by JA Huss
And all the faceless, nameless other men disappear and leave only us in their wake.
She lifts up her hips, reaches between her legs, and pushes my cock inside her. I slip in like an old friend slipping back into some long-forgotten, but easily picked-back-up conversation, and she folds over my shaft. Hugging it and squeezing it as her hands grip my shoulders. Her nails digging into my skin.
We begin to rock.
It’s not the rushed, frantic fucking like the last time we were together. It’s the opposite of that and I can’t stop myself. I cannot stop myself from wondering who taught her to be so seductive and sensual, because it sure as hell wasn’t me.
“Stop it,” she whispers into my mouth. “Stop thinking.”
And even though I’m not the kind of guy who takes commands in the throes of sex, I listen. I obey. Because right now is not the time to answer questions. There’s no mystery that will be solved in this moment.
“It can wait,” she continues, rocking back and forth faster now, her long hair brushing along my chest like a sensual bonus thrown in for free. “Forever,” she says. “If it has to.”
We fuck like that for a long time. Slow. Methodical. Then, when we both feel that the end is near, I flip her over, straddle her knees, and thrust myself back inside and take her the way I took her last time.
Rough. Urgent. With the sense that this is the last time I’ll ever see this girl who turned into a woman while I was looking elsewhere.
There is no talk about contraceptive. No safety on our minds.
It’s just heat. It’s just sex. It’s just…
I come inside her, not giving any fucks. And she spasms at the same time, moaning as she wraps her long legs around my middle and squeezes my cock with her slick, wet pussy.
She’s wrong, of course. The part about forever. Things don’t wait until you’re ready for them. That hidden light behind the clouds will turn into the brightness of tomorrow quick enough and then nothing will ever wait again.
It’s just another illusion.
Because reality trumps mystery and illusion every time.
I wake to the sound of banging and for one delusional second I imagine it’s her. Kiera. In the kitchen making breakfast. I feel like I had that dream a lot over the years, I just never remembered it.
Except that’s not what’s happening.
Someone is legit banging on the door to the cottage.
We both sit up in bed in the same moment and look at each other. “Stay here,” I say, sternly, pointing my finger in her face. She slaps it away, but doesn’t move. Just pulls the covers up to her breasts and huddles back into the pillows while I find my boxer briefs, pull them on, and then grab a blanket on the floor and wrap it around my body because it’s fucking freezing in this place.
The banging continues through all this preparation, and when I pull the front door open, the icy wind cuts through my body and erases all memory of the night before. His fist is poised to bang again.
“Ay up,” the tall, gruff man says. He’s wearing those thick Carhart overalls and a matching jacket, only halfway zipped. His head is covered in an ear-flap cap, and his thick, gloved hand is holding a black envelope. He nods over his shoulder. “It was a bad bastard, wasn’t it?”
“What?” I manage, stuck on his thick Vermont accent for a second.
“The storm,” he says. “She kicked ya asses bad, fer sure. But I got ya done first. And I wouldn’t of bothered ya, but I was told to drop this off at the door when I was done.”
He shakes the envelope, trying to hand it off.
I adjust the blanket, already shivering from the death-like cold, and take it from him. “What is this?”
“Got a call last night,” he says, leaning back on the heels of his work boots. “Told me to get you out first thing the mornin’. Wasn’t sure I’d make it, but the bastard quit early so here I am.”
For a second I’m not sure who this bastard is, but then I shake myself awake and realize he’s talking about the storm. The storm is the bastard.
“So yer good,” he says, then does a fake hat tip to me, and turns to his waiting truck, snowplow on the front, and disappears in a steamy mist of exhaust.
I close the door and turn to find Kiera behind me, also covered up with a blanket. “Who was that?”
“Snowplow?” I say, unsure, even though that’s the only clear part about what just happened. “He left this.”
“What’s it say?” she says, looking at the envelope.
“I guess we’re gonna find out,” I reply, lifting up the flap and taking out the matching black card inside. It’s not a folded card, more like a thick postcard. And there’s only one sentence written in metallic gold marker.
Be there soon.
CHAPTER EIGHT - KIERA
“Weird,” Connor says, looking confused. But it’s pretty clear I’m not confused, nor am I interested in discussing this new development. So he amends. “Unless this is normal.”
I turn and walk back down the hall.
“Where are you going?”
“Back to bed,” I call back. I flop down on the mattress still huddled in my blanket and watch Connor’s silhouette fill the doorway.
“You’re coming to New York with me, Kiera. There’s no way around it. Last night was nice, but we have a real problem happening here and we need to deal with it.”
Last night was nice.
“It’s still dark out, Connor. I’m not getting up yet. Let’s just go back to sleep.”
He shakes the card still in his hand. “What’s this all about?”
I shrug and lie back on the bed. Turn my back to him and snuggle into the thick down comforter, trying to get warm again. “Just a friend who looks out for me. That’s all.”
“Oh,” Con says, like this is a surprise.
I kinda smile at that. Because he can’t help it. He can’t help who he is or the perspective of the world he’s cultivated. I live outside his sphere, and when you live in a sphere like the one he does, that pretty much means anyone outside of it doesn’t exist.
“A guy?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, closing my eyes.
“Oh,” he repeats. “So you’re seeing someone?”
“No. He’s just a friend who looks out for me. That’s all. Come back to bed.”
Honestly, I don’t expect him to get back in bed with me. Connor Arlington has always had a possessive streak in him. With me, with Sofia. Probably with every woman he’s ever dated. So I figure he’ll skip bed and put his life back together, starting with the suit hanging over the radiator in my laundry room, and just be on his way because I’m no longer holding him captive at the end of a snow-packed driveway.
His body is both warm and cold when he flips up my blanket and slips up next to me. His legs are chilled from standing in the open doorway, but his chest is warm when he wraps his arms around me.
“Kiera,” he whispers.
“What?”
“You don’t have a boyfriend, right?”
I can’t help the little laugh that escapes. I turn over, facing him, and find he’s serious. “I said no.”
“So this guy who thinks you need saving from the storm… he’s what? A friend? An ex?”
“A friend,” I say. “That’s all, I promise. Are you jealous?”
He reaches up to move some of my unruly hair away from my face. “I’ve missed you. I don’t think I realized that until I got here.”
“Well, good? I guess. I mean, you know where I live. You could’ve come by any time you wanted.”
“I know. And I feel a little sick that I never did that. But last night was nice and I don’t want any hopes I have to be shattered before I get a chance to sort this whole mess out.”
“What are you hoping?” I ask, still grinning. I know it’s wrong to smile when he’s being so serious, but it’s more out of shyness than self-assured confidence. Because I have always liked this man. But I have also understood that our spheres were neve
r going to intersect in any real way. We’re too different. We live almost three hundred miles apart and I have no plans to upend my quiet life and move to New York City just to be with a man. Even if that man is Connor Arlington.
“I don’t know. A chance, I guess. To start over, maybe?”
“You don’t like our past?”
“Well, if I had the opportunity to meet you all over again under different circumstances, then yeah. I’d choose that.”
I think about this for a few moments. “We’d never fall back into this level of comfort if we didn’t share that past.”
“I know. I get it. But still.” He sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?’
“That whole fuckin’ year. I… I could’ve handled it differently. I could’ve made a choice, ya know? Committed to something. For once in my life.”
“What kind of choice? Like… opt out?” I almost snort-laugh. “Because we tried that and we both know what happened.”
He sighs again. Closes his eyes and flops over on his back, covering his face with his hand.
“Hey,” I say, scooting closer to him and resting my chin on his shoulder. “Emily made her own choices.”
“I know that. But I have always felt that I could’ve done more.”
“How?” I ask, propping myself up on my elbow. “She tried to shoot you, for fuck’s sake.”
“Yeah,” he says, lifting his hand away so he can peek at me with one eye. “And shot you instead.”
“That wasn’t your fault. I should’ve…” But I can’t even bring myself to say it now, ten years later. So I shake my head and say, “No. I did what I did and I’d do it again. I’m not going to second-guess that moment.”
We’re quiet for a little while after that. I finally flop back and join him in staring at the ceiling.
“Sometimes,” he finally says, “I wonder what would’ve happened if you died.”
“What?”
He turns to look at me. “I didn’t want you to die. I’m not saying that. I just find myself asking what if? What if our book was never written, ya know? And we could write our own story.”
“I think we both know that if I died, someone would’ve replaced me.”
“No,” he says. “I don’t think so.”
“How could you even think that? I mean, Emily was immediately replaced with Louise.”
“Yeah, but you were the writer.”
“So? Sofia could’ve taken my place. Even Camille could’ve done what I did.”
“I don’t think so, Kiera.”
“Wait,” I say, propping myself up again. “You’re saying… I was the central figure in that stupid game? Me?” I laugh. And it’s loud.
“Why is that funny?”
“I think it’s obvious, Con. I mean, come on. I’m nobody compared to you guys. I’ve done nothing with my life.”
“You’re a New York Times bestselling author, Kiera.”
“So what?” I bark out another laugh. “That means nothing. I’m not running for office, or doing legal things like Bennett, or… whatever it is that Hayes does. I mean, Sofia writes smut like me, for sure. But she also writes literature. She’s legit. And so is Camille.”
He shakes from a silent laugh. “Camille isn’t even published. She’s not in your league.”
“You don’t even know her,” I say. “In our dirty little world she’s a very big deal. And people love her for many different reasons. And not all of them have to do with her books. She does good deeds and shit.”
His guffaw echoes off my ceiling. “Camille?” He laughs again. “Camille DuPont? That Camille? Because I just want to make sure we’re talking about the same girl.”
“Yes,” I say. “If you only knew. She’s not who you think. Her secret life is quite altruistic.”
“OK,” he says, still chuckling. “I feel like I’ve entered an alternate universe now.”
I flop back into the pillow and shrug. “Maybe you have.”
“And Sofia? Is she some shining example of good deeds now too?”
“No,” I say, unable to stop the smile. “She’s still Sofia. But she was nominated for the Women’s Opportunity Award in Literature six years ago. She’s legit, ya know?”
“And yet you’re telling me she writes smut on the side?”
“Is that weird?”
“Uh… yeah. I just can’t picture Sofia writing that shit.” He regrets his word choice immediately. I can tell, because he sighs. “I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Whatever. I’m good at it and it pays the bills.”
He ponders this for a few moments.
“So that’s why you feel inferior? Because this… career you have is more of a job than a life’s work?”
“I never said I feel inferior. And I’m certainly not putting down my talent. I’m quite talented in my own sphere of influence. I’m just saying that what happened back in school wasn’t because of me, that’s all. In your sphere of influence I’m pretty much a nobody.”
“I don’t know.” It comes out tired. “For some reason I think we’re missing something. Some hidden knowledge that could explain all this bullshit.”
“Look, it’s really not that complicated. You guys—you, Bennett, Hayes, Sofia, Camille, and Louise, but before her, Emily—you guys come from families that matter, OK? You guys are the princes and princesses of Old Money America. This is not hard to understand. Whoever made us do all that shit did it to control you guys.”
“OK,” Con says, holding up a hand. “I get that. Hell, I even accept it. But there’s more to it than that. There has to be, right?”
“Why can’t it just be greed?” I huff. “I mean, greed accounts for almost every bad thing that ever happens in life. Whoever is pulling our strings, they want the power you guys represent. That’s it. That’s all there is to it.”
“But why you?” I laugh. “And I don’t mean that in a mean way, Kiera. I’m just saying, of all the people we went to school with, why did they choose you?”
“Who knows? They knew I come from a family of writers. And not just any writers, erotic writers. My grandmother wrote smut, for fuck’s sake. And I’m pretty sure her mother wrote it too.”
He turns to me, and this time he’s the one propping himself up on an elbow. “Wait. What? What the fuck did you just say?”
“You didn’t know that?”
“No. You come from a long line of female erotica writers? This is a real thing?”
“Yes, my grandmother was Nicole Baret. She wrote this weird urban legend, subculture book called The Longing back in the day.”
“Where is this book?”
“I dunno. There used to be a copy in the attic up at the main house. I found it once when I was a teenager.”
“And your mother? She knew about this book?”
“Knew about it? Hell, modeled her whole career on it. Did you ever hear of a book called The Seduction of Sadie?”
He smiles and flops back down into his pillow. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“Yeah, that was her.”
“Your mother? That woman with the apron who worked in the kitchen at school?”
“She only did that for special events. You know that. And only because she likes to bake sexy desserts.”
“Oh, my God. My world has been upended.” He laughs. Loud.
“Why?” I laugh with him.
“I mean, actually… I can picture your hot mom writing erotica, but holy shit. I’m so glad I didn’t know this before now. I read that book. Like, us guys used to sit up in our rooms at boarding school and read parts of it out loud trying to make the girls horny.”
“Did it work?” I ask, unable to hide my smile.
“Fuck, yeah, it worked. Trying to get a group of girls to look at porn was like pulling teeth. But read them passages from The Seduction of Sadie…” He stops to chuckle. “Fuck, yeah, it worked.”
We lie there in thoughtful contemplation for a little while. I don’t know what h
e’s thinking about, but I’m busy picturing a fifteen-year-old Connor Arlington sitting up in a boarding-school dorm room, pulling out The Seduction of Sadie as his A-game.
“I wish I knew you back then.”
“Why?” He laughs.
“Because. I’m jealous of those girls in your dorm room. You’re the best read-alouder I’ve ever met.”
He turns, slides one arm underneath me, wraps them both around me, and kisses me on the lips. “It was just practice,” he whispers into our kiss. “For you.”
I know it’s bullshit. I know this is just Con’s sweet-talk talking. But I don’t care. “Better be careful,” I say. “You’re making my heart all melty.”
He kisses me again. “Mission accomplished then.”
“Shut up. If you didn’t accidentally see that book at the airport you’d be back in New York waking up next to some other woman you’ve been reading aloud to instead of me.”
He smiles into the next kiss. “You’re wrong, Kiera Bonnaire. So. Fucking. Wrong.”
His hand slides up to my breast, reminding me that I’m completely naked. And is it weird that I forgot? That I’m so comfortable with him after one night, with ten years of separation between us?
No. I don’t think so.
I reach down between his legs and bring his cock to life. He growls approval into my mouth, kissing me a little more urgently. Harder.
I love him. I have always loved him. And I know this is never going to work out for us. I know there is no conceivable future where the US Senator marries an erotica author, but I don’t care.
I’ll take what I can get. And right now, this is all I got.
A loud banging on the front door make us pull apart. “What the fuck?” Connor says. “If that’s the snow plow guy coming to deliver another secret message, I’m gonna be pissed.”
He throws the covers off, jumps out of bed, and grabs his discarded blanket as he sweeps through the door and disappears.
I grab my comforter, wrap it around me, and peek my head out into the hallway just in time to see Connor throw the door open.
Hayes Fitzgerald barges past him in a rush. “Get your shit, we need to get back to New York. Now.” His eyes meet mine from down the hall and he nods his head at me as I wander into the hallway. “Kiera,” he says.