Night Owl(63)

God... that touch, did he know what it did to me?

"Matt, touch me. I've been desperate for you, please."

My hands devoured his body. I cringed as I felt ridges of bone.

For the pure pleasure of it, I ran a bar of soap along his skin. I slicked my fingers up his back and lathered shampoo into his hair.

Gradually, Matt began to touch me.

He was cautious at first, caressing my shoulders, arms, and sides. He watched his hands, never my eyes. His cock hardened between us. When I touched it, he covered my breasts.

He lifted them and circled my nipples with his tongue. He touched me as though he'd never touched me before.

His fingertips danced over my sex. I groaned and tried to grind onto his hand, but nothing could rush him. He touched me wonderingly; he spread my folds and fingered me as I panted. My god, I couldn't bear this slow torture.


I was anything but sweet in Hannah's absence. The Librium dragged me into a nap, after which I ranged through the condo feeling sick.

Writing was out of the question.

Hannah paid special attention to our "office" furnishings, making me choose the desk and transition my whole library over, but that didn't inspire me to write.

Nothing did.

More often than not, I avoided the room. The only thing I actually wrote was a letter to Wendy. I thanked her for her transcription services and included a check. Severance pay, I called it. I apologized for my hasty departure and promised to visit one day.

Another loose end tied up. What now? I felt like a dog waiting for his master to come home. Five o'clock rolled around and I stood on the balcony watching for Hannah.

Once, I got it in my head to follow her to work. I thought I might feel better being closer to her. I trailed her into the agency and deposited myself on a bench in the lobby.

Pam found me there, of course.

"Matthew." She looked at me quizzically. "How wonderful to see you."

"Mm. Hi Pam." I picked at the cuff of my sleeve.

"Are you—" She glanced around the empty lobby. "Did you need to see me?"

"No, just sitting."

"Ah." Pam blinked and nodded.

God, go away Pam. I was counting down the seconds until she asked about my writing, but she never did.

"Well, it's great to see you, again." She pat-squeezed my shoulder. I was starting to hate that gesture. Nothing says I view you as an invalid quite like the shoulder pat-squeeze.

As if the run-in with Pam weren't enough, a tour group appeared in the lobby a few hours later. They were mostly college-aged—probably a creative writing class.

I angled my body toward the wall.

The tour guide's voice began to drone.

"The Granite Wing Agency is one of Denver's literary landmarks. It was founded—"

"Oh my god!" a student enthused. I heard footfalls approaching. A young woman came to stand practically on my feet. "Are you—? Oh my god. Can you—? Oh my god, it's M. Pierce."

The tour group closed in like a school of piranhas. I was off the Librium by then and my Xanax was at the condo. Basically I was f*cked.

M. Pierce, M. Pierce, M. Pierce. It was all I could hear.

Little did those *s know, my pen name had become a source of major anxiety for me. I never wanted to hear it. It reminded me of losing Hannah, and it made me feel like I was losing her again.

"Please," I mumbled, my ears ringing.

Even the tour guide was soliciting my attention.

"Leave him alone!" Hannah's voice echoed through the lobby. I was on my feet facing the corner, my head in my hands.

Hannah collided with the cluster of students and body checked the young woman into a wall. She threw her arms around me.

"Baby, come on."

She guided me out of the building.

After that, I rarely left the condo.

Hannah was careful never to ask about my writing, though sometimes I saw her riffling through my pages. She probably assumed I was writing on the computer. I let her think so.

We watched movies together, my favorites and hers—Legends of the Fall, Wonder Boys, Good Will Hunting.

We read aloud to one another.

Hannah tried to teach me how to cook. Pan-fried pork chops ended with me lying on the kitchen floor, covered in flour.

On Halloween, we went to her parents' house and handed out candy, watching the trick-or-treaters from the porch.

Chrissy "apologized" for Macing me in the face. ("You deserved it," she said. "I know," I told her.)

We f*cked all over the condo—in the shower, on the couch, in bed, against walls. I knew I wasn't the same, of course, and I knew Hannah felt the change.

For one thing, silence replaced my rapacious dirty talk. Hannah had to coax the words out of me. And for another, I couldn't bring myself to get rough with Hannah.

Maybe I still felt guilty. I don't know.

I kept waiting for something to click into place, but it wasn't happening, and the more it didn't happen, the more nervous I got. How long would my tame lovemaking satisfy Hannah?

She didn't say a word about it, but she struggled to inspire me. She went strutting around the condo in nothing but a thong and bustier. She cleaned in a skirt, no panties, and bent over every available surface. She slept naked, too. Each morning I woke with a hard-on pressed against her soft skin.