A TB EXCLUSIVE VALENTINE’S SCENE from M PIERCE!!!

The Album:
Valentine’s Day with Matt Sky and Hannah Catalano

Oia, Greece is an enchanted place—a town built on an island in the south Aegean Sea—where I took Hannah for Valentine’s Day. It was a belated Valentine’s Day gift, to be exact. “To make up for my failed efforts in the cabin,” I explained to her.

“Not entirely failed,” she replied, her eyes shining with amusement.

She’s a bad little bird.

Last Valentine’s Day was entirely failed—cheap wine and chocolate, a hideous plush rabbit bought at the only store within hiking distance, and both of us hiding in the cabin—but Greece can cover a multitude of sins. Especially Oia.

The town’s quaint, whitewashed buildings and blue-domed roofs captivated Hannah. We spent our first day exploring. She took pictures of everything—each blue and white house we passed, the caves, cliffs, and slim alleyways, the arches, the soft sloping architecture, and the cobalt sea and sky.

And me. Endless pictures of me, smirking and shaking my head.

Hannah wore a pretty striped sundress, a wide-brimmed hat and white sandals. I swear, I stared at her all day. The wind licking off the sea fluttered her short dress and tossed her long, dark curls. I caught more than one glimpse high up her thighs, almost to her panties. Thankfully, she was oblivious—too excited by the scenic village to notice the show she was giving me—and it was off season, so no nosey tourists got a look at my girl.

When the sun began to set, we walked along the pebble beach on the western side of town. Hannah snapped a few shots of the sunset before tucking her digital camera in her purse.

“All done?” I smiled and caught her hand.

“For now.” She winked at me. “I might need to take a few more pictures at the hotel.”

“Ha. Maybe you should let me take the pictures. You know how I love taking pictures of you . . .” I pulled her to a stop and she turned toward me, her hand instinctively curling around the back of my neck, my fingers digging into her hip. I never could seem to touch her gently. Whenever we got close, urgency and desperation overtook me, as if I couldn’t believe she were mine . . . as if she might disappear.

Our lips crushed together and I kissed her greedily. She moaned into my mouth and I answered with a gasp, yanking her closer.

“Let’s go,” I hissed. The sky was darkening, the sinking sun casting a thin yellow stripe across the water. I wanted more privacy than the beach allowed. So did Hannah. She squeezed my hand and we hurried back to our hotel.

The town somehow looked lovelier by night, amber lights splashing color on the walls and the blue rooftops disappearing into the darkness.

“Let’s explore more tomorrow,” Hannah said. She sounded breathless. I didn’t know if that was because of our kiss or our long day of walking. “This is the most beautiful place I’ve ever been, Matt. They’ve preserved an incredible aesthetic. And everything is blue . . .”

“Yes. Your favorite color.” I led her onto our hotel room balcony. It overlooked the outdoor pool, an aquamarine panel set in white stone, which overlooked the sea. I gazed down at the pool, picturing Hannah there in her tiny swimsuit. Then picturing her in nothing.

“What are you thinking about?” She slipped her hands beneath my linen shirt and splayed her fingers on my abs. They were tensed with the effort it took to wait . . . to savor this moment with Hannah instead of throwing her onto the bed and having her, as I eventually would.

“You.” I glanced at her. “Naked.”

Color crept across her cheeks. She stared at her feet, suddenly fascinated by them. “Oh.”

“Trying to be patient. Not quite succeeding.” I leaned down and brushed a kiss to her forehead. I breathed in the smell of her sweet shampoo and the ocean breeze. “Happy Valentine’s Day, bird. Did I do all right this time?”

“You always do. You know I don’t need . . . fancy stuff. You make me happy, Matt.”

“Ah, I disagree. You need all the fancy stuff in the world.” I removed her hat and tossed it onto a lounge chair. I began kissing her throat, working myself steadily back into a frenzy, until she pressed her small hands to my chest.

“Wait,” she breathed. “I . . . I have something for you.”

“Hm?” I frowned. She did have something for me, under her clothes.

“Patience,” she scolded playfully. She darted into the room and reappeared with a gift wrapped in silver paper.

“I thought I told you not to get me anything.” I took the package and sat on the lounge chair. Hannah sat beside me and watched me open it.

“And I thought you knew by now that I am an expert disobeyer.”

I laughed and peeled back the tissue paper, revealing a simple square photo album. She had placed a picture of me on the cover with a caption—“Things I Love About You.”

“Why do I feel like I’m about to be embarrassed,” I muttered. Hannah was forever snapping candid photos of me. Sometimes I noticed; most of the time, I didn’t.

“Shh. Just open it.”

I flipped to the first page and laughed again, rolling my eyes. Yup, it was a picture of my bare ass. I appeared to be sleeping. Hannah had pulled down the covers. Gratuitously, she’d written a caption. “Your perfect cute butt.”

I glanced at her. “I like your butt, too.”

She nudged me, her blush brightening. “Read!”

The next thing Hannah loved about me was “you knew this was coming (pun)”—a picture of my dick. I smiled faintly and shook my head, looking to the next glossy page. Hannah had quite a few racy pictures of me and many appeared in the album, highlighting features of my body. Because we were alone together, I didn’t feel the least bit embarrassed. I felt proud . . . and turned on. I pushed back her dress and rubbed her thigh lazily as I perused the album.

“Your happy, relaxed smile,” she wrote beneath a picture, “And your angry, impatient frown,” she wrote below another. “That look you get when we’re watching a show and you hear a song you have to find”—a picture of me glaring at the TV screen, reaching for my phone—“The way you try to cook”—a picture of me staring into the pantry helplessly—“How lost you get in your work”—a picture of me at my desk, gazing at something I was writing.

“When did you take this?” I balked at a picture of us having sex against a wall, my body captured in a mirror and Hannah with her iPhone peeking over my shoulder. The caption: “The way your ass and thighs tighten up when you’re thrusting into me.”

“You let me take it!” She laughed.

“Huh. I don’t remember that . . .”

The pictures were by turns sweet and sexy. The things Hannah loved about me, apparently, were all the things about me. The way I played with our pet rabbit, Laurence. The way I preferred to be on top. The way I was rough with her and the way I was gentle. My happiness. My shyness. My anger. My obsession with writing. The way I liked to read aloud to her. The way I invariably burned things in the oven. My list-making tendency. My habit of watching her drive off whenever she went to work. My “sweet face,” my “handsome face,” and “Did I already mention your butt?”

The last picture was of us, a clumsy selfie taken on our condo balcony.

“I’m selfish,” Hannah had written beneath the photo, “because the thing I love most about you is the way you love me. Happy Valentine’s Day, Matt.”

I stared at the image for a long time, with the night growing darker and cooler around us and the sound of the waves washing against the cliffs. Then I closed the album and gazed into the night. It was easier to be patient then, though my body was rigid with excitement and anticipation. I touched Hannah’s jaw and smiled at her. “Thank you, bird. You’re a sweet thing.”

She shrugged one shoulder and smiled nervously. I could see that she was turned on, too. I recognized that look on her face.

“Let’s go in,” I said. I walked ahead of her and went to her handbag, searching until I found her camera.

“What are you doing?” The anxious edge in her voice made me grin. I turned and lifted the camera, snapping a shot of her surprised face.

“Starting my album,” I murmured. “Things I Love About You, Hannah . . .” I lowered the camera and studied her for a moment. “Mm. First, the way you take off your clothes.”

THE END

Happy Valentine’s Day from M. Pierce, author of the Night Owl Trilogy

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