Tiptoeing silently toward the bed, I'm surprised when Mark's arm snags my hip, pulling me toward him until I collapse above his body. Rolling, he sets me between him and Heath, pulling the duvet over all of us.
Daisy jumps indignantly to her feet, meowing in protest before crawling above Heath's pillow and resting along his head in her usual spot.
Shifting, I try to decide where I should be in relation to the bodies around me, when Mark's arms snag me again, pulling me into his chest. Our breaths mingle, his eyes already closed.
A soft hand rises behind me to stroke my hair, Heath staking his claim and ensuring that I know my place is in whoever's arms brings me comfort at this moment.
My hand creeps back to rest on his hip, the solid warmth reassuring as I drift into sleep.
I bet Lady Sydney never saw what was coming for her.
* * *
Fans wave gently in gloved hands, warding off the heat of the ballroom. Each party has become more monotonous than the last. I can't wait to escape the crush of the season and return to my estate, but I hesitate to leave alone. Only in the quiet of the country can we do as we please, pretending that Cedric visits to discuss estate matters and that Roderick is but a close neighbor who occasionally drops by to pay his addresses.
For now, I'm stuck living under the scrutiny of society's eyes, judging me by my companions. Each dance a declaration of intent, every carriage ride an assignation. If only they knew the extent to which I have fallen. My very days are fraught with the effort to maintain my equanimity and pretend that Rodericks's eyes don't follow my every movement from across the crowded ballroom. That I can't feel the weight of his stare the way I felt the weight of his body pressed against mine.
I've tried to impress upon him the need for discretion, but he laughs and waves away my concerns. I fear that his carelessness will be our undoing. Even now I hear the murmur of rumors, hidden behind hands and fans, talking about my ruin…
* * *
Struggling against the dead weight holding me down, I try to sit upright, only to realize that not one, but two heavy arms cross my chest from opposite sides.
The thunk of a solid mass hits the floor as Daisy hops from the windowsill to then jump atop the bed, winding her way up the bodies to stand on the arm closest to my face.
A rumbling purr fills the air, disturbing the sleep of both men beside me, one tucked up tight with his leg thrown across my own and the other turned away yet still tethered to my body with a heavy arm.
All parts of the body lying heavily across me begin to wake, expanding and growing against my thigh, nuzzling closer and closer toward my center. One hand grabs my knee, pulling my hip over his to position the hardened flesh of his cock directly at my entrance.
"Good morning, beautiful." Heath's sleepy eyes crinkle into a smile, one hand lightly stroking my cheek before tangling in my hair to pull my lips toward his. Sighing into the kiss, the fullness of Heath's cock fills me, stroking languorously, as if we have all the time in the world.
Another hand strokes my back, butterfly kisses following the trail down my spine to linger on the dip above my butt before sinking lower to tease at the tight hole between my cheeks.
Breaking my lips away, I twist my neck to meet Mark's grin, watching Heath stroking deeply inside me, before I reach for his face to draw him to me.
Lips slowly linger and tease my own, never committing to a kiss, instead licking and nibbling around the perimeter. Drawing him closer, I become more demanding, forcing his lips to stay where I want them, offering my tongue in surrender until finally, he takes full advantage.
The arm caressing my chin slips lower to brush the tips of my nipples, before continuing downward to circle lazily around the folds of my pussy, caressing the lips and rubbing gently to increase my pleasure. A few firm strokes, and colors burst behind my eyes, my legs stiffening as I ride the wave.
Heath's strokes become more ragged, but I'm beyond caring. My body is now a boneless vessel, just hanging on to the buzz still vibrating through my body as Mark's hand caresses my cheek again, before pulling away to run the pad of his thumb over my lips.
At the grunt of Heath's release, my eyes widen suddenly in recognition of that which has been forgotten, as Heath slips from my body to roll on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes.
"Uhhhh, guys," I whisper. "I think we forgot something."
"What?" Heath's head shifts on the pillow to meet mine, while Mark props himself on an elbow above us.
"What did I miss?"
"Unless it's still inside me, which would be an even bigger problem, there is no condom in this bed. So while I know I've been faithful to everything we agreed to, I just want to make sure that everyone has been on the same page."
"Is there any chance that…?" Mark's voice is concerned but not overly so, trying to gauge how freaked out I am while not adding to the flames.
"No. I went back on the pill a few weeks ago. It seemed like a necessary precaution under the circumstances."
His smile as he rolls to his back and grabs my hand is smug. "Then we're clear on my end. Cliff?"
Mark shifts again to raise himself enough to see Heath.
"Crystal. I'm sorry, Jos." Lifting my other hand to his lips, he places a soft kiss in my palm. "My brain wasn't awake yet."
"Tell that to the rest of your body." Mark laughs.
"I promise to be more prepared next time." I can tell this is the type of thing Heath will beat himself up about, because he thinks that he's disappointed me.
Caressing his scalp, I let him off the hook. "It's okay. Maybe we need a new agreement. In light of our…actions and words last night, is that rule something we feel comfortable dropping?"
Two heavy sighs of relief echo from either side, although Heath adds his own caution.
"Are you sure you're comfortable with that decision? That means you bear the full burden now, although we'd all share in the consequences. I'll do whatever makes you happy, Josie. You know that."
Mark's grunt of agreement is a little less gracious, but I don't care. We're taking another step of commitment to keeping this together, and deep down, I'm more comfortable with the responsibility, knowing it's mine to control.
"I'm okay with it. You've both proven that you're in this for the right reasons and can be trusted. That's all I've ever asked."
Swinging his legs over the bed, Mark stretches lazily before rising, glancing at himself in the full length mirror, meeting mine and Heath's eyes in the reflection.
"This is quite a little cathouse we have going here, spice."
Launching a pillow at his head, Heath flops backward, dragging me back under the covers with him.
"Well, this pussy is mine now."
"Heath!" Jane would be scandalized by such behavior. I'm a bit chagrined to realize that I'm becoming less fond of Jane with each passing day. After all, she did die a spinster. Maybe I need a new role model.
"Guys." A new thought takes me down a different track, as Mark pops his head from the bathroom, toothbrush in hand. "Have either of you spoken to Simon lately?"
"We talked briefly the other day. Why?" Tucking my hair behind my ear so that he can see me better, Heath tilts his eyes down to where I've tucked myself under his chin.
"Something feels off with him right now. He seems really depressed."
"What makes you say that?" I stop for a moment to admire the jeans still unbuttoned and slung low on Mark's hips as he emerges from the bathroom.
"Have you been in his apartment?"
Shaking his head, his eyes suddenly narrow. "Have you?"
"Yeah, I was there the other day. It's practically empty, like he's living in a shell. He said he's not sleeping. He looks…"
"What?" Heath asks.
"Lonely. He asked if maybe we could get together occasionally to write. He's working on some new material, and I guess he's having trouble getting motivated."
I'm a little surprised by the lack of response, until I realize that Mark and Heath
are looking at each other instead of addressing me. Mark finally nods, and it's clear that some decision has been made.
"What did you tell him?" Mark asks casually.
"I said that of course I'd help him, but I needed to get through Quill first. He seemed content to wait, but I really think one of you should check in. Try to get him out of his apartment. I bet the only fresh air he gets is walking Brutus."
Heath finally pulls away with a deep sigh, pushing up from the mattress to ruffle my already disheveled hair.
"I'll call him. Maybe I can get him to come join the pick up game we're playing on Saturday. We already invited him to watch the game with us Sunday." Looking to Mark again, Heath finishes slowly, "Let me see if I can figure out what's in his head."
Nodding slowly, Mark agrees, "I think that would be a very good thing."
Satisfied. I relax back into the sheets.
"Daisy really wants French toast. If only there were someone here to make it for us."
At mention of her name, a small yowl sounds from under the bed.
"Well, we wouldn't want to disappoint Daisy, would we, Cliff?" Mark heads for the hallway.
"I'll make the coffee." Heath follows on his heels.
Closing my eyes once more, I realize, who needs a lady's maid when you can have two sexy manservants instead?
You missed the boat on that one, Jane.
Chapter 35
The Quill of Anticipation
Anticipation is a curious thing. In a horror film, our adrenaline spikes in a fight or flight response, preparing us to defend our lives. When it's anticipation for something we want, our body doesn't know what to do with the adrenaline.
Fight is unnecessary, unless we're fighting for the self-confidence to believe we are worthy of whatever's coming. As for flight…well, that's a different side of the same coin. We run away from happiness because we know it's an impermanent state.
For some of us, it's difficult to remember that anticipation is a good thing. The person that manages to convince my body that the nervous tics and the acid eating away at the lining of my stomach are unnecessary gets my firstborn. At the very least, my undying gratitude.
"Let's do this!" Why can't I be as enthusiastic as Emma in this moment? Oh, that's right. Because I feel like I want to throw up. The busy lobby is abuzz with porters dragging boxes and banners through doorways, disappearing into the smaller rooms of the convention center. The amount of activity is somewhat appalling for seven am, but it's a lot of set up to have this many people organized by ten.
As venues go, this one is big, even though Quill only occupies one small section. Rumor has it that there's a tech conference in wing B and a tattoo expo in wing C. Luckily, both have been in residence since Thursday, so we're not competing for loading dock space and rolling racks.
Emma claims that we're getting matching tattoos to commemorate our experience here, but I know that just means that she wants to go check out all of the inked guys. Her single-minded desire to start a harem has gotten increasingly louder. I'm not certain if it's because she's seen me succeed with Heath and Mark and feels the need to catch up, or if she's just more vocal about her desires because she believes I'm more accepting now.
Whatever the reason, she keeps telling me she's going on dates to 'interview' new prospects. I haven't heard her mention a second date with anyone yet.
Sipping my coffee, I watch the annoyingly energetic buzz and wonder who all of the people are around me. I haven't recognized a single face yet. I know there are a lot of indie, as well as newer authors, but there are also supposed to be some high profile names in residence. Most likely they have minions, or PA's, who prep their displays and wait for their grand arrival.
I'm itching to get inside and see the set up, although truth be told, I'm also dead on my feet. The yawn that elicits a loud crack of my jaw reminds me how late it was before I went to bed last night, frantically trying to get more chapters in to finish Lady Sydney's story.
I'm still not certain whether I'm comfortable with changing the title of Lady Sydney's book, but I let Emma convince me that I needed something less sweet, although I drew the line at some of her more provocative suggestions. There was no way my readers were ready for The Darkest Affairs. We did manage to compromise on Corsets and Quadrilles, even though Emma insists that most people have no clue what a quadrille is. My assurance that the right people will know only got me a heavy sigh and muttering under her breath.
The twitching of my foot, tapping out my tension, stops abruptly as we hit the front of the registration table.
"Hi, I'm Josie Jarell. That's my PA, Emma Larkin." I wait a beat before finally remembering to add, "I'm an author." We agreed that we would claim temporary PA status for Emma to ensure that they allowed her in early.
"Welcome to Quill, Josie. Here's your pass, your lanyard, and your table assignment. You'll be sharing a table with Charity Crain."
"Oh. I didn't realize I was sharing." Jackpot! That takes the pressure off. I have no clue who Charity Crain is, but that's less table to fill. Besides, if she has followers, I won't look like a loser standing there alone. If she doesn't, at least I'll have someone to commiserate with besides Emma.
"Where do I go?"
"Tables one hundred through two sixteen are in room two. There will be a tent card with the table number and your name on it. Charity already checked in, so maybe look for her banner. Here's the program with a floorplan and all of the table listings. Have a great show."
"Thanks. Em! We're in room two," I call, interrupting her conversation with an older woman who appears to be one of the event organizers, judging from her badge. Finally, she backs away and hefts the tote bag full of t-shirts and the banner over her shoulder to meet me.
"Who was that?"
"That's the woman who sold me your table. I recognized her name and stopped to thank her. What's our table number?"
"We're number one forty-two. We're sharing with someone named Charity Crain."
"Get out." Emma stops in tracks. "You're kidding."
"No, that's what they told me. Who's Charity Crain?"
"Total horror writer. She calls herself the Queen of Blood and Bones. Lots of men, lots of sex. You know, the usual fun. "
Now it's my turn to stop and stare.
"I'm sharing a table with the Queen of Blood and Bones? I thought this was for romance writers. How did she ever end up here? Shit! That's going to completely freak out my few poor readers."
"Well, look on the bright side, she has a huge following. Maybe you'll get some new readers along the way. At the very least, we should have some decent foot traffic."
The banner above the entrance to room two should have been my first warning, proclaiming 'Welcome, Reverse Harem Readers.' If that hadn't tipped me off, the trek across the show floor would have, as banner after banner of scantily clothed women and bare-chested men—both human and alien—dot post-apocalyptic landscapes. Author names boldly scroll, swirl, and claim eight foot banquet tables with colorful tablecloths, books, posters, and other assorted advertisements.
Stopping in front of table one forty-two, I flinch at the black banner with the bloody skull and crossbones before focusing on the pixie in front of me. Long red hair tumbles around a pale face with large blue eyes and exaggerated black paper lashes, framed by green cat-eye liner. Books are stacked across half of the table, peppered with wrist bands, postcards, candy, and cookies shaped like skulls with red icing dripping like blood.
The sensory overload short circuits my brain until Emma nudges me from my trance where the pixie stares at me expectantly.
"Hi! I'm Charity, you must be Josie. I put your boxes under the table for now. I hope you don't mind."
"How old are you?" I blurt unthinkingly, before clapping a hand over my mouth. "I'm sorry, that was so rude. You just look like you're barely old enough to drive.
"I'm twenty-five." She grimaces. "I can't help it, I've always had a baby face." Her eyes brightening, she add
s, "I can't wait until the day I look old like you."
Direct hit. If I didn't already feel like a has-been before I started, that would have been the dart to kill me. Luckily, I don't take myself that seriously anymore. Neither does Emma, as her laughter attests.
"Now, I'm sorry," Charity rushes to assure me. "I didn't mean it that way."
"It's okay, let's start over. Hi, I'm Josie, and this is Emma, and you've really got an intricate set up here. I don't have that much for my side of the table, so feel free to drift if you need more space."
Dropping the bags and boxes, Emma drags the banner from the large box while I start opening the smaller boxes of postcards and bookmarks to set out on the table.
"What about your books?" Charity asks.
"I don't have any books," I admit. "Although I have t-shirts."
"Are the books here?" Emma asks, clapping her hands in excitement. "I wasn't sure they'd make it on time."
"I shoved the boxes under the table." Charity lifts the edge of the tablecloth to reveal three medium, cardboard boxes.
"Yay! Josie, help me!"
"Help you what? What is that?"
"Books, girl, books!"
"What kind of—" The tape splits to show the paperback cover of The Duke's Rose.
"Where did these come from?" Lifting the top book reverently from the box, I caress the cover, flipping the pages in disbelief.
"Emma, you shouldn't have," I whisper, tears gathering in my eyes.
It's silly, but holding my book is like holding a piece of my soul in my hands. It's a physical manifestation of the late nights and lost sleep. The eradication of the little voice that says you don't have talent, or that your vision of a magical world shouldn't exist just because you want it to.
"Is she always like this?" Charity asks Emma with concern.
"It's her first book," Emma says with satisfaction, snapping me from my reverie.
"How did you pay for them? That's a couple hundred dollars sitting here. And how did you get a cover wrap made?"
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