Playing For Forever_An Erotic Love Story

by J. C. Grant

  “All yours,” he rasped, flexing his hips in small involuntary thrusts, helping me get him deeper.

  “Fuck, I love you.” I licked into his mouth again, and he caught my tongue, sucking.

  He sucked my tongue the same way I sucked his dick, making me feel powerful, in control. Fisting my fingers in his hair, I pressed my forehead to his and stopped moving, lifting up, letting him fuck me from below. He squeezed my ass hard as his hips thrust up, hitting my end with purpose.

  “This cock is mine,” I breathed.

  “Fuck yeah, keep saying it.” He groaned, his breath warming my face.

  “I own it, I’ll do whatever I want with it. If I tell you to fuck me in the ass in front of all these groupies you’re going to do it.” My voice was part challenging, part demanding.

  “Fuck yes, anything you want,” he panted as he hammered up into me, his fingers digging into my ass painfully.

  I’d would definitely have bruises, but I didn’t care. I needed him like this, losing control over me in front of this particular group of people.

  “You better make me come,” I taunted.

  He bit his lip, his gaze focused between my legs, watching. Suddenly, the hand on my breast squeezed, pinching my nipple hard, before moving to my clit.

  My body jolted and my muscles tensed, seizing up as I plunged into a violent orgasm.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Monday morning arrived far too soon. I was dreading it. My screen tests.

  And after the perfect weekend in Phoenix, I found myself considering pulling out of the show—as an actor. I loved being with David, hanging out at the stadium, watching him do his thing. It was so fucking tempting to just be his wife and nothing else.

  But deep down I knew I couldn’t. For his sake and mine. I just had to get through the screen tests—that’s what I kept telling myself anyway.

  David hadn't told me outright, but I was pretty sure he knew exactly what they were for, if his odd behavior this morning was any indication.

  My flight passed in a blur, too caught up in my head, simultaneously psyching myself up and psyching myself out.

  When we finally arrived at the studio, my nerves were wrecked.

  “Come in with me?” I asked Fergus, hoping that a familiar face would help me calm down.

  “Of course.”

  When we walked in, Jeff and the casting director, along with a few other people I didn't recognize, were waiting, the camera and boom already set up.

  “Austin, this is Lee. Lee, Austin,” Jeff introduced one of the men, who looked like an on-set PA. As I took a closer look, I realized he was the top pick for the leading man. He was scruffy, hair disheveled, clothes a sloppy mess, and not in a hot way.

  Fuck, I'm not ready for this...

  David

  I was in my own personal hell.

  But that’s what you do for the people you love, right? Suffer for them. That’s the only kind of love I’d ever known, the kind you had to sacrifice your physical and emotional well being for. Maybe I was being over dramatic. It wasn’t like I was being drawn and quartered.

  It just felt like it.

  Austin’s behavior this morning—distracted, tense, and caught up in her head—had confirmed my fears; the screen tests were to test her sexual chemistry with potential male leads.

  Ever since she left, I’d been slowly dying inside, waiting to hear the verdict—find out who had been chosen to make out my wife. But the real torture was the possibility someone had been touching her, kissing her. All fucking day.

  I was lying in the training room, getting my muscles worked over by Harold when my phone finally rang.

  “The texts didn't come from Austin's phone,” Fergus informed me as soon as I answered. “They came from yours. Screenshots of those texts were sent from your phone to a phone in Noah Wright's name.”

  It was so far from what I was expecting I didn’t immediately react. But once it sank in that Noah had to have seen Austin's pics, that he had the balls to get in my phone and do that shit... My body heated with rage.

  Fergus went on, “And, he deleted the texts you sent Austin the first day at training camp.”

  That didn't make sense, unless…

  He's trying to come between us.

  That's why he'd released my pics and not hers.

  “He accessed her phone through yours. He was in her texts, not yours. Most likely it was accidental, but...”

  I hadn't thought it was possible to hate that little fuck more, but clearly it was.

  “I’m gonna fucking kill him,” I muttered.

  “No, you're not. Even I couldn't get you out of that.”

  He was right. I hated that he was right.

  “David.” The seriousness in his voice made me pause, forgetting all about Noah momentarily.

  “You need to come home,” he said solemnly.

  I didn't realize I was holding my breath until I tried to speak. Sucking in a deep breath, I exhaled roughly, then asked, “What happened?”

  “It's something she needs to tell you. It's not my place.”

  “Fucking tell me,” I gritted.

  “Today did not go well for her.” His response was cryptic, but I got the message loud and clear.

  It was what I’d been hoping for, that she couldn’t go though with it. That she would fail. Now that it had happened, I felt like shit.“Fuck,” I breathed, both relieved and hurting for her. I never wanted to trigger her, to see her in pain, but I had never been more grateful for her issues; all this would be over—her staying in LA, away from me. I felt a perverse thrill knowing she would need me. That I would get to take care of her, that I would be the only one taking care of her.

  It was seriously fucking twisted. But what I needed to be happy and what she needed, were at direct odds with each other. Austin getting hurt was a boon for me.

  “I'm gonna head straight to the airport,” I informed Fergus before ending the call.

  As soon as Harold was done, I headed for the locker room, passing by Noah without a second glace. I would deal with him later, my focus was on taking care of Austin.

  Austin

  I had been curled up on the bed with Chance, crying for hours. My emotions constantly shifting between humiliation and fury.

  Mostly, I was mad at myself. What was I thinking writing sex scenes? And why couldn't I just overcome my issues for twenty fucking minutes?

  And it had happened in front of other people. I'd never had witnesses before. I'd felt like I'd been stripped bare in front of them, putting my raw, open wounds on display for them to pick and probe.

  Why am I so fucked up?

  I hated it. It felt like complete strangers had conditioned me forever, determining what I could and couldn't do for the rest of my life.

  "Austin.” David's voice filled the room. It was softer than I'd ever heard it before, and I instantly knew he was aware of what had happened.

  Seconds later, I felt his strong hands picking me up pulling me into his lap, big arms wrapping around me, holding me.

  With my legs on either side of his, our chests pressed together, I buried my head in the crook of his neck, clinging to him with everything I had.

  Neither of us said anything for a long time, my shaky, stuttered breaths and sniffles the only sound in the room.

  Eventually he asked, “Sweet girl, what happened?”

  Swallowing thickly, I tried to come up with the shortest answer. “I couldn't control it.” My muffled voice cracked as I spoke against his neck. “My body... every time he tried to touch me, I jerked away. And I couldn't make it stop,” I admitted shamefully as fresh tears rimmed my eyes.

  “It's okay, it's okay,” he whispered, his hand cupping the back of my head, the other rubbing up and down my back, rhythmically.

  “I couldn't fucking control my own body,” I whispered, defeated.

  “That's okay.”

  I could tell he was relieved, happy even.

  Pulling back, I met
his gaze. “David, I'm not giving up my life-long dream—”

  “Austin, you wrote it. Someone else can play the part,” he consoled. “You can't control—”

  “David, I'm not letting someone else's actions dictate my future. You realize that's what's happening? I'm not letting those two fuckers take my dreams away.”

  He was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed heavily, deflating.

  “Okay.” His voice was soft, resigned. “You're right.” His expression was open, vulnerable. He seemed to truly understand how I felt. “Give me a couple of days.”

  Tucking my head back into the crook of his neck, I took comfort in the strongest man I’d ever known. But I had no idea how he thought he could fix me. It was an internal issue, my internal issue. I wasn’t even sure I was fixable, but I was going to try.

  “Have you eaten, sweetheart?” he murmured, his hand still gliding up and down my back, the other sweeping my hair out of the way, so he could see me.

  I tucked in tighter, hiding. “No,” I spoke into his tear stained shirt.

  “Let me take care of my girl, huh? Let’s get you showered and in bed. I’ll get us dinner and we’ll spend the rest of the day in our room, eating and watching TV. Sound okay?” His voice was so tender, it brought a flood of fresh tears to my eyes.

  I nodded, clinging tighter.

  *****

  The next day, I found myself sitting in a small waiting room in Beverly Hills—technically a guesthouse turned doctor’s office—trying to find something on my phone to keep me entertained.

  Yeah, right.

  I was trying to avoid having a panic attack. I didn’t know if this would work, and I was positive David would be mad. He wanted to solve all my problems, but he couldn’t solve this.

  The night before, when David left to pickup our dinner, I called Tara. Luckily for me, Liam was with her, and he was a wealth of information on the subject of rehab facilities and psychiatrists—specifically ones that catered to the antics and eccentricities of celebrities.

  That was perfect, because I needed a band-aid-type fix to get me through the week. I’d deal with actually doing the sex scenes later.

  “Miss James?”

  I looked up, finding a young and very attractive man. He had shoulder-length dark brown hair tucked behind his ears, big brown eyes, a perfectly straight nose, and a square jaw covered in a thick layer of stubble. He was well on his way to growing a beard. It was quite the contrast to his perfectly tailored dark gray suit and tie.

  Does everyone is this town look like an actor?

  I hesitated, wondering if I could actually talk to this guy about my issues.

  “I’m Dr. Vaughn. Are you ready?” he asked. His voice was low, calm and patient.

  Something about it reminded me of David, soothing me. I stood, following him into the office.

  “Sit anywhere you like,” he encouraged.

  There were two high back leather chairs placed strategically by a long sofa. I took a seat on the far end of the large brown leather couch, tucking in against the arm. I realized a second too late how telling that was about me.

  That’s probably why he let me choose.

  As I started mentally berating myself for not being more guarded, I reminded myself that was the point; this was for work. This was to prove to myself I could get past my issues, even if only a few minutes at a time.

  “So, I understand you have an urgent situation?”

  I sighed heavily. Liam had made the call for me, using his connections to get me a last-minute appointment.

  “Yeah, I was raped when I was seven,” I stated bluntly, disconnected. “And well... I have a new show, and I need to figure out a way to do sex scenes—let virtual strangers touch me—without having a full meltdown.”

  “Okay.” He took notes, then looked back up at me. “What exactly happened?”

  I explained as thoroughly as I could about the screen test, my body’s reaction, and my inability to stop it.

  “Have you had sexual relationships?” he inquired. His voice maintained that calm, soothing quality, keeping me at ease.

  I wondered if that was practiced, fake calm. Did he talk differently in his everyday life? Did he use slang? Or was this yoga-instructor-in-an-expensive-suit energy he put off really him?

  “Yeah, it’s just—” I paused, hearing the door knob twist, followed by a metallic thunk.

  Then David’s big body was filling the doorway.

  “What’re you doing here Austin?” David’s voice was quiet, but the demand and anger were clear as he stepped into the office, shutting the door behind him.

  “David, wha—” I started, dumbfounded by his sudden appearance.

  “Did you really think I wouldn't find out?” he cut me off, his eyebrows pulled together.

  “You need to leave,” Dr. Vaughn spoke up.

  “No, it's fine—he's fine,” I assured him, before turning to David. “I can't believe Fergus told you about this.”

  “He didn't, and that's gonna be a whole other discussion. I found out because of the confirmation phone call.”

  Oh fuck.

  “Who is this?” Dr. Vaughn interrupted.

  “That's what I was about to ask." David’s voice was gruff.

  “This is my husband, David Taylor.” It seemed odd that the doctor didn’t know who David was. I couldn’t imagine Liam made an appointment for me without saying, “It’s for David Taylor’s wife.”

  “Miss James, these appointments are confidential. He cannot stay.”

  Huh?

  Liam recommended Dr. Vaughn for his experience with eccentric celebrities and celebrity couples, so his attitude came as a surprise. I’d assumed, dealing with men in David’s position, he’d be used to the I-want-what-I-want, instant gratification attitude.

  “It's Mrs. Taylor,” David insisted.

  “It's fine if he stays. It's actually easier if he stays,” I nearly begged. It felt like the doctor was trying to create a problem were there was none. “That way I won't have to repeat everything back to him later.”

  “I can have him removed—”

  “No," I cut him off.

  “Like to see you try,” David muttered as I spoke over him.

  "Seriously, I would prefer he just be here.” I gave David a cool-it look.

  “So do you want to make this a couples’ appointment?” he asked, sounding slightly annoyed.

  My eyebrows drew together as I looked at him incredulously. “There's nothing wrong with my marriage. It's my job that’s the problem.”

  “Austin, you’ve gone to a therapist most of your life—a therapist can’t help you.” David’s tone was a mix of condescending, demanding, and offended. “I told you, I’m gonna fix this.”

  “I think you’re thrilled that I might fail. And this is something I have to do, David. I have to be able to prove to myself that I can do it,” I explained again, frustrated. We’d had the same exchange the previous night.

  “Fuckin' fine,” David relented, begrudgingly.

  He sat down heavily on the other end of the sofa, legs spread wide, his arm lying along the arm rest. His attitude clearly said, Let's get this over with. His silence and overall energy dominated the room and clearly intimidated the doctor. David's silence was more threatening than any shouted words ever could be.

  “How is your sex life with your husband?” the doctor asked brusquely.

  Apparently, David had rubbed Dr. Vaughn the wrong way if his sudden change in attitude and demeanor were any indication.

  Caught off guard and feeling uncomfortable, I hesitated. Out of the corner my eye, I saw David turn, looking at me.

  “Ummm... It's good. It's fine.”

  “It's fine?” David asked, his tone part offended, part concerned.

  Staring at the carpet, I took a deep breath and answered, "I mean... it's great. It's actually the best sex I've ever had."

  When I looked up, the doctor was looking between David and me.


  “How many times a week are you having sex?”

  “Uhhh... Like... Well... with him gone...” My eyes drifted toward the ceiling, trying to remember how many times we’d had sex. "It's not as much as when he was home all the time.”

  “How long has he been gone?”

  “Two days,” David's gruff voice broke me out of my counting. "We've had sex seven times this week," David answered for me. "Like she said, it's a slow week... I've been gone for most of the past two days."

  At the doctors lifted brow, I had a feeling that wasn't the norm.

  “Is that bad?” I questioned.

  “How many times a week do you normally have sex?” Dr. Vaughn asked cautiously.

  “We average twice a day, sometimes more, sometimes less," David answered matter-of-fact.

  It was then I realized they were in some kind of alpha-male pissing contest. It was subtle, but it was there.

  I watched as the doctor made notes. Just as I was starting to get uncomfortable, he looked at me and asked, "Are you a sex addict?"

  “What? No.”

  “How frequently did you have sex with your previous partner?”

  My eyes darted to the floor again.

  That was not a conversation I wanted to have in front of David. In that moment, an image of him watching that video flashed through my mind. He didn't need any more information about my previous sexual experiences.

  "Answer him, Austin." David’s voice was calm, but commanding.

  “Maybe four times a week?” I answered meekly.

  I glanced over at David. His nostrils flared and his jaw clenched, but he said nothing as he stared straight ahead.

  “But I was abstinent for thirteen months before I met him,” I added.

  When the doctor finally looked up from taking his notes, he asked, “Are you sexually aroused right now?”

  Stupefied, I stared at him a moment before my eyes darted to my lap, where I was aggressive mangling my cuticles. Biting my lip, I debated if I should answer honestly or not. Because this was something I didn't want David to know. Ever.