After Dark (The Night Owl Trilogy #3)(8)

“Oh,” I peeped.

Matt glanced over his shoulder. Blood rushed to my face.

“You all right?” he said, his arm still working steadily.

“Uh … um…” I inched forward, craving a better look at the screen.

“Sorry. I didn’t feel like”—his voice caught and he shifted on the couch; he glanced at his cock—“being uncomfortable … in the office. Not many options … in this place.”

I couldn’t look away from Matt’s porn. Two guys, one girl. The blush drained from my face. Tiny moans and grunts emanated from the laptop.

Hannah, I want things that …

“Is this what you want?” I gasped.

Matt gave a tense laugh. His hand stilled, then resumed, and my gaze panned over his lap. Dear God, he was rigid. This stuff excited him. A lot.

“No,” he managed. “Just something … I like to watch. Fantasy … there’s a difference.” He clenched his teeth and refocused on the screen.

Shit, I was throwing him off his game—after denying him sex.

“Sorry, I’ll—sorry!” I fled to our bedroom, my heart thumping and my skin fever hot. Two guys … I could never. I climbed under the covers and hugged myself. The image replayed in my mind. The girl had even looked like me—pale skin, dark curls, large breasts. Matt had to be thinking about doing that to me. Sharing me.

My face burned hotter.

The men in the video had been enjoying their plaything, clearly. They’d looked at her and at one another and moaned in pleasure. And she took it; she let herself be used.

I pressed my thighs together. “Just something I like to watch,” Matt had said. I struggled to believe that. Was he telling the truth?

I breathed deeply and evenly. As the minutes passed, my embarrassment cooled and my horror faded. I know that man in the family room, I told myself. He was my lover, my night owl, my Matt, and he would never force me into something I didn’t want.

I shifted on the mattress and gasped.

With my heart rate settling and my temperature normalizing, I realized I was feeling something else. I eased a hand into my panties. Whoa. Was it the video, or was it catching Matt pleasuring himself? Arousal coated my fingertips.

I was turned on.





Chapter 4





MATT


EXHIBITIONISM


I want to f*ck her with an audience. I both do and don’t want to share her. I want to reveal her like a possession, to draw off her clothes the way one might unveil a painting. She is no object, and yet I want to objectify her.

I want to see her embarrassment. When I bring her out, when I expose her to strangers, I want to feel her tremble and watch her blush. The thought makes me hard. (If the thought excites me this much, what would the reality do?)

I want to make our most private act a spectacle—not often, maybe not more than once, but I need this. Why do I need this?

I want to talk to her while we do it. I want to remind her that they are watching, to arrange her so that they have a good view, and to tell her that they are going to see her come. And when she comes, I want to call her a good girl and then send the watchers away, because she is mine …

Hannah and I walked side by side through Larimer Square. It was Sunday evening, warm and windy, and shoppers milled beneath the canopy of lights. A stranger recognized us. Hannah was civil while I bristled in silence.

Strangers …

Automatically, I recalled my first entry in the journal Mike had given me.

When I bring her out, when I expose her to strangers …

I shivered in the warm night and my dick stirred in my slacks.

“You okay?” Hannah took my hand.

I stopped, startled by her touch. We hadn’t been touching much these days. Whether it was catching me jerking off to a threesome or my failure to propose, I didn’t know, but Hannah had rebuffed me every night since—until I quit trying. I went to bed late and didn’t reach for her. I showered alone after she left for work.

“I’m fine.” I brushed my thumb across her fingers. Even that small touch was intoxicating. My breath came faster.

“Can we please act normal tonight?” she said.

“I wasn’t planning on making a scene.”

“Matt—”

“If you feel the need to prep me, I should probably stay home.”

We stared at one another. It was Father’s Day and Hannah had insisted that we visit her family. She’d dragged me to a salon that morning to get the black dye trimmed out of my hair. I had “Frankenstein hair,” she’d said, and she didn’t want to “freak out her family.” Though she had tried to laugh it off, I knew what she really meant: my hair was an unsightly reminder of the faked death fiasco, and her parents didn’t need extra reminders about my insanity.

We had spent the afternoon combing Larimer Square for a gift for her father. Exasperated and out of options, we’d stumbled into John Atencio, of all f*cking places, surrounded by engagement and wedding rings. “Cuff links,” I’d growled at the saleswoman.

It was getting dark by the time we were ready to go.

“I want them to see you,” Hannah said. She squeezed my hand. “I want you to … get to know my family better, and for them to see how amazing you are.”