Chapter Twenty

“God, you’re insatiable,” I say in a pant. My voice is raspy from screaming.

Luke grins, propping his head on a palm, elbow resting on the mattress. “What can I say? You’re too delicious.” He strokes my cheek with the backs of his fingers.

I flush as the warm, tingly sensation intensifies. He’s not being particularly eloquent. Nor is he being dirty. But the way he speaks—like he’s pointing out the most obvious truth and I should just accept it—makes the most ordinary words out of his mouth a huge turn-on.

“And I like having you come on my face. And around my fingers. Then around my dick. Again and again and again.”

I groan. I did come rather shamelessly. Multiple times. I can’t even count now, because I’m tired and my brain’s as mushy—and about as nimble—as a sack of mashed potatoes. “I knew you were a steak, but I legit didn’t realize I’ve been dining on nothing but dollar burgers.”

“Dollar burgers?”

“Uh-huh.” I stretch. My muscles are sore, but it’s a good sore, like after a hard training day.

He laughs. “Told you. Chemistry.” He winks. “And patience. And skills.”

“Let’s not forget stubbornness.”

No amount of begging on my part could sway him to hurry when I he was determined to take his time. Not that I’m terribly upset about that now.

I look around the bedroom. It has a few paintings and guidebooks on Virginia and D.C., but nothing else—not even a family photo. Then I remember this is an Airbnb. Even if it weren’t, why would he have pictures of people who openly belittle what he does?

Because they’re family.

Oh, yeah…

I clear my throat. “By the way, you aren’t, you know…terribly unhappy about the way things went between…um…your parents and me?”

He blinks, then shrugs, although he can’t quite hide a grin that said we’re sharing a secret. “No, although you surprised all of us.”

“I did?”

“The whole thing about reading my books.”

Oh, that. I clear my throat. “I didn’t. Not really.” I hope he isn’t crushed I’m not going to gush about him being my favorite author. I can lie only so much.

“Oh?”

“I don’t even know your pen name.” If he wrote under his own name, it’d have shown up in my searches.

His eyebrows pull together, creating three vertical lines. “I thought you hacked it or something.”

I chortle. “I wish. I can’t just hack whatever fact I want.”

“Doesn’t this make you—what was it?—intellectually naughty?”

“The word I used was ‘intellectually dishonest.’ And no, it doesn’t. How else am I supposed to fight intellectual dishonesty?”

“With honesty?”

“No!” I sit up. “How do you think Harry Potter defeated Voldemort?”

“With Ron and Hermione.”

My jaw drops. Did we even read the same series? “No! With magic!” I make a swishing motion like I’m wielding a wand. “See, your dad’s intellectual dishonesty is dark intellectual dishonesty, and my intellectual dishonesty is the good kind, which is needed to defeat the bad. Every story has this—good superpower versus bad superpower. Good dragons versus White Walker dragon.” I frown. “Why am I telling you this? You should know. You’re a writer.”

“I don’t write fantasy,” he says.

I sniff. “Still. That’s no excuse. In the book you saw me read on the plane—”

His eyes gleam.

“—there’s no magic. Just guns and nukes. When bad guys use them, they become bad weapons. When the hero uses them, they become instruments of good.”

“You’ve actually put some thought into this.”

“I just have a strong worldview. If you want, I’ll lend you my copy of Free Radicals so you can see what I mean.”

Luke looks at me. “There’s no need.”

“I don’t mind. I’m done with the book,” I say. “But if my intellectual dishonesty really bothers you, tell me your pseudonym, and I’ll buy your latest and read it.” When he hesitates, I flutter my eyelashes. “Pretty please?”

He considers, then says, “R.C. Miller.”

“Yeah, that’s the author of Free Ra—” Suddenly I stop. “Wait. What?”

“R.C. Miller.”

“What do you write?” I ask, leaning toward him. Just in case this is some R.C. Miller who writes cozy mysteries. Writers can have similar names. It is possible.

Luke grins. “Thrillers.”

I gasp, then bounce a little bit because…hot damn. “Oh my God! You are the R.C. Miller? Like, you seriously wrote Free Radicals?”

He nods.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because. I didn’t want to prejudice you against my latest book and have you one-star it.”

I flush. Yeah. I was pretty irritated with him back then. But I’m confident I’m big enough not to rate a book badly due to personal feelings about the author. “But later? I could’ve told everyone I’m dating my favorite author.”

“Yeah, that’s another reason.”

I tilt my head. “I don’t get it.”

“I didn’t want you to say yes because I’m your favorite author. It’d be like a guy saying he wants to go out with you because you developed his favorite app.”

Huh. Now that he put it that way, it does feel vaguely…off-putting…like a poopy diaper.

“I wanted you to say yes because you like me.”

“Worry not. I would date you even if you weren’t my favorite author.”

He smiles. “I know. Now.”

“But…” Then I remember something and stop. “Aren’t you married?”

“What?”

“Your author bio said you were married. With kids.” The only reason why I’m not jumping out of my skin is because there’s a possibility the bio’s outdated. Hey, shit happens. People don’t always update their website or their Facebook pages…

“I’m not. It’s a lie.”

“Why would you lie about something like that?” I almost had a heart attack.

“Got tired of stalkerish behavior from certain female fans. Thought it might discourage them.”

“Huh.” That makes sense. I’d probably do the same if I were in a similar situation.

“And R.C. Miller is a fake persona. I don’t even manage the social media accounts for that name. My assistant does.” His belly grumbles.

Mine does too, and we laugh. “Let’s get dressed,” I say. “I’ll feed you.”