by Penny Reid
Neanderthal Seeks Extra (Yarns)
Penny Reid
www.pennyreid.ninja
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
Copyright © 2018 by Penny Reid; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
Made in the United States of America
eBook edition: October 2018
ISBN: 978-1-942874-42-3
Contents
Foreword
I. Janie and Quinn
II. Elizabeth and Nico
III. Sandra and Alex
IV. Ashley and Drew
V. Fiona and Greg
VI. Marie and Matt
VII. Kat and Dan
About the Author
Other books by Penny Reid
Foreword
A note from Penny Reid
Dear Knitting in the City Reader,
If you don’t know already, the Knitting in the City ladies were/are inspired by a group of women I met at an art retreat in 2012. I knew none of them prior to that weekend. Cabin assignments were done by the retreat coordinators. Two of the ladies were from Chicago, one was from Tennessee, others were from Texas, Iowa, Massachusetts, and so forth. Our days were spent attending sessions where we learned how to carve lino blocks (to print our own fabric designs), use power tools to assemble shelves and other small carpentry projects, and similar worthy pursuits. But at night, we would all sit around the fireplace in the living room of our cabin, knit, and talk.
What struck me at the time, and even now to a certain extent, was how vastly different these women were from each other as well as the portrayals of women in films and books. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with being a plucky baker, but the proportion of plucky female bakers to the general population is not as high as film and books would have you believe (i.e. it’s not representative of reality, though I’ve also written a plucky baker). Among our group were an engineer, a psychiatrist, a nurse, a computer developer, a biostatistician, a stay-at-home mom, an informaticist, a scientific/technical editor, and a lawyer.
Like most “real life” discussions between women, every conversation we had passed the Bechdel test. We discussed scientific advances, art, travel, ethics, politics, hopes, dreams, history, and so forth.
Traveling home, I wondered why women—individually or in groups—are not portrayed realistically in the media. Why, in film and books, are female friendships synonymous with spite, jealousy, and drama? Admittedly, I’d spent much of my life (youth and adult) avoiding friendship with women for this reason, I had it in my head that female friendships were not for me. Thankfully, the retreat opened my eyes to the truth: women and women friends are awesome.
Two weeks later, I began writing my first book, but not as a direct result of my experience at the retreat. I wrote my first book on a bet. A colleague of mine lamented that she loved romance but didn’t like how women (or men) were portrayed in the genre. She couldn’t relate to their characters or motivations, she wanted to read about real, imperfect people, who shattered convenient stereotypes. We made a bargain: if I wrote a romance novel with characters to which she could relate, then she’d take me out for a fancy meal. I wrote the book and finished seven months later, in January 2013. She read the book, said I won the bet, and took me out to dinner. I saved the book on my computer and promptly went on with my life.
Early March, my friend asked if I’d be willing to put the book—which I later titled, Neanderthal Seeks Human—on Amazon so her book club could download/read it. I uploaded it, priced it free on March 14, 2013 (yes, on Pi Day) and decided I would check the sales dashboard three days later to ensure it had been downloaded by the six members of her book club. Three days later when I checked, it had been downloaded over 8,000 times.
I’ve come to believe that this series became beloved by so many not just for the love stories between Janie and Quinn, Elizabeth and Nico, Sandra and Alex, and so on, but also for the love story between Janie, Elizabeth, Sandra, Ashley, Fiona, Marie, and Kat. Sisterhood, companionship, compassion, love, support, lively debate, respect, shared interests, empathy—this is what having female friends is all about. It’s why I’ve revisited the stories so often, and why I’m sharing these extra scenes and outtakes with you now.
Happy reading,
Penny Reid
Part One
Janie and Quinn
Deleted Scene: Neanderthal Seeks Human
Author’s Note: This scene takes place just after Janie and Quinn’s infamous strip poker encounter. I’ve set it up (included the early part of the chapter) so you’ll see exactly where it fits in the book. When I first wrote Neanderthal Seeks Human, I included a rough/incomplete version of this scene, but my friend (for whom I wrote the book) told me she thought the book would be better without it (without any explicit sex scenes). When I published NSH “for real” in June 2013 (after having it edited and proofed) I removed the sex scene all together and left the Ida description. I shared the rough, unedited, incomplete version on Under the Covers Book Blog waaaaay back in 2014. I finished the scene for this volume and this is the first time I’ve shared it. ENJOY.
I GLARED AT him.
Through my bottle-of-wine-induced haze, I’d been counting cards; so I knew he’d been cheating for the last few hands. But I couldn’t admit to counting cards; otherwise, I would have to admit that I had been cheating the whole time. Also, I was down to my underwear, tank top, bra, and one sock. Meanwhile, he was down to his tie, boxer briefs, and one sock.
This last hand meant that we were tied.
He laughed, shuffling the cards, his blue eyes actually dancing with merriment. “So, sock or shirt?”
I was sitting on the floor with my back to the bed, he was sitting on the couch, and the ottoman was between us serving as a table.
I thought about which article of clothing to remove even as I let my eyes move over his chest approvingly. I’d been dreaming about that torso for weeks, ever since he made his shirtless, just-showered entrance the morning of my hangover. I’d thought about what I wanted to do when or if I actually had it within my possession.
I blinked hard and tried to focus on the footstool we were using as a table. I pressed my thighs together for no reason whatsoever, and ignored the building warmth in my lower belly.
Quinn’s soft voice pulled me from my mounting aimless frenzy. “Janie: sock or shirt?”
I met his gaze abruptly and wondered if he knew what I’d been thinking; but looking at his face was almost worse. We were two minutes away from midnight. He wore a very serious expression, and his eyes were freaking smoldering again, moving between mine with what felt like violent concentration.
I huffed impatiently. “Fine. Neither.”
He raised a single eyebrow. “Neither?”
I tilted my head to the side, removed my gaze from his, allowed my hair to curtain my face, and leaned forward, pulling my bra straps from my shoulders and through my arms in one swift movement. Then I unclasped the bra and, like magic, pulled the white lacy brassiere from my body without removing my shirt.
Never mind that my shirt was a thin, white, tank top that was practically se
e-through. I didn’t want him thinking he’d won just yet, or that he could guess my moves. I was quickly learning that a bottle of wine convinced me of all sorts of fantastical things, not the least of which was that I had moves.
I tossed the bra over my shoulder and leaned back against the side of the bed.
“Ok, deal the cards,” I said without looking at him. He was too distractingly beautiful. Instead, I pulled my fingers through my hair as I stretched and arched my back.
I heard his breath catch.
I looked up.
His eyes were no longer smoldering; they were now suddenly and forcefully ablaze, and he was gritting his teeth, watching me as I stretched. His look told me I was steak and he was a tiger, and that made me dinner and dessert.
“You shouldn’t do that.” The dark heat in his gaze, the set of his jaw, and the white knuckles of his fists betrayed the force of his concentration. He was concentrating… really, really hard.
I stilled my movements and froze mid-stretch. “Do what?”
“That.” His words were ragged. “Don’t do that unless you’re finished playing with me.”
I licked my lips, finding them suddenly dry, and my eyes moved hungrily over his form.
In truth, in that moment, I didn’t remember what we were playing for, which may have explained why I suddenly no longer had any desire to continue to the game.
Then again, it could have been the impaired judgment.
I let my hands fall gradually to the carpet on either side of my thighs; my hair crashed over my shoulders and down my back. I licked my lips again as I watched him and his tightly reined reaction with wide eyes. Slowly, slowly, I righted myself to my knees and, without plan or forethought, pushed the ottoman to one side. Despite what I thought were measured movements, the cards spilled off the makeshift table and onto the floor.
His eyes followed me with intensely guarded attentiveness as he sat perfectly still on the couch. I crawled over to him and knelt between his legs. I lifted then rested my hands lightly on his bare thighs for balance. He flinched when my skin made contact with his.
“Quinn.” I whispered his name. I don’t know why I was whispering, but I suspected that my vocal chords were incapable of cooperating. “Quinn.”
He wrapped the long fingers of one hand around my neck and, before I could think or react, he dragged his mouth over mine, fervent and wet and hot. Warmth in my stomach fluttered, twisted until the pressure between my thighs ached. I pressed my knees together again, flexing thigh muscles and feeling wholly frustrated and fabulous.
His mouth pulled away and began alternately biting and sucking and kissing my neck, the scruff of his sixteen hours between shaves was pleasurably painful, each skillful stroke of his tongue soothed light abrasions left by stubble.
Quinn caressed my back, loitered and squeezed the small of my waist, his fingers splaying over my hips. One hand moved downward and cupped my bottom, urging me closer. He stroked a slow rhythm over my bottom, up and down, until his fingers traced lower and threaded inside my panties, grabbing my bare skin and growling against my neck.
“You have the most magnificent ass.”
My back arched, pressing aforementioned ass against his palm, and I lifted my hands to Quinn’s stomach, dragging my nails against the solid ridges of his torso, enjoying the way he felt beneath my fingers, hot skin, hard body.
“Maybe if you’re very nice I’ll hold it against you.” I murmured mindlessly, arching against him once more. This time it was mostly involuntary. In fact, my body was doing a lot of involuntary things. It seemed to just know what to do without me telling it anything at all.
Before I could consider this bizarre turn of involuntary events, Quinn nipped at my ear, dipping and swirling his obviously very talented tongue inside. I shuddered. Involuntarily. And I clawed at him, needing . . .
Needing.
This was so crazy. I was crazy. I wasn’t thinking. I wasn’t even thinking about the fact that I wasn’t thinking. I’d entered a previously fallow, completely bizarre, primal area of my subconsciousness, an area well outside the Ven diagram of my comfort level. As his hand moved to the front of my stomach, my senses narrowed and sharpened, the whole of my person becoming tuned to touch.
With an achingly languid pace, his fingertips feathered upward, lifting my shirt as he went, sending pinpricks of electrified sensation straight to my lower belly. Pulling his head from my neck, Quinn leaned back—just a fraction—so that our eyes met. I lost my breath and more of my mind as he cupped my left breast under my shirt and began tracing circles around the nipple with his rough thumb, never touching the center.
I panted. (I was panting. That was me.)
And Quinn smiled.
It was a smile I could easily see the devil employing when he knows he’s won. I didn’t care. I wanted him to win. I wanted him to win all night long.
Shifting his eyes from mine, he bent to my aching breast; he opened his mouth; he lavished the neglected center with a hot, wet, open kiss through my tank top, taking me into his mouth and sucking.
I cried out. It was a wholly ungraceful sound. Quinn didn’t seem to mind as he answered my strangled moan with a deep, grumbly groan, which made me cry out more, especially as he bit me through the fabric of my shirt.
I shifted away on instinct, overwhelmed by the newness of it, the intensity, but he held me in place, tugging the strap of my shirt past my shoulder, capturing my bare breast with loving, soothing, worshipful kisses.
Gripping the back of his head, I laced my fingers through his hair, both pulling him away and holding him in place. Meanwhile, my body continued to know what was what, how to behave, what to do. My chest pushed forward as his mouth, hot breath, and tongue worked devour me, the back of his hand now caressing my stomach.
His fingers dipped shallowly into my underwear, tips brushing the against short hair, sliding lower with each pass until his long middle finger slid between the cleft at my center.
My body stiffened, strained, my fingers and nails digging into his neck and back.
“Gabaguh,” I said, which apparently means holy fuck in Janie-sex-speak.
“Shhh.” His smiling mouth still nipped at my breast, and the whisper of his hot breath against the wet center made me shiver.
Making a short, needful grunting sound, Quinn placed his tongue flat against the peak and licked. It was a hard, deliberate stroke and the movement was accompanied by a less hard but equally deliberate tracing of his fingers between my legs, and then further downward into my body.
Panting became gasping, groaning, moaning, and then pleading. It didn’t occur to me that I sounded absolutely ridiculous, or that my reactions were likely out of proportion. Panting and gasping at second base? Never happens.
Except, I guess with Quinn it did. And he didn’t appear to mind. If anything, it seemed to galvanize his movements. I would have to think about the correlation later when I was capable of thinking. So fuck off, correlation analysis. I have no time for you now.
“Please,” my voice said, my hips deciding to rock, my hands deciding I needed to feel more of him as they gripped and caressed the hard planes of his totally fantastic body.
“Please what?” he asked, his voice sounding different to my ears, deeper and darker somehow, rumbly in a way that I felt everywhere.
“Please make me feel good.”
“But you already feel good, don’t you?” His fingers withdrew from within my body and he slicked them over the sensitive spot between my legs, jolts of building tension and desire causing me to throw my head back, offer more of myself. I tugged at his hair unthinkingly, wanting so many things, some of which were dirty, several of which might even have been considered debasing, and all of which were felt absolutely essential.
Quinn groaned with what sounded like appreciation at my roughness, saying, “Janie, move.” His voice was ragged, gravely. “Sit here.” He tried to shift me into a sitting position on the couch and pull my undies lower
.
“What?” The word was breathless, I couldn’t make sense of what he wanted.
Lifting his mouth to my ear, he whispered, “I need to taste you.” His skillful tongue dipped into my ear, which elicited another uncalibrated cry from my throat. “I need you to come against my mouth.”
Withdrawing his splendid hand from my underwear, which made me sad, I allowed him set me on the couch. He positioned me so that I was sitting on the edge and leaning back against the cushions. He placed himself between my legs, kneeling like I had just been, and then he proceeded to pull the fabric down and off my now wobbly legs, which made me happy.
His return movements were unhurried. His eyes somehow both sharp and hazy as he watched his hands on my body, took his time dragging his palms up my calves, tracing his fingers behind my knees, his knuckles caressing small circles along the insides of my thighs, opening me with gentle yet insistent strokes.
My body was a wreck. An aching, needful wreck. I could only stare, still gasping and moaning at intervals, anxious and rapacious. My need for his mouth on me, for my own release felt close to mercenary and I closed my eyes when I saw him lick his lips, and then smile. I couldn’t handle it. I was on sensory overload, unable to breathe.
His glorious tongue, mimicking the same, purposeful movement from earlier, licked upward with firm, measured movements—as one does when licking an ice-cream cone, or at the beginning of a tootsie roll lollipop. My thigh muscles immediately flexed, and I fought the urge to squeeze my knees together. Instead my legs started to shake with effort, my hips deciding to roll against his mouth, and my hands grabbed my breasts, because I had to grab something.
