, that soft skin...
"You are always deceiving me," she whispered.
I clasped the couch with both hands.
"Always, Matt, always speaking to me from any mouth but your own. Don't you know that I love you? I see you under all your lies, and I always find you."
I opened my eyes and rolled back my head, staring at the vaulted ceiling. I wouldn't let these brimming tears fall.
Hannah's fingers skated over my chest and stomach. Desire's dark eye cracked open.
"Hannah... I can't."
"Can't what?" She kissed my back. Her open mouth lingered against my bare shoulder. She bit down gently and held my hips.
"I can't write the scene," I mumbled. I can't get it up.
"I was waiting for that scene. I've been living on your words. Why can't you write it?"
"I can't feel it. The feelings, I can't..."
I dug my fingers into the back of the couch. God, how humiliating. I would have broken away from Hannah if I didn't feel sure I would fall.
She moved sinuously against me, kissing a trail up my neck to my ear. She stood on her tiptoes and tugged at my earlobe. I moaned softly.
"I can't," I pleaded, "I can't."
"Shhh, Matt. It's okay now, it's over. I'm here and I'll never leave you."
Hannah crushed her breasts to my back. She pressed a hand to the front of my boxers. I gasped. For the first time in months, heat surged into my loins.
"Ah, fuck," I groaned. "Hannah..."
I began to rub my cock against her palm. She whispered sweet nothings in my ear. The sense of the words fell away; all that remained were her hot breath and encouraging voice.
Soon, I was straining against my boxers. Hannah slid them down. Her fingers curled around my shaft and she cupped my balls. I gazed down in disbelief.
Nothing less than this was enough.
I humped into Hannah's hand frantically.
"I haven't—" I stammered. "I won't last."
"It's okay, Matt, it's okay."
The firelight flashed on our skin, dyeing us amber-orange. The silence of the cabin closed around us. Hannah matched my desperate rhythm with her hands.
"Oh," I sighed, "oh... oh."
With a cry like a sob, I came into her hand. I sagged against the couch. Hannah moved off, discreetly wiping her hand clean, and returned to embrace me. I wrapped an arm around her.
"I'm tired," she said, kissing my neck. "It's late. Can you sleep?"
"Mm."
I leaned my weight on her. Fuck, I was really feeling the alcohol.
As we passed my bottle, Hannah plucked it up and helped me toward the kitchen.
"Last one," I said, eyeing the bourbon.
"Then you do it."
My hand shook as I poured the amber liquid down the drain.