by Poppy Dunne
As I enter the last few paragraphs into my Word document, I sneak a glance at Rafe. He’s sprawled on the couch, still asleep. I could be wrong, but I think his mouth quirks into a smile briefly. I’ve seen him intense, happy, wild, worried, turned on, and everything in between, but never peaceful. I feel like it’s a new side of him.
I think I like it.
I finish up the scene where Taisa and Roran have escaped King Amneor’s prison. They’re fleeing into the woods, the sounds of pursuit not far behind. I pause, then type a little more. When the muse speaks, you listen…especially when your muse looks like Rafe McCarthy.
Taisa moaned as she broke through the underbrush, dragging the stubborn prince behind her. He, the fool, was attempting to look back and wave his sword at the pursuers. He also shouted something about how the evening’s tribulations had been positively restorative, and then something about all the men’s wives giving him greater exertion.
Taisa sometimes wondered if she’d sworn her bow to the strangest prince in all creation.
“Your Highness, we can’t let them catch us. Not when you’re still injured.” She allowed Roran to stumble and lean upon her. She carried his weight well, and they continued through the forest. Moonlight silvered the path ahead.
“Tell me something, Taisa. All of my other sworn servants have gone to my uncle’s side.” He paused on the trail, gazing down on her with dark, glinting eyes. “Why do you remain?”
She did not avert her gaze, though she wished she could. Praying the moon did not reveal her blush, she said, “You were good to me when no one else was, Highness. My family does not forget its debts of gratitude or blood.”
He hummed low in his throat. It seemed he was displeased by her answer, but he said no more. They continued into the forest, praying they’d come across the tribesmen that Willem had mentioned. They wouldn’t make it to the mountain pass alive otherwise. Finally, Roran spoke once again.
“If you’ll remain loyal to me, Taisa, I will remain so to you. Always.”
She scarce drew breath. His voice had taken on a quality she had never heard before, one of seemingly infinite tenderness. He stopped her then, his hand cupping her cheek. His touch was warm, and the promises in his eyes filled with something tantalizingly dark…and also something true. She did not speak, and nor did he. In the moonlight, he lowered his head and kissed her.
I stop there and sigh. Ah, well. If you can’t find it in real life, there’s always fiction.
Eight
Tessa
When I open my eyes, the room is filled with sunlight and I might be drooling out the side of my mouth. Horrified, I bolt upright and check my surroundings. I’m still in my jeans and sweatshirt. I’m still on Rafe’s couch, in his apartment. I look across the coffee table to my sleeping boss.
Except he’s not asleep. He’s very wide awake, and he’s sitting at the edge of the sofa with my laptop on his knees. My laptop that he is reading, might I add, and looking absolutely wrapped up in—
Oh no.
“Hey! That’s private!” I practically roll across the coffee table like a grown-up, and snatch the computer away. He blinks at me, looking entirely unruffled. He changed his clothes while I was asleep, and is now in a much more comfortable-looking black tee shirt that hugs the muscular planes of his body and reveals every single divot in his chest and stomach and…
No, I’m not getting distracted. Rafe was reading my book; I’m mad.
“Sorry, you were asleep. I picked it up to put it away, and saw what you were working on.” He raises an eyebrow. “Tessa, I didn’t know you could write.”
Flustered, I slip my laptop back into its bag and rush to get my shoes. I’m being a child about this. I know I am. But that world is mine. It’s one of the few things that I have all to myself. I don’t want to share it with anyone, not even Rafe.
God, considering how he’s adding more and more color and character to Roran by the day, especially not Rafe.
“I’m sorry.” I hear him get up as I finish putting my sneakers on. “Look, don’t go.”
“I have to. I have to get ready for work. The place where we both have to be, you know? That job thing? I can’t show up dressed like I’m thirty minutes late for my math final.” I have never been this flustered in my life. I ignore the sunrise over the city streets, the shadows in the canyons of the buildings, and concentrate on never looking Rafe McCarthy in the face ever again. I think I can manage, so long as he doesn’t ever talk to me. As I turn to go, he puts a hand on my shoulder. It’s gentle but firm.
“Tessa. I will drive you home. It’ll be faster.” I finally sneak a glance up at his stupid (gorgeous), arrogant (miraculous) face. He’s still a bit stubbled—hasn’t shaved yet. He looks like a freshly roused god in casual wear, just hanging around the house. And Rafe looks, well, extremely nonplussed by how psycho I’m acting right now. “I’m sorry I read your book. I should have asked first, but if you want the truth I thought it was fantastic.” He doesn’t sound placating or condescending; he appears perfectly cool and honest. “You have a gift. If it embarrasses you, it shouldn’t.”
“Um.” Please. Please think of actual words to say. You’re a semi-talented writer, according to the hottest man alive. Word good. “Thank you. But I should go.”
“We’ve got time, and I don’t want you staggering out of my place at the crack of dawn in disarray. That’s too much like my old college days.” He cracks a grin then, fire lighting his dark eyes. The handsome, cocksure bastard. “At least let me get something in you first.”
Freudian slip. Hell, I think it was a Freudian sprawl down seven flights of stairs. We both realize it at the same time. I have to keep my gaze from roaming his body hungrily. I mean, more hungrily than usual.
“Er, you mean food, right?” I ask.
“Yes. Food. We’ll go with food. Food exists.” He gestures to the kitchen, around the bend on the other side of the apartment. “Help yourself to whatever you want. I need a shower.”
He walks away while I slip my bag to the floor and head to the kitchen. There, stomach growling, I do my best not to think of Rafe McCarthy standing naked under a hot spray of water while it runs in rivulets down his sculpted arms and torso and trickles along the flat, chiseled planes of his abs and all the way down to his massive…
Of course the first thing I pick up is a banana. I drop it, then turn to the stainless steel fridge. Inside, I find it’s nicely stocked; wonder if he has anyone do his shopping for him? Who am I kidding, he undoubtedly does.
My God, who can get fresh figs at this time of year? I’m in heaven.
I check the time; only 7:20. If he drives me home and back to work, we’re not running late at all. Maybe there’s time for a real breakfast. Maybe something light and simple. Some yogurt with granola, maybe a few berries.
Yes, of course I’m making an omelette with this imported Gruyere cheese, do I look like an idiot?
As I’m setting out the plates and flipping the omelette over to cook on the other side, Rafe enters. He’s vigorously toweling his hair, and is wearing a white button-down with the top few buttons still undone. Oh God, I nearly burn myself. We don’t want to go to the hospital right now; “I burned myself because I was horny” sounds too embarrassing.
“Promise me that doesn’t have gummy bears in it.” He grins as he pours himself a cup of coffee, takes a sip, and nods in appreciation. If there’s one thing an assistant needs to know, it’s how to brew fabulous coffee. That and typing, but typing’s second.
“Sorry, Mr. McCarthy. Gummies are an evening delicacy. For breakfast, I usually garnish with Pop Rocks. You’re all out.” I turn off the stove and halve the omelette, sliding the pieces onto the plates. Rafe takes a fork and samples my wares. Sadly, I don’t mean that in a sexy way. He shakes his head, an action which makes the water spiking his hair shine.
“Good?” I don’t care about the answer. Not at all. That’s why I’m watching with rapt attention, ready to faint
dead away if the answer is no. I’m fine.
“I think I’m going to change your job description. I up your salary, you show here every morning and cook for me.” He takes another bite, closing his eyes in bliss. I would not mind seeing a blissful, freshly showered Rafe every morning.
“How much of a raise?” I take a bite myself, and am prepared to die of a joygasm. With ingredients like these, how could it not be perfect?
“I’m generous. Fifty cents more an hour sound about right?”
“I’ll tell Tiny Tim we can have a real goose this Christmas.”
Rafe laughs, pours me some coffee as well, and sits at the counter. Well, it’d be rude not to join. We sit opposite each other in silence for a minute, while I try not to keep sneaking glances at him. He’s clean-shaven now; clean or scruffy, this man has a jaw that other jaws would shake their fists at in envy. That is, if jaws had fists.
I’d better drink some more coffee and wake the hell up.
“So.” I swallow. “You, uh, liked my book?” God, let the probably incredibly expensive wooden floor open me up and take me away. I can’t help it, though. I’m curious. “Not, uh, not that I care.” That all came out in one garbled rush. Go me.
“Like I said, it’s excellent. I don’t like fantasy that much,” he says, looking at me with a pleased expression. “But there’s something about the way you write. It’s so accessible.”
Ah, the double-edged sword of praise—and this is fantasy, so it’s a magic sword with a ruby on the pommel. On the one hand, being told my writing is accessible is fantastic. On the other hand, whenever people insult fantasy, relegating it to the “nerdy” dungeon of forty-five-year-old basement-dwelling neckbeards, I get my feathers ruffled. Feathers, dragon wings, same difference.
“What other fantasy do you know?” I can’t help myself, folks. I’m about to school the man of my dreams, thus ensuring he will never, ever want to engage in sexytimes with me. There’s a reason I’ll likely never breed.
“Game of Thrones. Lord of the Rings.” Rafe appears puzzled, that “where is this going?” look emerging.
“Books?”
“No, movies and late night HBO hangovers.” He grins. “Did I hit a nerve, Ms. Snowe?”
“I like to read,” I say primly, taking a sip of coffee. Rafe laughs, a sound that curls my toes and weakens my spine. Not in a medically unsafe way, I promise. “So many people won’t give fantasy a chance because it’s not ‘grown-up’ enough. But there are so many great, intelligent authors out there. Ursula Le Guin created a whole archipelago of magic, George R.R Martin used the War of the Roses as an influence…”
“I see your point.” Rafe takes my plate and his to the sink. Running the faucet, he says, “What got you hooked? Too many rounds of Dungeons and Dragons as a kid?”
“No.” I drop my gaze to my coffee. “My parents died.”
I know that the “dead parents” bomb is a hell of a thing to throw into a conversation about fantasy, especially when it’s all been low-grade flirty so far, but it’s the truth. Rafe looks up. All the smirk has gone from his expression. His dark eyes are attentive. “I’m sorry.”
“It wasn’t your fault. Talk to the guy who got drunk and ran a stop sign.” I never feel comfortable revealing painful childhood memories. It always seems to be a cry for attention, and I’m not such a fan. I’ve always preferred being the person at the side of the train car or right in the middle of the classroom. Comfortably unnoticeable, that’s me. Rafe sits back down; I have his undivided attention. I can sense it, like a warm, pleasant weight on my skin. My tongue gets heavy in my mouth just thinking about him being at all interested in what I have to say. “After they passed, I had to take care of so many things. My grandpa wasn’t the world’s cleanest guy, and I had to bug Becca to do her homework. She dropped out senior year, so I probably didn’t miss my calling as a guidance counselor.” He doesn’t laugh at my weak joke, thankfully. I still feel Rafe watching me, probably wondering why he’s got to listen to his assistant’s sob story and when it’s going to end…
No. Rafe’s a better guy than that. I’m just being uncharitable.
“Anyway. The first couple of years were difficult. I couldn’t sleep through the night. I didn’t want to be where I was, or who I was. And then one day I found this big, brick-thick paperback at some neighbor’s yard sale, with a dragon on the cover and about a million torrid sex scenes in between all the sword fights and magic spells.” I laugh, looking down at my hands. He’s still quiet, letting me talk. “So twelve-year-old me got a lot of education for twenty-five cents. But it was more than the, frankly, amazing plot and terribly written sex.” Seriously, I think I remember some girl named Ethellia’s womb “clenching in welcome” when her lover ejaculated. I had a lot to talk about at the dinner table that night. “I got to see other worlds, taste other foods, listen to other people’s problems. I could be someone fierce, and brave, and funny, and attractive. All the things you can’t be in your everyday life, you know?”
Well, actually, Rafe McCarthy can be all those things, and is. I’m the one who can’t.
You know what? I’m getting pretty tired of being my own negging parade.
“People would scoff and say it’s just elaborate make-believe, and I suppose they’d be right. I mean, at the end of the day it’s usually guys with unpronounceable names calling each other ‘m’lord.’ But I guess it’s the kind of make-believe that lets you face reality. It shows you a deeper truth, I suppose.” Feeling bold, I look up at Rafe, because you should ideally keep eye contact with someone when you’re talking.
I stop, the next words dying in my throat. He’s looking at me with a fierce, all-consuming kind of gaze. In fact, he’s looking like he’s never seen me before; that’s the best way to describe it.
“What?” I ask, my voice a whisper. I’m not going to clear my throat right now. It’d ruin the mood.
“You amaze me,” he says simply. His black eyes pin me in place, at once shivering my spine and heating my core. There’s something in him that’s both predator and protector right now, like he wants to throw me to the ground and ravish me, then fend off anyone else who tries to get close.
All I have to do is get up or avert my eyes to break the spell, but I don’t want to. To a fantasy reader, spells are important.
Rafe gets up and comes around the counter to me. Every powerful line of his body seems to tense. His rock-solid jaw squares, a muscle feathering in his neck. He’s working hard to restrain himself; the tension coils off of him. I dig my nails into my palm, but I don’t break our gaze. He stops in front of me, skims the back of his hand along my cheek. Heat blazes where he touches me. I gasp as his fingers trail down the exposed line of my throat, as he cups a powerful hand around the back of my neck. Always, his dark, brilliant gaze is welded with mine.
“Everyone I know is in competition with each other to see who can get how much and how often and at how little cost. They wouldn’t know a genuine emotion if it wrote them a check.” Fisting a hand in my hair, he wraps his other arm around my waist and pulls me off the stool to stand in front of him. Thank God he keeps holding me; my legs are jelly right now. “You showed more vulnerability—more passion—in thirty seconds than I can remember seeing in anybody else in thirty years.”
I swallow, lick my lips. I track my gaze down to his mouth. This is insane. This is stupid. This is the worst idea of all time.
I’m fresh out of good ideas, though.
“I’m not sure about passion,” I say, wondering vaguely if that was English. “I mean, I think I could show more.”
Yes. I’m doing this, consequences be damned. Rafe grins, the electricity in his gaze singing in my blood.
“I’m counting on it,” he growls, and kisses me. I give in at once, my arms wrapped tight around his neck. For a moment we’re locked together, tasting and exploring each other with our mouths, our lips, our tongues. I briefly take his bottom lip between my teeth, which makes him groan. Rafe cradl
es my head and kisses me deeper, his hand sliding down my back to cup my ass. Moaning, I press against him, feeling the hard, throbbing heat of an erection through his pants.
“Yes?” he whispers, breaking off the kiss once. His entire body vibrates with need. This’d be the point of no return. Watch me skip past that point, flipping it the bird as I plunge off the sexiest cliff of all time.
“Yes.” I barely get the word out before his mouth seals over mine again. He lifts me up, knocking the stool over as he does. I lock my legs around his waist as he carries me backwards into the living room. For a hundred heartbeats, I’m lost and drowning in him. Gently, he sprawls me on my back, the couch soft beneath me. Rafe presses down on me, and I run my hands through his hair as he tastes me again, kissing along my chin and down my neck. He plucks at the front of my sweatshirt, then lifts me up by the waist. In seconds, my sweatshirt is off, and my tee shirt follows. I’m sitting here in my bra, chest heaving as I gape at my boss. Meanwhile, he’s breathing just as hard as his gaze takes me in. His hands circle my waist, then trail up to cup my breasts.
I have never been this wet before in my life. Gasping, I lie back down as he strokes me through the thin lace of my bra. Rafe’s mouth closes over my nipple, sucking me through the fabric. Moaning, I arch my back as he undoes the button of my jeans, as he starts to pull them off. Soon I’m in only a bra and panties, and he’s, unfairly, still fully dressed.
“Let’s make it more equitable,” I murmur, tugging at his shirt. He grins, his teeth white.
“Any woman who uses the word equitable during sex is the perfect woman.”
I’m not sure how perfect I am when his shirt comes off and I’m face to face, or chest, or something, with an actual human Adonis. Pretty sure I start drooling at that point. Every line of his body is perfection, every toned and sculpted divot of his chest something of beauty. I can’t help myself and skim my hands along the iron-and-silk lines of his arms, his chest. I trail my fingertips down his (absolutely perfect) abs and find the thin, dark line of hair that tucks below his belt and all the way to—
