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“All the more reason to avoid answering it.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Mum had recently started creating and selling her own NFTs. Hers were photographs of Grimalkin sleeping in various strange and unusual places around the bookshop. One person had purchased one with some weird cryptocurrency, and now Mum thought she’d make a fortune. She didn’t even know how to cash in her crypto for actual money. I don’t know how Grimalkin put up with being posed and photographed all the time, but my grandmother had been sleeping more than usual lately. Either way, my mother’s interest in cryptocurrency was a new source of stress in my life, and Heathcliff was right in that it was nice not to have her and her phone camera underfoot.
“Of course I’m right.” Heathcliff patted his knee. “Come here and rejoice in the fact that for a whole week, you are far away from Helen Wilde’s insanity.”
Even though I was desperate for a hot shower and to start getting ready, I couldn’t resist that deep, gravelly voice. I crossed the floor and settled down on his knee. Heathcliff had removed his wet trousers, and his damp skin was warm against mine as he wrapped his arms around me and tucked me into his shoulder. He was sitting on an enormous, egg-shaped chair facing a fireplace containing a modern gas fire, and the chair cocooned us both. In this little corner, it really did feel like nothing in the real world mattered anymore.
Heathcliff pulled me into one of his bone-crushing hugs. I breathed in his spicy, peaty scent. I loved the way he held me like this, so tight that nothing or no one could separate us. “I can’t believe we’re not in Argleton anymore.”
“Good riddance.” Heathcliff pressed his lips to my forehead, his beard brushing my skin. “I’m pleased to see the back of that dump.”
I raised an eyebrow. “This from the same Heathcliff who only says ‘morning’ to people, because if you were having a ‘good morning,’ then you’d be in bed and not talking to people.”
“Don’t worry.” Heathcliff tapped the book he’d discarded on the arm of the chair. “I fully intend to ignore people here, too.”
“As long as you’re on-brand.”
“Hey, look at this.” I glanced over my shoulder as Morrie held up something square and white from my suitcase. He held it closer, and I realized it was the stack of manuscripts I’d printed off. I’d made my notes on them digitally and printed them off to exchange with the other writers. “No wonder my car didn’t make it across the river. Mina was weighing us down withWar and Peaceover here.”
“That’s notWar and Peace. It’s the excerpts from the other writers’ novels. I had to mark them up with my notes as part of the retreat.”
And I was nervous about that part of the retreat, too. I’d never done anything like that before. And tomorrow I’d find out what they thought about my book. My verypersonalbook about a blind amateur sleuth who solved mysteries with her three boyfriends who were all famous men from literature…
My stomach twisted. What if they hated it? How was I going to survive this weekend?
Maybe I’m not cut out to be a writer…
Heathcliff must have sensed what I was feeling, because he always did. He knew me better than I knew myself. He squeezed me tighter and brushed his lips across my forehead again. “Whatever they say about you, remember that you’re Mina Wilde and you’reourheroine.”
My chest fluttered at his words. I squeezed him back. “I’ll try. I’m so nervous I don’t even know if I’ll be able to eat tonight. I wish I could stop thinking about it.”
“Do you want to know what I’m thinking about right now?” Heathcliff’s deep voice rumbled against my earlobe.
“What?”
“I’m thinking about how the rain has made that bra of yours cling inallthe right places.”
His hand swiped up my side, his fingers dancing over the damp fabric of my bra to brush my nipple, which was already hard from the cold. It stiffened and tingled beneath his touch.
And suddenly, I wasn’t thinking about manuscript critiques any longer.
Heathcliff tipped my head back and claimed my mouth with his. Gone were the nerves about meeting the acclaimed publisher in an hour. All that mattered were Heathcliff’s demanding lips on mine and his body melting around me.
“We only have an hour until dinner…” I moaned as he pushed up my sodden bra to stroke the rough pad of his thumb over my nipple.
“I don’t need an hour. I’m perfectly dressed for dinner.”
I threw one leg over his and rearranged myself so I was straddling him. Even though Heathcliff was a beast of a man, there was plenty of room for both of us in the chair. He groaned against me, thrusting his hips up to grind his hardness between my legs. Only the thin fabric of my panties separated us. We were both still dripping wet from our swim in the river and the subsequent drizzle, but it was nothing on the wetness I could feel soaking my panties as Heathcliff deepened the kiss.
Kissing Heathcliff was like throwing yourself over a cliff. It was falling into darkness with his arms around you, knowing, believing, that he would always be there to catch you. Heathcliff’s hand cupped the column of my throat and he drew me deeper, sending a surge of warmth through my body.
My fingers fumbled with the buttons of his sodden black shirt, popping them open one by one and tossing the offending fabric in the general direction of the bed.
“What gives?” Morrie yelled. I must’ve hit him with the shirt, but then he’d turned and saw us because he said, “Ah, I see.” And a moment later, he bent over the chair, his chest pressed against my back and his teeth scraped along my collarbone.
“Let us get you out of these wet clothes, gorgeous.” Morrie’s hands stroked the sensitive undersides of my arms as he unhooked my bra and tossed it away. Heathcliff’s lips never left mine, his kiss deep and needy, and his fingers teased and rolled my nipples until I was ready to beg for more.
Morrie – who did so love to be in control of these things – scraped his fingers down Heathcliff’s chest, leaving scratch marks that made Heathcliff shudder with pleasure. Morrie picked up Heathcliff’s belt from where he’d tossed it beside the fire.
