by Nicola Marsh
No words. No mulling. No second-guessing about auditions or coaches or opportunities.
Time enough for that tomorrow.
Four
Samira enjoyed sex. Sex was fun, relieved tension, helped promote sleep, and given the right partner, could be a fantastic aerobic workout.
Sex with Rory exceeded every preconception she’d ever had.
“Wow.” She fell back on the plump pillow for the second time in half an hour, totally and utterly blown away. Literally.
“That good?” He lay next to her and propped on an elbow, a self-satisfied smile playing about those heavenly lips. Correction: Lips that had sent her to heaven. Lips that could kiss and suck and coax the most amazing orgasms out of her, the type of orgasms she’d only ever dreamed about.
“Are you being cocky?”
“Hell yeah,” he said, broaching the short distance between them to place a long, lingering kiss on her lips. “You ready for more?”
“Oh. My. God.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, wondering if she’d be able to walk in the morning and not particularly caring. Rory had stamina and then some.
“How old are you anyway?”
“Twenty-seven,” he said, his slow, sexy smile hedonistic. “I’m legal, so do your worst.”
Twenty-seven. Thirty-seven. She didn’t have to do the math. Ten years. A freaking decade. For tonight, it didn’t matter. Boy toy indeed.
“Do you know how old I am?”
He squinted slightly, studying her. “Early thirties? Is it important?”
Either the guy was seriously charming or seriously drunk or in need of a serious eye checkup. Whatever, she realized he was right. It wasn’t important. Thirty-seven was a number. She didn’t feel her age, and it wasn’t like she was applying for a marriage license. Never again.
“I guess not,” she said, gasping as his thumb grazed her nipple deliberately.
Around and around in slow, languorous circles, sending heat streaking through her body and pooling between her legs.
This was crazy. Totally, over-the-top cray-cray. She’d never been so easily turned on before and could count her number of one-night stands on one hand, drunk or otherwise. After Avi and before Hamlyn, she’d dated infrequently, guys who were staid and sensible, like her. Guys older than athletic, eager-to-please, quick-recovering Rory, guys who didn’t give her half the buzz.
Emboldened by how much he wanted her, she tugged the sheet lower, revealing exactly why that decade between them made all the difference. He was ready to go, again.
“You sure you’re up for my worst?”
His lips curved in a smug smile before he dropped the lightest of kisses on her mouth.
“I’m up for anything.”
She didn’t second-guess her response as mind-numbing lust pulsed through her.
“Show me.”
* * *
* * *
Later, she breathed out a sigh, her eyes closing with what felt like twenty-ton weights on the lids as she slid off him like a limp rag doll and crashed onto the pillow.
“You’re incredible,” he whispered into the comfortable silence, and she struggled to open her eyes.
The ease between them surprised her. She thought she’d feel tacky, ashamed, or an awkward combination of the two, hooking up with a stranger on her first night back home. Instead, lying next to Rory after they’d explored each other’s bodies intimately felt strangely comfortable.
Words weren’t needed. They seemed to fit. Corny? Maybe. But she wasn’t going to question it. Maybe she should get drunk and let cute guys rescue her from jerks more often.
“Sweet-talker.” She opened her eyes with difficulty and rolled toward him, unable to control the thump of her heart as she saw moonlight bathing his bare chest in incandescent shadows, caressing the hard planes, accentuating his beauty.
He was gorgeous, breathtakingly so, and for the tiniest, infinitesimal second, she fantasized what it would be like to have this sort of perfection beyond a night. She reached out and laid her hand on his chest, feeling the strong, rhythmic pounding of his heart beneath her palm, enjoying the closeness she hadn’t anticipated when she’d initially lost her head and brought him to her apartment.
“You can stay if you like?”
She hoped she didn’t sound needy, but the thought of a rousing bout of morning-after sex before they parted ways seemed like a good idea.
He smiled and placed his hand over hers, an intimate gesture that went beyond anything they’d shared in the throes of passion.
“You’ve worn me out, so I better stay.”
She quirked an eyebrow and glanced at his impressive package, still semi-erect. “Doesn’t look like you’re worn-out to me.”
“You’re insatiable.”
“I don’t hear you complaining.”
He laughed at her boldness, and she slid her hand out from under his, skating her palm across the expanse of lovely bronzed skin across his chest and lower. Caressing the ridges of abs, savoring the definition.
“I’m not usually like this,” she said, toying with the sheet covering his bottom half. “It’s probably jet lag.”
“In that case, every time you fly across the international date line, you better look me up.” He winked and swooped in for a kiss. “Promise?”
Samira wasn’t in the habit of making promises she couldn’t keep, especially to a guy she wouldn’t see after tonight no matter how much they surprisingly connected.
So she settled for yanking the sheet away and covering his mouth with hers in a slow, sensual kiss as her hand slid lower . . .
Five
To keep his body in peak physical condition, Rory rarely drank. So the fact he’d consumed six whiskey shots on an empty stomach last night ensured he had one mother of a headache as he let himself into his place.
Considering those shots had provided the impetus in saving Samira from that hipster creep, and the resultant night of scorching sex, a hangover was a small price to pay.
The sexy brunette had been insatiable, and he’d been all too eager to please. How many times had they done it? Four? Five? It had been a long time since he’d met a woman so into it, and the memory of her beguiling mix of shyness and sex kitten made him grin.
He’d wanted to stick around this morning, to see her coy smile when she woke and discovered him up for it. But no matter how great their night, he knew how the morning after panned out. Awkward and stilted at the best of times, he hated struggling for words while trying to extricate himself. Much easier leaving her a brief note.
The temptation to jot down his number had come from left field. They’d both been drunk and seeking a night away from the norm. He, to obliterate the terror of the upcoming audition for his own TV show; she, he had no idea. Feeling homesick and seeking comfort wherever she could? Just out for a good time?
Whatever her motivations, he hadn’t scribbled his number on that note for the simple fact they were worlds apart. What would a physical therapist here for only a few months want with a stuntman? Beyond the obvious, that is. Besides, one-night stands rarely turned into anything more, and in this case, it wouldn’t. He had too much going on right now, and a relationship would be a giant complication he didn’t need, so he’d slunk out of her apartment and headed home.
Home. What a crock. He could never call this one-bedroom studio apartment on the ground floor of a grungy block of flats in Middle Park home. With its peeling mauve paint, cracked mock-wood linoleum, and damp patches on the ceiling corners, it could never be anything more than a stopgap. But he couldn’t afford to move. Not with every cent he earned being directed toward a cause close to his heart.
With his mouth as dry as the Simpson Desert, he padded into the kitchen and filled a glass with water. He’d drained half of it when the blinking light on his answering machine sn
agged his attention. Nobody rang his home number. Everybody called his cell, which he’d switched to “do not disturb” mode while at Samira’s last night.
Hoping Chris hadn’t been trying to reach him, he stabbed at the button on the machine and braced against the small island bench.
“Rory, it’s me. I hate to bother you at home, but we’ve hit a snag with some of the recent donors. Is there any chance we could meet to discuss possible solutions?” Amelia’s nervous laughter made him clutch the glass tighter, as the implications of what she was saying sank in. “I hate asking for help when you’ve been more than generous with your time, but maybe if both of us contributed money, it could work? We really need the funds if I’m to help those kids. So please call me.”
She hung up, and as the dial tone hummed, he slumped into the nearest chair, downed the rest of his water, and placed the glass on an overturned crate he used for a coffee table before he was tempted to fling it at the wall in frustration.
If he could, he’d fund Amelia’s entire program. She’d been the only speech therapist to truly get him, and he credited her with the fact he could string more than a few words together these days without stuttering. She’d changed his life, and he owed her.
It had been a no-brainer helping her establish a small start-up program with housing commission kids. He’d been one of the lucky ones, having a rich father to pay for endless therapy sessions. But other kids, mostly migrants and refugees, weren’t as fortunate, and not being able to speak fluently would affect their entire lives.
But it sounded like the program wouldn’t get off the ground if she didn’t have more money, and she’d asked him to contribute, which he’d be more than happy to do . . . if he had any to give.
No way in hell he’d approach his father for the cash, so that meant he’d have to nail this upcoming audition no matter how much he balked at the thought of it.
“Fuck,” he muttered, as his cell buzzed in his back pocket.
Sliding it out of his jeans, he glanced at the text from Chris, sending him details on the dialect coach. An appointment scheduled for tomorrow afternoon at four. Great.
With his bank account hovering in the low triple figures, and Amelia’s plea for a donation, he needed to suck it up. The money from fronting a show like Renegades would enable him to help Amelia launch her program and give back, repaying her faith in him a decade ago.
So he’d face his fears and meet with this bloody dialect coach tomorrow.
What was the worst that could happen?
Six
Samira spied Pia at a small back table as she entered Dosa Villas, her favorite South Indian restaurant in Dandenong. She’d been coming here since she was a kid, and the aromas of sautéed curry leaves, cumin, and mustard seeds catapulted her straight back to her life as a twelve-year-old, when the hardest decision she had to face was what costume to wear for Book Week. Considering she’d always had her nose buried in novels, she’d been torn between which favorite character to channel and which outfit to wear to school, yet Anne of Green Gables always won out.
If only life were so simple now.
Pia waved her over, and she wound her way through the tiny, no-frills restaurant sporting ten tables, a chipped counter for ordering, and a fridge stacked to the top with lassi.
“I already ordered you a masala dosa because I couldn’t wait,” Pia said, patting her flat stomach. “I’m starving.”
“Thanks.” Samira slid onto the seat opposite her cousin, sending a pointed look at Pia’s belly. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Pia gave a quick shake of her head, the spark in her eyes diminishing. “Our latest IVF attempt failed.”
“I’m sorry, sweetie.” Samira reached across the table and squeezed her hand. She should know better than to ask about Pia’s attempts to get pregnant, but they hadn’t talked about it in a while.
She knew firsthand the ongoing disappointment of discovering a single blue line on a little white stick rather than two. And while she’d tolerated Avi’s constant badgering after they’d started trying, only to throw countless pregnancy tests into the trash under his judgmental, disappointed glare, she wished she’d had someone back then to hold her hand through it all. She could be that person for Pia.
“I know what you’re going through, and I’m here for you.” She squeezed Pia’s hand again, but her cousin withdrew it on the pretext of reaching for her water glass.
“It sucks being thirty-five and surrounded by friends who procreate just by looking at their husbands.” Pia blinked rapidly, but not before Samira glimpsed the sheen of telltale tears. “And it’s harder being so in control of my professional life while . . . failing at this.”
Samira’s heart broke. She knew exactly how Pia felt. “You’re not failing. You’re freaking amazing, giving this your all, just like you do in your marriage and your career.”
She should know. She’d done the same, juggling a burgeoning career as a newly graduated physical therapist with marriage. Thankfully, compassionate, devoted Dev was nothing like demanding, egotistical Avi. “You’ve only tried twice and—”
“It costs a fortune, and I’m over it.” Pia grimaced, her gaze steely. “The injections, the invasiveness of the procedures, everything.”
“How’s Dev coping?”
“He seems okay, but the stress of it all is taking its toll on both of us.” The corners of Pia’s mouth pinched, causing tiny lines to fan out. “He’s putting on a brave face, but I know he blames himself, and sometimes I think . . .”
“What?”
“That he’s only doing this to please me, and the fact we have to use donor sperm to conceive is killing him.”
“Oh, sweetie.” Samira reached across the table and squeezed Pia’s hand. “He’s a good guy, and you two have a great marriage. He’d tell you if he was feeling that way.”
Pia shrugged, doubt in her eyes. “He thinks we should wait awhile before trying again because of the health center opening and all the extra work that will entail.”
“He’s probably right.”
“I guess.” Pia shrugged, her uncharacteristic moroseness making Samira wish she could take away her cousin’s pain.
While Avi having an affair and getting his girlfriend pregnant had gutted her at the time, maybe in some warped way he’d done her a favor. She couldn’t imagine going through the rigors of IVF with an impatient man like him, and he’d betrayed her before they could go down that route.
Pia and Dev adored each other and would be great parents. Their ongoing trials in having a baby must be devastating.
Determined to change the subject, Samira said, “Speaking of the center, I checked the schedule, and I’ve got six clients booked in for tomorrow.”
Pia gave a sheepish shrug. “Seeing as you’re touring the facility later today, I thought you’d want to hit the ground running tomorrow.”
“What if I’m jet-lagged?”
Though the strange fuzziness in her head had nothing to do with a mucked-up biological clock and everything to do with a lousy night’s sleep. Or lack of. She’d managed a grand total of three hours between the erotic escapades with Rory.
“That’s not jet lag I see,” Pia said, her eyebrows arching as she pointed at her cheeks. “You’re blushing. What’s that about?”
Samira felt the heat in her cheeks intensify, and Pia let out an excited whoop. “Did you hook up after I left the bar last night?”
Samira couldn’t keep the goofy grin off her face. “Maybe.”
“Good for you.” Pia reached across and slugged her on the arm. “Let me guess. You chatted for a while, flirted, then bolted for the safety of your apartment.”
“Not quite.” Samira’s grin widened along with Pia’s eyes.
“You didn’t.”
Samira nodded, smug in the knowledge she’d done something
completely out of character and felt fantastic because of it. “I did.”
Pia leaned across the table to murmur, “You actually had S-E-X?”
Samira mimicked her and responded with an exaggerated whisper, “Y-E-S.”
“No way!” Pia squealed and clapped her hands. “Didn’t think you had it in you, Cuz.”
“Well, I did.” She winked. “Several times.”
Thankfully, their order arrived at that moment, while Pia continued to gape at her in blatant admiration. Samira salivated as the dosa, a crispy, paper-thin, rolled-up rice pancake filled with spicy potato and as big as the table, was placed in front of her.
LA had some great Indian restaurants, but not one compared to this small, simple café in her home suburb of Dandenong.
She pointed at Pia’s plate. “Eat your vada before it gets cold.”
However, not even Pia’s favorite spicy lentil donuts could distract her.
“Not until you tell me what happened last night.” Pia smirked. “And don’t leave out a single detail.”
Samira rolled her eyes. “Anyone ever tell you you’re an insatiable gossip?”
“I’m a speech therapist. It helps hone my ear to hear people talk, so technically, listening to your weird hybrid Aussie-American accent is work and beneficial to my professional development—”
“Enough with the BS.” Samira laughed and held up her hand. “I’ll give you the quick version because I’m starving and I don’t want to drool all over my dosa.”
Pia grinned and absentmindedly dunked her vada in coconut chutney as she focused all her attention. “Go on.”
The hollow sensation in Samira’s stomach had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with remembering how she met Rory and what had ensued.
She filled Pia in on the basics, leaving out the juicy details. The memory of Rory’s mouth and hands all over her made her flush enough without going into specifics.
