Lovegame

by Tracy Wolff

  Because she is—and because I am—I keep my hand around her wrist as I tug her arms up and over her head. She’s all stretched out now, back arched, neck long, tits sticking out. It’s a good look for her. A very good look.

  I keep her like that for several, long, drawn out seconds just because I can. Then I start moving, my thighs pressing against hers and pushing her forward, forward, forward, until she’s pressed up against the window that runs the length of one wall—a window that also happens to overlook the very busy, very famous intersection at Hollywood and Vine.

  Only then do I let go of her wrists.

  “Hold them there,” I order as she starts to lower her arms.

  For the first time, her bravado falters. “We’re on the third floor. People can see us.”

  It’s a real concern, especially considering just how famous her face is. That still doesn’t mean I’m going to give in. She’s not the only one who likes to push. “Press your palms against the glass,” I tell her firmly. “And keep them there.”

  There’s a part of me that expects her to ignore my words, a part of me that is even looking forward to it. But in the end she does what I ordered. And there’s an unexpected pleasure to be found in that, too.

  Especially when I get to watch her tremble, her whole body shaking with what looks a hell of a lot like desire. Now, I just need to figure out if it’s the exhibitionism or the orders that have her so turned on.

  “How long—” She’s trembling so badly, breathing so quickly, that her voice breaks on the second word. I put a soothing hand on the small of her back, stroke her softly. Her breathing calms down under my ministrations, but the trembling only gets worse.

  Desire then, not fear.

  Good.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” I say as I take a step back. She starts to step back, too, but I put one hand on her upper back and another on her thighs. “Stay where you are.”

  She doesn’t respond, but her whole body goes pliant beneath my hands as she lets me press her back up against the window.

  “You okay?” I ask as I hold her in place.

  She nods.

  “You sure?”

  Another nod.

  “Okay enough to stay there, even when I walk away?”

  This nod takes a lot longer to come. But what it lacks in speed, it makes up for in conviction.

  Instinctively, I reward her with a kiss to the nape of her neck. With a press of my body against hers, from shoulder to thigh. “If you want this to stop, all you have to do is step away from the window,” I tell her as I lick my way up the slender column of her throat. “Or say no. All you ever have to do is say no.”

  She does look over her shoulder then and there’s more than a trace of amusement mingling with the desire I can so plainly see there. “Not a very original safe word,” she drawls, half-amused and half-testing.

  “It doesn’t have to be original. It just has to be effective. And memorable.” I give her a pointed look.

  “I’ll remember,” she assures me, shivering. This time her hands don’t even start to leave the glass.

  She sounds like she means it and that’s good enough for me. Especially considering the fact that it’s obvious from the way her skin is flushed, from the way her chest is heaving, that this thing really turns her on. Just the thought has my dick ready to punch right through the front of my jeans.

  I walk over to the closest lamp—which happens to be on the desk—and snap it on. Then I do the same to the one near the armchair. The lamps on either side of the bed. The floor lamp in the corner. The overhead light in the small kitchen area.

  I turn every light in the suite on, until the place is lit up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. If Veronica was concerned that people could see her before, I can only imagine what she’s thinking now.

  I wait for her to cry uncle, for her to say no, to step away from the window, to tell me to go to hell. But she does none of those things. Instead, she stays where she is, her bowed head the only concession she makes against being recognized.

  I’m reluctantly impressed. So impressed, in fact, that I go to her and pull her hair forward far enough that it nearly obscures her face. As I do, I feel her muscles relax just a little.

  “I think we should make a deal,” I tell her, my mouth right up against her ear. “What do you think?”

  “That depends—” She gasps, shudders at my touch. “That depends,” she tries once again, when she can finally take a breath. “On what the deal is.”

  “That’s easy.” Because I can’t resist, I press one more kiss to her neck, this time at the hollow of her throat. “Every time you answer a question dishonestly, I’m going to take off a piece of clothing—yours or mine.”

  “You want to play strip interview?” she asks incredulously.

  “I want to play strip Veronica,” I counter.

  “Do you really think I’m going to stand here and let you show my naked body to all of Hollywood?” she demands. “Especially, when I’m the only one who will be giving something up here?”

  “Ahh, but that’s the catch. For every question you answer truthfully, I’ll turn off one of the lights. If you do things right, the room will be dark before you’re ever nude.”

  She turns her head to the side, straining to see just how many lights are on. She doesn’t look impressed with her odds. But she doesn’t move away from the window, either. Just shakes her head a little, so that more of her long, gorgeous hair falls in her face. I don’t have the heart to tell her that her hair color—so blond it’s nearly silver with shoots of gold running through it—is one of the most recognizable things about her.

  Besides, while I might enjoy indulging her in what I’m rapidly coming to realize is an exhibitionist kink, that doesn’t mean I’m going to let anyone see any more of her beautiful body than they could on a public beach.

  Not that I have any intention of telling her that…

  Chapter 12

  This is a bad idea. A very, very bad idea. Every instinct I have is screaming at me to back away from the window—and from Ian. To get as far away from this hotel room, and him, as I can get.

  I don’t follow those instincts. I can’t. Not when his gaze is burning over me. Not when his words are right there, taunting emotions and needs from me that I never knew I had. And definitely not when my knees are trembling so badly that the only thing holding me up is the window I’m pressed against.

  I wait for him to speak again, wait for him to move, to do something—anything—to start this game he’s devised, but he doesn’t. Instead, the silence stretches between us taut as an electric wire.

  I’m nervous. It’s an odd feeling, because I don’t get nervous and haven’t for years. But this is different. Not frightening exactly, but still nerve-wracking. I want to put it down to everything that’s happened tonight—want to tell myself that I’m feeling this way because the bathtub incident has so unsettled me. But just because I’m brilliant at lying to others doesn’t mean I can lie to myself.

  I’m nervous because I’m not in control…and, except for that brief encounter in my kitchen last night, I am always in control. It’s how I like it. How I’ve always liked it.

  But that’s a lie, too, isn’t it? I can’t help thinking. Because I liked what happened on that kitchen table last night just fine. Liked the way he talked to me. Liked the way he touched me. Liked even more the orgasms that slammed through me like sledgehammers.

  The memory of that pleasure creeps through me now, like syrup. Or like the poison I grew to know so intimately while filming Belladonna.

  My heart beats fast.

  My limbs shake.

  My eyes blur.

  And my head…my head blurs, too, goes light and just a little bit fuzzy.

  I don’t know what to think about that, but then, that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? Not to think, but to feel. The anticipation, the exhilaration, the arousal.

  Just the thought has my nipples beading
against the cool glass. Has my sex growing damp.

  And still he doesn’t say anything. Still he doesn’t touch me.

  Seconds tick by and the tension grows and grows and grows until the very air around us is saturated with the stuff.

  I breathe it in—pull it into my lungs, my blood, my very cells—until there isn’t a part of me that isn’t shaking. Until there isn’t a single piece of me that isn’t threatening to come undone right here against this window, in full view of anyone who thinks to look up.

  With that thought, the very last ounce of self-preservation I have kicks in. I can’t be here. I can’t do this. I start to turn, to say as much to Ian, when he asks, “Where do you go from here?”

  His voice is low and liquid and enticing. So enticing. It wraps itself tight around me, holds me together as I start to shake apart. Holds me right where I am, hands and tits and thighs pressed against the ice-cold glass.

  I’m so caught up in the sound of his voice and the sensations it sends coursing through me that for long seconds I don’t answer. Instead, I just stand there, absorbing it into my skin.

  And then Ian is there, his hands sliding between my body and the glass. His fingers brushing over my aching nipples, once, twice a third time. I gasp, arch into his touch without ever making the conscious decision to do so, but that’s all there is. Just those few delicate strokes. Because now he’s unzipping my hoodie, peeling it off my shoulders and down my arms.

  “I didn’t lie.” My voice sounds as broken as his does smooth.

  “You didn’t answer, either. That counts as dishonesty in my book.”

  “I was thinking.”

  “Don’t think.” His hands coast down my back so lightly that I’m not sure if he’s touching me or if I’m imagining the whole thing. “Just answer.”

  “I don’t…” I’m lost, confused, the fuzziness in my head getting more pronounced with every second he keeps me here.

  “Come on, Veronica. This is an easy one.” He’s close now, so close that I can feel his warmth on my skin. His breath on the nape of my neck. “You’re about to open a movie that most believe will be both critically acclaimed and a solid contender at the box office. You’re in the middle of making a big-budget action flick that should rake in the dough. You’re the sexiest woman working in film today and one of the most talented.” He’s even closer now, his breath against my cheek, his chest centimeters from my back. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to stay where I am, pressed against the cold window instead of melting into his warmth as he continues. “So after you’ve conquered the critics and the action movie fans, what. Comes. Next?”

  “Producing.” The word comes of its own volition, as do the ones that come after. “I’ve spent the last year putting together an independent production company. When I wrap on this movie, Blue Willow will start filming our first project.”

  “What’s the project?” he asks as he steps away from me.

  Immediately, I miss the heat of him. I turn my head to track his progress across the room, watch as he flips off one of the lights next to the bed.

  “It’s based on a women’s fiction novel I read last year, about a woman whose daughter jumps off the roof of her boarding school. Or so she’s being told.”

  “Who wrote the screenplay?” He walks around to the other side of the bed as he waits for my answer. “Who’s your director?”

  “I wrote the screenplay. And Judith Thorne is directing.”

  He whistles, long and low. “That’s impressive. From what I understand, she’s very selective in the projects she takes on.” He flicks off the second nightstand lamp.

  She is selective, and it’s quite a coup that I’ve landed her for Blue Willow’s first project. I don’t say that though, not right now when my whole body feels on the verge of exploding. Instead, I lean back into Ian who I instinctively know is behind me once again.

  It feels good to touch him, feels good to sink into him, to feel his warmth against me. Around me. Because it does feel good—too good—and because I can feel myself drifting, I can’t help challenging him a little. Can’t help pushing, just to see what he does.

  “I answered four questions,” I tell him even as I burrow back against his chest. “Shouldn’t that be four lights?”

  “Your answers were all part of the same question. I was being generous in turning off two lights.”

  “But those aren’t the rules.” Determined not to let him have too much of an upper hand, I start to move back from the window, to let him know that I’m not a pushover. But he refuses to let me. Instead, he keeps me pinned in place, one hand on the nape of my neck while the other rests just above my ass.

  “The rules,” he says as he nips sharply at my bare shoulder, “are that you answer honestly and completely, not that you make me drag every sentence out of you.”

  “You didn’t say that before.”

  “I’m saying it now.” His hips are pressed so tight against me that I can feel the outline of his very hard cock against my lower back.

  “You can’t just change the rules like that.”

  “You forget I’m the one in control.” He presses his lips to the hollow where my neck meets my shoulder. “I can do whatever I want.” Slides his mouth up my neck to the sensitive spot behind my ear.

  With every word he speaks, my skin grows more responsive and my head more muddled. I should make an argument here, should call foul on his arbitrary rule changes. But the words won’t come. Nothing does but wave after wave of pleasure. He blows hot air against my ear and I shiver, moan. Arch my neck to give him better access.

  He doesn’t take advantage of it, though. Instead, he waits for what feels like forever—but is probably only a few seconds—mouth poised above my cheek, breath hot against my skin.

  I’m close to begging for something, anything, when he finally asks the next question. “The buzz is you’ll be nominated for an Oscar for Belladonna. What do you think about that?”

  “I don’t think about it.”

  “I don’t believe you.” I go rigid at the words, but he doesn’t move to take any more of my clothes off. Instead, his fingers delve beneath my shirt, circle my belly button before gently stroking over my waist and abdomen. “You’ve been passed over for what most figured were guaranteed nominations twice in the last few years. You have to be wondering if this year—this role—is the one that will do it for you.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Bullshit.” Before I can even assimilate his answer, he hooks his fingers in the waistband of my yoga pants and yanks them down, hard and fast.

  I gasp as the cold air hits me—and as my bare legs bump against the even colder glass. Ian is crowding me now, his front pressed tight to my back. My front pressed tight to the window. And then his hand is there, between my legs. His fingers stroking along my silk-covered labia. His breath hot against my ear.

  “Spread your legs,” he tells me, and I do. I can’t stop myself. I am putty in his hands, my body determined to yield to his every wish and my brain too fuzzy to even contemplate stopping him.

  “Do you think you’ll be nominated for an Oscar?” he whispers even as his fingers delve beneath my panties.

  “No.” As the single syllable finally escapes, I let my head fall back against his shoulder. My fingers claw at the unyielding glass and my hips arch almost desperately against his hand. There’s a part of me that still balks at giving him this kind of control over my body—over me—but the rest cares only about the pleasure snaking through me as his thumb rubs over my clit and his fingers thrust deep inside of me.

  “You should,” he says, right before he nips at my ear, hard. And just that easy I go over an edge I didn’t even realize I was close to, my body convulsing around his fingers as orgasm slams through me, quick and brutal.

  I’m left gasping for air, body heavy and head so light it feels like I could float away. Instinctively, I turn toward him, wanting comfort. Wanting…something I know instinctively only he c
an give me.

  But he pulls away—pulls his fingers out of me and his body away from mine until the only place we’re connected is his hand at the small of my back. “Not yet,” he murmurs, stepping far enough away that I can no longer feel the heat radiating from his body.

  And then even his hand is gone and I’m left alone, tears in my eyes and body sliding down the glass as my trembling knees finally give way.

  A harsh click echoes through the silent room, followed immediately by a shift in light against my closed eyelids. Oh right. My muddled brain puts the pieces together. Ian hasn’t left me. He was just turning off another lamp.

  Seconds later he’s back, crouching next to me. Sliding his hands around my waist. Pulling me back to my feet. Pressing me once again against the window.

  I shudder, overwhelmed by…everything.

  By his hands around my waist.

  By the aftershocks of pleasure still working their way through me.

  By this whole situation.

  For a moment I think of saying no. Of calling a halt. But if I do that, he won’t touch me any more and though I know I should want that—I did want that just this morning—right now, it’s the most terrifying thought in the world.

  And so I say nothing, do nothing, but stand where he places me. Where he arranges me.

  My arms are down this time, hands by my hips, palms pressed against the glass. My legs are spread wide, my head down and forehead once again resting on the window as my hair covers most of my face.

  I wait for him to step back, wait for him to leave me again. Brace for it, even. But this time, he stays where he is—one hand on my shoulder, the other on my hip—as if he knows just how far gone I am. As if he knows that it is only his touch that’s keeping me from floating far, far away.

  “Fuck,” he mutters as his fingers curl around the front of my hip, rubbing at the sensitive skin of my abdomen, my navel, my mons. “You go under so easily.”

  I don’t know what he means, don’t know if it’s a good or bad thing and right now I’m too far gone—too far under, to use his words—to try to figure it out. And so I just whimper as I stand there, arching my back a little so that my ass presses against his hard cock.