The Shameless Snap: When all else fails, lift your phone, focus the camera, and just take the fucking picture.

Best for: Situations where being stealthy is not possible or necessary.

Do not use: If the subject of your photo is prone to violence, or has diplomatic immunity (or both).

 

 

*Annie*

“I don’t know how else to say this other than…I resign.”

Joan blinked at me three times very slowly over steepled fingers and with a blank expression.

“I see….” she said.

I fiddled with the envelope and then placed it on her desk. We stared at each other for a long moment, her expression giving away nothing of her thoughts. She didn’t take the envelope.

I was just about to explain myself when she continued, “Yes. I see. It’s for the best. I was going to have to fire you. Dara Evans has already called about that article you wrote on St. Patrick’s Day as well as your little coming-out article this morning. She wants to sue us. Your resigning makes sense for the company.”

I nodded, firming my lips. I was a disappointed. I think part of me hoped Joan wouldn’t let me resign. I liked my job most of the time, especially when I was working with public figures who deserved the good reputation and ideal image I helped them achieve.

But I was also relieved.

Helping people like Dara Evans had always felt like trying to put a shine on poop.

“Thank you for everything, Joan.”

I gave her a half smile, and her eyebrows lifted a notch, betraying a hint of surprise.

“Are you referring to when you lost your shit, or are you referring to all my excellent professional mentorship over the last year?”

“All of it. Thank you. You’re a…you’re a good friend.”

“No, I’m not, but it’s cute that you think so.” She leaned forward suddenly and snatched the letter off the desk, held it lightly in her right hand. “Of course, I’m not going to let you off so easily. You have accounts of key clients still in your queue. I expect you to stay on in a consulting position for an indefinite period of time.”

I blinked my surprise. “You want me—you want me to—you—”

“We’ll pay you your hourly rate as a contractor. Rachel will send you the details tomorrow. Also, it would be best if you and Mr. Fitzpatrick got married at some point, had a few beautiful children that played rugby. Everyone loves a DILF.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. It was shocked, quiet and soft at first, but then it erupted into an uncontrollable fit of giggles. Joan’s expression did change then. She looked both dismayed and diverted.

“Oh, my lord. What is that sound you are making? Is that…a laugh?”

I shook my head, then nodded, and then shook my head again, holding up one hand as I clutched my belly with the other.

Joan glanced at me askance. “For the love of God, don’t ever laugh in public. No one will forgive you for it. You’ll be ridiculed, Ronan will go on an assault spree, and then Ian will have a mental breakdown trying to clean up the mess.”

***

Gerta cried when I told her the news but then stopped crying when I told her I would be staying on as a consultant. I was surprised by the force of her reaction and found myself comforting her with an awkward one-armed embrace. She laughed at my lack of ability to comfort and pulled me into a full hug.

“Oh, Annie….” she sighed; I felt her shake her head against my shoulder. “Now we can be friends outside of work, too.”

I was speechless. Friends. I was going to have friends. Ronan’s mother Jackie, his sister Lucy, the wives and girlfriends of his teammates…these would be my friends. Being with Ronan would mean an instant circle of friends.

And then it hit me that all my online friends, the ones I’d made as The Socialmedialite, might now become actual, in-real-life friends. This thought felt a little overwhelming and a lot exciting. Being with me might mean an instant circle of new friendships for Ronan as well. Maybe WriteALoveSong and I would meet for lunch, or go to the movies, or hang out like real people.

Maybe he and Ronan would become good friends, too, especially after I explained that WriteALoveSong—whose real name was Broderick—had helped me understand that I needed to go public with both my feelings for Ronan and my identity as The Socialmedialite. Broderick’s idea had been tamer, less risky than what I ultimately decided, but his original suggestion made me recognize that I needed to take a risk and now was the time.

Gerta left to find me some boxes, and Ronan appeared a moment later, bursting into my office with restless energy and a stern expression. Even so, my smile was immediate.

“Ronan.” I beamed, crossing to him.

“You quit? You quit your job? Why? Did Joan make you? Because if she did, I swear to God I’m going to—”

“No, wait. Listen—it’s not like that.” I reached for his hands, needing to touch him. Our reunion this morning had been too short, and I was low on sleep. I needed the feel of him to prove that I wasn’t dreaming while awake.

“Then what’s it like? Because that fuckface Ian Shitforbrains stopped me in the hall and told me you were in Joan’s office and you quit. You are fucking awesome at your job, Annie; and if they can’t see that, then they’re all wankers, the lot of them.”

My smile widened as I rushed to explain, “It was my decision. I quit on my own, with no pressure from Joan. In fact, she wants me to stay on as a consultant.”

His eyes narrowed. “She’s not pushing you into staying on, is she?”

“No.” Rather than laugh at his expression of suspicion, I pressed my lips together and added, “It’ll be the best of both worlds. As a consultant, I’ll be able to pick and choose which clients I work with. It’ll be great. I’m very pleased.”

“Hmm….” He surveyed me, searching for sincerity. Obviously finding it, his expression cleared. “Okay. Good. I guess this also means more working from home?”

“Yes. I’ll be working from home all the time now. No more office visits.” I glanced around my office and realized with a little pang that I was actually going to miss the three walls and window view. My days here, even though they were sparse, were the only times I had to leave my apartment. Now I would have nothing to force me from my home other than my own will.

I felt the weight of Ronan’s stare and turned my attention back to him. He was watching me with a heated and focused longing that nearly stole my breath. Searching my gaze, his own growing almost devilish, he lifted his hand to my cheek, his fingers wrapping around my neck, and tugged me closer.

“It’s a shame that we never christened this office….” he whispered against my mouth.

“Christened?”

“Fucked on the desk.”

“Oh!”

He slipped his arm around my waist and crushed me to him, his mouth fiercely colliding with mine, his hands possessive. We hadn’t been separated that long. Measured in time, we’d made love four days ago, but the emotional distance between us had been boundless—at least it had felt that way to me. His touch, possessive verging on desperate, told me he felt the same.

Peripherally, I heard Gerta’s squeak, followed by the sound of the door clicking shut. Ronan’s kisses grew softer, more loving, cherishing, even as he walked me backward to the desk. His deft fingers untucked my shirt and adroitly moved to the clasp of my bra.

I pulled my mouth away. My protests—though based in logic—were largely half-hearted. “Wait, we have—we have so much to talk about, to settle. I love you, and I want you to know that I—”

“Hush, Annie dearest. We have the rest of our lives to talk, and I promise we will; but we only have ten more minutes in this office.”

“But…but I have no restraints.”

Ronan pulled three inches away, his hands lifting to cradle my face as the back of my thighs met the desk. His dark eyes were foggy with lust, but there was a sweetness present, too, a welling of sincerity and emotion.

“My love….” He paused, kissed the tip of my nose, and whispered, “I don’t always want you tied up. I want you free. I want you wild. I want you brave. I want you any way I can get you. I want you now, and I want you for the rest of my life.”

I faltered, not knowing what to do, how to touch him. He must’ve seen the indecision in my eyes because he gripped my hands and slipped them under his shirt to the bare skin of his stomach.

“I want you to touch me, Annie. I want to feel your hands on me. Don’t you want that, too?”

Really, his words were all the invitation I needed. I dug my fingers into the ridges of his stomach and around his sides, feeling a sudden sense of greedy urgency. I kissed him—I kissed him. He groaned his approval. All thought of living underground, giving up bravery for safety, fled and would never been seen again.

I absolutely could not stop touching him. He felt hot and smooth under my fingers, hard and delicious. That’s right, he felt delicious, and I wanted to taste him, bite him, consume him.

Hurriedly, I pushed his shirt up to his collarbone and bent to lick and bite his chest, my hands moving to his pants. He made quick work of lifting my skirt and helping me step out of my panties. I half noticed he shoved them in his pants pocket just before I opened his belt, button, and fly and stuffed my hand down his boxer briefs.

We both sucked in a sharp breath, his palms coming to my breasts, kneading me through my bra. I stroked him, and he released a shaky breath and a “fuck.” This was my first time touching him like this, and I felt like I might spontaneously combust with lust. He was thick and long and hard and male and hot and so fucking sexy. The power I felt, holding him in my hand, encircling his perfect cock with my fingers. I was powerful. I was in control.

I stroked him again, and his patience snapped. In one swift motion, Ronan lifted me to the desk, swatted my hand away, and stepped between my spread legs. He then buried himself to the hilt with a single inelegant, swift thrust.

My hands went to his bottom, my nails digging into more delicious skin, and I pressed him to my center. I threw my head back as he pumped in and out. He lowered his mouth to my neck, biting and sucking and licking, tasting me as I longed to taste him. I lifted my chin and caught his lips, my fingers moving to his back and then his shoulders.

I anchored him to me with my hands, by winding my legs around his. I couldn’t get enough of his body, the friction and heat we made. I pulled back an inch and focused on his face, found him gritting his teeth, his jaw ticking, his eyes shut tightly.

My heart dropped, and I stiffened with disappointment. “Ronan, do you not like this? Should I not touch you?”

“No. God, no. It feels so good. You feel fucking fantastic. Don’t stop.” His head dropped to my shoulder, and he made a sound like a growl.

“Are you sure? Why-why are your eyes closed?”

“Because if I look at you while you’re touching me like that and making those soft, sexy sounds and feeling wet and tight and like heaven around my dick, then I’m going to come in ten seconds.”

My breath hitched, and I arched my back as he paired this speech with a sharp pinch to my nipple, sending a wave of coiling warmth to my lower belly. I was close, and his words pushed me closer. We were a tangled mass of limbs, and I was sitting bare-assed on my desk with my skirt hiked around my waist, and Ronan Fitzpatrick was fucking me, and it was uncomfortable and ungraceful and sexy as hell.

“Right now, Annie. Come for me now.” He moved his thumb to my clit and rubbed, his entire body taut, straining; a bead of sweat trickled down the side of his face. The sight of him so close to losing control was all that I needed to push me cresting into completion.

Ronan released a string of nonsense which might have been a foreign language, his pace frantic, his eyes finally open as he followed me, watching me, finding his own end and lingering there inside me, the final rocking movements of our bodies meant to prolong our shared pleasure.

He was breathing hard as he wrapped me in his arms, crushing me to him. His skin was damp, his heart beat like it wanted to leap out of his chest, and he was still speaking in some unknown language.

“What—what is that? What are you saying?” My breaths were still labored.

“It’s Irish, and I’m promising you forever. You have to marry me, Annie. Say yes.”

“I told you in the car. Yes, I will marry you.” I smiled against his hard chest.

“And it’s not just the sex—but I’m not going to lie, the thought of not having sex with you again makes me want to die—it’s you. It’s seeing you every day, it’s the way you look at me, it’s watching you come into your own, it’s how you touch me, it’s your generosity, your beauty, it’s you.”

My smile turned soft, and I snuggled closer. “You like how I touch you?”

“Yes. It’s addictive. Never stop.”

“Does this mean you won’t tie me up anymore?”

He paused, stilled, and then leaned away, searched my face. His eyes were bright with reverence and devotion. “You tell me.”

“I like touching you. I like touching you a lot.”

“Then—”

I hurried to add, “But I also like not touching you.”

His gaze warmed with happiness and maybe a little amusement.

“Then we’ll do both. My only stipulation is that I have a safe word, too.”

My eyebrows jumped as I stared up at him, and I felt the stirrings of a quizzical grin on my lips. “You want a safe word?”

“Yes.” He lifted his fingers to my now messy hair and tucked it behind my ears, his poorly suppressed smile claiming his features.

I crossed my arms over my chest and cleared my throat as I watched him expectantly. “And what will your safe word be?”

“Éclair.”

“Éclair?”

“Yes,” he said, his smile now enormous, his brown eyes bright with mischief and affection.

“Why éclair?”

“Because, love….” Ronan cupped my cheeks in his palms and tilted my head back as he lowered his lips to mine. He brushed a soft kiss over my parted mouth and then whispered, “I’ve always wanted you to eat me like an éclair.”

He wanted me to react, be shocked at his lascivious suggestion—typical, wonderful, dirty-minded Ronan.

Instead, I ignored the intent of his statement and pressed, “But doesn’t that undermine the purpose of a safe word?” His languid near-kisses were making me feel warm and fuzzy all over.

Ronan chuckled, nipped my bottom lip, made sure my eyes were on his as he responded, “Oh, Annie, I’ll never be safe with you.”