“I shouldn’t….”

“But you want to. For once in your life, let yourself have what you want.”

She looked at me then, biting on her bottom lip, and replied with that sweet little word, “Okay.”

The entire taxi ride to my building, I kissed her. I could have kissed her for hours. You know, those lazy afternoon sessions on the couch when just kissing is enough? Well, I could have done that every day with Annie and never tired of it.

In the lift up to the penthouse, my hands were all over her, in her hair, squeezing her arse, molding her breasts. Hers were all over me, too. She was finally letting go of her inhibitions. When she pressed her hand against my cock, I wanted to bite her, it felt so good. I kissed her so fiercely her lips were probably going to be sore in the morning.

In my mind, I searched through my memory of what I had in the penthouse. I hadn’t brought very much with me, but there had to be something I could use to tie her up. Then I remembered the welcome basket that had been there for me when I arrived. It had silky red ribbon wrapped all around it. It wouldn’t be great, but it would do for now.

Managing to slot my key in the door and still keep my mouth on hers, I pushed it open and pulled her inside, slamming her back against the wall and lifting her leg so that I could press my hard-on into her core. I heard somebody clear their throat just before a voice I recognized well said, “Um, I’m sorry to interrupt you two, but yeah, this is awkward.”

Annie gasped in surprise, and I sagged against her.

Fucking. Hell.

I sighed, my hands fisting in frustration, and clenched my jaw.

“Lucy,” I muttered under my breath. I took a moment to gather myself before I straightened and turned around to see my sister grinning and my mother wearing a small frown.

Sighing, I squeezed Annie’s shoulder and with no small amount of reluctance said, “I guess this is the perfect time for you to meet my family.”

Chapter Thirteen

The Fake Selfie: When one pretends to be taking a picture of oneself, but is instead actually taking a picture of a person in the background. This method differs from the “Creeper Selfie” in that none of the photographer’s face or expression is present in the picture.

Best for: Situations where taking a selfie wouldn’t be unusual/draw attention, e.g. while alone at a tourist attraction or during a sporting event/concert.

Do not use: In restaurants or near mirrors.

*Annie*

It was a banner week for me, a real doozy, a landmark of atypical Annie-isms.

First, I’d opened up to Ronan about my past, and, as much as I was able, I’d admitted to having feelings for him. I trusted him, or at least I was starting to.

Then I flirted with him via email; granted, it was as The Socialmedialite, and the lewd references all involved my fictional mermaid tattoo.

Of course, I couldn’t neglect to mention the sexting—or as close as I’d ever come to sexting—on Friday that got me so hot I’d had to go to the bathroom and run cool water over my wrists and place a wet paper towel on my neck.

Oh, yeah, and then there was introducing him as my boyfriend to my bossy and persistent neighbor; ambiguously giving in to Ronan’s demands about how I spent my time and with whom; the caveman dry-humping against the wall in my apartment; the orgasm in the dance club; and the make-out marathon in the taxi, in the elevator, in the hallway, and against the door of his apartment.

Ah, yes, and how could I forget meeting his mother and his sister immediately afterward? Or how I’d practically sprinted out of the apartment after introductions were made?

Lovely. Just lovely.

At least I hadn’t spat tea in anyone’s face…yet. Just my boyfriend’s.

Ronan…my boyfriend.

He was my boyfriend. We were a we, an us. I was part of a couple; I was more than just a one. I tried to ignore the way my heart thundered whenever I thought about it, how excited just the thought of seeing Ronan made me, of belonging with him.

As well I tried to suppress thoughts of our future, asking myself whether we would live in Ireland or in New York—I hoped Ireland. I wondered whether Joan would mind if I telecommuted from overseas, whether Ronan already had an apartment in Dublin or we’d pick one out together. I didn’t honestly care. Of course, getting shots of celebrities in Dublin might be an issue. But that didn’t really matter. I would give up the blog in a heartbeat if it meant being with Ronan….

I was completely mad, made insane by physical human connection.

WriteALoveSong had even commented on “Annie and Ronan’s connection.” I received a message from her early this morning with a fuzzy picture of Ronan and me at the bar last night.

@WriteALoveSong to @Socialmedialite: I know you’ve got a little crush on this rugby guy, so prepare yourself. He’s dating some hottie with a body and an epically pretty face. It looks very serious. One of my club contacts sent me the picture…If you need a shoulder to cry on, I can send you a blow-up doll. Just pretend it’s me.

I’d looked at the picture entirely too much, liking how we looked together entirely too much. It was genuine and serious and happening entirely too fast, but I didn’t care.

I was in desperate like with a real person. I couldn’t remember ever liking someone as much as I did Ronan. I liked him so goddamn much; I thought about him all the freaking time. It was more than just how epically sexy he was. He was fucking charming as hell, and funny, and smart, and sweet, and brave, and determined, and honorable….