by Zoe York
A corrupt mayor.
A new, deadly drug in the underground club system.
And Deacon.
With a gasp, she sat straight up and tightened her ponytail. Three more books.
It was a seven book arc, not four, with a slow-burning love story over them all—and more books wasn’t a problem, but…had she set it up well enough? And could she wrap up this book in a way that would satisfy her urban fantasy readers, giving them a satisfying conclusion before turning the series into a romance of sorts?
And did she even want to write a romance?
That had been her passion, back before she was published, before she had Eric.
Before Greg died.
When she worked at the Toronto Public Library, she’d dreamed of writing Regency romances. Dukes and seasons and clever, scientific-minded heroines.
And then life happened, and she couldn’t imagine weaving a fantasy that could be believable.
She’d lost her faith in that romantic ideal.
Demon-slaying aligned better with her reality in more ways than one.
Spinning around in her chair, she grabbed the printed out copy of chapter one from the top of the book case and started reading.
Forty-five minutes later, she put down the third chapter and opened a web browser window. Her best writing friends had a private group online that any of them could use to vent or brainstorm or just hang out in when procrastination was the order of the day.
Faith Davidson: So… I think I’m going to expand the Darkness Rising series. Vera’s found a love interest. Thoughts? I can see three more books, and while I thought it would be a bit of a mess, now that I’ve re-read the first three chapters that I wrote in this book, I think I’ve been setting it up all along. Is that possible?
Instead of refreshing the page waiting for a response, she got up and went downstairs to get herself a can of pop from the pantry.
She stood there for a minute, warring with herself before she dragged over a chair and hauled down the box of Halloween treats that she’d pretended were in fact for the holiday, still two months away.
Ha. She nabbed two of the snack-size bags before carefully closing the box up again.
As she returned the chair to its rightful place, she reasoned that after the salty, she’d need something sweet, and she grabbed a chocolate bar from the secret stash, too.
Reinventing her entire series—and her author brand—was scary stuff. The treats were totally justified.
When she got back to her computer, both Gillian Ford and Samantha Harcourt had weighed in. The fourth member of their self-named Quill Quartet, Cecilia Dark, was on a social media hiatus while she finished her book.
For the best—Cecilia would tell her not to do it. That she wasn’t known as a romance author and going soft could be the kiss of death.
Faith knew that. And still her heart pounded harder as she read the responses.
Samantha Harcourt: Yes! Come to the dark side. Who is the hero? Is he a demon? Make him a demon. Ooooh…. Or a vampire.
Gillian Ford: She hates vampires.
Samantha Harcourt: So? Readers don’t.
Gillian Ford: Also, Vera’s a vamp slayer. Focus.
Samantha Harcourt: You don’t even write romance!
Faith snickered. It was true. Gillian wrote cozy mysteries. The closest she got to romance was a double entendre over a whimsically splayed dead body.
Gillian Ford: Maybe I’ll follow her lead and mix sexy firefighters into my next series.
Samantha Harcourt: I’m loving all of this. Go on….
Gillian Ford: Faith first. Honestly? I think your readers will want more Vera, and any guy she’s going to fall for is going to be bad-ass, right? So it’s all good. Do it. Trust your gut!
That was the problem. Faith didn’t trust her gut. Her gut had her kissing Zander even though he was completely wrong for her.
For a second, she thought about changing the subject. Her girls had held her up when Greg died, helped her figure out what she could write that would make enough money to support herself. Samantha had even flown up to be with her and Miriam when Faith’s father died eleven months later and she’d fallen apart all over again.
She would tell them about Zander. Soon.
After the week was over and he’d left her, because he was just her Mr. Right Now. Mr. One Week.
Mr. Awesome With Eric.
She dropped her head to the desk, ignoring the quiet beeping of her computer as her writing friends continued to discuss the pros and cons of Faith finally getting back into writing romance.
Given how hopeless she was at managing her own love life, she hardly felt qualified. But maybe by the time she got to the next book, where Vera and Deacon would stop threatening each other with swords and start getting naked, she’d have a more recent reference point for what that was like.
Not that she’d ever stabbed anyone, and she managed to write that just fine, but watching dirty gifs on Tumblr was a poor substitute for Zander.
She sighed, breathing his name. Not that they’d have a chance to do anything tonight. Or ever.
Two days until he got on a plane.
If only she’d been brave enough to suggest he come over when Eric was at the library.
On her desk, her phone lit up. Her cheeks turned red as she glanced at the screen. Her filthy subconscious must have sent out a bad boy bat signal.
“Hi,” she half-squeaked, half-breathed. Not a sexy combination.
“Did I interrupt your writing?” Of course he sounded sexy as sin. Not fair.
“Uhm…” She sat up straighter and pasted on a smile. Telephone speaking rule number one. “Nope! I was just brainstorming the next book in my series.”
“I know we made plans to have a picnic dinner, but if I came up your direction sooner than that…?”
“Yes!” She leaned back in her chair. Too excited. “I mean, sure. Whenever.”
Jeez. Overcompensating much, Faith?
But Zander didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah? Really?”
“Uh-huh.” She glanced in horror at her t-shirt and sweat pants. No, not whenever. She needed time to not look like a scary hot mess. “Well, give me fifteen minutes.”
“I’m leaving right now. You’ve got twenty-five.”
— —
Zander climbed the steps to Faith’s house. The flowers he carried were a big gesture that showed his hand. But he wanted Faith to know how interested he was. He wanted her to see that even if it pushed her out of her comfort zone, because he didn’t have a lot of time this visit.
Be a gentleman, he told himself over and over again as he waited for her to answer the door.
His resolve lasted until he saw her.
She stood in her foyer in a bathrobe, her hair still damp from a shower.
He grabbed the doorframe to keep from lunging for her, but he couldn’t keep himself from doing a head-to-freaking-adorable-bare toes once over. On the way back up, his grin got painfully big. “Did I drive too fast?”
“I’m terrible with time. Something you should probably know about me.” She swallowed hard, and he watched her throat work before dragging his gaze up to her dusky pink lips, swollen from the warmth of the shower.
“I’m on vacation, what do I care about timings?” His biceps flexed on their own accord, hungry to wrap themselves around her. He tightened his grip on the open door frame, crushing the stems of the wild flower bouquet he’d all but forgotten about.
“Oh, that’s a relief.” She blinked almost shyly. “Aren’t you going to come in?”
Hell, yes. But first… “Where’s Eric?”
“Library program.” She gave him a surprisingly flirty look that made him glad he’d called and asked if he could come around early.
“When I let go of this door, I’m going to kiss you.”
She beamed. “So let go.”
His first thought as he pulled her into his arms, kicking the door shut behind him, was that her eyes were
extra blue right out of the shower. The next was that her mouth was extra soft, like velvet.
Then the flowers hit the floor and he stopped thinking.
Where their first kiss had been gentle, this one was an immediate clash of two people in need. Her hands went to his neck and up into his hair. His arms banded tight around her and his palms cupped the swell of her ass beneath the soft terry cotton.
He was painfully aware that only a soft belt separated him from the naked woman he’d been dreaming of all week.
That frustration poured right out of him as they kissed. He couldn’t hold back, and thank Christ, she was just as desperate—she moved restlessly against his body, pulling herself tighter into his embrace as she breathed him in, her tongue inviting his right into an X-rated kiss that had him hard as a rock in seconds.
He wove one hand into her silky hair, the cool strands doing nothing to douse his ardour for her. With an insistent tug, he stilled her movements, slowing his caress of her mouth to an erotically glacial pace.
They weren’t going to do more than kiss, so this was going to have to rock her world.
With his other hand, he lifted her hips into his, rocking her slowly against his body as he stroked his tongue against hers, thrusting and twisting until she was mewling in his arms.
And then, dying a little inside, he stopped, pressing his lips to her cheek, then her ear. “I wanted to do that yesterday.”
She shook in his arms, her cheek rubbing against his as she whispered back, “Me too.”
He kissed her again, softer this time, more exploratory. He was still learning the taste of her, what she liked and how she reacted. She sighed as he sucked gently on her lower lip, a sound of pure desire that worked its way right to his balls.
They needed to stop before he did something stupid like sliding his hand inside her robe and finding out just how sweet and heavy her breasts were. If she was wet for him and if she liked him sucking anywhere—everywhere—else.
With a Herculean effort, he licked his way to the corner of her mouth and pressed one last, chaste-ish kiss there before pulling back. “Go put clothes on.”
Her eyes were glazed and heavy, and she blinked slowly twice before responding, her gaze pinned on his mouth.
Oh, fuck.
“Really?”
“No. Yes.” He made a strangled animal sound in his throat and let her go completely, picking up the flowers and handing them over before crossing his arms for good measure. “Yes. Get dressed and give me a minute to think about math.”
He watched as she ducked her head, sniffing the flowers with a smile that made his balls ache. Then she twisted away from him and moved up the stairs. Every third step she glanced back in his direction, and his dick told him how much being noble sucked.
Yep, pretty much.
It didn’t take her long to put on jeans and a t-shirt, and as soon as she was back on the ground floor, he leaned in and gave her a regular, quick little kiss.
That felt surprisingly good, too.
“Hi,” he whispered, keeping his face close to hers. “Sorry for interrupting your work day.”
“I was already thinking about you and feeling distracted,” she said, blushing.
“Good.” He took a deep breath. “We should get out of the house. You want to go for a ride?”
She froze, then shook her head.
“It’s safe.” He cleared his throat, not wanting to lie to her. Not that he’d be able to—Faith was whip-smart, and wary enough to question everything. “Well, safe enough. We can just go around town. Slowly. I brought a second helmet. It’s my brother’s, but I’m not sure he’s ever even worn it.”
“How about we go sit in my backyard instead?” She worried her bottom lip between her front teeth, and in that moment, he’d have done anything for her.
“Sure.” He let her lead him through her house—which was surprisingly large inside, and had an amazing kitchen that opened up onto a large, terraced backyard. She’d stopped long enough to put the flowers in water and grab them drinks. When they got outside, she pointed to a cushioned bench tucked up against the back wall of the house, under the shade of a soaring maple tree.
When they sat, their knees bumping and hands brushing, she didn’t speak right away. Instead she looked at him. He could feel her gaze on his neck, his jaw, his brow. Her fingers followed, tracing the top edge of the cityscape tattoo that decorated his shoulder. Her hand curved down his arm and she tugged up his t-shirt sleeve.
“I could just take it off,” he said roughly, and she leaned in to kiss his clothed biceps.
“That would be dangerous,” she whispered. “What is it?” Her fingers followed the links of ink. Each brush of her flesh against his made his nuts ache a little more. “Oh! Toronto!”
“Yeah.”
“Did you ever live there?”
“No. I just wanted an ice rink and a city behind it, and the artist had lived in Toronto. He did this sketch of city hall, and I knew that was it.”
She turned her finger so the tip of her fingernail outlined the drawing of the kid playing hockey. “Is this you?”
He shrugged. “It’s representative.”
“Hmmm.” He turned just in time to see her duck her head and press her mouth to his hot, bare skin.
His muscles jumped beneath her lips. “You make it hard to be a good guy.”
She smiled against his skin. “Sorry?”
“Tell me why you don’t want to go on my bike.”
She sighed and turned her head, resting her cheek on his shoulder. Her body curved around his arm, soft moulding around hard—a perfect fit. “It’s a long story.”
“How much time do we have?”
“Enough.”
He wiggled his fingers and she laced hers around them.
“My husband had a racing bike. Not like yours. It wouldn’t be comfortable to ride across the country on.”
And it would be built for speed. He could see the puzzle pieces, but he might be wrong.
“When he died, I sold it. We didn’t have any life insurance, you see, other than a bit through his work. All of a sudden I needed to make every penny count. I didn’t get very much for it. And I got so mad at him.”
He squeezed her hand, trying to convey whatever one should say, without knowing exactly what that was.
She sighed. “It was a stupid thing to lose my shit over, but that’s how grief is sometimes. That was the first time I’d gotten mad that he’d died. It wasn’t even a bike accident—but it was similarly stupid, and I saw the bike as a symbol of his choices, I guess. He was waterskiing and did a flip. Landed badly on his neck and he was dead before they got him out of the water.”
Zander burned, angry on her behalf. And also angry for her husband, because how many times had the guy probably done something similarly exciting and lived to crow about it?
Every damn time until the last.
Life was unfair. “I’m sorry,” he said roughly.
She lifted her head and gave him a sad smile. “I’m usually fine. I’ve done the counselling thing and I’ve got a bereavement group that I lead. I’ve moved on with my life, ya know?”
“It’s okay if you’re not fine, though. Sometimes or regularly still. Especially if a bonehead like me suggests you do something reckless.”
“I used to love that reckless, adventuring spirit. Love it in men, and in myself.”
“Nothing wrong with that. There are ways to do things safely. A sedate, grandma-esque tool around town, for example.” He winked, to be light, but he wasn’t playing off her concerns.
He got it—better than she might think.
“I don’t…” She winced. “I don’t want half-measures, either. You know? I don’t want to go to a gym with a rock wall. If I’m not climbing anymore, I’m not climbing. Full stop.”
“You climbed?” He shifted closer, wanting to know more about that. He wanted to know everything about her. But it also seemed like a happier place to steer the
conversation toward.
“Yeah.” A tentative smile curled up her face. “I wasn’t great or anything, but I really enjoyed it. Especially rappelling.”
He laughed. “You’d make a good private recruit.”
“I really wouldn’t. The first time someone tried to get me out of bed at five in the morning I’d be court-martialled for what I’d say to them.”
“Not a morning person. Noted.”
She blushed, and he thought of all the possible thoughts spiralling through her head to make her cheeks turn pink like that. The two of them waking up together. Naked. He’d make mornings so good for her…
“Don’t!” She pointed her finger at him. “Get that thought out of your head.” She hesitated, and then went there. “Not if you’re not going to do anything about it.”
Time slowed to a crawl, and the hot summer afternoon suddenly felt like the surface of the sun. Zander could feel sweat rolling down his back as he weighed his options.
They were both hungry for each other.
This wasn’t the time, though. “What? I just want to take you for a ride around town, Ms. Davidson. You have a filthy mind.” He mock nipped at her fingertip and she laughed.
Then she sighed and her face slid back to that serious, thinking expression she wore so often. Her mom face. Her writer face. He got that those were two important hats for her to wear, but she needed a way to find the joy of adventure, too. Not in this moment, though.
She gave him a little shrug. “I need to get Eric from the library in an hour.”
“I can do a lot in an hour.” Now he was just having fun making her mind go to the various filthy places. Because even though she was blushing, her eyes were wide and bright and glued to his face. She wanted more and damn it, he wanted to give it to her.