by Penny Reid
Mona rubbed her body against mine as she shoved my pants down my hips, lowering herself to her knees as she held my eyes. “Don’t you want me?”
“Yes.” It was really the only word in my vocabulary at this point. My next song would just be the word yes.
Hot, electric sparks of anticipation ignited at the base of my spine and I licked my lips, near panting, watching her, devouring the sight of Mona on her knees. Her hot, wet, sweet mouth an inch from my dick. She kissed the head and I clenched my jaw, flattening my palms on the door behind me to keep from fisting them in her hair, but—oh how I want to.
In the next moment, her lips closed over my cock, her hand sliding from my pelvis to my stomach, pushing my shirt up for her eyes. I took it off. And then I grabbed her hand, pressing it to my skin as her mouth sucked, so hot, so fucking soft.
I cursed, my fingers closing around hers. But then I released her hand, not wanting to hold her too tight. I was already so close. It felt like being on the edge of a blade, so frustrated by my inability to make this last, I physically hurt. But also greedy for the promise of a happy ending.
“Mona. I’m going to come. I’m—” I pressed the base of my palms into my eye sockets, trying and failing to control the jerking of my hips as I pumped into her mouth, falling off the razor’s edge into an abyss of ecstasy.
So good. So fucking good.
I couldn’t catch my breath.
My heart was pounding like mad.
And she was suddenly gone.
Opening my eyes and leaning heavily against the door, I heard a faucet run in the other room. The bathroom, my brain told me. I gave myself a minute to calm. The whole thing, from first stroke to finish, must’ve lasted less than three minutes, but I felt like I’d sprinted a mile. Eventually, my heart slowed, and I bent to gather my jeans.
“What are you doing?”
I lifted my eyes and did a quick double take. Mona had taken off her shirt and pants, leaving her in—no lie—a matching tiger-print underwear and bra.
Weakly, I straightened, unable to tear my eyes away. I choked on a spike of raw hunger, a powerful, visceral, scorching ache thrummed below my skin, everywhere. She advanced, and I held a hand out to stop her, wanting—no, needing—to see her this way.
Messy ponytail, eyes hazy, red swollen lips, neck flushed pink, black lace along the top curves of her breasts leading to the white, orange, and black animal print. Her chest rising and falling. The same black lace was at the waist of her underwear, and I think I blacked out a little as my eyes moved down her long legs.
“What?” she asked, her tone breathless, but also vaguely uncertain.
I blinked, my eyes cutting to hers. “And thus, I die.”
She grinned, looking happy. So happy. “Come on, tiger.” Like before, she crooked a finger, daring me to follow. And like last time, I had no choice. I would follow her anywhere.
“Take your pants off and come to bed.”
We were naked.
I’d just taken her from behind—at her direction, and careful to keep my hands only on her hips, though the temptation had been strong to roam and stroke and grab as well as smack her glorious ass—and now I was sure I’d relive this day in my dreams every night for the rest of my life.
Tangled together, her head rested on my chest and her body pressed along mine. One of my hands was on her bottom, the other covered hers where it lay on my ribs. We were quiet. Neither of us had spoken for several minutes, each navigating our own thoughts, and I was reminded of that night in Chicago. The last night.
The first night, my brain corrected. I smiled, because it was. It was the first night we’d slept together and the first night she’d listened to my heart. I’d been so frustrated, but I’d also been concerned, determined to give her the space and time she needed to figure things out.
Just like now, except much less frustrated.
Mona stirred, her leg sliding higher on mine. “What are you thinking about?”
“Chicago.”
Her arm on me tightened. “After The Blues Brothers?”
“Yes.”
“Me too.” I felt her smile against my chest, her hand curling on my body. “I wanted you, very badly.”
I chuckled. “You have no idea.”
“Uh, I think I have some idea. I mean, I was lying there trying to figure out how to cross dimensions and locate one where I didn’t have to lie to you, one where we could be together.”
“And now we’re here.” I dipped my chin to my chest as she lifted her head, our gazes meeting. “So I guess you did.”
Now she smiled, her attention flickering to my left cheek and then back to my eyes. “Yeah. I guess I did.” Resettling, she snuggled closer, inhaling deeply. “And your heart is just the same.”
I bit my bottom lip, liking her compliment, and thinking back to Aspen, to the night she’d asked to listen to my heart. It had been a critical night for us, the first time she’d heard “Hold a Grudge,” and she’d given me her letter, but I’d—
I frowned. “Hey.”
“Yeah?”
“What was in the letter I burned?”
Mona was quiet for a beat, and then she busted out laughing, shaking her head and turning to hide her face in the crook of my shoulder.
Another automatic smile claimed my mouth at the sound of her laugh, but—suddenly, given her reaction—I really wanted to know. “Hey. Tell me.” I rolled to my side, making her roll to hers, and I pushed my fingers into her long hair, angling her chin to give it a soft kiss. I then moved to her lips. Whispering against her mouth, I beseeched, “Tell me.”
She grinned, her eyes bright. “I told you in Aspen, when you burned it. It was the truth.”
“About what? About what happened in Chicago?”
“About how I felt. About what I wanted.”
“What did you want?”
“Uh, interdimensional time travel, and—” Her hand on my ribs slid down to my hip and then up to my chest. “This.”
Not following, my eyebrows pulled together. “What? Me naked?”
“Yes. Always. But mostly—” Her fingers over my chest flexed. “—this. This is what I wanted. This heart.”
I swallowed around a sudden thickness and tightness and depth and breadth and gaping cavern of inescapable craving, tripping headlong into her, knowing I’d always be her fool. This time, I welcomed the notion.
“My heart is yours, Mona.” I kissed her nose, my voice like sandpaper. “Always.”
Her brilliant eyes moved between mine, glassy with emotion. She feathered her fingers into my hair, her touch gentle, cherishing.
“And my heart is yours, Abram Harris,” she whispered. “Infinitely.”
Epilogue
The Continuous Spectrum of Light
*Abram*
Waiting for Mona’s plane to land at Heathrow, I paced back and forth in front of the arrivals exit, tapping my fingers against my leg while I pretended to be on the phone. I’d cut my hair short and shaved my beard the day after the tour ended last week, and I’d been careful to avoid being photographed since.
I also wore a suit, hoping it would aid in my quest for anonymity, and because tonight was Marie’s rehearsal dinner. I likely wouldn’t have much of a chance to change by the time Mona and I made it to the castle.
So far, while I paced, I’d received a few interested double takes, but no requests for an autograph. Nowadays, this felt miraculous.
Mona was flying in for my sister’s destination wedding. Years ago, Marie organized and planned her friend Janie’s wedding. Now, Janie Sullivan had decided to return the favor. She’d called me with the idea a few months ago and I’d immediately offered to pay the hotel and food bill for all guests. Janie covered the air travel (she owned a private jet, long story) and flew everyone over to London. She also organized the Harry Potter themed bachelorette party last weekend that Mona attended, but for which I was—happily—absent.
Don’t get me wrong. I liked Ma
rie’s friends, but all together in a group, they could be overwhelming. Especially her friend Sandra.
Matt, my soon-to-be brother-in-law, picked up the bill for everything else. Except the dress. My parents bought Marie’s dress, mostly because it was the only thing we’d let them pay for.
When my sister had discovered what we’d done, she called me up crying. “You’re crazy. Why did you do this?”
“Because I can,” I said. “And because I love you. Don’t make a big deal out of it, Hufflepuff.” All the planning had been worth it, to make Marie happy.
I checked my watch and glanced at the arrivals board. According to the sign, the flight from Geneva had landed twenty minutes ago, and I knew she had no checked baggage. Since she’d flown over last weekend, her bags were still at the hotel. Assuming no holdups at customs, she should’ve been exiting the arrivals door, any minute.
Any minute now.
My phone buzzed in my hand, catching me off guard. Lowering it to check the incoming number, Mona’s face filled the screen.
I answered immediately. “Hello?”
“Hey! How are you? How is Marie? Is she excited? Where are you? Are you here?”
I grinned, the sound of her voice taking the edge off the cold, granite block of missing her I carried whenever we weren’t together, and wherever I went. After almost a year of mostly separation with short windows of meeting in random cities, I’d grown accustomed to the ache. What I hadn’t grown accustomed to was the loss of breath each time we met again.
Or, as Mona would say, each time we met for a rendezvous.
The last six months had been full of highs and lows, with the worst weeks coming right after we went public with our relationship. I hated many of Redburn’s fans’ reactions to the news, how they talked about Mona on social media, how they picked apart her appearance, interviews she’d given in the past, making memes out of her pictures, and how they felt entitled to message me with their “thoughts.”
But a few months ago, my producer, seeing that I was struggling not to feel betrayed by my fans’ vitriol, said to me, “Be consumed by your art, Abram. Not the people who consume it.” That had made all the difference. Like Leo’s words about softness, it was one of the truest things I’d ever heard.
“Abram? Are you there?”
“Sorry.” I was still looking for her in the sea of faces. “I’m here. Are you past customs?”
“Yes. And I’m past the arrivals exit. Did you get the bag I left at the hotel?”
“Yes, I have the bag you left last week. It’s still at the hotel.”
Mona had flown out last weekend, two days before I’d arrived, but hadn’t been able to stay for the entire week. She was so close to the end of her tenure at CERN and couldn’t spare the time. I couldn’t leave the States until after several New York meetings about the new contract and album.
“Great! Glad you have the bag. Did you pick up the car?”
Frowning at a woman with long dark hair who was not Mona, I turned toward the elevators, searching for her there. “Yep. I have the car.”
“I don’t see you yet.” She sounded distracted. “Should I wait on one of the benches?”
My forehead wrinkled as I twisted my neck, hunting for her. “Wait, are you in terminal three?”
“Yes. Terminal three,” she confirmed just as an announcement sounded over the loudspeaker. I heard it echo on her side. Mona was definitely nearby.
“You don’t see me?” I scanned the mass of people. The crowds in every direction would’ve made it difficult for a shorter person to see, but I was easily the tallest person in the arrivals area.
“Wait, you’re here? I don’t—ah! I see you!”
Turning in a slow circle, I shook my head. “I still don’t see you.”
“Now I’m hiding because I’m drooling. Good Lord, that suit.”
I straightened, pleased, sliding a hand down the front of my jacket. “Do you like it? I had it made in New York.”
“Do I like it? Does each action have an equal but opposite reaction?”
“Nerd.”
“Sorry. Newton. Not the fig kind.”
I laughed. “Mona. Where are you?”
“I’m here, but I need another minute to admire that to which I aspire.”
“Nice rhyme. Come here.”
“Not yet. Do that circle spinning thing again.”
“I’m feeling a little objectified right now,” I teased.
“Then your feelings are spot on.”
I turned quickly, because I heard her voice in stereo that time—over the phone and nearby—my attention skimming the crowd, focusing on those closest until I found a woman staring at me. Except—
Wait.
“Mona?”
She wore a mischievous grin and fire engine red lipstick that matched her short dyed hair—no, not her hair. A wig. Her eyes were lined in thick black makeup, her body encased in a tight black shirt, a leather skirt, and black and white striped thigh-high stockings. On her feet she sported combat boots. Around her neck was a leather choker with spikes, and in the center of her nose was a ring.
“Hey, handsome.”
Officially speechless, I stared at her. One hundred percent sure it was Mona, but still disbelieving my eyes, I unabashedly devoured this unexpected but not at all unwelcomed sight.
Her grin widened and she strolled closer, hooking a leather jacket at her shoulder over her black backpack.
Biting her tongue playfully, she wagged her eyebrows. “Looks like you’re not the only one in disguise, Wall Street.”
I couldn’t stop staring at her legs. A big problem since I also wasn’t used to driving on the left side of the road.
When Mona flew up last week for the bachelorette party, she’d taken the train out to the countryside and back to the airport without much issue. She’d been photographed just twice at Heathrow as she arrived, and only once in the Underground.
But this time, as we would be together, we’d implicitly agreed on renting a car. Once the news of our relationship broke last March, it seemed like traveling together on any public transportation—or even walking together on the street, no matter where we were in the world—ultimately led to mobs and disaster.
“Watch out,” she said for the tenth time because it was my tenth turn. “Are you sure you don’t want me to drive?”
“You can drive if you want.” I shrugged, clearing my throat and struggling not to stare at her thighs again. Something about the combination of the thigh-highs and the leather skirt—something about all of it—made me want to do very, very bad things. “But then my hands will be free, and we might not make it to Marie’s rehearsal at all.”
Mona laughed, sounding delighted. “Okay, subject change. How are you? How’s the new album? How’s the band?”
“Great, now. We’re almost ready for the studio. Charlie and Ruthie are looking forward to spending Christmas in Geneva, and you’ll get to meet Broderick.” After the wedding, I would be flying back with her to Switzerland and that was it. No more tour. No more concert dates on the calendar. No more meeting in random cities for only days or hours and then parting for weeks. We would be living together from now on. Finally.
I didn’t blame Mona for deciding to stay at CERN through the fall semester. The work she did sounded exciting—well, she made it sound exciting—plus every time she stepped foot in the USA she was mobbed by paparazzi. We’d hired her a bodyguard the last time we’d met up—in Miami—but, honestly, I didn’t want her traveling in the States unless we were on the same plane.
Where I went, the band and support personnel followed. The new album would be recorded in Switzerland, with pickups and final mastering in LA after Mona and I returned to the States.
“How about you? Work? Grants? Those assholes still withholding your funding?”
One of the deepest lows came two months ago. According to Mona, the funding for three of her grants—which were fully awarded through the remainder of the fi
scal year ending in June—had been suddenly halted, the grants managers claiming they required rereview of her progress reports.
That was bullshit. She insisted it could be anything—maybe she’d pissed off someone during the London symposium over the summer, maybe she’d irritated an important person at CERN, maybe one of her thesis advisors was frustrated that she hadn’t returned to LA yet—who knows?
But I assumed the culprit was our relationship. She received the notice one week after we were photographed together in Rome having a romantic dinner at the Piazza Navona. She’d worn an unbelievable red dress and the press had gone nuts, calling her the “Philandering Physicist.”
Philandering? What? Fucking idiotic nonsense. It didn’t even make sense.
Currently, Mona sighed. Shrugged. Sighed again. “It doesn’t matter. I figured out a solution. I should be able to defend my thesis in the spring without funding issues.”
I glanced at her, surprised. “You got the Darwinger grant?”
“No,” she ground out. “It went to someone else.”
Motherfu— “Then how . . .?”
She scrunched her face, looking cute and indecisive, but finally admitted, “I’m using the fun money account my parents set up. I’m funding everything with that.”
My hands tightened on the steering wheel as I absorbed this startling revelation, but I was careful to keep my expression and voice serene. “Oh?”
We’d been dating almost a year and I still hadn’t officially met her parents. But I had been photographed with them. Twice. DJ Tang and Exotica had attended several of the same industry events as me, and we’d been photographed on the red carpet together—both times their publicist approached my publicist and said, Let’s make this happen—but they didn’t actually talk to me.
Although, her dad mumbled, “Smile like you mean it.”
They’d swooped in, posed for the photos, and left without a backward glance. The next morning’s headline read, “One Big Happy Family.”
