by Stacey Kade
But then Chase’s familiar and slightly too-loud guffaw of laughter snaps the spell.
From the other side of the pool table, he nods at me, lifting his overly full tumbler in a sloppy salute. “Told you,” he says, seemingly to the hot girl in the gold dress.
Then the girl turns to face me with a knowing smile that, under any other circumstance, would have had me hard in an instant.
“Eric,” Calista says, with that pleased-with-herself smirk, before reaching for the martini glass balanced next to her on the edge of the table.
Holy shit. The shock must be written all over my face because she laughs, all throaty and warm. It’s like a siren song, with notes of soft sheets and warm skin pressed against skin. Calista, her head thrown back and throat exposed as she moans …
My dick is not getting the message that this is Calista. Fuck.
“Can I talk to you for a second?” I ask, through gritted teeth.
“Sure,” she says, handing over her pool cue and her drink to Chase, who gives me a muzzy grin. He is well on his way to being wasted.
“How are you?” she asks, as she approaches.
“Oh, I’m great,” I say grimly, taking her firmly by the elbow and leading her out of the game room. Guys are watching her like it’s feeding time at the zoo and she’s the last pallet of zebra meat for the entire enclosure. Sick assholes. They don’t even know her.
Marcus, who played Skye’s boyfriend for the first season, stops as we near him in the hallway and gapes. “Calista? Holy shit, you look—”
I shove into him with my shoulder, hard, as we pass.
“Damn, Eric,” he protests. “What’s your problem?”
I’ve always hated that guy. There was a good reason we left him behind in Mexico on that trip. “Keep walking, Marcus.”
Calista twists around to wave at him and then eyes me. “You don’t seem great,” she says, suppressed laughter in her voice.
“How much have you had to drink?” I demand.
“Are you serious right now? It’s a party. One of your parties.”
That does nothing to make me feel better.
I pull her into the nearest unoccupied room, which, when I turn on the light, turns out to be a small closet full of shelved cleaning supplies. There are doors here at the mansion—my dad’s ego trip made into brick, mortar and white stucco—that I’ve never bothered to open, especially here in the central part of the house.
“What’s wrong?” Calista asks, rubbing her arm as I let go of her and lean around to grab for the door handle.
She doesn’t move out of the way—to be fair, there’s very little room to maneuver—and my chest brushes against hers as I fumble to shut the door. The light contact of her breasts against me sends heat through me, along with the urge to prolong the contact. To grab her and pull her against me.
But I make myself step back once the door is shut. It only kind of helps. I can still smell her, the vanilla of her perfume or lotion or whatever it is, even above the stronger scent of bleach and laundry detergent and whatever else is in here on the narrow shelves on either side of us.
“Did I hurt you?” I ask gruffly, nodding toward her arm.
“Of course not,” she scoffs, but then she belatedly looks down to where her fingers are running over her skin, like she’s surprised to see the gesture. She lowers her hand. “It just … no,” she says a little more softly. “You didn’t hurt me.”
Her gaze meets mine and holds, for several seconds too long. It sends an electric charge through me. She liked my hands on her. That’s what she means.
“What are you doing here?” I demand.
“In the closet? You brought me.” She gives me a self-satisfied smile.
Definitely slightly drunk, and I’m not entirely sober myself. And we’re trapped in close quarters now. This is a bad idea. The hem of her “dress” is brushing against my thighs and my hands at my sides.
It wouldn’t take much effort to reach out and raise it. Touch her. Get her wet. Make her moan for me. Is she even wearing panties under there? I’m maybe two inches from being able to find out.
At the thought, my cock stirs painfully to life again, hard and throbbing against my fly.
Damnit. No, I’m not doing this.
“It’s a party,” she continues, folding her arms across her chest, which only raises that damned dress even higher.
I try not to look down. God help me.
“One that, I thought, I was invited to as a former cast member of Starlight, but now it seems like you’ve invited everyone in the greater Hollywood area,” she says pointedly.
That, unfortunately, tends to happen with my parties.
Which is not my point. “No, I mean, what are you doing here dressed like that?” The Callie I’d known for years was more comfortable in yoga pants or those ratty, flannel PJ bottoms she used to wear to my house for movie nights. Or to play pool.
Now, I’ll never be able to shake that image of her in that dress, and what I was thinking about, about her, out of my head, even if her outfit magically transforms into those awful flannel pants right now. It’s not like I’d never thought about her in that way before, but I’d tried really hard to avoid it, and never in that kind of graphic detail. Flirty, touchy, yeah, but not heart-pounding, cock wet—stop!
“I can’t dress up for a party?” she asks, raising her eyebrows, looking the slightest bit pissed for the first time.
“No! I mean, yes, you can.” How did this conversation spin out of control so quickly? I am too wasted for this conversation. Or not wasted enough. “Is this about … what you talked to me about last year?” I’d tried very hard not to think about that conversation in the intervening months. “Are you here looking for someone to fuck you?”
Her sharp inhale tells me that I’ve crossed a line.
She moves closer, chin raised in challenge. “If I am?”
Jealousy beats powerfully against the inside of my chest, like one of those silverback apes trying to claim territory. “Jesus, Callie.” I shake my head.
“What? Why is it any of your business?” She pokes me in the shoulder.
“These assholes aren’t going to care about you. They aren’t going to…” Make sure she feels good. Take care of her so she isn’t more nervous than she needs to be. Make her come.
“You deserve better than that,” I say, frustrated. “Some stranger pawing at you, trying to get off.” I know these guys, I’ve been these guys.
“Why do you care?” she asks, her expression intent.
I open my mouth. Because I want it to be me. “Because I thought we were friends,” I mutter. Lame. Chicken-shit. Pussy. I can’t do it. She’ll want more than I can give. Or I’ll mess it up or both.
Her face falls. “Well, thanks, friend,” she says. “But I’ve got it covered.”
“Do you have someone already in mind?” I shouldn’t ask, but the question is out before I can stop it. Marcus, maybe? God, Chase? My mind is creating all sorts of lurid images, and I hate them all. The images of Callie and Marcus and Chase and every guy at this party who isn’t me.
“Maybe,” she says after a moment.
Fuck.
“It’s none of your business,” she adds.
She turns away from me, but I reach past her to block her access to the door. She could duck under my arm if she wanted to, but she doesn’t move.
“You’re going to have guys crawling all over you,” I say through clenched teeth. We are way too close now, with her ass pressed against me, and any attempts I’ve made at talking my cock down are over.
“Good,” she snaps. “Glad someone will be.” She glances over her shoulder at me, and despite the bite in her words, hurt and vulnerability play across her face. Then, to my shock, tears well in her eyes. “I’ve been in love with you since I was sixteen,” she says with such weary sadness that it causes a physical ache in my chest.
“Calista,” I begin, my voice rough.
She shakes her h
ead. “And I get it, you don’t feel the same way. But then just stop, okay? Let me go,” she pleads, her words breaking into a choked sob.
It’s that plea that breaks me, pushes me past all my well-reasoned objections. I’m causing her pain, and I never wanted that.
“It has nothing to do with what I feel,” I say, my jaw tight. “I’m not a nice guy, Calista. I’m not good for you. Not good enough.” I can feel the edge of fear pressing tight against my throat.
She turns to face me, her eyes red and watering but her gaze determined. “That’s up to me, though, not you. And I’m telling you, you are good enough.”
I don’t believe her, but the force behind her words tells me that she believes it. And that’s almost enough.
“You are the only one I want. You have always looked out for me, protected me, made me laugh, made me feel like I’m worth something. More than just a paycheck or a pretty face.”
“You are worth more than those things,” I say, unable to stop myself from touching her cheek with my finger, tracing the lines of the famous cheekbones her mother was always going on about.
She smiles, but it’s filled with sadness and in direct contrast to the tears that are now cascading down her face and dripping off her chin. “You believe that about me, but not about yourself?”
Oh, God. “Don’t cry, please. It kills me when you do. I just want you to be happy.” Before I can talk myself out of it, and with my heartbeat thudding in my ears, I lean down and press my open mouth against the side of her neck. Her skin is satiny smooth and warm under my tongue.
She sucks in a harsh breath, and I feel her tremble against me. “Eric, please,” she says in a voice so shaky with desire and uncertainty that I know it’ll haunt my every waking moment from now on. It goes straight to my head with a rush that’s so powerful it scares me for a second. “Don’t do this if you’re just going to pull away again. I can’t handle it. It’ll break my heart.”
My eyes sting. “I’m right here,” I say, each word grating and gravelly. “I’m not going anywhere.”
I thread my hands through her hair, cupping the sides of her face, and then I lean down and brush my mouth over hers. Her hands clutch hard at my arms, and I can taste the salt of her tears. It just spurs me to do more, to make her feel more, to take away the hurt that I caused.
When I ease my tongue between her lips, she moans, her mouth opening wider beneath mine. Her tongue tangles with mine, every bit an eager participant. She’s not the shy, nervous girl back in the audition room or even that day in my trailer.
She presses against me, wrapping her arms around my neck, and God help me, raising one leg up by my hips.
Lowering my hand to her raised knee, I pull her against me even more tightly, and she makes a soft noise, pushing forward instinctively, rubbing against my hard on.
It feels so good. My dick is hard and throbbing, ready for more. It wouldn’t be hard to reach down and pull up her dress and flip open my fly so we can rub against each other with fewer layers in the way. Then I could just tug her panties aside and push into that tight, wet heat.
Assuming she’s even wearing panties.
The thought of her bare, with only the fabric of her dress between us, makes my cock twitch with eagerness.
Shit. I’m going to lose it if I don’t slow this down a little.
With a groan, I lower her leg to the floor, and she breaks off our kiss with a gasp. “What’s wrong?” she asks, frowning up at me, her mouth all puffy and pink.
I touch her lips lightly with my fingers, and she sucks in a breath.
“Absolutely nothing, sweetheart.” I grin at her, and she has enough presence of mind to roll her eyes at me. Then I turn her to face away from me, giving me access to the zipper at the back of her very short dress.
“Was this dress for me?” I ask, moving her hair out of the way, to kiss the back of her neck all the way to the edge of the zipper.
“No,” she says on a moan, as I inch down the zipper to expose more skin. She’s not wearing a bra. “It’s for me,” she says breathlessly. “It makes me feel good.”
“Yeah, it does,” I say, stroking the silky fabric before sliding my hands inside her dress. “Bet I can make you feel better.” I touch the smooth, bare skin of her ribs and stomach before gliding up to cup her breasts. They are warm and perfect in my palms. When I run my thumbs over her nipples, they bud to hardness immediately, and I want to taste her. Want her to beg me to suck her.
She arches her back, pushing her breasts into my hands.
Fast. This is going fast. And I don’t know how much she’s done or … I need to try to think.
“Okay?” I manage, my voice hoarse.
“Yes.” She nods and twists to face me, fusing her mouth with mine over her shoulder. The familiarity, the rightness, is overwhelming. Her tongue dances over mine, teasing, and any attempts at thinking evaporate.
I pinch one of those tempting, taunting nipples between my forefinger and thumb, and she moans into my mouth. My hips jerk involuntarily against her, and she grinds back against me.
“More,” she says, catching my lower lip lightly between her teeth before letting go. And that is so hot I want to press her against the door, pull her dress up and plunge inside her. Claim her, make her mine.
I yank my hands out of her dress, over her noises of protest, and slide my palms down her sides to the bottom edge of the fabric. Brushing my fingertips beneath the hem, I trace the smooth skin of her upper thigh, but no higher.
She whimpers, and the sound goes straight to my head.
“Are you wearing anything beneath this dress, Callie?” I whisper in her ear.
Her cheek turns a lovely shade of pink, but she rallies. “Why don’t you find out?”
But I’m not playing that game. I’m interested in another. “Callie,” I say, adding an edge of sternness to my voice.
“Yes,” she breathes. “Thong. No panty lines.”
The thought of her in that mere scrap of fabric, in this dress, is almost as exciting as the thought of her bare. Just like I know her preference for flannel PJs, I happen to know Callie is not a thong girl on most days. Maybe she did this for me as well, though it wouldn’t have mattered. I found her hot in battered cargo pants and a mostly shredded sweater, to the point where I nearly came in my pants in front of dozens of crew members.
I inch a little higher on her thigh, almost to her hip, until I feel the brush of lace. Heat radiates from between her legs. Her hand clamps down on mine, trying to pull me closer, but I resist.
“If I touch you, are you wet?” I ask, my voice hoarse.
She bites down hard on her lip, and for a second, I think maybe I’ve pushed her too far, too fast by asking. But then she nods. “Yes,” the word escaping her in a hiss.
“Do you want me to touch you?”
“Yes.” That answer came much more quickly.
“Are you sure you’re ready for that?” When I skate my fingers over the fabric of her thong, it’s soaked, and she makes a tight sound in the back of her throat.
Guess so.
Finding her clit, I circle lightly until she’s pushing her hips toward my hand.
“I used to imagine this,” she says between gasps.
“Imagine what?”
“You, suddenly looking at me differently one day, and then dragging me off somewhere to a corner on set or in your trailer and…”
I pause. “And what?”
“Don’t stop,” she protests.
“Tell me what happened in that corner,” I say, amused but also turned on as fuck.
“I don’t … I don’t know.”
“Liar.” I pull my hand away, and she whimpers.
“You … you would do this.” She grabs for my hand, fumbling, moving it between her legs.
She’s so wet, the fabric is clinging to her. I resume petting her, light, soft touches that torture me almost as much as her.
“And what else?” I persist.
“I don’t know, I never let myself go that far,” she breathes.
She leans back against me, clutching at the leg of my jeans as if she’s clinging to the side of a cliff for dear life.
Her questing hand rises higher, brushing over and then centering on my rock-hard cock. “Maybe this,” she says.
It steals my breath. She’s not even stroking, just touching, but it’s more than enough for me to lose control.
Shoving beneath her thong, I run my fingertips against her bare skin, through her drenched folds.
She gives a squeak of surprise, but it turns into a moan as I continue exploring her. “Please,” she begs.
At her entrance, I pause, teasing her by sliding back and forth but not entering. “Do you want this?” Her head bobs frantically against my shoulder, and I slide a finger into her welcoming heat. She’s tight, but I can feel her opening up for me, making room for my cock. “You are so hot and wet for me.” I work a second finger inside of her, and she gasps, pushing back against me, driving me deeper. I can feel the ache in my cock taking over my whole body.
“More,” she demands, breathless, urging me to move my hand faster, harder, and I have to grit my teeth to keep from opening my fly and sinking into her. She is getting close but not there yet.
But that’s fine. I’ve got other ideas in mind.
“What are you doing?” she protests as I turn her around to face me, her cheeks flushed, beautiful.
When I sink to my knees in front of her, her eyes go wide. “I have fantasies, too.” My voice is so guttural I barely recognize it. That is what she does to me.
She blinks down at me, color rising higher in her face. “You do?”
In answer, I slide my hands up her thighs, raise the front of her dress. The front panel of her thong—white cotton, help me—is twisted and practically translucent with dampness. I can feel the heat and smell the tang of her excitement, and my mouth waters in response.
“Spread your legs for me a little,” I say hoarsely.
Calista hesitates. “I’ve never … I mean I don’t know.” Her hands slide up to the edge of her hem where I’m holding it, as if she might pull it down.
