Page 53 of Philippa Flynn’s Year of Panic and Piracy

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Mmmm,” she hummed, and god, that voice. She could ask him for his sword, his beloved ship, his life right now, and he’d lay it at her feet. “I want you, of course. The famous Zane Scarlett, who single-handedly bested seven platoons with only his sword and his wits, who reversed the curse of the salted moon, who sent the ghosts of Grim Gulley back to their graves and used their unguarded gold to save the city of Triton’s Reach. I want you. All of you.” She released her skirts to reach forward and cup his—

“Wait. What term do we use here?” I ask. “Cock? Dick? Penis? Hard length? None of them sounds remotely romantic or right. Penis is too clinical, dick is too modern, cock sounds like a rooster’s about to spring from his trousers, and hard length sounds like we’re being coy.”

Dylan lets out a soft breath of laughter behind me. I spin around in the desk chair to see him scratching the back of his very red, very splotchy neck.

“I, um,” he stammers, “anything I say right now will sound like something I don’t mean.”

“Such as?”

“Such as your grandmother liked cock.”

I burst into laughter. Dylan’s entire face goes tomato red.

“She also liked rock-hard cock,” he adds. “And she was fond of a straining erection.”

“Oh my god,” I choke out through my sputters. “How did you do this with her?”

“Honestly, it was easier than this.”

“Because she knew what she was doing? As a writer, I mean. I don’t even want to speculate on her skills with a straining erection.”

Dylan blows out a sigh. He looks out the window. At the laptop. At the ceiling.

“Because it felt more technical,” he says. “The writing. Not the, um, other thing.”

I’m still struggling not to laugh at all of this, but Dylan only looks mildly amused, a faint twitch dancing at the corner of his lips while he tries to suppress his obvious embarrassment. His discomfort surprises me. I was sure between the two of us, I’d be the one turning red when we got to our first sex scene. I’m the one who lies in bed at night, fantasizing about him on the other side of the wall. He’s enacted some of these moments while posing for the covers, and he’s written scenes like this before. I’ve also seen the way women look at him. Surely, he’s had plenty of—

Dylan halts my thoughts with a look, one that wills me to understand something without his having to spell it out. My amusement fades, too sharp a contrast with his earnestness.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to devolve into adolescent humor.” I spin toward the laptop, straightening up and attempting to look professional. “I can be technical, too. I swear.”

“Yeah. Um . . .” Dylan shifts behind me. “That won’t solve the problem.”

I turn his way again, waiting for him to explain. He gives me another don’t make me say it look, pleading with his eyes while his jaw clenches and he locks his arms across his chest, like he’s trying not to fidget. I can’t help it. I check for a straining erection, wondering if that’s the problem. It doesn’t appear to be the problem, especially since he’s making no effort to hide that area of his body, but we can’t exactly dive back into the scene right now.

“Should we break for truth or dare?” I ask.

“We should definitely not break for truth or dare.”

“Pretty sure it’s my turn. You can make me do something really embarrassing if it helps.”

He shakes his head. “It doesn’t.”

“Don’t you have a dare saved up already?”

He looks to the ceiling again, like he’s begging it to reveal something other than cracks, cobwebs, and water damage. The last time I saw him this flustered, he was returning from his run the morning after the storm, wide-eyed, panting from exertion, and like whatever he was about to say would burst out of him if he didn’t release it the instant he could form the words.

Although . . . he never did form the words.

Recalling that moment leads me to others. His thumb caressing my hand the day we assessed his old mattress, the night we slept together, tightly entwined, and the embrace in the wicker chair. Moments when I wasn’t the only one reaching for him. He reached for me, too.

I mean, it’s not impossible . . .

And if we really want something . . .

As his gaze drops to meet mine, I swear he can read my thoughts. He knows that whatever walls I’ve erected over these last few months, I’m ready to smash them down. What he’s ready for, I can only guess. And pray I’m not guessing wrong.