Playing With Her Heart

by Lauren Blakely

  I need him.

  “Say it.”

  “I think of you. I think of you making me come. There. Are you happy?”

  “As happy as you’re going to be in a few minutes.”

  Davis

  I tug off her sweater as she shrugs out of her bra, then I stop for one brief moment to savour the view. She’s topless, her arms over her head, all beautiful curves and gorgeous flesh, and I want to spend hours on her body, touching and tasting her neck, and her breasts, and her absolutely enticing belly. But she’s already panting, and I can feel the heat between her legs, even through the denim of her jeans.

  I press hard against her with my hand, and she draws in a breath.

  “Oh God,” she says, and her voice is rising. She pushes against me, rubbing against my hand in a desperate frenzy. It suddenly hits me that she’s already close. That I could slide my hand inside her jeans, feel her wetness and bring her to release within a few seconds.

  Her face is strained, and her skin is so fevered, but her eyes are closed. “Please. Please make me come. Please,” she says and that last word borders on a cry. She’s arching her hips, and she’s fumbling at the button of her jeans. But I need to know she’s with me before I go further. I press both my hands gently, but firmly, on top of hers, quieting her moves.

  “Jill. Look at me.”

  She opens her eyes. They are wild with desire.

  “I’ve got this. I’ll get you there.”

  She nods and drops her hands to the leather, letting me take care of her. Her breath is coming fast, but she stays still. I unbutton her jeans, unzip them and slide my hand between her legs. She is wet through her black lace underwear, and there is nothing that feels better than this, than her being so ready for me, so turned on that the cotton panel of her underwear is damp with her heat. My dick is straining against the fly in my jeans, and I want so badly to be inside her, but this isn’t about me right now, or even about me tonight. This is about whatever desperate need is winding up her body.

  “You are so wet and hot. This is all for me, isn’t it?”

  She gasps out a sound, as I play with the waistband on her underwear. She starts to thrust her hips up, and I shake my head several times. “No. I told you. I’ll take care of this.”

  My fingers inch their way between her legs and I slide them once across her.

  “Fuck, Jill,” I hiss out. Then I bring my fingers to my lips and lick off her taste.

  “Please,” she says, and she’s crossed some kind of line, she’s wracked with the overwhelming need to come right now, and there’s nothing I’d rather do than be the one to satisfy her. I pull her jeans down past her hips, then tug them off. My hand is back in the promised land, and she’s so deliriously wet that I plan to make a shrine to her for being the hottest woman I’ve ever touched, and the neediest, and that’s fine with me, because this is what I want. Her. This woman. Screw the past. Screw my rules. I don’t care about anything right now but making her come. I want her to be in some kind of never ending bliss, so I slide two fingers across her, and she moans greedily, as if this kind of touch is the thing she craves most in the entire world.

  “God, it feels so good,” she says in a ragged whisper.

  I’ve barely given her anything, but she’s already near the edge, so I rub the pad of my thumb where she wants me most, and soon she’s thrusting her hips, and she’s no longer whispering, she’s screaming out, “Oh, God, oh God, oh God.”

  That’s it. That’s all it takes, as she comes, her entire body rocking against my hand, hips bucking hard and wildly. She grabs at me, pulling my face to her and kissing me, but she’s so far gone from the orgasm rocketing through her body that it’s a supremely sloppy, though intensely sexy kiss, because I made her come in seconds flat and she’s still crying out.

  Her voice can really carry, and the sound of her coming echoes around the car, but the driver doesn’t care. Her whole body is trembling as she starts to come down, and soon she opens her eyes, and breathes out hard and looks at me. Her eyes are dreamy now, and she has a glow that makes her even more beautiful. I want to see that look again and again. I want to be the only one who makes her feel this way.

  “That was…” she trails off.

  “That was what?” I ask, because even though I’m pretty certain she enjoyed herself immensely, I’m a guy. I still like hearing it from the source.

  “That was the fir—” then she stops. “That was amazing.” And she pulls me in for another kiss that makes my brain go fuzzy from the heady taste of her lips, and the way she smells even sexier after she’s just come. I can barely process what she was going to say, and I’m not sure it even matters right now. I nip at her bottom lip, and then break the kiss.

  She reaches for me, trying to touch my cock. But I stop her hand.

  “What? Why can’t I touch you?”

  “Because this was about you.”

  “But I want to.”

  “Yeah, and trust me, there’s nothing I want more than for you to know what you do to me. But I already know that you’re the only one I’m thinking of. And I’m not going to let you touch me until I’m certain that I’m the only one you want to be touching.”

  She gives me a questioning look, but there’s no bending here. I’ve already chucked my one hard and fast rule, and now I’m not only caught up with an actress, I’m caught up with an actress who’s told me she’s in love with someone else. Double the obstacles. So I answer her by pulling her close and kissing her forehead softly. “You know it’s true. But you also know that he’s not the one who made you come tonight. I am. So the next time you’re alone, I want you to picture what I did to you. And then I want you to imagine all the things I’m going to do with my tongue when I taste you for the first time. And then you’re going to tell me if it’s as good as you imagined when I go down on you sometime soon. Sometime very, very soon. Because you taste fantastic.”

  She shudders, bites her lip once then breathes out, hard. “Yes.”

  Then I push her hair away from her ear. “Do you want to come again now?”

  She nods against my chest, then whispers, “I don’t know if I can though.”

  “You can,” I tell her, and this time I pull off her underwear and she’s completely naked and beautiful as I slide two fingers inside her and she rocks against me, coming apart once more.

  CHAPTER 13

  Davis

  Clay holds the punching bag, and I slam a cross into it. Then I administer my best hook. Jab, cross, hook—I repeat this combination, grunting hard, putting everything I have into each punch. I feel the burn in my stomach and shoulders from the exertion. I end with a final flurry of hits and cap it off with a punishing uppercut, feeling simultaneously sated and charged.

  I finish, and Clay pats the bag once, then claps me on the back. I breathe out hard, panting.

  “Nice,” he says. “Picture anyone in particular this time?”

  “Me? No. Never.”

  I don’t think of anyone when I hit. I don’t need to picture someone’s face to hit like this. There’s a store of coiled-up tension already inside me from working so much, so hard, so long. This is simply the release.

  “C’mon. Not your least favorite executive producer in the world? Don was a prick to deal with. Tried to pull all sorts of shit with your contract.”

  “I know. He’s still a fucking prick. Showed up the other day at rehearsals and told me to go easy on Alexis.”

  “I bet you wanted to hit him then,” Clay says, half joking, half knowing me.

  I pretend to consider that, as I unwrap my hands. “Hmm. You know, maybe I did. You got me there, Clay.”

  We walk over to the water fountain at the boxing gym where we work out. It’s a Tribeca gym, so it’s full of men like us: guys who spend their days working in the shade, who wear white collars and ties, who make deals for a living. But still, it’s more my speed than one of those 24-hour gyms with the cardio machines. I’d rather lift weights, a
nd punch the life out of a bag to burn off the day. It’s an old habit, and one I don’t plan on letting up. One I took up when I was younger, and one that helped me deal after I lost my parents.

  Everyone grieves differently. My way through the pain was to punch it out. It worked, and I made it through taking care of my sister and sending her off to college. There wasn’t anyone else to look after us; it was just me.

  I take a long cold, swallow of water. I grab my gym bag, pull on a sweatshirt and head out with Clay, the cold January air the perfect end to a workout.

  “So is the show coming together?”

  Clay isn’t only my closest friend from college. He’s my lawyer now too, the best damn entertainment lawyer in the business. He handled all the negotiations with Don Kraftig, once Stillman chose him to produce.

  “Going to be the best production to hit New York in years.”

  “That’s what I love most about you. Your humble nature.”

  “Damn straight. And you?”

  “Squeezing money out of all sorts of producers for all sorts of clients like there’s no tomorrow. I’m wrapping up a deal for one of my show runners for a new network sitcom this week. His fucking agent was a loser. He had to can the agent, so I did it all.”

  “Yeah. You’re a modest one, too. I’m sure you’re hating doing all that work when you see your hours add up.”

  “One of the producers even sent me extra tickets to the Broadway Cares auction in a few weeks because he was so damn happy the contract was finally done. They want you to say a few words about the fundraising efforts Crash the Moon will be doing. You want some extra tickets too? To take Michele?”

  “Sure. She loves going to all those galas.”

  “Listen,” he begins, drawing in a breath. “I heard from Madeline’s agent.”

  My shoulders tense. That’s a name I didn’t expect to hear this morning. “Yeah?”

  “Sounds like she’s coming to New York soon,” he says as a cab squeals to a stop at a nearby light.

  “That so?” I say, trying to keep it cool.

  “Hasn’t been announced, but her agent just signed her for the lead in the new Steve Martin play that starts rehearsals in a few weeks,” he continues as we walk past early morning runners, focused looks on their faces. “Anyway, I thought you might want to know since the play will be at the Belasco.”

  The Belasco Theater. One block away. I sigh heavily, but steel myself. Madeline is the past. I won’t go there again. “I’m a big boy. I can handle it.”

  “Hey, Davis? Have you met my friend Davis? He was the guy who was wrecked by this gal in San Diego three years ago.”

  But I’m not wrecked anymore. Not by her at least. She’s in the rearview mirror, and maybe that’s why I’ve been loosening my rules.

  “Would it make you feel better if you procured her rehearsal schedule and emailed it to me so I could plan my day around it?” I joke. “I’m sure you could even get my sister involved and the two of you can devise new routes to work for me.”

  “Just looking out for you, man. Someone has to.”

  “I’ll catch you later,” I say, as we reach my loft.

  * * *

  Ava chases Paolo and grabs him before he leaves the classroom.

  “I see you’ve changed your mind,” Paolo says with a daring look in his eye, challenging Ava to make the next move.

  “I need you, Professor Paolo.”

  “Don’t call me professor.”

  “What should I call you?”

  “Don’t call me. Kiss me.”

  Then she cups his cheeks in her hands and kisses him, a long, slow, wet kiss.

  It’s a fantastic kiss, full of believable smoulder and so much longing. But something’s missing.

  Alexis and Patrick pull apart, break character and look at me expectantly, awaiting notes. This is the tenth time they’ve worked on this scene today.

  “It’s still not coming together,” I say.

  Alexis sighs audibly. “Well, I flossed and brushed beforehand, so it can’t possibly be my fault.”

  “I would never think it your fault that a kiss isn’t working,” I say, to placate her.

  “So what’s the problem them?”

  “I’m trying to figure it out.”

  “I’ve never had to work this hard on a kissing scene. The audiences all love my kissing scenes,” she continues in a haughty voice.

  “Of course they do,” I say, and I hate that she’s right. But she is. She’s beloved by the fans. They have no clue what she’s like to work with. All they know is she’s a force of nature on stage and she possesses far too much of that most precious resource—charisma.

  “Are we supposed to kiss all day?”

  “Alexis, you make it sound like it’s such an awful task,” Patrick huffs, and I half want to commend the guy. He rarely has a sharp word for anyone, but I’m glad he’s rising to the occasion here.

  I wave them off. “It’s not the two of you,” I say as I pace around the studio, trying to work out what’s missing. I rewind briefly to Jill’s audition when she performed this scene perfectly. What was so different about it? I let myself picture her grabbing Patrick, kissing him like her life depended on it. Even though there’s a weed twisting in my gut at the recall for so many reasons—especially since that kiss was half real now that I know she’s in love with him—the kiss isn’t the problem.

  Alexis and Patrick kiss like lovers who’ve been burning for each other.

  Jill and Patrick did as well.

  But even so, the kiss doesn’t feel as authentic as it could be. That’s when I realize the problem doesn’t lie in this scene. The trouble is what precedes it. The moment before she sings “Changed Your Mind.”

  “Here’s the issue. There’s no transition. I don’t believe for a second they’d go from all cooped-up anger about her painting style and his teaching, and then go to a kiss. There needs to be a transition. A moment of intimacy before they kiss. Some moment of touching but not quite touching before they finally kiss.” I stop pacing. “Thirty-minute break. I need to get out of here.”

  I leave the studio, take the elevator downstairs and head outside. I need fresh air. I need to think. I need to find the solution, the piece that’s missing. I push a hand roughly through my hair and lose myself in the midday crowds of tourists and locals thronging down Broadway, some in just-bought I Love New York jackets as they snap photos, some suited up and in a race to make their midtown meetings.

  I turn the corner and head toward the St. James. We’re finishing with the rehearsal studio time and moving into the theater itself for the next several weeks. It’s rare to have access to the actual stage itself at this point, but since the St. James is empty Clay worked it into my contract for us to rehearse sooner on the stage itself.

  I head toward the alley that leads to the stage door, figuring some time in the theater itself will be the inspiration I need. Then I hear a familiar laugh.

  There she is, and it slays me every time I see her. How fucking beautiful she is. How effortless she is. How much I want her again. I see her and I want her. I talk to her and I want her. I spend time in the same five-foot radius and I want her.

  I watch her as she walks toward me with Shelby. They don’t see me yet. They’re chatting with each other, laughing and smiling as if they have some insider secret. A grin tugs at my lips because her smile is so radiant, so pure. Some days she seems like the most easygoing person in the world. Other times, she seems like she’s hiding something. The mixture is intoxicating and I want to be the one who unlocks her, the one she opens up to.

  They near me, and Shelby sees me first. She waves. “Hello, Mr. Milo. You checking out our new rehearsal digs?”

  “Of course. Can’t get enough of the St. James. About to take a quick walk-through.”

  “Hi,” Jill says, and though she’s acting entirely cool and casual, the slightest blush spreads across her cheeks and I know she’s remembering the other night in the
car.

  I want to whisper hi back, just to her, then kiss her right below her ear in the way that drives her crazy. Instead, we behave. The three of us stop in front of one of the glass cases on the stone and stucco wall that will soon hold a poster beckoning passersby to come check out Crash The Moon.

  “We were on our way to the rehearsal studio for our afternoon call,” Jill asks. “But does this mean we’re working here today?”

  She turns to point to the theater, and I notice her hair. She’s wearing it in a braid today. She’s only worn it up once before—the other night at our private rehearsal. Her neck is so inviting, and it takes all my resistance not to touch her, not to run a finger across the exposed skin. I stuff my hands in my pockets, but for a man who prides himself on control I can’t seem to help myself from saying the next words before it’s too late to stop them.

  “Your hair is up again.”

  Then Shelby pipes in. “That’s my handiwork! I did that. I braided her hair, and let me tell you it’s the best French braid the world has ever seen,” Shelby says with a wink, and it’s cute how proud Shelby is of her hair styling accomplishment. She grabs Jill by the shoulders and spins her around, so I’m looking at the back of her head. “Have you ever seen a better braid?”

  But I’m no longer seeing a braid. I’m seeing the answer. I’m seeing what I went looking for. Now I know exactly what the scene needs before that kiss.

  I say goodbye to Jill and Shelby, duck into the St. James, and call Stillman, telling him my idea. He says yes.

  CHAPTER 14

  Jill

  “And now for the piece de resistance.”

  Kat shows me one of her newest prototype necklaces, with a miniature padlock modelled after the ones hung on the Lover’s Bridge in Paris. “A spin-off from the holiday line,” she adds, referring to the Paris-themed necklaces that were sold in tandem with cufflinks made from the old locks from the bridge. Her fiancé’s company made the cufflinks and then manufactured the necklaces she designed. They were a massive hit at stores and now she’s doing the hers version of the padlocks as a necklace.