by Penny Reid
Drew grabbed my hands, maybe to keep me from drawing blood, and held them above my head. He pinned me to the carpet and administered a punishing kiss. I still wanted to bite him, consume him, but he left me breathless and disoriented.
“I have loved you,” he said, hovering far above me, distancing himself, and added, “I love you.”
“Drew…” I tried to grab him, but he still held my hands hostage, his movements controlled and purposeful, steadily claiming. His gaze moved between mine, searching.
“I will love you.” His voice was soft, like he was trying to reach me, calm me.
I stopped struggling and allowed myself to look at him, really and truly look.
His gray eyes studied me with reverence and longing. His newly trimmed beard allowed me to see his full lips and the set of his jaw; both were earnest, verging on stern. He wanted something from me, something more—but not necessarily different—from our physical act.
I relaxed beneath him and sighed, even as he continued to move within me—languid, measured thrusts meant to hold us in place, because we weren’t in a race. There was no finish line, no end, no goal, no urgency. I needed him, and he was here. I was finally here. We were finally together.
I felt tears sting behind my eyes, and I didn’t try to blink them away.
“Drew,” I said, my voice watery. “I’ve missed you. I’ve missed you so much. I need you.”
His mouth hitched to the side, his gaze softening. “There you are, Sugar…” His voice held traces of satisfaction and relief, as though he were finally seeing me, as though I’d just arrived.
He kissed the side of my mouth and whispered, “I’ve missed you, too.”
“I love you,” I said, though my chin wobbled, because I did love him. I understood what he meant when he’d said it earlier and why he’d said it three times.
He loved me, he was loving me now, and he would love me in the future.
I allowed myself to actually feel our joining, focus on it, on him. With every stroke I felt the anxiety and tension evaporate. I was present in the moment, still greedy for him, but finding peace and fulfillment in the knowledge that we now had nothing but time.
And time was finally on my side.
Part Five
Fiona and Greg
Deleted Scene: Greg’s POV
Author’s Note: This scene was originally written from Greg’s POV and eventually became Fiona’s POV, part 7 of Ninja at First Sight. The original idea was to finish Ninja at First Sight from Greg’s perspective, including the scene where he takes her to the hotel, and the first time they made love.
SHE’D NOTICED WE were driving in the wrong direction after dinner—east to Illinois instead of west to our university—and she called me on it.
“I think we’re going the wrong way,” she said, shifting in her seat. I’d felt her questioning eyes on me earlier, and the omnipresent surge of answering magnetic warmth.
“No,” I said, keeping my eyes on the road because I was passing a semi-truck.
“That sign back there said we’re going east.”
“That’s right.” I’d planned the surprise, taking her to the Improv Festival in Chicago. I’d purchased the tickets over a month ago.
She studied me. “Greg, that sign was for Chicago.”
“I know.” I fought a grin. I liked surprising her. I liked delighting her. I liked shocking her, though I curbed the desire to shock more often than not. She was wise, but she was also inexperienced. Shocking often inadvertently translated into pushing.
I didn’t want to push her. I wanted her comfortable. I wanted her to trust me. I wanted her to set the pace.
Fiona struggled for a few moments with her confusion, at last asking, “What’s going on?”
Despite how I endeavored to curtail my teasing, limit it to academic subjects and current events, sometimes it slipped past my lips before I could suppress it.
Like now.
“We’re not going back to the dorms tonight.” My tone was as suggestive as my statement, and as soon as the words were out I reprimanded myself.
The reprimand was wholly unsuccessful because Fiona rewarded my teasing with a strained sounding single syllable.
“Oh,” she said.
I glanced at her, finding her blush obvious even in the dim light of the car. I smiled at her reaction. Because I was a bastard.
And also because she was so enticingly easy to tease, easy to shock. I was addicted to her adorable discomfort.
“Fern packed you a bag,” I continued the ruse, wanting to see how long it would take her to call me on the subterfuge.
“Fern packed me a bag.” She nodded thoughtfully. “Well, that was nice of her.”
“She’s very helpful.”
“Yes. Helpful.”
I had to bite my lip to keep from grinning, and after a long pause I was nearly ready to fess up, but not quite. “You’re very quiet.”
“So are you.”
“I was just thinking, I wonder what Fern packed for you. I can’t wait to see.”
She crossed her legs, drawing my attention to her bare skin. I was so distracted by the sight I almost didn’t hear her response.
“Hopefully nothing.”
I frowned, splitting my attention between Fiona and the road, certain I’d heard her wrong. “Pardon me?”
“I hope she packed nothing, except maybe a toothbrush.”
Visions of her naked, holding nothing but a toothbrush and a smile, filled my vision. The inside of the car was abruptly and unaccountably hot. Fiona’s words slicing through my desire to tease her and hitting me squarely in... well, my desire for her.
And the evening continued to disintegrate from there, along with all my preconceived notions that she wanted us to take our time, go slow, or pace ourselves.
Greg’s Letter to Fiona
(canon)
Author’s Note: This letter was one of the very last things I wrote for Fiona and Greg, after finishing their prequel and their novel. I wanted it to truly reflect how Greg viewed Fiona, how a husband views his wife, how a man in love views the woman he loves, which is typically different (maybe because of the intensity?) than how a woman views herself.
Dearest Fiona,
It occurs to me that today is Valentine’s Day. As far as holidays go, this one is absolute rubbish.
I’m surrounded by maudlin men who miss their girlfriends, wives, and Internet porn (perhaps not necessarily in that order). They’ve all arranged delivery back home for overpriced bouquets of reedy flowers and substandard chocolates.
You would be proud of me. I didn’t once point out that a woman who demands gifts on Valentine’s Day is almost as intolerable as a man who only gives gifts because it’s Valentine’s Day.
And yet, it is Valentine’s Day.
And I miss you.
I don’t know how else to write it other than, I miss you.
These months apart grow unbearable. Each passing second is a moment filled with the absence of you and it suffocates me. I realize I promised I would be less morose in my correspondence, but I grip these empty sheets at night and curse them. They are cold where your body is hot and soft and so infinitely mine.
Perhaps I miss the feeling of you beneath my fingertips and belonging wholly to me. Perhaps I miss how you tense and relax in my hands, how you look at me with trust and want. If I’m honest, it’s the want in you I miss the most. The need you have of me. Because it echoes the insatiable and feral nature of my need for you.
I miss you.
At this point you’ve no doubt already gathered I have sent neither chocolate nor flowers for Valentine’s. I do not believe in obligatory gifts any more than I subscribe to compulsory love.
As such, I send you nothing but this letter and my longing for you, neither of which I can contain. I love you.
Yours forever, Greg
Part Six
Marie and Matt
Bonus Scene: Dirty Talk is for Parties
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br /> (canon)
Author’s Note: This scene takes place between chapter 27 and the epilogue. It was originally shared on Angie’s Dreamy Reads.
“I EXPECTED BETTER food.”
Glancing at Matt’s grumpy expression, I laughed. “Why?”
“He’s a chef.”
“Yeah, but he couldn’t make it himself. It’s his party, and he had other things to do.”
We’d arrived two hours ago and as soon as we stepped foot into the ballroom, I’d realized why David and his betrothed had needed a firm head count so far in advance.
The theme of the engagement party was Harry Potter, specifically book four in the series, The Goblet of Fire. Each guest had been given a Hogwarts robe, tailor-made for her or his height and size, with his or her house crest embroidered over the heart. Apparently, David’s fiancée was a gigantic Harry Potter fan as well as a self-made millionaire of a day spa empire.
Therefore, the shindig was the most ridiculously outrageous and ostentatious display of badassery that I’d ever seen.
And, in case I’d failed to mention, it was Harry Potter themed.
Obviously, Gwen and I hit it off immediately. She was a Ravenclaw—like Matt—and had recently read my cuddle piece as it had just been published. She wanted to ask me what I thought about adding professional cuddlers to her spa services repertoire.
After ten minutes, I found myself in serious danger of falling head over heels into girl-crush territory.
Yet Matt was throwing me shade, his face twisted into a scowl of disappointment. “I purposefully had a light lunch because I thought the food would be awesome.”
“There’s plenty left.” I motioned to the buffet, which was brimming with delicacies from the pages of Harry Potter.
FYI, in case you missed it, the party was Harry Potter themed.
He wrinkled his nose. “I don’t want something mediocre, or even good. I want something fantastic.”
I chuckled at him, Matt and his food obsession. How could he be thinking about food when we were flanked by a huge dragon papier-mâché sculpture? And to our left was a tank full of mermaids.
MERMAIDS!
But then I felt his eyes on my profile, and just the weight of his stare sent a shiver racing down my spine. I glanced at him, found his gaze on me heavy with a peculiar kind of intensity.
“What?”
“Want me to eat you out?”
My mouth fell open in shock, and I scoff-snort-laughed, shaking my head at his teasing.
But then my grin faded, because I realized he was serious. “You’re serious.”
“Yep.”
“Matt.”
“Valkyrie.”
“You’re crazy,” I whispered, shaking my head sternly. “We’re not doing that here.”
“But I’m hungry for something I know will taste fantastic.”
An immediate blush surged to my cheeks, leaving my neck hot. “Matt.”
“My love.”
I stepped closer to him, again whispering urgently, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go down on me at my ex’s engagement party, for obvious reasons.”
One side of his mouth tilted higher than the other, as did one eyebrow, wickedness twinkling in his eyes. “I bet I can change your mind.”
“Matt.”
“I won’t even touch you”—he leaned forward, whispering hotly in my ear—“unless you want me to.”
I gathered a deep breath, glaring at the air around him, my chest tight and achy.
He leaned away, still grinning—his smile somehow both soft and sharp—his eyes dropping to my mouth. “I had a hard time focusing at work today,” he said conversationally.
I made a noncommittal sound, still glaring at him, but unable to completely suppress my smile.
“Don’t you want to know why?”
I shook my head, but asked, “Why did you have a hard time focusing?”
Part of me suspected—and hoped—this was merely a setup for another floppy disk joke. Part of me hoped it wasn’t.
His voice lost its conversational tone, grew darker. “I couldn’t stop thinking about the sounds you make when I’m inside you.”
I bit my bottom lip, a wave of simmering longing unfurling in my belly. “Oh?”
“Take this morning, for instance.”
My eyelashes fluttered at the memory of what we’d done this morning, how he’d joined me in the shower unexpectedly.
“When you took my cock into your body, and I held your wrists above your head so I could taste your tits while we fucked, did you like that? Because it sounded like you did. It sounded like you couldn’t get enough.”
I gritted my teeth. My heart was racing.
“I love how you feel, how hot you are, and how soft. So fucking soft. I love how you breathe, how you pant. But mostly, I love how you beg.” His gaze lost its mischievousness and became achingly earnest and solemn. “They were delicious, by the way.”
“What?”
He let his eyes drop meaningfully to my chest and smirked.
“Were they?” I asked, winded, my breasts feeling heavier, fuller than they had mere seconds ago.
“Yes. But not as sweet as your. . .” He licked his top lip, drawing it into his mouth, biting it lightly like he’d done to me this morning, but in a completely different place.
“Matt,” I whimpered. “You’re not nice.”
“Do you want me to beg? Because I will.” He held his hand out, his voice now a deep, grumbly whisper, “I’m so hungry for you, Marie. I’m starving.”
Damn.
Damn.
“Where?” I asked, taking his hand, hardly recognizing myself, but sublimely in love with this version of me. Because of the incredible man—owner of my heart—taking my hand.
“Come . . .” He grinned wolfishly in triumph, tugging me toward the large makeshift hedge maze at one end of the room. “Come with me.”
Part Seven
Kat and Dan
Miscellaneous Content: Dan’s creative curse words
Author’s Note: I went back and forth regarding whether or not to include this, but ultimately decided y’all would appreciate it (if not the list, then maybe the insight into my writing process). While writing Dan, I had to make and keep a list of random and weird insults and cuss words on my phone, jotting them down as they occurred to me. I don’t think any of these are 100 percent original, never-been-used-before, but it was the only way I could keep track of Dan’s creative . . . vocabulary. Man. I really love Dan. <3
Cumbubble
Fucktrumpet
Shitbag
Dickweed
Bitchitis
Jizzcock
Cumdumpter
Shitpouch
Jizzstain
Dickweasel
Fuckrat
Fuckstick
Wankface
Jizzbreath
Assclown
Dickcheese
Snap your dick off
Rip your tits off
Shitbird
Fuckface
Peckerface
Dickface
Scenes from the Hallway
(canon)
Author’s Note: What follows are four scenes that were part of a limited release novella entitled, Scenes from the Hallway, published February 2018 for only one month.
Scene One
Who the fuck is that?
** DAN **
THE ELEVATOR WENT ding, the doors opened, I strolled out.
First thing I noticed was the narrowness of the hallway. The next thing I noticed was the open stairway to my right, the smell of damp, and the water stain on the ceiling. What a shithole.
“Check the locks on the windows.”
“Got it.” I moved the cell to my other ear, rolling my eyes.
Quinn was barking orders over the phone. And when Quinn barked orders there was nothing to do but say, Got it, or, Right, or, Sounds good. What did he think? That I didn’t know enough about
security procedures to test the integrity of window locks when checking the perimeter of an apartment? Give me a fucking break.
He wasn’t thinking clearly because lately he was only thinking about one thing—or rather, one person.
I hated these old apartment buildings, the ones built in the late fifties, early sixties. The elevators hardly ever worked and the stairways were too tight. Without fail, a pipe in the ceiling leaked on every single goddamn floor, making the whole building smell like the cellar of my Uncle Zip’s place.
Not a good smell.
My eyes flickered over Stan and Davis as they straightened away from the wall by the apartment door—second one on the right—coming to attention as soon as I appeared.
“And check the cellar. When I was there on Saturday, the lock on the subbasement was broken. Stan said he’d get it fixed,” Quinn said, still barking orders.
Apparently, we were now going to be the superintendent for every building in Chicago. “Fine.”
I didn’t tell Quinn that my brother’s crew was too stupid to consider the subbasement as an entry point. If Seamus’s guys showed up, they would come in through the front door in broad daylight, like a bunch of thumbs-up-their-asses dumbfucks.
Long story short, my good buddy and business partner Quinn Sullivan was under some kind of voodoo spell, thinking he was in love with this woman, Janie Morris. Janie had a sister named Jem, and Jem Morris used to bang my brother, Seamus. Small world, right?