Liam Davis & The Raven (Love Inscribed 1)

I fished around for specifics. “Your essay? Or is this a Dungeons and Dragons thing?”

He cut a glare. “My essay.”

In that case, maybe he shouldn’t be cheering quite yet. I saw his last essay. All of those stray and completely absent commas tampered my nod of approval. “Send it my way,” I said, closing my document. “I’ll proofread.”

Quinn shifted, lips poised to comment, and then he shook his head and rapidly started pounding at his keyboard.

A few minutes later, his email and attached essay popped into my inbox.

You’re fucking gorgeous sitting there, grinning away as you work. Makes me want to sweep our laptops off the table and have you on it.

Q.

P.S. What about Thanksgiving? Going to come with me?

P.P.S. I damn well know I have a problem with commas. Your constant choice in grammar-oriented T-shirts has not been subtle.

I replied:

Give me an hour on your essay, and then I will carefully remove my laptop from the table. After which, you can ravage me as you please. But don’t mistake it for anything more than sex.

Liam

P.S. Too much to do this weekend, I’m going to pass.

P.P.S. It must be working. The grammar in your mail was spot-on.

Quinn bit his lip, which didn’t hide his flushed cheeks. He typed something, then lurched up and disappeared to the bathroom.

I refocused my attention on his essay. Certainly the grammar had improved since the last one. But improved didn’t mean great.

A few minutes later another mail came into my inbox, and Quinn was back, squirming in his chair.

Re. Ravaging. Only sex. Got it. (For now.)

Then this is how it’s going to go and not to worry: it’ll be a laptop-friendly pillaging:

I’m going to start by stealing under the table and taking your big toe into my mouth. I’ll suck it hard and good as I slide my hand to your crotch and rub through the taut material of those slacks you’re wearing. You’ll sag at the sensation, and I’ll take my opportunity, sliding you under the table with me, where you will beg me to get you off. A warning, I’m going to make it slow. I’m going to make sure every scrap of clothing is off both of us, and then I’m going to lather our dicks in lube, then lie on top of you, hard and solid. I want to feel you arch and rut against me. I want to hear you pant. I want to watch you come. Afterward, I’m going to kiss you until we’re stuck together, right? And then I’m going to ask again if you’ll come for Thanksgiving.

“Quinn, I really do have too much to do—” I looked up, and Quinn was gone.

A shuffle came from under the table.

A hand latched around my foot, and a hot wet mouth engulfed my toe . . .

Wednesday morning, before Quinn, Hunter, and Shannon left for their Thanksgiving weekend, I stole Hunter away for a quick coffee. We met at our usual spot, Crazy Mocha Coffee.

“You sure you’re not coming back with us?” Hunter asked, arms folded, the hummingbirds at his wrists peeking out from under his cuffs.

“Not this time,” I said, picking up my bag and searching for my first draft on how the internet and mass media support student involvement in environmental protection. The printed pages were a smooth weight in my hands, and I slid them over to Hunter.

“Would you do something for me?”

“Why not this time?”

I gestured to the pages. “This needs rewriting in parts. After you’ve read it, give me your honest thoughts.”

Hunter raised a brow. I added, “Would you mind?”

Hunter glanced at the title and scanned the first page, and then he rested it on the table again. “I can tell you my honest thoughts on this already.”

He’d barely read a quarter of it. I sank lower into my chair. I’d listen to the criticism, let it soak in, and then do whatever was necessary to strengthen it over the long weekend. “Go ahead.”

His index finger played at the top corner of the pages, bowing the paper. “It’s smart as hell, but I think you should write about something else.”

A dry laugh left me hollow. He was kidding. Had to be. This was a feature article—correction, the feature article. I couldn’t whip up anything with the quality I needed in only a week. Not if I wanted to do the proper research and interviews—no one was around this weekend. It’d leave me only Monday to Thursday, with Friday to write it.

Then again, that was the world of journalism. Tight deadlines and the pressure to make every report perfect. I could do it. Of course I could.

So long as I had an angle worth exploring.

Tentatively, shifting in my seat, I asked, “What, exactly?”

He scratched his upper arm, sleeve shifting to show the wings of the turquoise hummingbird at his wrist. With a tap of his fingers on the arm of his chair, he said, “Write about me.”