23. Two Down
23
TWO DOWN
Veronica
I’m on all fours, wearing my birthday suit and Milo’s handprint on my ass. His other hand is wrapped in my hair, and he is fucking the hell out of me.
It’s punishing in a dizzying way.
The pace, relentless. The smacking, loud. The hair pulling, bordering on painful. And I am lit up. Pleasure coils in my center. He drives deeper, grunting with every rough thrust. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he groans.
“So do you. But I want it harder,” I beg.
He growls, low and animalistic. “My cock or my hand?”
“Both,” I answer, and a roar rips from him.
He snaps his hips, fucking me ruthlessly while swatting my ass. A delicious burn sears through me, a warning sign that I’m close. I slide my hand between my legs, stroke my clit with a few fast flicks of my fingers, and then pleasure bursts, diamond bright.
Everywhere.
In every single cell.
Seconds later, he shouts coming , then he stills and shudders.
Spent, we collapse onto the bed, panting.
Gently, he eases out and flops next to me. He’s shaking his head, amused. Maybe amazed?
“What is it?” I ask, curious.
“Your sex drive is the greatest gift ever,” he says, then kisses my cheek.
I just smile. “So’s yours.”
He drops a kiss onto my lips. I sigh, happily but wistfully. I’ll miss his kisses when this ends.
I’ll miss them a lot .
Later, after we take out the pets, I show Milo my favorite books that I’ve edited. But when I remember my promise to Ashlee, I drop the book I’m holding and turn to Milo with a wicked smile.
“What’s that for?” he asks, pointing to my mouth.
I wiggle my brows. “Want to watch me . . .?”
The sound he makes sends shivers over my skin.
I grab the Butterfly, settle back on the pillows, and push off my panties. Then, I play with the toy for long and luxurious minutes until I send myself over the edge.
I’ve done this many times, but never for an audience. It’s better with his eyes on me the whole time.
But it’s also worse in its own way. We just checked two items off my list in one night.
In the morning, after Milo leaves and I shower, I check my email. I squeak when I see Tiffany’s name, then click on her note. Thanks so much for the email. I appreciate your résumé but unfortunately, Brooks & Bailey is going to pass .
I wince, feeling more ill than I’d have expected from a rejection. Something feels pointed about the words: We’re going to pass .
That’s much different than we’ll let you know or if there’s a fit, we’ll reach out . TJ is one of their most successful authors. And still, even with a referral, Brooks & Bailey isn’t leaving open the door. They’re kicking it closed.
They aren’t the only ones.
I try to slough off the ick as I get dressed for work, but despite a cute peach dress and my new panties with cat pawprints, my spirits just won’t lift.
I feel heavy, weighed down with the sense that time is running out. After I slick on lip gloss, I try on my skull earrings for luck, but I don’t feel lucky. They just remind me of the day I was dumb, dumb, dumb.
I take them out, tossing them hard on the vanity. One skids into the toilet. Great. Just great. Now I’m going to dip my fingers in toilet water. Plunging my hand in, I grab the earring, rinse it off, and wash my hands too. But I don’t put the earring back in my lobes.
I do not feel lucky, or good, or smart.
What’s the lesson now, world?
I’ve no idea, so I leash up my main squeeze. It’s a daycare day, so we head to Throw Me a Bone. Once StudMuffin’s settled into the small dog playroom, I leave, pop on shades, and check my email again. First, there’s a note from TJ’s friend Amelia. Hey girl! Love your social posts for the flower shop. Love the column. Love everything you do! I’m in London for a show but will write back with more details in a couple days . I have a work idea I want to run past you .
I respond with a can’t wait , since what else is there to say? I don’t plan to go into the social media business, but maybe social media wants a piece of me.
Possibly, it can fill the gap as I work on my return to books. I wish I were more excited about social media, but maybe I can learn to be excited about it in the same way I am about words and wit.
Then I scroll down and see some new messages.
My breath catches.
Lancaster Abel wrote back quickly. That’s my sister’s publisher. So did Dunbar Loraine. That’s fast too.
I cross my fingers as I walk down the street. Please let this be good news .
I click on the Lancaster Abel one first. Thanks so much for your email. What a delight to hear from one of our top author’s family members. So glad you love Hazel’s books too. We are thrilled to be publishing them. We will let you know if there are any openings. Many thanks.
My shoulders sag under the weight of disappointment.
I didn’t even warrant an informational interview in the spirit of nepotism. A lump rises rapidly in my throat. A tear slips from one eye, then the other. Blanche may have said nothing, but someone did.
There’s no other way I could be this dead to publishing, especially where I have ins like TJ and Hazel.
But I gird myself and click on the Dunbar Loraine note. My last hope.
Dear Veronica,
What a delight to hear from you! We’d love to chat. Can you come by tomorrow at four? If not, we can find another time.
Thanks so much,
Alfonso
Editor-At-Large
Oh. My. God.
I’m shaking. I’m so relieved and so happy I’m bouncing in my shoes. I jog the rest of the way to work, googling Alfonso’s name. I didn’t reach out to him directly, but an editor-at-large inquiry is super promising. When I get to Bikes and Blooms, I unlock the door, then yank it open with a loud clang.
I feel like an ingenue who just stepped off a bus in Hollywood. Hello, world. I’m here.
Milo’s bent over, working on a bike before we open. Trudy’s sleeping at his feet. He jerks his gaze to me, then takes off his glasses and sets them in his pocket.
“I have an interview tomorrow!”
His smile takes off for the moon. He’s the only one here, so he closes the distance between us in a heartbeat, scoops me up in his arms, and twirls me around. “I knew it! I knew they wouldn’t be able to keep their hands off you,” he says, his strong, inked arms circling me.
I’m giddy, so jazzed about this chance I’m crying again. But this time, they’re tears of relief. Or maybe possibility.
“Thank you. I can’t wait. Can you ask Iris to come in?” I ask, swiping my cheek.
He sets me down, tucks a strand of hair over my ear, then drops a kiss to one cheek, then the other, kissing away my tears. “Anything for you,” he says, then wraps his arms even tighter around my waist, gazing at me with such tenderness. “I’m excited for you, even though I don’t want to let you go.”
My breath hitches. Those words thrum through me. They warm my very bones. I know he only means it in relation to work, but a part of me wishes he meant me. Just me.
“I don’t even know if I’ll get the job,” I say, forcing this conversation to stay on the work front. No double meanings need apply.
“You will, and then you’ll be gone,” he says, wistfully, making it hard for me to stay in the work zone as dangerous thoughts flick through my head.
I don’t have to leave you. We could keep doing this. I won’t even be working here much longer, regardless.
Then he hums against me, gathering me closer, stroking my hair. “I’ll miss seeing you every day,” he whispers, and my heart thunders.
My goddess, he’s killing me with his sweetness. I want to blurt out my big, blooming feelings for him, tell the man I want more than a list. But he’s stated his position—he needs to heal. He’s been hurt. I have to respect that.
I smile against him, then steal a glance at the clock. The store opens in ten minutes. Maybe a trip back to the sex zone will do the trick. I’ll recalibrate too, on the sex list, and only the list.
“How sturdy is your desk?” I ask.
We find out it’s very sturdy, indeed.