The push and the pull, the soft and the hard, the sweet and the salt of it all was too much, and I exploded again, screaming his name once more and making him smile.
I opened my eyes and saw him kneeling over me. I scrambled up, sitting up on my knees, and yanked his boxers down quickly. My head was still spinning from the intense orgasms this man had just given me, but I couldn’t focus on anything other than the sight of him. Huge, hard, swollen, and perfect.
Placing one hand on him and the other on me, I watched his face as I “addressed” us both. I wanted to come with him.
His eyes traveled down to my hand on his length and then to my other hand, which was feverishly working my own sex. I switched hands, my wetness coating him, making him moan as I worked him. I could feel myself getting closer again and I slowed, wanting to wait for him.
“Come with me, Jack,” I panted, almost crying with the torture of watching his perfect face as he raced toward his own orgasm. Both of his hands shot out to the back of my neck, lacing his fingers behind me. I cocked my head to one side, leaning on his arm, kissing his skin wherever my lips could reach him.
He closed his eyes, sighed my name, and came . . . with me.
Beautiful.
Minutes later, we were wrapped as closely as we could be, arms and legs entwined, skin on skin. I was running my nails through his hair while he slipped toward sleep. I kissed him softly on each eyelid, the tip of his nose, and finally his mouth.
I loved him.
Simply.
In the morning when I woke, he was gone. On his pillow was a single piece of paper.
Grace, I have looping today. I should be home by 3. Out to dinner? Last night was . . . I have no words.
Jack
There was a little arrow at the bottom, indicating I should turn it over.
There was one more line:
I’m leaving you with just a little schmaltz: schmaltz
The last word was written tiny, and I laughed through my tears.
eighteen
That morning I spent putzing around, dealing with some of the stuff that had fallen behind while we were in the cocoon.
I got caught up on the freelance project I was finishing. I could work on some smaller projects from New York, but with the salary I’d be making, I could essentially stop freelancing. I was going to be able to support myself as a working actor for the first time in my life, and I almost had to pinch myself to believe it.
I also started packing, deciding what I would send ahead to New York and what I’d bring to my new house. Shit. There was still so much I had left to do and hardly any time to do it. I could feel myself beginning to panic a little.
I needed to drop the voice-over class I had just signed up for. I needed to switch my Martha Stewart subscription to New York. Crap, I didn’t even know where I was living yet.
I needed to go shopping. I was out of deodorant, and I needed some string cheese. And I had promised the Brit I would pick up some mother-flippin’ Chex Mix.
I needed . . . I needed . . .
Settle, Grace.
I needed to do laundry. I grabbed the hamper and sat on the floor, making piles around me while I took some deep, cleansing breaths. As I was sorting, I noticed that Jack had snuck some T-shirts into the hamper. Now I was doing his laundry? I smiled, thinking of him throwing these shirts into my hamper with a grin, knowing that I’d call him out on it later. He was so cute when he was smirking. I pressed each of the shirts to my face, inhaling his sweet scent.
I looked around my room, where we had spent so much time over the last few days.
His guitar. An errant melba toast. His jeans, thrown across the back of my chair. A Felicity DVD—he really was sweet to indulge my Ben Covington fetish. His stupid ball cap, which, to his credit, he had not worn in my presence.
I picked up the ball cap and stared at it, thinking of how cute he was when I took it off his head and messed up his big curls.
Why was the ball cap wet?
I was crying. Big, giant elephant tears were pouring foolishly, relentlessly down my face. I was over-the-moon happy to be moving to New York, but I was so sad to leave him that it was messing with my head . . . bad. How was it possible that I was in so deep already?
The phone broke me out of my sad-sackery. It was Holly.
“Hey,” I said, sniffing up the last of my tears.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong, why?”
“You’ve got that donkey voice, that’s why.”
“Donkey voice?”
“Yeah, when you’ve been crying, you sound like Eeyore.”
I laughed aloud. I loved her so.
“Come on, meet me for coffee,” she said.
“Don’t you have to work, Holly?”
“Eh, all the Scientologists are on vacation. It’s been a slow week.”
She watched me pull into the Starbucks lot, waving at me while I looked for a spot. While I was putting the top up, I saw two guys check me out and I smiled. I still wasn’t used to attractive men checking me out. Once a fat girl, always a fat girl in your head. But I knew I was glowing lately. Must have been the round-the-clock orgasms. They always did wonders for a girl’s complexion.
I walked up to the table where Holly was sitting outside and smiled when I saw she’d already gotten my coffee.
“Hey, dillweed, nice of you to order for me,” I said, giving her a kiss on the cheek and sinking into the chair across from her.
“Yes, I thought you could use some caffeine. Are you enjoying the view? You’ve spent so much time horizontal lately—be careful, now.”
“Who says we were only horizontal?” My face lit up at the thought of him, vertical, horizontal, or otherwise.
“I see.” She laughed as I sipped my drink.
“Holly, I have to tell you, with the way it’s been already, you better get some earplugs for when we finally do the deed.”
“What? Wait . . . he hasn’t even fucked you yet?” she asked, or rather yelled, judging by the curious faces of everyone sitting around us.
My face burned as brightly as my hair. “No. And Jesus, Holls.”
“How the hell is that possible? All that screaming and moaning and groaning and grunting and thrashing about that you’ve subjected me to, and no—”
“Dick. I know. No actual dick, yet.” I finished her sentence, hiding my face in my hands.
“I have newfound respect for young Master Jack. All that wall banging with no actual bang bang? So when is this momentous event going to happen?” she asked, clearly in awe that I had yet to ride the lightning.
“I don’t know. I wanted to wait . . . and now I’m leaving in less than a week . . . I . . . I don’t know.”
“Wanted to wait? Get on the stick, woman. Literally!”
“It’s not like I don’t want to. I just wanted it to be special, okay?” I sank back against my chair, feeling miserable.
“Who are you? Blossom? Grace, you have a twenty-four-year-old man in your bed every single night, and you aren’t letting him into the sanctuary? A man, by the way, who women all over the country are lining up to fuck the brains out of?”
“Believe me, he’ll be let into the sanctuary! And thanks for reminding me about all those other women. That’s a great visual for me to have when I’m walking around Manhattan. Can we please talk about something else?” I begged.
“Yes. Why were you crying earlier?” she asked, switching topics quickly.
I grimaced and took a long pull on my iced mocha. “It’s just been a whirlwind the last week, and there are many different things banging around in my head. I’m so jazzed about this show, and you know I’ve always wanted to live in New York, even temporarily. But I’m leaving my new house right as I was going to get to move in!”
“And?” She pushed me.
“And I backed out of the showcase. I feel terrible about that.”
“And?”
“And I will miss you, of course�
�you’re my Dirty Martini Bitch,” I said, my eyes warming.
“And?” She smiled gently.
“Oh, God, and I don’t want to leave my Brit. I really don’t want to.” I sighed heavily.
“And why exactly would that be?” she asked again.
I was quiet, then broke out into a huge grin. “Because I haven’t gotten the dick yet?” I asked brightly.
She couldn’t help but laugh. “Look, whether you want to say it out loud or not, it’s obvious how you feel about him. And it’s obvious to anyone with eyeballs that he feels the same way.”
I fiddled with my wallet, my way of telling her this discussion was over.
“One last thing, if I may?”
“Yes?” I asked warily.
“If you don’t want to tell me, at least tell him. You should, you know.” She took a sip of her drink.
“I am considering all options.”
We were quiet for another moment.
“So, really, all that with just his hands?” she asked with a grin.
I smiled proudly. “And his fingers. And his mouth. And his—”
“Stop it, you’re making me blush.”
We dissolved into giggles, to the entertainment of everyone who was at the Starbucks off La Cienega that afternoon.
After coffee with Holly, I headed back to the house. I had gotten a text from Jack about dinner tonight:
Gracie, I’m meeting a friend for coffee after looping and then running by my place for a bit. Dinner tonight? Wear something sexy—not that this would ever be a problem for you.
His text made me smile, but I was also feeling a little blue. The friend he was having coffee with, was it this Marcia?
You’re supposed to stop saying it that way . . .
I know, I know.
I went upstairs and grabbed my iPod and headed out to the terrace. I wanted to soak up as much California weather as I could, although autumn in New York was truly beautiful.
I settled into a lawn chair and breathed in the sunshine. People said L.A. was smoggy, and it was, but there are parts of Southern California that just plain smell better than anywhere else. I could smell sun, grass, oranges, and honeysuckle. It was late in the day, and the warm golden glow of the sun bathed me. I felt wrapped in it. I loved L.A. I would miss it.
I dozed off and on, and finally took out my earbuds when I noticed that the sun was low in the sky. It was later than I thought.
I stretched in my chair like a cat and heard the unmistakable putta-putta of Jack’s silly little car pulling into the driveway. He called out to me as he came in through the kitchen.
“Out here, George!” I answered, bouncing in my seat, waiting to see him for the first time that day like a little schoolgirl.
He rounded the corner.
Wow.
He was dressed for the evening. White button-down, black jacket, black pants. He was clean-shaven, my favorite stubble from the last few days gone. He smiled that super-sexy grin and closed the distance between us.
“Hello,” he said, placing his hands on the armrests on either side of me.
“Hello yourself,” I answered, a little high from the hit of Hamilton that had just been blasted at me.
He leaned in closer . . . and hesitated just before his mouth touched mine. He was so near I could feel the energy zapping between us, but he still held his lips there for two agonizing seconds. All I could hear was his breathing—mine had stopped.
I would never get tired of kissing this man.
He pulled back when I clutched at him, and I stuck my tongue out at him. He laughed.
“Get ready for dinner, Grace.”
“Dinner schminner. Let’s stay in . . . ,” I purred, trying to pull him between my legs.
“Ah-ah. I’m taking you out,” he said, scolding me, as I did my best to ensnare him.
“Why don’t you skip the out and just take me?” I whispered hungrily in his ear. My talk with Holly today had made me question this whole “special” thing.
I could see hesitation in his eyes as he looked at me, weighing his options. To further entice him, I placed my hand directly over the noticeable bulge in his pants.
I squeezed.
He groaned.
I was going to win this one.
He gave in, pulling me up from the chair, snaking his arms around my waist, and crushing me to his chest. He lifted me straight up off my feet, his lips planted firmly on mine, and carried me backward through the house toward the stairs. My arms were wrapped around his neck; our eyes locked like laser beams. There were no words. We both knew where this was going.
“Hi, fuckface, I’m home!”
He stopped dead on the stairs and closed his eyes in frustration, and I sighed into his shoulder.
“Holly,” we said at the same time.
He put me down on the step, kissing my forehead. “Dinner?” he groaned.
“Give me twenty minutes,” I moaned back, hopping up the stairs. He gave my ass a smack, and I squealed on the way to my room.
Twenty-two minutes later, I walked into the kitchen and was greeted with whistles from Jack and Holly. I had chosen well, apparently. I was wearing a deep-green swing dress with tiny straps and an empire waist. The neck dipped low enough that it was sexy but not slutty, thank you. I wore my hair down. Luckily, I had let it air-dry that morning and my natural curls were lazy and soft, exactly the way Jack liked them. I finished off with gold kitten heels and lots of sparkle.
And my boobies were definitely sparkly.
I felt gorgeous, and the way Jack was staring at me with a dropped jaw told me I had done well. The green of my dress exactly matched the green of his eyes, something that I didn’t realize until I saw him in front of me, his eyes burning as he took me in.
“Grace, wow, you are . . . ,” he said in a low voice.
“Now, now, be nice,” I said teasingly, anxious to hear what he would say.
“Illegally beautiful,” he said, brushing my hair back to plant a soft kiss where my neck met my jaw. My toes, freshly painted with “I’m Not Really a Waitress,” curled. I literally shook in my heels from that one touch of his lips.
“Ahem,” Holly said, bringing me back from orbit, but only slightly since Jack was now planting baby kisses from my neck to my collarbone.
Sweet sassy molassey, he is off the charts tonight . . .
“Guys, a moment?” she asked, throwing a grape at Jack.
“Hey, bitch, don’t mess with my Johnny Bite-Down. I’ll kick some ass,” I snapped. Jack chuckled, and we both turned to her.
“Johnny Bite-Down? Forget it, I don’t want to know. What I would like to know is how you’re gonna explain this,” she said in a serious tone, pointing to her laptop screen.
Curious, I stepped behind her and looked over her shoulder.
TMZ had posted the picture of the two of us at Yamashiro with me kissing his neck, exactly the same way he’d just been kissing me. There was no way to misinterpret the intimacy of this shot, especially the way he was holding my hand. The look on his face as I kissed him implied that there was definitely something between us. The caption read: “New star Jack Hamilton dines at local L.A. eatery with unidentified redhead.”
Then there was a picture of us at Fatburger—I hadn’t even seen the cameras that day. “Time hunk Jack Hamilton and mystery redhead.”
Finally, there was a picture of us holding hands again, walking out of Whole Foods. He was laughing, and I was gazing up at him adoringly. This time there was a paragraph.
“British heartthrob Jack Hamilton has been photographed all over Los Angeles with a mystery girl. Has this Brit boy been bitten by the love bug? Or has a cougar gotten her claws into this very single guy?”
Tears prickled my eyes. Cougar.
As in, what the fuck was I thinking, dating this much younger man?
As in, what the fuck was he thinking, hanging out with my ancient ass?
As in, what the fuck must everyone be thinking when they
see us together?
And the bitch of it was that I wasn’t even old enough to be a cougar.
I shook it off, smiling through the fuckery. “Hey, you should come see these, Hamilton! You look great, although the redhead next to you clearly needs some antiaging cream!” I forced a laugh out.
“I’ve seen them,” he said softly. “And, Grace, you’re insane. I think you look lovely in those pictures.”
“Well, the insane part is obviously true. Cougar, huh? You dirty boy,” I said teasingly, swallowing hard on the lump in the back of my throat.
He crossed to me and took my hands. “Stop it,” he said, brushing his nose to mine and clasping my hands to his chest.
I blinked back the tears furiously, bending my head so he couldn’t see them.
I could hear Holly typing behind me.
“So, anything else on there I should see? Ashton and Demi make any appearances this week?” I asked, turning away from him and going back over to Holly. I heard Jack grumble behind me. I was getting some control back. I was squishing it back down.
“Nope, that’s it,” she said, closing her laptop. “Look, guys, no one’s happier than me about this weird little thing you’ve got going on. I think it’s great. In fact, I think it’s pretty fucking fantastic.”
“Holly, listen, I know that—”
She held up her finger. “That being said, I have to play the part of manager and say that being photographed like this, all over town—not a good idea.” She looked at me apologetically, and I nodded to show her that I understood.
“Holly,” Jack said, “I’m not going to change what I do in my personal life just because it’s more media savvy. We should get that straight right now,” he said, slipping an arm around my waist. I leaned into him instinctively. Though it looked like we were presenting a united front on this, I agreed with Holly.
I cut in, attempting to smooth this over. “You know what? I think we should go to dinner, and we can figure all this out later.”
Jack wasn’t upset, but I could see his jaw tighten. Besides, I was leaving in just a few days. It would soon be a nonissue.
The Redhead Series Page 16
