by Nicola Marsh
If he noticed her discomfort, he didn’t show it. Instead, he fixed those bright blue eyes on her, his stare unwavering so she detected ridiculous things like green flecks around the irises.
“Th-thanks, that’d be great.”
Stumbling over his words made him cuter, if that were possible. Did her invitation make him nervous? He didn’t have to be. She was jittery enough for the both of them.
He thrust his hands into pockets, and she noticed his body for the first time. If the smile and face hadn’t been enough, he had some rig. Broad chest, stand-out pecs, great arms, all wrapped up in a plain white T. Impressive.
“It shouldn’t take long.” Were the green flecks in his eyes actually glowing, or did jet lag lead to fanciful observations? “It’s the least I can do.”
The knowing glint in his eyes made her flush, a rush of heat from her face to her feet and some choice places in between.
“Great. I’m Rory.”
“Samira.” She held out her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”
The minute his fingers closed around hers in a firm, warm handshake and unexpected lust arrowed through her, she wondered if she should renege on her offer. What if he got the wrong idea? She should bolt for the safety of her apartment fifty floors above and let him do his own damn laundry.
When she continued to dither, he pointed at his stained T-shirt. “Once this dries, it’ll be hard to get out.”
“Yeah, you’re right.”
Flustered and hot and more than a tad drunk, Samira slid off the barstool and teetered for a moment, before lifting her chin. “Follow me.”
Three
When Rory’s casting agent had called him earlier for an urgent meeting, he never would’ve guessed it would land him in an elevator going up to a stunning woman’s apartment two hours later.
In fact, Rory usually kept his expectations low when Chris called. “Urgent” could mean anything from filling in for a soap opera stuntman who’d broken his leg to signing on with a low-budget movie.
But thirty minutes ago, Chris had stridden up to the bar and slapped him on the back before sliding onto the stool next to him. “Rory, thanks for meeting me on such short notice. Beer?”
“No.” Rory took a deep breath and let it out slowly, determined not to stumble over the “th” sound. “Thanks.”
He’d learned to manage his stutter most of the time, but the last thing he needed was his casting agent figuring out why he eschewed speaking roles in favor of the physical demands of a stuntman.
“I’ll get straight to the point.” Chris placed his laptop on the bar, lifted the screen, and tapped at a few keys. “There’s a role coming up I think you’ll be perfect for.”
An outback snapshot with a big, bold renegades across the middle filled the screen. “This is going to be the next big thing in reality shows. Huge.”
Chris bristled with excitement as he jabbed at the screen. Rory had never seen him this enthused. “They need a down-to-earth, rugged host who looks like he wrestles crocs in his spare time.”
Chris radiated smugness as he stared at him. “You fit the requirements perfectly.”
A dull roar filled Rory’s ears as he focused on one word: “host.”
A TV host fronted the entire thing. He spoke. A lot.
Mistaking his silence for surprise, Chris continued. “I know you’re not big on speaking roles, but don’t worry. I’m hiring you a dialect coach. They’ll work closely with you in the lead-up to the audition so you’ll kick ass.”
“Right,” Rory managed, at a loss for words and not because he couldn’t articulate them clearly.
The thought of having to read lines made his gut churn. His palms grew clammy, and he surreptitiously swiped them down the sides of his jeans. He may have learned to mask his stutter from countless speech therapy sessions over the years, but that meant jack when he got riled up or overly excited. Then no amount of pausing, mentally rehearsing, and breathing could stop the Ts, the Ds, the Gs, and all of the other problematic letters from running into one another as they spilled from his lips.
He’d never forget the embarrassment of kids at school discovering he couldn’t speak clearly and the resultant teasing. Worse, enduring countless classes where sadistic teachers who knew of his condition called his name repeatedly to answer questions out loud.
So why the hell would he deliberately set himself up for a fall by speaking in front of the cameras?
“You’re overwhelmed. I get it.” Chris grinned, his glance flicking between the screen and him. “But this is it. Your big break.” He rubbed his thumb and forefinger together. “Not to mention the money.”
Rory managed to nod, desperate to come up with a reason as to why he couldn’t do this but coming up blank. In a way, his awful childhood had ensured he put in the hours with speech therapy as a teen, determined to master control of his wayward mouth. It had helped, and these days only those closest to him knew he stuttered, but he’d be damned if he slipped up and let the world know.
He may need money desperately, but at what cost?
Oblivious to his discomfort, Chris brought up his calendar. “The audition is in four weeks, so I’ll tee up a dialect coach ASAP and forward the details to you.”
Again, all Rory could muster was a lame “Right,” but if Chris registered his monosyllabic responses, he didn’t show it.
“Ever had a dialect coach before?”
“No.”
But he’d had a shitload of speech therapists hired by his father to “rid his son of his affliction.” While his father had never come out and said it, Rory knew he embarrassed the great Garth Radcliffe.
For as long as he could remember, his father had finished his sentences or supplied words when Rory got stuck. He hated it. Or worse, his dad would get this look in his eye if Rory struggled, part embarrassment, part cringing, like he didn’t understand how such a smart kid couldn’t string a sentence together.
Turning his back on his economics degree and entering the entertainment business had initially been about flaunting his freedom. That, and the fact the best speech therapist he’d ever had, Amelia, had guided him toward drama classes to improve his confidence as a kid and to practice techniques learned to control his stammer. He’d been hooked since.
Hosting a reality show would prove to his father he wasn’t a loser and, even better, that other people wanted to hear what he had to say even if Garth didn’t. It would show him how far he’d come. That nobody finished his sentences for him these days. That he could be successful despite his stutter.
“Because you’ve never done any speaking roles, the dialect coach will train you in vocal delivery of lines, help improve diction, get a good balance between tone and articulation, that kind of thing.” Chris closed his laptop and stood. “It’s all about getting the speech of your character right in the context of on-camera work, so don’t stress. You’ll be fine.”
Easy for him to say. Would a dialect coach pick up on his stutter? Reading lines off a monitor shouldn’t be a problem, as he’d had to read out loud for years as instructed by a therapist, but ad-libbing could trip him up.
“Any questions?”
When he didn’t respond immediately, Chris’s eyebrow rose, and Rory quickly shook his head.
“Great, then I’ll set everything up and text you the details.” Chris stood and held out his hand. “You deserve this, mate.”
Rory smiled and shook his agent’s hand. “Thanks for the opportunity.” It took more effort than usual to articulate the sentence clearly while he was a jumble of nerves.
His own TV reality show. It defied belief.
Becoming a stuntman seemed the perfect choice once his acting course had finished. Since then, driving behind the wheel in a car chase or jumping from a burning building gave him the adrenaline rush he craved.
The thought of
standing in front of a camera, reading off a script, learning lines, left him cold. Not that he hadn’t done it before. That acting course had been a major step forward in managing his stutter. No, he knew his funk stemmed from something deeper.
A fear of being called out as a fraud.
Being up front and center on a show would entail interviews and promotions and a plethora of speaking opportunities that had the potential to undo him. Rehearsing lines that could be edited post-production was a far cry from answering questions on the spot by curious interviewers.
He’d never come out of it unscathed.
Six whiskey shots later, his nerves blurred. He didn’t give a shit anymore. Another few drinks and he could forget everything, at least for tonight.
He’d ordered a boutique beer chaser when the couple a few feet down the bar caught his attention. The exotic woman snagged his gaze first: shaggy brunette bob, figure-hugging black dress, manicured purple toes peeking from sparkly sandals, petite, curves in all the right places. Big hazel eyes, high cheekbones, and a lush mouth that had him imagining all sorts of fun ways he could forget about the dramas of this upcoming audition.
A wannabe hipster was coming on to her. Sidling up with a drink first, then putting the moves on her. Smarmy prick. Then he saw the guy grab her and her expression morph from disinterest to fear. It had him off his barstool in a second. Considering the whiskeys he’d consumed, he didn’t hesitate in posing as her boyfriend. Those acting classes came in mighty handy at times. The part where the dickhead deliberately tipped his wine down his shirt hadn’t been in the plan, but it got rid of the douche, and that’s all that mattered.
Having the stunner invite him up to her room was a bonus.
Now, as they rode the elevator in uncomfortable silence, Rory mentally cursed his inability to make small talk. One of the speech therapists he’d seen in his teens had admonished him for being afraid to speak. They’d encouraged him to practice the techniques he’d learned rather than clam up. Easy for them to say. They’d never experienced the gut-deep fear of embarrassment, the mortification that came with people’s overt pity when he couldn’t formulate a full sentence.
He could control it most of the time, but in moments like this, with a gorgeous woman inviting him up to her room, he hoped he wouldn’t turn into a stumbling mess. He’d already had a brief lapse at the bar he hoped she’d missed.
“I’m renting here for six months,” she said, as the elevator dinged on the fiftieth floor and the doors slid open.
“You’re here on business?”
She nodded as he fell into step beside her. “My cousin’s opening a practice in South Wharf not far from here, and I’m acting as a consultant.”
He hadn’t pegged her for a doc. “You’re a medico?”
“Physical therapist.” They stopped outside 5050, and she slid the key card through the slot and opened the door. “And no wisecracks about groin pain or magic hands, okay?”
He laughed. “Wouldn’t dream of it,” he said, immediately imagining her hands on his groin.
They hadn’t remotely flirted, but he’d seen the way she’d looked at him downstairs. He knew the signs. He wasn’t vain, but stunt work meant long hours at the gym, and he knew women appreciated the result.
He’d craved a distraction tonight. If the alcohol didn’t cut it, maybe the lovely Samira could.
Placing a hand at the small of her back, he guided her inside. Her swift intake of breath confirmed he hadn’t misread the signs.
“I’ll get the stain remover pen I always carry when I travel,” she said, sounding breathy, leaving him standing inside a smallish, modern apartment with killer views of Melbourne from the floor-to-ceiling glass windows. She returned quickly, brandishing the stain remover.
“You’ll have to take off your T-shirt,” she murmured, her cheeks crimson as she stared at his chest, the tip of her tongue darting out to moisten her bottom lip. “There’s a bathroom next to the kitchenette.”
He didn’t move, and when she continued eyeing him like she wanted to lick the stain off, he made a lightning-quick decision fueled by one too many whiskey shots and a desire to obliterate the next ten minutes of dancing around their attraction.
“Okay,” he said, grabbing the hem of his T-shirt, peeling it off, and bunching it in his fist.
He blamed the alcohol, having the balls to blatantly throw down the challenge. If she felt the attraction, she’d do something about it. If not, he’d grab the stain remover from her and take his dirty T-shirt into the bathroom.
“Wow,” she murmured, gnawing on her bottom lip as he saw indecision cloud her eyes, her coy reticence surprising him. She had to be a few years older than him, and women over thirty were usually more confident.
When she continued to stare at his chest with wide eyes and not make a move, he held out his hand.
“If you give me that, I’ll take care of this?” He gestured at the balled-up T-shirt in his hand.
“I’m hopeless,” she muttered, as she took a step toward him. However, she didn’t give him the stain remover. Instead, she took the T-shirt out of his hand and laid it on a nearby coffee table, along with the pen.
“And I’m drunk,” she said, shaking out her arms like she wanted to take a swing at him. “And I’m too old for one-night stands—”
“Hey, it’s okay.” He ran his thumb down her burning cheek, from her temple to her jaw, savoring the soft skin, eager to explore her skin all over. “You’re stunning. And I’m drunk too.”
She laughed as he’d hoped, her lopsided smile making him want to bundle her into his arms, the surge of protectiveness at odds with his intention to fuck all night.
She took another step closer and placed her palm on his chest, the heat from her skin branding him. She smelled amazing, like a bouquet of flowers, predominantly jasmine. Heady. Fragrant. Intoxicating.
As her palm skated over his chest, exploring every contour, he gritted his teeth against the urge to sweep her into his arms and back her up against the nearest wall. Instead, he raised her free hand to his mouth, turned it over, and bit the soft pad of flesh beneath her thumb. She jolted and let out a soft moan that made his cock throb. He did it again, harder this time, and she swayed toward him.
With a deliberate swipe of his tongue, he licked the redness away, giving her a taste of what he’d love to be doing between her legs right now.
“You feel amazing,” she murmured, her hand sliding from his breastbone to his waist, dipping into the curve of his hip, before stroking along his waistband. Toying with him. Teasing him. Driving him wild.
He ducked his head to nip her earlobe. “I want you.”
She made a cute whimpering sound that had him smiling as he dropped to his knees. He started at her ankles, exploring the dips and ridges with his fingertips, teasing her with the lightest of touches, before moving at a snail’s pace up her toned calves, lingering in the backs of her knees.
As his palms slid up her thighs, the slight callouses on his fingers rasped against the softness of her skin. She made a soft mewling sound when he stopped short of nirvana and pried her legs apart.
“Hike your dress up for me.” His command came out a growl because being this close he could smell her muskiness and had to taste her, now.
She obeyed, bunching the silk in one hand, revealing black lace panties with a sheer front panel. Beyond sexy. He didn’t hesitate to rip them off. She chuckled, a wanton, joyous response that shot straight to his cock.
He pressed his thumbs to her, and she slumped against the nearest wall with a moan. Prying apart her slick folds, he slid his thumbs from front to back, over and over, savoring the soft noises she made.
When her hips arched toward him, he leaned forward and swiped her with his tongue.
“Oh . . .” Her head fell back with a thunk as he did it again, lapping at her with the tip of
his tongue, teasing her, tasting her.
He slid a finger inside her, then another, setting up a slow rhythm designed to drive her wild. It worked, because her hip thrusts became uncoordinated, which was when he sucked her clit, hard.
She cried out as he picked up the tempo with his fingers and his tongue simultaneously, licking and sucking, sliding in and out, drenched with how turned on she was.
He felt her clamp around him a second before she came on a drawn-out moan that was the sexiest thing he’d ever heard.
Her eyes were closed, her head still lolling against the wall, a small, smug smile playing about her lips. She didn’t move, so he stood and made quick work of getting a condom on.
She opened her eyes and reached for him, resting her hands on his shoulders as she hooked a leg around his waist.
“You’re incredibly sexy. You know that, right?” He nudged her, and she locked her leg tighter.
“Right back at you,” she said, gasping as he slid inside, inch by inch, gritting his teeth against the urge to pound into her the way he wanted to.
“Perfect,” he said, claiming her lips as he started to move, her tongue tangling with his, wild and sinuous, challenging and giving.
She deepened the kiss like she wanted to devour him, her hands clawing at his shoulders as he thrust into her, over and over, the friction driving him wild.
His balls tightened, the pleasure too much too soon, but he wouldn’t hold back. If he had his way, they’d do slow and sensual later.
As she started to writhe against him, he slipped a hand between them and zeroed in on her clit. Circling it with his thumb, maintaining the pressure, he let go as she moaned into his mouth, pounding into her as his muscles spasmed and his mind blanked, hurtling headlong into welcome oblivion.
Rory had no idea how long they stood there, bodies entwined, sweat-slicked skin growing cool, but when they finally drew apart and Samira met his eyes with surprising shyness, he knew without a doubt this was what he’d needed tonight.
