Last Light(35)

“Coffee?”

“Hm, maybe.” I nuzzled my nose into her hair. “Maybe you, then coffee.”

Hannah hugged me tight. I pinned her body against mine and ran my fingers over her ass, which her attire did nothing to hide.

“What time is it?” I murmured.

“Nine. I didn’t want to wake you.”

“Fuck, I’m sorry. I’m usually up earlier.” I gazed down the back of Hannah’s body, trying to get a look at her legs.

“I think I wore you out last night. Do you want to write? I can entertain myself.”

“You seriously think I’d do that—with you here?” I drew back.

“I don’t know. I don’t want to mess with your … writing routine.”

I glanced in the direction of my desk. Before Hannah arrived, I’d stowed my notebook in the drawer and unplugged my laptop. I wanted no distractions. I also didn’t want to discuss my new story, because my new story was still our story. A continuation. A continued fixation with Hannah, or a new chapter in my obsession.

“What did you think of Night Owl, anyway?” I set her down on the counter and nudged my hips between her knees. She hooked her legs around my waist. “I mean, apart from the crazy online leak. What do you think of the book itself?”

Hannah frowned.

“Come on,” I said. I stroked her neck. “Let’s see those literary knives. I hope Pam’s rubbing off on you a little.”

“All right.” Hannah licked her lips. “I’ll be Hannah the almost literary agent and not Hannah your lover, is that what you want?”

“Yes, that’s what I want. You know I think of you as an equal.”

A shock of surprise passed over Hannah’s face. I frowned at that.

“Well. Okay. Night Owl.” She drew circles on my chest as she thought. “It’s different, of course, from your other stuff. So different. Even the language, the style.”

“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…”