I love stories that connect. You know, where characters appear from one book to the next. I write those kinds of stories too. I have a series called The Family, and Ineffable is in it.
If you’ve read any of the other books in The Family series, you’ll recognize Tommy and Lani. Those two fashion plates and quite a few of their crew appear again in The Siege of Sophie. which I released recently.
Anyway, I revisited Ineffable recently and enjoyed Nori and Margot’s love story all over again. Enjoy this snippet. In it, Margot is dealing with a rearguard reaction to Nori’s perfectness. You know the deal – woman meets fabulous man but doesn’t trust it? But this hero is no punk. Our heroine may have a penchant for getting into trouble, but once he bails her out this hero will make sure she has no reason to do anything but fall under his spell.
Sometimes she’d try to tell somebody how she felt. She’d open and close her mouth so many times Tommy would roll her eyes, and ask, “Are you sure you’re a woman? I never met a bitch had as hard a time as you talking.”
But as much as she wanted to gush and brag and ask questions to make sure she wasn’t actually going crazy in love, she couldn’t bring herself to share. She wanted everything that was him to remain hers alone, and they already drew way too much attention. Tommy’s punk ass might put the shit on the internet anyway, with pictures, advertising her feelings neatly packaged to coincide with a fresh delivery of merch at Ineffable or at Saks, her newest gig.
She had a trunk show there to celebrate them carrying her line, one of those evening shopping parties with cocktails and free make up demos and what not. She’d helped customers decide which of her pieces looked best on them and been amazed not only when the entire inventory of product sold out in less than three hours, but at how many people asked where Nori was.
She hadn’t really noticed how many people were following her Instagram feed, but according to Tommy they were the romance of the century. Women swooned over the pictures she snapped of him sleeping, working, eating, staring at her, messing with her jewelry in progress when he thought she wasn’t looking.
And he took snaps of her too. Sleeping, working, in the shower covered only by steam and a bit of frosted glass – he was beyond pissed when Tommy lifted that one from her phone and posted it – cooking, getting dressed, everything. He liked the camera on her phone better than his – which was how Tommy was able to get a lot of pictures – he’d text himself the photos and then put them on his computer.
“One more naked photo,” Margot told her friend, “And your black ass is toast.”
“Tell him to get his own account,” Tommy kept saying, and when he didn’t she changed the bio on Margot’s to read ‘M n N,’ though she was nice enough to leave Margot’s web address intact, Nori pointed out.
“Thanks,” Margot quipped, rolling her eyes.
“You know, that little snarl of yours is the closest we’ve come to one of those infamous Margot temper tantrums in forever. I thought I was getting this fireball artist with a hot, changeable attitude. But you’re a pussy cat.”
“Hmmmph. Keep talkin’ shit and I’ma claw your ass.”
He just laughed, and pulled her close.
Usually he initiated contact. But sometimes she’d be sitting next to him on the couch and she’d pull his hand away from his laptop and wrap it around her breast, or her throat.
Or, he’d be gabbing away into his phone while pacing around her living room, and as soon as he came close, her hands filled with his sleek butt cheeks or caressed his strong thighs until he said a short goodbye and crushed her into the couch.
She didn’t want to interfere with his work, but sometimes her body wouldn’t allow her to let him pass unmolested. She had to reach for his hand, the nape of his neck. Her fingers were programmed to run themselves through his thick black hair at least once every few hours, her nails lured to his skin like bait to a hook.
Of course he liked it. His smile and the sparkle in his eyes told her that. And he was almost always willing to stop what he was doing and oblige her, whether she wanted to make love, steal a kiss or just sniff his neck. He stopped her once in an elevator. He told her later he thought the guy in there with them would have enjoyed the show too much.
“Dude, we’re boring,” she told him one night.
They’d declined yet another party in favor of their usual, working in the living room, followed by dinner, a little TV and sex.
“Speak for yourself,” he told her in French.
“Speak French,” he answered, again in his language.
She knew he wanted more. She could see it in his eyes sometimes, and she dreamt of saying I love you. She just couldn’t bring herself to do it.
She didn’t give a shit about saying it first. That wasn’t what this was about. She and Nori were beyond that. She couldn’t make her mouth form the words at all. So she let him know how she felt with her body. There at least she was succeeding. Their lovemaking remained explosive, frequent and fulfilling.
“I’ve grown used to you,” he whispered one night as she lay in his arms drifting toward sleep.
“Good,” she whispered back. “There’s more comin’.”
“I welcome every part, Margot.”