The Redhead Series

by Alice Clayton

  Holly looked at the two of us and sighed heavily. “Jack, you know I think you’re a great guy. And I obviously love my girl more than anything. But trust me when I say this is the worst time in your career for you to be perceived as unavailable.

  “That’s all I’m going to say for tonight. You two enjoy yourselves.” She smiled, kissing Jack on the cheek, and turned to me. “And for fuck’s sake, Grace, just keep your hands off him in public.”

  “I hate you, fucko,” I sneered.

  “I hate you more. Now, scoot.” She giggled, leaving the kitchen. And me alone with my Brit.

  There was an awkward silence, a first for us.

  “So, should we go?” I asked. I couldn’t stand the silence anymore.

  “Yes, let’s go,” he said, smiling at me and catching my hand as we walked toward the door.

  He stopped me right before we went outside.

  “Are we cool, Gracie?” he asked, his eyes worried.

  I smoothed his hair back, his eyes relaxing with my touch. I traced my fingers down over his furrowed brow, down his cheek, and pressed my fingers into his lips, which formed into a pucker.

  “We’re cool, George. We’re cool,” I answered, smiling at him.

  Liar.

  This was going to break my heart.

  nineteen

  We were quiet as we drove, both of us lost in thought. I didn’t want the night to be about the earlier conversation, but all I kept seeing when I closed my eyes were those pictures and the word cougar emblazoned across the insides of my eyelids. I’d known the age thing was going to come back to bite me in the ass sometime—I’d just hoped it wouldn’t happen so fast, and in full view of his fans.

  I usually never felt old. Thirty-three wasn’t old, for Christ’s sake. However, if you were dating an actor who was twenty-four and the object of young girls’ affection . . . thirty-three was decrepit.

  But God, those pictures! They were actually very sweet. They had captured what we were: happy and content, funny and fresh, Jack and Grace. I loved the pictures, especially the one at Fatburger. We were in line at the counter, waiting to order. He had me tucked into his side and we were both looking up at the menu. And his hand was on my ass, lovingly. Like when you were fourteen and you went to the amusement park and your boyfriend planted his hand on your butt while you walked around, looking for that slow boat ride where you could make out in the dark, hands all fumbling and frantic.

  And the picture of us coming out of Whole Foods? Hell, I’d frame it and put it on my mantel, it was so cute. Our hands were swinging between us as we walked out to my car, having just been caught kissing in the frozen-food aisle. Jack was holding our grocery bags, and I was brushing his hair out of his face with the hand that wasn’t held by his.

  I looked over at him, driving my car, as was now habit. Usually when he drove we talked and held hands, or he played with my pant leg, trying to push it farther up my thigh. I usually pretended to try to stop him, but truth be told, I loved that he couldn’t keep his hands off me.

  But tonight was different. His hands were clutched tightly on the steering wheel, his jaw was tense, and I could see the worry on his face. I could fix this simply by taking his hand off the wheel and holding it in my own.

  I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it, though.

  He sighed again, and I was sure he was wondering how to fix the tension that had built up between us. I was quiet, biting my lip and staring out the window. Every now and again, I saw him look at me out of the corner of his eye, darting his eyes back to the road when I tried to meet them. He seemed so far away.

  He looked so sad, so concerned. He was as torn up about this as I was. I felt terrible, seeing him look so conflicted.

  Fix this. Fix this now.

  He ran his right hand through his hair again, and before he could place it back on the steering wheel, I caught it and brought it to my lips.

  He turned quickly to look at me, his eyes surprised and . . . relieved?

  “Hey,” I whispered.

  “Hey yourself.” He smiled back, face lightening immediately, then dropped our hands to my thigh, where he immediately pushed up my skirt so he could rest them on my bare skin.

  As soon as I felt his hand on my skin, I felt a sense of calm, of peace, of quiet settle over me.

  I felt a sense of grace.

  We pulled into Geoffrey’s, one of my favorite restaurants. It was in Malibu, perched on top of a beautiful cliff overlooking the Pacific. I’d never told him this was one of my favorites, but he knew. We held hands as we walked into the restaurant, and the host took us straight to one of the tables right in front, the ocean spread out before us. Both men went to pull out my chair, and I grinned when Jack won.

  After tucking me in he sat across from me, and I was reminded again how truly striking this man was. We smiled for a moment, listening to the waiter finish explaining the specials. Then we picked out a bottle of wine together and settled into a good silence, watching the tide roll in below us.

  “So, should we talk about it?” he asked, brushing a piece of my hair back behind my ear. He’d been watching me struggle to keep it unstuck from my lip gloss.

  “We can, but it doesn’t change anything. It would be great if we could walk right into a crowded Hollywood club holding hands in front of all the paparazzi, but we can’t.”

  He curled his hand around mine. “No, I suppose we couldn’t.” He sighed, concern flashing through his eyes again. I was determined to not have those gorgeous green eyes look like that again.

  “So, let’s just cross that bridge when we come to it. Besides, I’ll be far away in New York, and then you can slut it up playboy style again.” I grinned, pulling my dress a little lower and exposing just enough of my breasts to pull his focus. Sure enough, like a magnet, his eyes were drawn there, and when he looked at me again the green was on fire.

  The waiter brought our wine, and after we ordered, Jack raised a glass to me. “So, here’s to our second meal at the beach, and may this one be seagull-shit free.”

  “That might be the best toast I have ever heard in my entire life,” I said, clinking his glass merrily and sipping the wine.

  We laughed, and then Jack leaned into the table a little, taking my hand again.

  “So, I have something I’d like to propose.”

  “Be careful, Hamilton. The first night we met, you told me that we would engage in a tryst—and that happened, didn’t it?” I thought of that magical night, when the dirty martinis had flowed as freely as the banter.

  “I remember, Sheridan, and I’ve quite enjoyed trysting with you. But this one is different.”

  “Oh? Do tell.” I sipped my wine, delighting in the feel of his fingers tracing circles on the inside of my palm.

  Gazing down at our hands, he said, “I have to go out of town this weekend, to Santa Barbara.”

  I felt my face fall. I only had a few days left, and he was leaving.

  Then he looked up, staring at me through his lashes. “I want you to come with me. Will you come?” he asked, his words rushing out.

  Like I would ever say no to him. Like I would ever say no to that.

  Fantastic hotel sex! A giggle escaped before I could catch it.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked, the corner of his mouth turning up in that sexy half grin that made my knees go weak.

  “I was thinking, Fantastic hotel sex,” I said, my grin now ear to ear.

  Understanding dawned in his eyes, and they burned into mine. “Hmm, hotel sex. The best kind of sex.” He chuckled low.

  “Hotel sex, where Grace doesn’t have to be quiet,” I purred.

  “Hotel sex, where Jack doesn’t have to be quiet, either,” he answered right back, making my tummy clench at the thought of Aggressive Jack making another appearance.

  “Hotel sex, where we will finally have the sex. Is it wrong of me to want to skip dinner and drive to Santa Barbara right now?” I asked, only half-kidding.

&
nbsp; “No, it’s not wrong. I’ve half a mind to drive you there right now. You could use a good shagging,” he answered, raising my palm to his mouth, pressing his sweet mouth to it, and then darting his tongue out to lick it lightly.

  My mouth hung open. He wants to shag me.

  Why did that sound so dirty, sexy, and all-around nasty in the best possible way? I could see the T-shirt now: I got shagged in Santa Barbara, and all I got was this fantastic orgasm. It had a nice ring to it. I was sooo going to get shagged.

  About time.

  After dinner we drove back to Holly’s, touching the entire time. When we paused at a stoplight his hands were unstoppable, roaming all over my legs, my arms, over my dress, under my dress.

  Whenever we stopped at a stoplight, he leaned over and kissed me like someone was going to take my lips away from him and he was determined to get all that he could while he could.

  I was a little free with my hands, as well. I had already unbuttoned nearly his entire shirt, his jacket long since abandoned to the backseat. When we were at a particularly long light, I had a brilliant idea.

  I pressed the button that controlled the convertible top. In the middle of kissing me, he noticed the top going up and he stopped.

  “Did I do that?” he asked, looking confused. “I was nowhere near the button.”

  “No, Sweet Nuts, but you were getting close to the button that matters. I thought we could use a little more privacy,” I said teasingly, pulling my dress up high enough that he could see the white lacy boy shorts I was currently rocking.

  He inhaled sharply, his eyes going dark green again. I had come to recognize the eyes going dark as a portent of good things to come.

  “You’re dangerous, Nuts Girl. We’re still miles from the house,” he groaned as I continued to tease him, showing him a little more than just my boy shorts.

  “I only need a few miles to work my magic, Hamilton. Just drive the car,” I said, pointing at the light, which had turned green. He smiled, placed his hand high on my thigh again, and drove on.

  I pulled myself up on my knees, and then it was on. I attacked.

  I was all over him. My mouth sucked hard on his neck and my tongue found his ear. I moaned into it, biting on his earlobe.

  “Mmm, Jack . . . I can’t wait until you’re inside me,” I purred crudely, knowing this would drive him out of his British mind.

  He exhaled forcefully, and I saw his hands grip the steering wheel tightly.

  “Grace . . . don’t test me,” he said, warning me as he struggled to maintain control over both himself and my car.

  I leaned over, and with one hand buried in his hair and my mouth fixed on his neck, my other hand snaked into his lap and quickly unzipped him. He fumbled, trying desperately to keep me away from him, but he’d lost that battle the moment he said shagging. I’d been at a rolling boil since then, my oonie and me just biding our time until we could pounce.

  And who could ever resist a pouncing oonie? Jack should have known by now that when my oonie wants something, she gets it.

  There was also a Mr. Hamilton Junior that needed attending to. I placed my hands around him, leaned down, and took him in my mouth.

  “Fuck, Grace . . . don’t . . . seriously, don’t . . . ahhh . . . No. No, Grace . . . Gracie, we can’t . . . oh, wow . . . ahhhh . . . we really shouldn’t . . . aw, fucking hell . . .”

  He gave in.

  I heard screeching tires over his little diatribe, but mainly, I was focused on him. I licked him from base to tip, swirling my tongue around his head and then taking him in deeply to the hilt. I felt him hit the back of my throat and I moaned, sending vibrations through him. That’s when I heard, “Fucking hell,” and I knew he was mine.

  I pulsed him in and out, using my hands to create more friction as we sped up through the canyon. It was a testament to Jack that he was able to stay on the road. One of his hands did come down briefly to tangle in my hair, and I stopped only long enough to place it safely back on the steering wheel.

  I could tell he was getting close—his breathing was rough and his voice, which always chanted my name seconds before he came, was starting to get tense.

  I heard a squeal and then silence. Before I knew what had happened, I was pulled out of my seat, losing a shoe in the process, and placed unceremoniously on his lap.

  He had stopped me right before he came. Twenty-four-year-olds were my new favorite thing. I needed to tell Oprah to put them on her list.

  But now Aggressive Jack was in the house—or rather, in the car. A car that wasn’t big enough to contain him. I sat on his lap, my knees pressed into the leather behind him, as he looked at me without words. His hand stretched out to press the button that would put the top back down, and as it moved over our heads, I looked up and saw stars. I twisted around and looked over my shoulder and saw the whole of Los Angeles spread out before us.

  Mulholland.

  We had made it all the way to Mulholland.

  We were parked, and once the engine shut off, all I could hear was my breath, his breath, and the music. The Cult’s “Fire Woman” spilled out into the night.

  I started to say something about the view, and his hand closed firmly over my mouth.

  “No, Grace. I told you not to test me,” he said darkly, his eyes almost forest by now.

  His breath was still a little shaky from my recent activities, but there was no question he was in control now.

  “Did I tell you how beautiful you look in this dress tonight?” he asked, slipping one finger under the strap and sliding his hand under the fabric. His other hand lifted me off his lap just enough to pull the dress out from under me, billowing it around us.

  “Mmm-hmm,” I answered, thinking how sweet he was.

  “I want you to remember that.” He grasped a handful of silk and tore it from my breast, leaving me open to the breeze and making me gasp. I was naked underneath, other than my panties, and though he continued to rip my dress off my body, he never took his eyes off mine.

  Then he snarled. He fucking snarled at me. He scooted me up on my knees, dipping his hand underneath the band of my panties.

  “And as much as I love this lace? I need to see my Grace,” he said, ripping those off too. I was now completely exposed, parked on the edge of a cliff, straddling my Brit, who, by the way, was still hard as hell and pointed directly at me.

  We stared at each other, our breath coming faster and faster, waiting to see which one would break first. He was breathing heavily, his nostrils almost flaring with the passion that I could feel coursing through his body and flowing into mine. His lip curled in a sneer that was beyond belief in its sexiness. He looked like an animal, an aroused and about-to-be-out-of-control animal.

  The breeze raised goose bumps all over my overheated skin. I pressed myself down against him ever so slightly, feeling his sex against mine, and then we both broke at the same time. Foreheads knocked, teeth clicked, lips smacked and probably bruised as we clawed at each other. His hands went to my breasts. He pushed them together and licked them both at the same time . . . glorious.

  I buried my hands in his hair, pressing him farther against me as I began to swirl my hips . . . fantastic. He bucked up against me, his hips tilting me backward against the steering wheel and causing my elbow to hit the horn. We kissed, licked, sucked, nibbled, bit, moaned, groaned, panted, and grabbed. My wetness coated him, making us slide against each other in the most pleasing way. I could feel his hardness pressed against me, and as I rocked against him I was manipulated deliciously. I knew it wouldn’t take long; this sex was on fire.

  I shifted in his lap at the same time he shifted, and then . . .

  I could feel him.

  He could feel me.

  We both stopped and stared wide eyed at each other.

  He was so close, he was right there, he was almost . . . inside me.

  I could feel him, right where he needed to be. The feeling made my blood boil. He gripped my hips tightly, holding
us perfectly still.

  “Oh, God, Jack, oh my God . . . please?” My voice shook. I couldn’t wait any longer. I physically needed him to be inside, right now.

  He remained perfectly still . . . and then I felt him push into me. Just a whisper more than he had been, still only barely inside me.

  We moaned at the same time, and then he did the most unbelievable thing.

  He pulled away.

  I cried out at the loss. “No! No, please Jack. Come in, please come in.” Trying to push myself down on him, I looked into his eyes for an explanation. A battle was raging across his face; he was thrilled and horrified all at the same time.

  “No, Grace, not like this,” he said shakily. His face was changing from lust to fear to anger and then to pure carnal frustration. Mixed with determination. Damn it.

  “Not in a car, not outside, not like this. Not now,” he said again, his voice cracking as he pulled away farther, away from my warmth, which was aching to envelop him. He sighed heavily and lifted me off his lap carefully, setting me back into my seat.

  I was still in shock. As my heart and my body began to readjust, my brain caught up. He wanted it to be special.

  We were both fools. Crazy fools.

  I blushed suddenly. I was sitting in my car naked, parked on the side of a mountain, with a still-very-hard Brit next to me, both of us trying to get back in control of ourselves.

  I caught his eye, and we both grinned.

  “That was—wow. I can’t believe how hard it was to stop myself,” he said.

  “No kidding. I’m impressed. And apparently a bit of a slut.” I laughed, primly covering my exposed breasts with pieces of my shredded dress.

  Panties? Shredded.

  Pride? Slightly shredded but intact.

  “Slut becomes you. And just because I’m not going to be inside you tonight doesn’t mean I won’t be very, very soon,” he answered, twirling my panties on his finger—what was left of them.

  He took off his shirt, handed it to me, then put his jacket back on. I buttoned up and leaned over to kiss his neck.

  “How quick can you get us home?”