Then they broke and streamed down her cheeks.

Chapter 6

MATT

“This thing is priceless.” I plopped Hannah’s baby album on the counter and flipped it open. Small Hannah looked so sweet: childish round cheeks, wild dark curls, and a look of mischief that I knew well.

“I really wish Mom hadn’t given you that.” She shrugged off her purse.

We were back at the condo, having spent less than an hour at her parents’ house.

“Technically, she lent it to me.” I grinned at a glossy page of birthday pictures. There was one-year-old Hannah with frosting all over her face. “Mm, messy even in your youth…”

My innuendo flew right over her head. She gnawed on a nail and stared off in the distance.

“Hey, your dad seemed to like the cuff links.”

“Hm? Yeah.”

I began to unbutton my shirt. I felt jittery, like I’d had too much coffee or sugar.

“I’m not sure how much use he’ll get out of them, but they’re damn nice. Not to imply that your dad isn’t a classy guy.” I laughed. “He’s pretty cool. Down to earth. We had a good chat while you were talking with Chrissy…”

Hannah barely stirred.

“You want to go out for a drink or something?” I tugged her into my arms. She moved listlessly. “I did just propose. You drink for both of us and I’ll take advan—”

“Another night. It’s late and tomorrow’s Monday.”

“Mm, true.” I kissed her forehead. “I want to tell you something.”

“Hm?”

“When I was talking to your father, I asked him—”

“What?” Hannah’s eyes narrowed. “Please tell me you didn’t, like, ask for his permission to marry me or something.”

“Was I not supposed to … do that?”

“God.” She pushed out of my arms and rubbed her face. “So you told them we’re engaged? You could have asked me first.”

“I did ask you. In the field. What’s the matter?”

“It’s just silly. We’re not living in the eighteenth century. You don’t need his permission. And honestly, we’re not even properly engaged yet.”

“We’re not?” I white-knuckled the edge of the counter. “That’s news to me.”

“Yeah. No. I don’t know.”

Women are the most confusing creatures on earth.

Exhibit A: my maybe fiancée.

“Bird, talk to me.” I moved behind her and massaged her shoulders. “Is it about a ring? I’ll get you one tomorrow. Tonight even. I’m ready to—”

Hannah turned abruptly and kissed me. I froze. What the hell? Her kiss was ravenous, steel-edged. Her hands scoured my chest and she yanked at my slacks.

“God,” I gasped, breaking the kiss.

Her intensity pulled me out of my worries and into arousal. Fuck, I loved this woman. Her desire went toe to toe with mine.

I stiffened rapidly and ground my erection against her hip. She gripped my ass and I lifted her breasts.

And just like that, it was over.

“Sorry, I—” She backed into the counter.

My hands fell. I was already panting.

“Hannah, what … is going on with you?”

“Nothing.” She eased away from me. “Sorry. I must be wound up.”

“Yeah, join the club.” I tried to get a better look at her, but she moved toward the living room, keeping her back to me.

“I don’t feel great. I’m sorry. I should probably try to sleep.”

I glanced at my watch. Sleep at ten? That was early for me, but Hannah lived on a normal schedule. I sighed and dragged both hands through my hair. If I had learned one thing about women in my twenty-nine years, it was that they never talked until they were ready.

I waited a minute, hoping for some clue about her mood, but she remained silent.

“Okay,” I said. I trailed her to the living room and kissed the top of her head. “Whatever you need. You want company?”

“No, I’ll just sleep. Go do your thing.” She patted my chest and shuffled down the hall. I wandered into the office.

My body ached with doused excitement. My cock felt cumbersome in my slacks, half-hard and hot. I debated jerking off at my desk.

I typed a tweet.

The burning debates of the twenty-first century. To get off or to write.

I backspaced the tweet immediately. Fucking hell. Social media really catered to my special breed of narcissism.

I browsed the Net in a mindless circle—Facebook, Gmail, Colo Real Estate …

Arousal and anxiety mixed in me strangely.

I unlocked the drawer where I kept my writing papers.

My work in progress, Last Light, filled three notebooks. It was nearly complete. I found myself holding off on finishing it because I had no new project. Not even a ghost of an idea.

Beneath Last Light lay my notebook from Mike. I fished it out and reread the first entry. I expected to feel revulsion. Instead, my excitement heightened. Exhibitionism …

On the second page, I began to write:

HUMILIATION

Writing this without judging myself is impossible.

What’s wrong with me?

I’m ashamed of myself. Confused by myself. But I know what I feel. Even as I think about this, my body is …

I love to see Hannah blush. I love to embarrass her during sex. I know she likes it, too.

When I mock her for coming early, when I toy with her and call her names, it gives me the strangest, deepest pleasure.