by Staci Hart
“Go get in my bed,” I said gruffly and kissed her back again.
She stood and turned to me, looking down my body as she reached for my hand, meeting my eyes for a split second before pulling me toward the bedroom. I followed her, admiring every curve of her long body — her shoulder, the dip in her spine, the slow wave of her waist to her hip — as she pulled me into my room and stopped in front of the bed.
She turned and looked up at me, her face young again, her lips wide and full, parted just enough to see a sliver of teeth. She brought her hands to my naked chest. Her fingers trailed fire as they slipped down my hips, under the band of my pants and back to my ass, pushing the elastic down and over until they dropped. I stepped out of them — her eyes hadn’t left mine.
I cupped her small face in my hands, my fingers like tattooed wings against the flawless porcelain of her skin. She was so beautiful, so strong, so capable, but in that moment she was vulnerable, and that made her strength that much sweeter. She could move heaven and earth. She could move my heart, which I thought was immovable.
I closed my eyes and pressed my lips to hers to stop me from thinking anymore. I didn’t want to think. I only wanted to feel her.
Her lips were sweet and supple, moving with mine, her tongue slipping past my lips and into my mouth. And as the kiss deepened, she wound herself around me, and I wound around her, pulling her flush against me.
She broke away after a moment and whispered into my mouth, “Lie down.”
I smirked, my heart banging as I followed orders, stretching out on the bed, slipping my hands behind my head. Her bottom lip was between her teeth, one corner of her mouth pulled up too, eyes combing me over. I wondered if she’d ever seen anyone as tattooed as me — I was covered from neck to heel — but it was only a passing thought. I couldn’t take my eyes off of her, the shadows across her body in the low light of the room — the curve of her breast, the peak of her nipple, the bridge of her small nose.
She was art, made of shadows and light.
I was almost startled when she moved — my brain had been calculating the strokes it would take to recreate her on paper, but it would be impossible. She was too real.
She crawled onto the bed and between my thighs, her hands skating up the outside to my hips as she dipped her head and trailed her tongue down the V of muscle that led down. She followed the path, tilting her head so the tip of her nose grazed my shaft, and I hissed, slipping a hand into her hair. She tilted her head again, replacing the tip of her nose with the tip of her hot tongue — my fingers clenched, twisting her hair in my fist. And then she looked up at me and smiled, licking up my shaft until she reached the crown, her lids closing softly as she opened her mouth, and I disappeared inside of her.
I held onto her hair as she rose and dropped, my eyes on her lips, my brain trying to match what I saw with what I felt — the wet heat as it surrounded and disappeared, her tongue as it rolled, her fingers as they dug into my hips, her breasts between my thighs.
She hummed, and my eyes closed, chin tipped. She took me deeper with every wave of her body, her hand leaving my thigh to touch me low, cup me, rolling her fingers in time with her mouth, dropping again and again until I couldn’t let her go on.
I hissed her name, and she backed off me slowly, her eyes on mine, my cock leaving her lips so hot, it took all my reserve willpower not to slam back into her.
“Come here,” I growled, the words barely audible as I rose to meet her, our mouths connecting, breath heaving, all hands and skin, the two of us pressed against each other and touching each other until I couldn’t tell where one of us ended and the other began. I lay on my side with Annika in the crook of my elbow, her hair in my fingers, our legs scissored together as we kissed and kissed, rolled and tumbled. Until I needed her so badly that the only thing I could do was to take her.
I backed away, and she rolled onto her back, chest heaving, lips swollen and red, lids heavy. My hand slipped between her legs, cupping her, squeezing her as I leaned toward my nightstand for a condom. She whimpered, clutching my wrist, riding my hand, begging for me to touch her without saying a word, and I slipped a finger into her, then another as she gasped and whispered my name.
I groaned, lips together, letting her go to rip open the package, trying to focus enough to roll the condom on as she writhed on the bed, her thighs squeezing, looking for pressure. Pressure that was mine to give.
I opened her knees, one hand gripping my base as I hovered over her, pressing myself against her until she parted for me, let me in.
We both moaned as I slid into her, and I paused for a breath, then another, bending to kiss her, my lips feverish, hips still, feeling her all around me. I pulled her thigh into my ribs, and she raised it higher, resting her knee against my tricep, her hips rolling against me to give her the weight she wanted to ease the aching I knew she had to feel. I felt it too.
I pulled out and flexed, slamming back into her, and she kicked her head back into the bed. Then again, and a cry passed her lips. I pulled her other thigh up, and she squeezed my ribs before bringing her knees as close to her shoulders as she could. I leaned into her, hovered over her, her shins hooked under my arms. Our open lips were inches apart as I pumped my hips and she gasped for air, and when she came, when she pulled me into her with her breath and her body, I followed her, pulsing and shaking with the release. And as I slowed, I looked into her eyes, finding myself reflected in them, hoping she saw herself in mine.
HONEY PIE
Annika
I COULDN’T KEEP MY EYES open, not just because Joel saw more of me than I wanted him to, but because I was exhausted. My body was heavy — my arms slung around his neck, my legs caught under his arms, every breath labored. He was heavy too, his body on mine a comfortable weight. I liked being surrounded by him. It was comforting. Safe.
But I couldn’t look into his eyes when he looked at me like that.
He released my legs, and I stretched them out, winding them around his waist as he buried his face in my neck, his breath huffing, lips closing occasionally to kiss my skin. I leaned into his ear, nestling into the bend of his neck.
We lay like that for a long time, long enough that I think I fell asleep for a few seconds, woken with his movement as he rolled over.
I twisted my hips to ease our bodies’ separation, then put them back where they were, leaving me lying flat on the bed, feeling like a fat, lazy cat after a feast of milk and honey. Sweat had beaded all over my skin, and now that we weren’t pressed against each other, the cool air prickled the moisture. It felt glorious.
The bed bounced as he got up — my eyes were still closed, my body reveling in its current state — and dipped again a moment later when he returned from the bathroom, if the flushing toilet was any indication. I sighed when I felt him next to me, turning my head, prying my lids open as I smiled at him where lay, head propped on his palm, smile on his lips, eyes on my face.
I convinced my body to roll onto my side so I could face him more comfortably, tucking my hands under my head and curling toward him.
“I’m so tired,” I muttered.
His smile pulled up on one side before he started singing “I’m So Tired,” by The Beatles in his off-key, gruffy timbre.
I chimed in on the chorus, and his tone shifted, trying to match mine without luck, but I didn’t care. The look of surprise on his face as we sang all the lyrics together was absolutely perfect.
He laughed when we were finished, and I found myself smiling like a fool, lying next to Hairy, singing The Beatles.
“I never would have pegged you for a big enough fan of The Beatles that you’d know that entire song.”
“It’s on one of my favorite albums.”
“The White Album? Really?” he asked, his face colored with disbelief.
“Yes, really. I know every note of that album just as well as I know my own name.”
He shook his head, still chuckling.
“Is it really t
hat unbelievable?”
“Yes, actually.”
“More unbelievable than me reading romance novels?”
He laughed. “That’s different, but close. Classic, stuffy, Regency era fiction seems like just your kind of story.”
I pushed him in the shoulder. “Hey, you’re reading it too, last I checked.”
He laid a hand on my hip, slipping his thigh between mine. “I am. And it’s not even that bad — I kinda love it. Well, once I figured out what the hell they were saying, at least.”
I chuckled and shifted to move closer to him. “I’m glad you’re reading it. It shows a particular level of persistence that you’d brave Jane Austen just to impress me.”
That smirk of his made my insides feel all fluttery. “Psh. I don’t even have to try when it comes to impressing you.”
I full on laughed at that.
“So,” he said, “explain to me how you became a mega-fan of the Beatles, because I can’t figure out a theory that makes any sense.”
“My parents have the original vinyl albums.”
His mouth dropped open at that. “You’re kidding. Do you know what number it is?”
My brow quirked. “What do you mean?”
His eyes lit up. “So the album covers all have numbers printed on the back,” he said, speeding up a little as he spoke, “and if the number is under a hundred, it could be worth near ten grand.”
I blinked. “Oh, my God.”
“Yeah. I mean, I don’t even know if I could sell something like that, if it were mine.”
“No, they would never.”
“Even to help their retirement?”
I shook my head. “It’s too important to them. Mama loves to tell the story about when they lived in Israel and couldn’t find a record store that carried it, so Roxy’s dad sent them a copy from America. It was so rare to them, so valuable — did you know their music was banned in Russia? Well, anything Western was banned in Russia.”
He shook his head.
“I think to them it was a tangible representation of their freedom, you know? No one would stop them from listening to it. There was no one to tell them no. So it’s invaluable to them, along with most of their record collection.” I smiled. “Papa still has his old record player, in mint condition. I remember being a little girl, dancing with him in the living room to ‘Honey Pie.’”
Joel smiled and brushed my hair back from my face. “Who would have thought.”
I laughed. “Not you.” The last word stretched into a yawn. “But I really am so tired. I wish I could stay.”
He leaned in for a kiss. “Then stay.” His soft lips brushed mine, and I sighed.
“I can’t. I have no clothes, and your apartment is in the same building where I currently work.” I’d all but stopped smiling. “I don’t even know how I’ll get home other than a cab — if I call my driver, Laney will have a trail to follow.”
“You can’t just say you were working late?”
I chuffed. “Maybe if the show wasn’t an around-the-clock operation. Someone’s always here, and they’d tell her I wasn’t if she asked. Which she would.”
He was frowning, and I realized I was too.
“I dunno. Maybe I can walk to a bar and have him pick me up there. Pretend I had a drink.”
“I don’t like the idea of you running around alone.”
I laughed. “You act like I didn’t grow up in Brooklyn. I’ll be fine, Joel. Really. I’ll sneak out, take a little walk, and call my driver to get me home. Or call a cab and pay a small fortune to get over the bridge.”
“Maybe you should just bring clothes over. You know, just to make things easier,” he offered.
“Maybe I will,” I said, leaning in for a kiss, wishing I had anything to wear tomorrow because going home felt like the equivalent of asking me to climb Everest. But I peeled myself out of Joel’s bed and shuffled around the room, picking up my clothes and putting them on my exhausted body — he only had to reach off the side of the bed for his pants, swinging his legs over the side to pull them on.
When I was dressed, yawning hard enough for my eyes to water every thirty seconds, he walked me to the door and cupped my face, a gesture that made me feel small and precious.
“Next time, stay the night. Make it easy on both of us.”
My heart lurched, something about his words giving me a sense of foreboding. “All right,” I said anyway, and tipped my chin up, reaching for a kiss that he gave me, a gentle connection of our lips that swept away the feeling, replacing it with a wisp of a flutter in my chest.
He opened the door quietly and checked the hallway, even going so far as to trot down the stairs, barefoot and blissfully shirtless, to make sure the sidewalk was clear before finally letting me leave. Though he wouldn’t let me go until I granted him another kiss, one a little deeper and hotter, like he wanted to leave his mark in parting, giving me something that would stay with me.
As if the night hadn’t been enough.
I hurried out of the building, feeling less anxious about being spotted once I hit the sidewalk. And once I was near the corner, reality began to seep in.
I had no idea what I was doing. My first reaction was shame — not of being with him or doing what I wanted with him, but for not remembering the consequences. For not letting those consequences stop me. Because now? Now I’d had a taste, and there was no walking away. Not easily, at least.
I sighed as I walked toward a bar that, according to my phone, was down Broadway, barely recognizing myself. As different as Joel and I were, we fit together like clasping hands. Never in my life had I been with a man who knew exactly what to do to my body, a man so sure of every move he made, a man so … equal to me. It seemed to me, I realized suddenly, that every man I’d been with up to that point had been safe, unaffected. Ambitious, sure, but without true passion. Not like the lust for life that emanated from Joel like some crazy pheromone.
What are you doing, Annika?
It wasn’t even a question I could answer, so instead I texted my driver before ducking into a bar called Habits, ordering a shot of Stoli to calm myself down as I waited. The bar was nearly empty, besides a middle-aged man slumped over a table in the back, and the bartender — a woman who I guessed was in her thirties and not used to working a bar, given the Help Wanted sign in the window and her open laptop displaying Quickbooks the far end of the bar. I was also glad she was too busy with her work to bother with me.
I heard Laney in the back of my mind, calling Joel a meat puppet and telling me not to get involved. I heard Joel telling me it didn’t have to be complicated, that we would both walk away at the end and it would be over. Like it never happened, he’d said. I didn’t know if I could ever pretend that Joel Anderson never happened.
I sat up a little straighter and turned the shot glass with my thumb and forefinger. We were hot for each other, that was obvious, and I told myself I’d imagined that there was anything more to it. It was just chemicals, that was all, and Joel said himself that he was a loner. He didn’t do relationships, and he wouldn’t want to start with me. And all of that was for the absolute best.
As I picked up the shot glass and tossed the liquor back, I did my best to convince myself that I was right.
JUNE GLOOM
Annika
EARLY THE NEXT MORNING — MUCH too early given the long night before — I found myself hauling the heavy box of ledgers up the stairs and into my office. Laney was already at her desk and on the phone, and I set the box down with a thump, shaking out my fingers from the strain. She glanced over at the box, then at me quizzically as I took a seat and opened up my laptop to go over the schedule for the day.
The big segment was a piece Joel would do for a woman we’d cast weeks before. She wanted a graphic piece in black linework, the concept simple enough that it could be done in a day, though it would take all day to film. We wanted to show the process of getting a tattoo, start to finish, including the sketching. Though we we
re sort of cheating — Joel already had an idea of what she wanted and had sketched a draft that she’d approved in advance so we could expedite things. I smiled to myself, looking forward to spending the day with him, wondering how it would feel to work that closely with him for an entire day after last night.
“Thanks, Paul,” Laney said into the receiver. “Yeah, no problem.” She set her phone down on the desk and leaned back in her chair. “What’s all that?” She nodded to the box.
“Paperwork for my parents’ retirement. Joel offered to help me with it.”
“Look at you, making friends,” she said snidely.
I frowned. “God, what’s with you? I mean, you were practically pushing me into his lap when we started this.”
Her face softened. “I know. It was funny, seeing you all worked up, but I’m now convinced it’s a terrible idea.”
“I wasn’t worked up.”
“Whatever you say, Annika. You know how I feel about it. What’s on deck today?”
I let out a breath in an attempt to let her judgments go. “Joel’s big tattoo segment. Tomorrow I have interviews. And Shep relinquished a key to Ramona’s place for a scene we’re planning to do with him setting up a romantic dinner at her apartment, but I sent a PA to copy the key and go over there to wreak havoc.”
Laney laughed. “I like it. What’s the plan?”
“Take a pair of Penny’s shoes and hide them here in the office in the hopes that she blames one of the other girls for stealing them. Throwing out food in the fridge marked for Veronica. Taking Ramona’s toothbrush. That sort of thing.”
“Great. Where are you at with Veronica and Patrick?”
This was one of the topics I wasn’t crazy about. “There’s not much there. Patrick’s living with his girlfriend now, and they’re rock-solid. Veronica doesn’t seem too hung up on it, either. I’ve pressed her in her interviews, but I really don’t think anything’s there.”
“Maybe you should make something, then.”
“This wasn’t supposed to be that kind of show.”
