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“Huh?”
“You grunted, why?”
“Iris, kindly shut the fuck up, will you? I’m trying to read here.”
She muttered beneath her breath and went back to sifting her fingers through his silky hair, tensing every time he inhaled sharply, or made any kind of sound. He appeared to be wholly absorbed and soon—despite her tension—Iris got bored, and her mind drifted. Before long, she was fast asleep.
The familiar weight of his body settling over hers, and the soft press of his lips on her cheek woke her.
“Whazzappening?” she mumbled, and Trystan’s mouth moved to her neck to drop another kiss against the sensitive flesh there. He was familiar with all of her erogenous zones by now and knew exactly how to take her from quietly and pleasantly aroused, to wild and screaming in seconds. Fortunately, he appeared focused on soft and tender this time, pressing gentle open-mouthed kisses up her neck toward the spot beneath her ear that always made her moan.
“Finished reading,” he whispered, nipping her earlobe and she snapped out of the sexual haze in an instant, slamming her palms against his chest to push his heavy, uncooperative body away from hers.
“You did?” He groaned when she wriggled her way out from under him, and he rolled onto his back and covered his eyes with one brawny forearm. “Well? What did you think?”
His sensual lips curled up at the corners.
“I think that I’m in love with a genius.” He shifted his arm until it was curled around the top of his head and stared at her in awe and admiration.
“Shut up,” she laughed, shoving at his shoulder playfully. She was becoming more and more comfortable with his freely offered declarations of love and was reacting to the genius part of his statement.
“It’s true, you’re brilliant. And I’m not sure why you’re so goddamned insecure about your talent. You’ve been hiding your light under a bushel, sweetheart. Why are you editing when you should be writing?”
“It’s a big leap, putting my work out there. You’re right, I should have more of an online presence. I should belong to writing groups, and be on forums and just trying harder, but it’s so much easier to write for my own pleasure. And after so many years of being bullied and ridiculed I worry that I have a thin skin, that I won’t be able to handle the criticism.”
“You’re the most contrary woman I know. You came all the way out here to interview a recluse and tell his sad story. How is telling one of your own any different?”
“Because mine are fiction. Telling someone else’s story, telling the truth… that feels easier. Safer. I wouldn’t be spotlighting myself. I would be directing the attention firmly onto another person. This…” She gestured toward his e-reader on the nightstand. “It’s personal. It comes from me.”
“And like you, it’s amazing.”
“It’s a frivolous, gory tale about a werewolf. It’s nothing serious.”
“Don’t get me wrong, Iris . . . It does need work. It’s rough, a little clunky in places. Your protagonist is mopey as fuck, but God, it’s compelling. And it’s different. Werewolves have been done to death across all genres but this feels fresh. Using her newfound instincts to help with her police work, keeping her secret from her partner and her family. Then there’s her pregnancy and how her lycanthropy could possibly affect her fetus. I want more.”
She smiled shyly and he hooked a hand around her head to drag her down for a hard kiss.
“And there are definitely some familiar aspects to the story. She got lost in a storm, huh? Stalked by a large animal?”
“Nowhere near as sweet as Luna.”
He dragged her onto him and she happily straddled his waist, her hands braced on his chest.
“You should be writing fiction full time, sugar. Not dallying in journalism, not editing, not waiting tables for your parents.”
“I have to pay the bills somehow,” she laughed.
“Hmm.” The hum was noncommittal as he closed his arms around her and tugged her down to lie on his chest. She rested her cheek on a well-defined pec, listening to the comforting, steady beat of his heart. The fingers of one of his hands idly played with her curls, while the other rested on her bum, kneading the flesh there almost absently.
They lay like that for a while. Neither of them speaking, just enjoying each other’s closeness.
“When I said that I thought maybe it was time for a new line of work I was serious,” Trystan said into the silence. “I don’t think I can do this anymore. I don’t want to do it anymore. Even before Trish’s death I’ve been feeling apathetic about it. I find myself loathing it. Despising everything that goes with it. The lack of privacy, the people constantly vying for my attention, men and women throwing themselves at me. I’m just so fucking tired of it all. That’s one of the reasons I believe in us, Iris. I could be just a regular guy, and you wouldn’t have to worry about all the other shit that goes along with dating someone like the man I was before. No invasive press, or screaming fans, or long periods apart while I’m on location.”
She propped her chin on the back of her hand to look into his face. He had to know that this was just a lovely dream, that he couldn’t just take a step back and be forgotten. He had one of the most recognizable faces in the world and that wasn’t going to change anytime soon. She didn’t point that out to him and instead she watched him thoughtfully.
“What would you do?” she asked.
His shoulders shifted and he shook his head, the gesture almost helpless.
