Abby made a noise, a high-pitched hiccup sound that could have been a shriek or the start of hysterical laughter. Either way, I turned her to face me.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
She didn’t’ say a word. She just flung her arms around my neck and held on tight. I hugged her against me, surprised at how slight she felt in my arms. She had seemed so substantial, her personality bigger than life. But wrapped up in my arms and cradled against my chest, she felt fragile, birdlike. I kissed her hair impulsively, glad she was okay, that nothing more than a towel had been injured. Abby wasn’t still—she was alive and in motion in my arms. She was trembling, and I could feel her heart pounding against my chest.
“Hey, it’s okay,” I said, holding her out a little so I could look in her face. She shook her head.
Without a thought in my head, I dipped my face to hers and claimed her lips. I took her mouth, the tremulous surprise of her full lower lip, the soft gasp she made as our lips locked together, clinging, kissing deeper. At once, it became passionate, heated. I crushed her in my arms, the sweetness of her mouth intoxicating me. Heat thrummed through my body. My hands roamed her arms, her back, before tangling in her hair, lifting her long hair off her neck, crushing the silken strands in my fingers. God, it felt amazing. I drank her in, every sense firing. Everything about kissing her was so satisfying. I wanted to glut myself in her body, use my touch, my thrusts to soothe and enflame her, to make her forget that we’d had a near disaster, that another fire had nearly broken out around us. I could practically taste her skin—it would be like saltwater taffy, I decided. I yearned to drag my tongue along the column of her throat, feel the moan rise in her chest as I brought her pleasure.
Abby’s ragged breath, her hands on my shoulders gripping my shirt, all of it spoke of urgency, of need. She wanted me. I’d been wanted before, constantly, like slightly annoying white noise, ever since I moved to LA. But this was personal. It felt different. It felt like she knew me, at least a little, and wanted who I was, not merely what I could do for her. All this was in my mind, the hesitation I usually felt when I was attracted to a woman—the sense that I needed to be aware of what she wanted from me. But she was kissing me back, artless and bold, every stroke of my tongue met with hers.
She could match me, no shyness or shrinking away. No game playing, holding out for more from me. I felt it in her every move—she would surrender to me now without question. Or I would surrender to her—I couldn’t be sure which because her desire blazed as high and intoxicating as my own. We kissed passionately, tongues mating, a shudder of arousal rippling through her that I could feel in the tremor of her limbs pressed against me. I held her close in my arms, perhaps too tightly because I wanted to gather her into me, consume her, let this fiery pleasure consume us both. I devoured her, scented her lust as it gathered between her thighs—fireworks going off behind my eyes at the primal rush I felt at that smell filling me. I wanted my mouth on her, wanted her legs wrapped around my shoulders while I licked and sucked voraciously until she came. She would scream, would cry out my name. I knew by instinct she would not keep silent, not bite her lip as pleasure took her. She would call out for it lustily, embrace the powerful sensations fearlessly. I craved that, craved her wanton cries and the twisting of her hips and the taste of her.
When we broke apart, her eyes were half-lidded, drugged, and dreamy from my kiss. She did not go rigid or pull away but stayed melted against my chest. She nestled there, actually seemed to snuggle into my chest, her cheek against my heart. I rested my chin on her head, noting that she was exactly the right height. It felt good, like she fit there tucked into my arms. I relaxed, holding her.
“God, that feels good,” I said aloud.
“Mmm, doesn’t it? I never wanna move,” she said, her voice slurred. I smiled with satisfaction that she was so affected.
I took a couple of long breaths, reining in my arousal. When I was confident that I could smile at her and disentangle myself without hurting her feelings, I stepped away. I tucked her hair behind her ear affectionately.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“You mean because you kissed the stuffing out of me?” she asked with a shaky laugh.
“No, because of the fire. It wasn’t much of one, but I can see how it would be unnerving after losing everything.”
“I’m fine. I just freaked out. Thanks for being so comforting about it. I owe you a dishtowel.”
“Not at all. And if you thought that was comforting, my skills need improvement,” I said, “because you were delicious, and it took a great deal of will power not to ravish you in the kitchen.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever been ravished,” she said with a sly grin.
“If you’re not sure, then you definitely haven’t been.”
“Is that something you could correct? My ravishment deficit?” she asked archly.
“I can’t tell you how much I want to. But I don’t feel right about it. You’re vulnerable from the fire, and you were frightened just now. I don’t take advantage of women.”
“What if I tell you that you wouldn’t be taking advantage? I don’t even sound like myself,” she said, her voice practically a purr. “I don’t go around propositioning men, particularly on the first date. I’ve never slept with anyone before the fifth date at the earliest. It’s like I’m under the influence of something—your charm or the grits—maybe it was the grits,” she laughed.
“Any man who is afraid of your boldness isn’t worth having.”
“Thank you. I like to let loose. Some people would prefer me more toned down.”
“Then they’re weak.”
“Speaking of weak, I about lost control of my legs earlier when you were kissing me. That was the most amazing kiss I’ve ever had.”
“Is that a challenge? Because I can do better.”
“I’m not sure I could take it,” she joked.
“I didn’t want to stop.”
“I didn’t want you to stop. So why are we standing around talking about it?”
“Because we both know it’s for the best. I don’t take advantage of women. You don’t hook up on the first date. We know who we are.”
“Yes. I’m a writer who is going home sexually frustrated. And you?” she asked, tapping a rideshare app.
“An actor who is watching you leave and then taking a long, cold shower.”
“I’d rather you didn’t. I’d rather you—can I call you when I get home?”
“Yeah, absolutely. Let me know you’re home safe.”
“That’s not what I mean.”
“Oh. Then definitely call me. I’ll put my ringer on loud,” I said with a half-smile. “This is so high school, in the filthiest, best way I can imagine.”
“You must have had a very different high school experience from the one I had in Iowa. I worked on the school newspaper. It was not remotely sexy covering basketball games.”
“So call me. Tell me something sexy,” I said.
“You mean besides tonight?”
“You can tell me more about tonight,” I said and kissed her cheek. Her phone pinged, and I walked her out to the car.
Chapter 6
Abby
Josh Mason was an amazing kisser. If there were Olympic medals in kissing, he would win all of them: gold, silver, and bronze—every time, both winter and summer games.
But that didn’t mean I should marry him.
He didn’t push the marriage of convenience idea during dinner, and once I set his kitchen on fire, it would have been awkward to start the subject on my own. But I knew it was on his mind. He had seemed determined when we’d spoken of it the first time, and he was clearly not a man to give up until he got what he wanted. He could be patient, but it was a tiger’s patience, the assured wait of a powerful animal that knew he would get the prize in the end. Waiting cost him nothing. It just made victory all the sweeter.
I understood him better than I wanted to admit. The challe
nge itself was thrilling. I had been starved for adventure with Wyatt. The temptation was too strong—for fuck’s sake, it was Josh Mason. Up close and very personal, he was extremely, panty-meltingly charismatic—commanding, sexy, funny, and confident. Everything that made me want to drop my clothes on the floor and spread my legs for him.
When he asked me out for the next night, I walked on air all day. In the production meeting, I was assigned to work on the midseason cliffhanger which I’d lobbied for. I was excited, focused, ready to speak up for the integrity of the characters and the wishes of the audience. I had done some more research and found out there were some pretty active subreddits shipping a pair of characters who’d never been matched onscreen. I floated the idea of giving the large and vocal audience a dream sequence or something that featured the pairing. The head writer immediately shot it down, saying “pandering to the viewers never works,” but the executive producers liked it. Anything that might translate into advertising dollars was popular with them, and the fact that I was the only person in the room who’d ever been on a subreddit gave me an embarrassing amount of credibility.
“There’s also a Twitter movement. It’s #brane for Brindl and Thane. That’s their ship name.”
“If it’s an online trend, we’d be foolish not to pursue it. Look at what online support has done for other shows. When a fan-favorite couple finally gets together, it’s ratings gold,” he said.
I could start laying the groundwork immediately. I knew it could be an immensely popular storyline and might even attract former viewers who defected after the second season to come back to see old favorites as a couple. It would be an achievement if I could woo back a few lost rating points.
I knew that some of my reservations about the show, some of the hardcore alpha male vibes, the relentless battles and assassinations, could have alienated a segment of the audience who tried the show because of the historical accuracy and the soap opera promise of a costume drama set in medieval times. I made some notes, then remembered to ask Malcolm a couple of questions to clarify a point of Thane’s backstory. He grudgingly answered. His respect for my audacity was wearing thin, but he was still willing to work together. I took that as a victory.
At five, I headed out to get ready for my date with Josh. That required leg shaving and hair straightening for maximum fun. To me, getting ready was part of the enjoyment; just being so excited to go out with him that I took the time to choose the dress I felt like wearing.
I got ready to have the best time possible, taking pleasure in painting my toenails glossy red and wiping off my eye makeup to redo it when it smudged. Not because I wanted to look perfect, but because it was fun to get dressed up and feel that fizzy anticipation of looking forward to the date. I’d been sorely missing the adventure of it all.
I rushed out the door to meet him when he arrived. I didn’t want Andrew cornering him and asking for an autograph and a selfie.
“You look gorgeous,” Josh said.
I couldn’t even say anything in return because he was so handsome there wasn’t even a word for it. He was the opposite of those Facetuned, Photoshopped models on Instagram and in magazines. He was even more perfect, more breathtaking in person than in any film or photo I’d seen.
“Thanks,” I said finally, “it’s my favorite dress. I always feel great in it.”
“There’s a private party tonight at Echelon, invitation only. It’s the launch for a black cherry vodka. A lot of industry people will be there. I’d love to take you if you’ll go.”
“It sounds amazing. I mean, it may be dull for you, but I don’t get invited to A-list parties.”
“They’re just people like us. Some of them are fun to talk to, and some of them are really boring and only talk about themselves. You’ll figure out which is which pretty early on. But they’ve got several bands doing short sets too.”
“Anyone I’ve heard of?”
“Coldplay. The Chainsmokers.”
“Holy shit. That sounds incredible. I love them both!”
“I thought it was something you’d like. It’s why I didn’t have my assistant throw away the invitation.”
“You would’ve skipped The Chainsmokers?”
“Yeah. I get a lot of invites, and the thing is, every single one of them is from someone who wants me to make an appearance for the photographers. So it looks like a glamorous, star-studded event, as they used to say on Entertainment Tonight.”
“But if you hate the attention so much, then what made you want to be a star?”
“I wanted to be a star because I loved movies, and I thought I’d like having money. I’ll admit that as a kid, I always wanted my face on the celebrity birthdays, like ‘who was born on this day?’ ”
“So you left behind your humble beginnings of watching network TV and wishing you were Leonardo DiCaprio, teen heartthrob,” I teased.
“I never wanted to be him.”
“The guy from Twilight?”
“God, no. My dream role, like the one I wish I’d played, was Woody Harrelson in Hunger Games. That jaded, seen-some-shit drunk who is hilarious and blunt, but dark as hell and tries to save everyone. Even though he feels doomed, he wants to protect those kids, but he knows he’s powerless.”
“That’s…depressing.”
“You didn’t like those movies?”
“Not really. Too much action.”
“You write for Ancient Crowns. You’re like the mayor of beheadings.”
“Not me. I do dialogue and long, searching looks,” I laughed.
“I haven’t noticed those for all the severed limbs flying around,” he teased.
We pulled up at the club, where there was a red carpet with a crowd of reporters on either side held back by velvet ropes and overseen by security. Josh rounded the car and opened my door, then took my hand to help me out. I smoothed the hem of my short red dress and grinned. It was spectacular. I loved the people taking our picture—evidence that Josh Mason went out with me. And it was exciting because I wondered who all was inside. What legends of Hollywood was I about to meet?
Josh’s hand was warm in the small of my back, guiding me. I wasn’t nervous, but it was good to have his hand there, to know he was at my side. We turned to pose, and he pulled me close to his side. I smiled for the flashing cameras as he answered questions as to who I was— ‘Abby Lang, writer for Ancient Crowns, a friend of mine.’ I smiled at that and had to resist the urge to rise on my tiptoes to nibble his lips greedily in front of the press. I wanted to stake my claim, show that I could touch him, kiss him, and he would respond in kind. The real danger to that kind of showing off was that if he kissed me back for real, I’d be weak in the knees and moaning in no time, letting the world see how he could make a floozy of me in thirty seconds or less.
The inside of the club was so sleek, full of silver and black décor, narrow glass columns on each table holding a slim white taper. The music was low and rich, Chris Martin’s recognizable voice throbbing through me from the soles of my feet to my scalp. I caught Josh’s hand. “Let’s dance,” I said, giddy.
In seconds, we were on the dance floor. There was no crush of people, just a few knots of dancers here and there. Josh’s hand settled on the curve of my hip as we began to dance. His dance moves were masterful, strong and sure as he was, and I liked being guided by him, keeping time to the music with our bodies. It wasn’t long before I’d worked up a sweat. A faster song came on, and he twirled me, making me laugh. He hauled me back in against his body. He was hot and hard, giving me a sudden clutch between my legs. I swallowed, knowing that his proximity, his movements, had made me wet. The intense look on his face as he held me to him told me that he knew. He could smell or feel how I wanted him, how I was his for the taking.
“Don’t rush this,” he said against my ear, his breath tickling and arousing me. “I’ll have you in private with no hurry, a big bed with crisp white sheets, and as many hours as I want to devour you,” he said, his voice drivi
ng me wild. His eyes flashed, and I knew he took in every hint of how turned on I was by him. “We’ve got hours before that. Let’s go introduce you to some important people.”
“Okay,” I said. I sipped the drink he handed me and met the director from one of his early movies.
“Any spoilers for me upcoming on Crowns?” he said as if he were a fan. I smiled knowingly.
“Are you a Thane fan?”
“I have been since day one. He is the most underrated character,” the man said ardently.
“He’s going to get a more character-driven storyline midseason,” I said. “But don’t breathe a word of it.”
“Is Brindl in it?” he asked, this Oscar-winning director acting like a fanboy over my show.
I smiled my best inscrutable smile and lifted one shoulder. “You’ll have to wait and see.”
We moved on to a group that included some actors I’d only seen on magazine covers and movie screens before. I smiled as I was introduced, and they invited us into their conversation.
We stood there, and I listened to them talk about what kind of scripts they were getting, their discontent about the shallow characters in some of them. I filed away all that as information for my spec script. Because Josh had me thinking that I could write something audiences and actors would clamor for. Something deeper and more thought-provoking. I could learn a lot by listening to this crowd.
“You’re a writer,” a woman said. I nodded and looked up.
“Oh my god. You’re Ellen Truitt.”
“Guilty as charged, I’m afraid,” she said.
“I am going to act like such a fool. Your screenplay for Washington Square and the way you portrayed Catherine—that changed my life. That story and that character said so much about women and their strength in restraint—you are brilliant. Thank you so much for writing that, for playing her,” I said. I felt myself choke up.
She took my hands. “It’s my favorite project. I’m glad it meant so much to you,” she said graciously.
Pretend Wife Page 7
