After Dark (The Night Owl Trilogy #3)(12)

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?