Thank you so much for the opportunity to review LAST LIGHT. Unfortunately, after carefully reviewing your material, I’ve determined that this particular project isn’t the right fit for me. I wish you all the best in your publishing endeavors.

Sincerely,

Melanie vanden Dries (:

P.S. I bet you haven’t gotten a letter like this in a while. Keeping you humble, Mr. Sky.

My brow furrowed.

Again, I thought, What the f**k? Is this some kind of inside joke?

I slumped onto the ground, clutching the notebook. I felt sure that what I was about to read would break my heart—and I was right, as it turns out.

I flipped open the cover.

On the first page, I recognized Matt’s unambiguous handwriting. Black ink. Slanting letters crammed together. The words pressed hard into the paper:

December is the cruelest month to die in …

Chapter 40

MATT

I ran right up to the complex, holding on to that heart-stopping sensation until the last moment. I unlocked the lobby door and jogged in. My sneakers squeaked on the linoleum.

I almost missed her.

She made no sound, only sat crumpled below the mailboxes.

A torn yellow envelope lay across her lap, and on top of that, my notebook.

I breathed deep and fast. Acid burned in my legs and sweat poured down my face. I barely heard my voice above my heart.

“Hannah…”

Red puffiness rimmed her eyes.

As I got closer, I saw tear tracks on her cheeks.

“For … the talk show,” she mumbled. She thrust a bundle of index cards up at me.

“Ah.” I wiped my hand on my shirt, which was plastered to my torso. My basketball shorts were sweat soaked, too. “These must be … my talking points?”

I scanned the scene, starting to understand. Hannah brought the notecards to my mailbox. She still had a key. Maybe she meant to return the key.

She opened the box, saw Melanie’s envelope, and …

“You read it,” I said. “My new book.”

“Some of it. I skimmed the whole thing.”

I watched her fight a wave of emotion—she was beautiful, strong and proud—and she lifted her head in a simple gesture of defiance.

“Take the cards,” she whispered.

I shook my head.

“You bring them up. I’m covered in sweat.” I turned and headed to the stairs, listening for Hannah behind me. I can’t say what I felt—I don’t know. Was it anger, anticipation, gladness? Tonight, my little bird flew home.

When I opened our door, she stood behind me.

I flicked on a light in the kitchen.

I’d put away Hannah’s good-bye note—thank God—and kept the place clean. I’d changed nothing in her absence, though the pantry contained chips and ramen instead of real food.

I brushed my finger splint from the counter into a drawer. No point explaining about that.

What now?

Hannah placed my mail and the index cards on the island. I wanted to touch her—to lift her dress—and then I thought about Seth and felt ill.

“I’m glad you read it,” I said. “Now you know.”

“What do I know?” She lingered by the counter.

That I love you, I thought, and that I didn’t sleep with Mel, and how everything slid out of control. But all I said was, “I need a shower. I won’t be long. Stay if you want.”

I left her standing in the kitchen.

And I knew she’d be gone when I got back.

Chapter 41

HANNAH

Matt disappeared around the corner and soon I heard water jolting the old pipes. Jeez, he was dripping sweat. He never ran like that when we were together.

I drifted through the kitchen and living room. I trailed my fingers over Matt’s marble notebook. Last Light. It was a sequel to Night Owl. More of our story. And what a story it was.

Why didn’t he tell me about it?

I spent a moment in front of the hallway mirror, blew my nose and dried my eyes, and then I settled on the couch. Laurence watched my benignly.

If Matt’s story was true, and I believed it was, then he never slept with Mel. He also spared me the harrowing details of his fall and the mountain lion attack.

And, though I hated to admit it, reading Matt’s version of events helped me understand why he put Night Owl online—just a little. I still thought it was wrong, but at least I understood.

I stared into space until I heard the whine of our bedroom door.

Oh …

Matt was getting dressed.

I could walk into that room right now and find him peeling off his towel, naked, clean …

“You’re still here.”

I started. Heat rushed to my cheeks when I laid eyes on him. Good Lord. His towel-dried hair spiked in every direction. His handsome face was somber, eyes glowing. Dark lounge pants and a T-shirt clung perfectly to his stunning body.

For f**k’s sake—this was exactly why I shouldn’t be around him. He had this infuriating mind-melting effect on me.

I stared at my knees.

“Yeah,” I said. “Still here.” Still working up the courage to tell you that I lied about sleeping with Seth … and then gave him a hand job.

Matt’s quiet chuckle sounded behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. He stood in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, shuffling through the index cards I’d prepared. His gaze flickered to me and I lowered my eyes. Fucking f**k. What the hell was going on here? Somehow, within the space of three weeks, I had reverted to Hannah Who Cannot Speak Much Less Think Around Matt Sky.

And I was supposed to be angry with him.

And he should really be angry with me.

Instead, he seemed quietly grateful for my presence.

“These are too much. Pam wants me to quote Thoreau?” He laughed. “It’s quite simple, Gail. ‘I went to the woods because I wished to live deliberately.’”

“Yeah, Pam is … kind of funny.”

“Mm, kind of.”

I listened to the flip, flip of the cards in Matt’s hands. The sound stopped, and he padded around the couch to stand before me.

“Look at me, Hannah.”

I gazed up at him. This close, I could see the deep emerald tone in his eyes and smell the subtle spice of his soap.

“What did you think of my new book?” he prompted.

“Um…” My fingers knotted on my lap. “It’s a lot to process right now. You probably have no idea how weird it is … to read about yourself in a book. In so much detail.”

“No, I don’t.” A trace of amusement glimmered in Matt’s eyes—what the hell could he find humorous right now?—but he looked dead serious in the next moment. “I’m sorry I keep writing about you. I keep thinking about you. I’m obsessed with you.”

I inhaled swiftly.

I’m obsessed with you. Words that should frighten me. But Matt spoke with a calm honesty that undercut my fear.

I gave a minute nod.

“Okay,” I whispered.

“Okay?”

“Yeah … okay.”

He touched my cheek. I tipped my face into the cradle of his hand.

“Do you still find me attractive?” he said.

“Matt…” My voice broke. His question chipped at my heart. And the look on his face—that disarming mixture of cockiness and vulnerability. I reached for him. “God, you know I do.”

He climbed onto the couch, straddled my lap, and took my face between his hands.

This was simple.

We were good at this.

And selfishly, I needed this—to remember the difference between intimacy for pleasure and intimacy for love.

Matt, on the other hand, probably needed some affirmation of his desirability.

He kissed me and I made a soft sound of pleasure.

He tilted his head to seal our lips. His tongue moved in and out of my mouth, and soon he matched that suggestive rhythm with his body.

He groaned when I sucked on his tongue.

I held his h*ps as he rocked against me. I parted my legs, my dress riding up, so that Matt’s hardness found the soft spot he wanted. We ground together. I did all the little things that drove him crazy. I slipped my hands under his shirt and tweaked his ni**les. I raked my nails through his hair, down the back of his neck. I dug my fingers into his tight ass.

“Take it out,” he gasped against my mouth. Always so bossy.

“You take it out.” I licked his jaw.

He fumbled with the knot on his pants. While I sucked on his neck, he guided my hand to his cock. Rock hard. I pumped it a few times, moving the skin over his rigid erection.

He tried to lift my dress, but I pushed away his hands.

“Hannah, please.”

“Not yet.” I leaned back into the couch. “I want to watch you. Let me watch…”

Matt’s sadness was gone, replaced by frustration and confusion. I nudged him off my lap. I couldn’t have moved him if he didn’t want to move, but he yielded. Maybe he felt guilty about all the lies. Maybe he was too horny to complain.

“On the floor,” I whispered. I watched him with wide eyes. Would he go along with my idle fantasy? Matt loved to see me desperate for him; I loved to see him desperate for me. We weren’t so different in our desires.

Matt hesitated, glaring at me. I fluttered my eyelashes. Please?

“Fine,” he said. He slid off the couch and knelt on the floor, his c**k in his hand. My breath quickened as I looked at him. Perfect. Matt hadn’t even taken off his pants. His hair still smelled like shampoo. He looked disheveled and delicious, a fantasy incarnate.

He stared at me as he jerked off. Sometimes his eyes strayed over my body—my legs in nylons, heels on my feet—and sometimes he glanced down at his cock, but most of the time he held my gaze. He didn’t say much. He was trying to keep it together, I could tell.

He began to pant, his arm and hand moving faster. I licked my lips. If I had Matt’s boldness, I would have told him that this was so erotic for me. This. My lover in his raw need. My pu**y swelled in my tight thong, the sensitive skin tingling.

Matt’s lips parted. He twitched with pleasure.

“Fuck.” He sighed.

Cum oozed from his tip. I listened to the sound of his lust, the sound of him working his own body furiously.

“Don’t cover it,” I said. “I … I want to…” A wave of heat reddened my face. “I want to watch you come. On yourself…”

Matt moaned. He was too lost to pleasure to glower at me now. He stripped off his T-shirt and sprawled on his back. I stood over him, staring down. My jaw dropped. Why was this so hot? I clenched my hands to keep from touching myself.

Matt writhed on the floor. One hand caressed his sac while the other jerked up and down his shaft, twisting from base to head and back.

“God, oh God,” he moaned, and I knew he was going to come. The first thick spurt of cum hit his chest, another spattered along his stomach, and finally it oozed down his c**k to his fingers. He hissed and cursed and said God, f**k, f**k, his eyes closed.

I swayed on my feet.

My thong was soaked.

Matt’s eyes drifted open. He relaxed against the hardwood, his chest heaving.

“How wet,” he asked between ragged breaths, “are you—after that, Hannah? Are you happy?”

I touched my cheek. I felt feverish with arousal.

“Get down here,” he snarled. “Get out of your clothes. Come ride my face.”

Matt crooked his finger and beckoned. I wriggled out of my nylons and thong and practically fell on top of him. Fuck. How could I feel brazen enough to ask Matt to jerk off on the floor, and in the same moment too paralyzed with embarrassment to put my sex on his face?

“Dress … too,” he said, slowly catching his breath.

I lifted off my dress and unclasped my bra. I tossed the garments aside, and then I hovered awkwardly over Matt as he stared at my tits.

“Come here.” Lust strained his voice. His eyes were dusky. “Come on. I want this. Don’t hold back, Hannah. Do your best…”

I trembled as I crawled up Matt’s body.

I planted my knees on either side of his head and lowered the apex of my thighs to his lips. Fuck … this felt right and wrong and so hot. And I wanted it.

I quietly appreciated yoga as I sank, my legs flexing easily to bring my sex to Matt’s mouth. The contact sent shivers through me. My damp body … his warm breath and lips. I moved cautiously—did he seriously want me to suffocate him?—but Matt seized my bu**ocks and forced my pu**y against his mouth.

“Matt!” I groaned.

He moaned against my cunt. His tongue lashed out, tasting the soaked seam of my body and delving in and out of me. He sucked on my cl*t and bit my lips, tugging, savoring my desire. He made the most indecent sounds.

Pleasure warmed me from my abdomen outward. I curled my fingers against the floorboards and the blush staining my cheeks burned hotter. With Matt’s mouth devouring my pu**y, I kept getting wetter. I couldn’t stop. I tried to stop, because it was embarrassing—the amount of arousal oozing from me and coating Matt’s lips and tongue.

But Matt didn’t care. Or rather, he loved it. He lapped at me and licked it away; he sucked on me and made me wet again. Delight crackled up my nerves and sent signals like fireworks to my brain.

“Oh, God … Matt,” I moaned. “Matt … Matt.”

That boy loved to hear his name on my lips. He moaned in response, his voice vibrating over my clit, and I gasped. “Fuck, Matt!”

Another answering moan, muffled in the soft petals of my sex.

His strong hands encouraged me to move. He drove me up and down, rubbing my body over his lips, down to his chin, up to his nose. I shook violently. Oh … I was making a mess on my lover’s face, I could feel it.