Playing With Her Heart

by Lauren Blakely

  Joyelle is enrapt in my ideas, and at one point, she even bats her eyes and casts me a huge beaming grin that seems a bit too adoring at this point. Or really, at any point.

  I look at my watch, and they realize it’s nearing midnight.

  “I’m so sorry we’ve kept you so long, but we’re thrilled to have you on board,” Tamara says, and shakes my hand.

  “There’s one thing I’m going to need though to make this final,” I say, then nod to Clay. “He’ll let you know what it is because I need to go.”

  I clap Clay on the back, and leave it up to him to work out the most important detail of my contract. I say goodbye to the others, grab my jacket, and head down the alley. If I know Jill, she’s already starting to worry. I’ll have to work on that with her, to reassure her that things don’t always unravel. That things can keep getting better.

  But I don’t have to go to Zane’s, because she’s walking toward me, marching right up to me. She has the most determined take-no-prisoners look on her face, and her blue eyes are fixed on me. She stops inches from me, reaches for the neck of my shirt, grabbing the fabric. It’s not an angry gesture, but a pleading one, matched by her voice when she speaks. “Please tell me you’re not going to fall for Joyelle,” she says.

  I laugh once, shake my head, and clasp my hand over hers, pulling her closer.

  “Tell me,” she says again, insisting.

  “I’m not. That’s not even remotely possible.”

  “Tell me why,” she demands.

  “Because of you,” I say simply. The answer is patently clear to me.

  “I need to know you’re not going to fall for her. I need to know that if you work late with her, help her become a better Viola, you’re only going to think of me,” she says, and I can’t help but grin.

  She points at me, accusingly. “Why are you smiling?”

  “Because I love your jealous, possessive side. It’s completely endearing.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “You haven’t answered the question. Are you going to fall for your Viola?”

  I shake my head, and curve a hand around her neck. “It’s impossible.”

  She leans into me, and her voice softens. “Tell me, Davis. Tell me why it’s impossible.”

  I cup her cheek in my hand and look her in the eyes. “Because she might play Viola, but you are my Viola. You are my Ava. You are my Eponine. You are every part ever written, but most of all, you’re my Jill and you’re the only woman I want,” I tell her, and she closes her eyes briefly and sways towards me. But I’m not done. I have more to say. “I will work with other women and you will be on stage or screen and kiss other men, and we will come back to each other because nobody else can come between us.”

  Then she melts into me, pressing her body against mine on the streets of Manhattan, outside the St. James Theater, where I first told her on that cold evening that she was in my show. “Do you want to know why I took so long in there? What was so important to me that it kept me away from you on a night like this?”

  “What?”

  “I told them I would only do Twelfth Night if it was worked into my contract that I could come back once a week during rehearsals.”

  Her eyes widen and sparkle, as if she’s filling with happiness. I love that she responds this way. “Really?”

  I nod. “Yes. Really,” I emphasize. “I want to see you. I want to have a future with you. I’m not going to jet off without a way to see you as much as I can.”

  She shakes her head, as if she’s berating herself. “I’m an idiot for doubting you.”

  “No, you’re human. But you’ve got to realize that even though I might be in London for two months, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I love you,” she says fiercely, grabbing my shirt again, and fisting the fabric. “I fucking love you so much it hurts. But it’s a good hurt, because it makes me feel like I’m alive, and it’s not pretend and it’s not fake, and I want to keep loving you and trying not to hurt you, but sometimes doing it anyway, and then forgiving, and I want that with you. Only you.”

  “Good. Now why don’t we skip Zane’s, because I think there are other things we should be doing right now.”

  “What could you possibly have in mind?” She says playfully as she takes my hand and I hail a taxi.

  “Come back to my place and find out,” I say, then open the door and let her in first.

  * * *

  We barely make it into my loft. She launches herself at me in the elevator, running her hands through my hair. “Do you remember our first private rehearsal?” she asks in an intensely serious tone.

  “Of course. How could I forget?”

  “When we were leaving, I kept hoping the elevator would stop. Or jolt me into you. So I could do this,” she tells me, then captures my lips in a kiss that is both soft and hungry, a promise of what’s to come soon, of how we will have each other tonight. She slows the kiss down, running her tongue along my bottom lip, then nipping at the top. She breaks the kiss to shoot me a sly grin. “That’s how you kiss me sometimes. You torment me with your teeth.”

  “You deserve tormenting,” I say, teasing her.

  “I know, but I want to give it back to you.”

  “You should definitely give it back to me. Any time. All the time.”

  She backs me into the corner of the elevator, grabs my wrists and holds them tight at my side, then bends her head to kiss my neck. Only she doesn’t kiss. She bites, and it feels fucking fantastic. I close my eyes, reveling in the sensation. I’m about to respond in kind, but she lets go of my wrists and grabs my hair hard, then pulls. Once.

  “There,” she says happily. “Like you do to me.”

  “All’s fair in love and war,” I say as the elevator stops. She steps out first but as soon as the doors close, I grab her jeans and pull her back to me, spin her around, and lift her up against the wall in the hallway. She wraps her legs around my waist, her arms around my neck. I push hard against her, grinding my hips into hers, kissing her face, her neck, her eyelids, her hair, her earlobes, anywhere on her, until she rasps, “Inside. Now.”

  I lower her to the floor, unlock the door and shove it closed. In less than a second her hands are on the zipper of my pants and I’m undoing her jeans, and we are pushing clothes to the floor, and nearly tripping as we grasp at each other while moving into the kitchen. I lift her up on the counter, pull off her boots and her jeans, and then slide my hand between her legs as she parts them for me.

  “You’re already wet,” I whisper in her ear, as I rub my fingers against her, and she arches into me.

  “Did you expect anything less?”

  I shake my head, and slip off her panties, tossing them somewhere behind me. I don’t bother to take off my shirt, or step out of my pants. I need to be inside her now. I tug her closer to the edge of the counter then sink into her, and she bites her lip, then takes a sharp breath, followed by a long, low sigh of pleasure as I fill her.

  “There are so many ways I need to fuck you, Jill. So many positions, and places, and things to do with your beautiful body,” I tell her as I start to move inside her.

  “I know,” she whispers. “All those things you said you’d do to me when we had dinner. And then at the Plaza. I need all of them.”

  “You’ll have all of them. And later tonight, I’m going to spend my time making love to you, but right now, I’m going to take you, and it’s going to be hard, and it’s going to be fast.”

  Her eyes light up, like she has a secret. “That’s what the hero said in a dirty novel I was reading. I want it like that. Please do it like that now,” she pants, then grabs my ass and pulls me deeper into her.

  I do as I promised, gripping her hips as I drive into her, slamming her onto me. She grasps me with her legs, and holds onto my shoulders, then rests her forehead against mine, her breath on my face, and I love it. I love how she can’t hold back, how she wants this as much as I do. How she needs it. Soon, she is moaning with ab
andon, moving faster with me, and I start to lose myself in her noises, her sounds, in the way she tugs hard on my hair, and shouts yes many times over as she comes, and I chase her there. Then she wraps her arms around my waist in a tight embrace. “Davis, I love you so much. I can’t imagine being without you either,” she whispers, and I might be the happiest man alive right now.

  “Good,” I tell her. “Because you won’t be.”

  After a quick bathroom break, I return to the kitchen, and she’s made herself at home, perched on a black leather barstool at the counter. She’s still wearing her sweater, but nothing on the bottom.

  “That’s a good look for you,” I say. “It’ll be even better if you take the top off.”

  “Consider it done,” she says, and pulls off her sweater and her bra, and crosses her legs. She looks so unbelievably sexy, all naked and blond and just-been-fucked, sitting on my barstool, in my kitchen, in my home.

  “I have something for you. For us,” I say, then open the stainless steel fridge and remove a bottle of champagne. “To celebrate your first Broadway show. Your first ever performance on the Great White Way.”

  I pop open the bottle, pour two glasses, and sit down next to her. I hold up a glass to toast. “To many, many more.”

  “To many more,” she repeats, then takes a sip.

  I tip my forehead to the stool. “You look good on that stool. You look good in my home. You should make it yours.”

  She gives me a curious look, as a grin plays on her lips. “Are you asking me to move in?”

  I shrug a shoulder playfully. “You said your roommate’s moving out soon. I figured why not.”

  “So I should move in since it’s hard to find a place in New York?” she jokes.

  “That. And because it makes it easier to fuck you, and make love to you, and kiss you, and hold you, and touch you, and be with you,” I say, then I pause, taking a beat, so she knows I mean this from the heart. “And because I love you.”

  She hops off the stool, wraps her arms around me and kisses me wildly, so I take that as a yes.

  CHAPTER 25

  Four Months Later

  Jill

  “You are the most beautiful bride I’ve ever seen,” I say as I hand Kat a tulip bouquet, all in purple, her favorite color.

  She whispers a thanks, takes a breath, her shoulders rising and falling, as if she’s prepping herself for this momentous step.

  “You’re not nervous, are you?”

  “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”

  “Good,” I say with a smile.

  The string quartet begins Pachelbel’s Canon, and that’s my cue as the maid of honor to walk down the aisle, a white runner spread out across the lawn at Le Belle Vie, an inn in Mystic, Connecticut, where Kat grew up. It is June, and she and Bryan are getting married outside under the warm afternoon sun on a beautiful blue-sky Saturday, the ocean waves lapping the nearby shore.

  When I reach the steps of the gazebo, I take my spot across from the groom and his best man. Bryan looks so handsome in his tux, and so happy as the wedding march begins and Kat walks down the aisle. He only has eyes for her, and she for him, as it should be.

  She’s radiant, with her hair pinned up in a gorgeous twist, in the perfect dress she found at the bridal shop in the West Village. She reaches the gazebo and stands across from Bryan, and the two of them are so ridiculously happy. I catch a glimpse of Davis in the third row, looking as classy as ever in a button-down shirt and tie that I want to unknot later.

  For now, I keep my eyes on the bride and groom as the justice of the peace begins the proceedings.

  “Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to celebrate one of the greatest joys in life and witness the union of Bryan Leighton and Kat Harper in marriage, which is an institution ordained by the state and made honorable by the faithful keeping of good men and women,” he says. “Marriage is founded upon sincerity, trust, and mutual love.” Then he pauses, as if preparing for a quip. “As well as a mutual love of movies, coffee drinks and Paris.”

  I beam, and so does Kat, and it’s all so true because that’s how Kat and Bryan fell in love again.

  “Kat and Bryan have a strong and solid foundation. They support each other, they care for each other and, as I understand it, Bryan is quite good at making her laugh.”

  Now it’s Bryan’s turn to smile proudly. He won Kat back into his heart in many ways, but especially because he always made her laugh.

  Then the justice of the peace grows more serious. “They are each other’s true and forever loves, and today they take that pledge before God, family and friends.” He turns to Bryan. “Do you, Bryan, take Kat to be your lawful wedded wife?”

  “I do.”

  “Will you love, respect and honor her in all your years together?”

  “I will.”

  Then he turns to Kat.

  “Do you, Kat, take Bryan to be your lawful wedded husband?”

  “I do,” she says.

  “Will you love, respect and honor him in all your years together?”

  “I will.”

  After they exchange rings, the justice of the peace says the words we’ve all come to hear. “By the power vested in me by the state of Connecticut, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride.”

  Bryan steps forward and kisses his new wife, as a tear of happiness slides down my cheek, and I sneak a look at the beautiful man in the third row, who’s already looking at me.

  * * *

  Later, the bride and groom dance as dusk falls, the rest of us joining them on the dance floor in that kind of hazy, lingering after-the-cake-has-been eaten way as the wedding party winds down.

  “I know the bride is supposed to be the most beautiful woman here, but you’ll always hold that title for me,” Davis says, as he takes me in his arms for a spin on the dance floor. Strings of lights twinkle from the canopy above us. I can smell the salt water from the lazy ocean waves, rocking the shores gently after twilight.

  “As it should be.”

  “And I suspect you’ll be equally stunning tomorrow night on the red carpet,” he says. “Have I told you how proud I am of you?”

  “Only twenty million times,” I say playfully, moving closer to him, because I am unable to stay away. He’s been back from London for several weeks now, and I can’t get enough of him. Even though I saw him once a week while he was gone, it wasn’t nearly enough, and we’ve been making up for all that lost time. Tonight is my first Saturday evening off since I took over as Ava on opening night. But I have a good understudy in Shelby, and I’m sure she’s kicking ass and taking names right now back in Manhattan. The theater will be dark tomorrow night, but Davis and I will be walking the red carpet into Avery Fisher Hall at Lincoln Center for the 68th Annual Tony Awards since we were both nominated for Crash the Moon.

  “And I’m proud of you. You’re still my favorite director,” I say as I play with the collar on his shirt.

  He laughs. “Your only director.”

  “Hey! Just because I’m still working my first job, doesn’t mean I can’t have a favorite.” Then my hands stray to the buttons on his shirt and I start to fiddle with the top one. As I do, I flash back to our first kiss in his office, to how I couldn’t resist touching him then either.

  The mood shifts between us as he grips my hand, and tugs me tighter against him. His voice is rough and heated. “Jill, when you do that, it makes me want to undress you, too.”

  A ribbon of heat runs through me. “Then we should get out of here because that’s my favorite outfit to wear with you—nothing.”

  After we say our goodbyes, we duck into a town car that will take us all the way back into Manhattan and down to Tribeca where we live. Davis hits the button for the partition. “Such a long ride back to the city. Whatever will we do,” he muses as he fingers the short hem on my black and white dress.

  “I have no idea how we could pass the time,” I say, as he grabs my hips
and shifts me on top of him so I’m straddling him in the car. He brushes his lips against my throat, trailing his tongue between my breasts as he hikes up my skirt.

  “Take those off,” he tells me, and I quickly shed my panties as he unzips the crisp gray slacks he wore to the wedding. I inch them down his hips, licking my lips reflexively as the boxer briefs slide down too.

  Then he grabs me and brings me down on him, and I moan loudly at the delicious feeling of him inside me. I move on him, slowly, taking my time because it’s a two-hour ride back to the city, but even so it doesn’t take me long because he knows what to do to bring me over the edge. He always has, he always will, and we come together one more time.

  Once we reach Manhattan, the car heads down Columbus Avenue and Davis leans forward and raises the partition to talk to the driver. “Can you make a stop at Lincoln Center?”

  “Yes, sir,”

  I give him a curious look.

  “Getting a head start on tomorrow?”

  “Perhaps,” he says evasively.

  When we stop, he opens the door and reaches for my hand. I’m not quite sure what the plan is, but I go along with it, as we head up the steps of the plaza outside Lincoln Center. The fountain shoots sprays of water high above us in a majestic pattern, lit brightly on a summer night. We are surrounded by the ballet, the theater, the orchestra, the opera, and Juilliard. This is the heartbeat of the arts in New York City, and it’s always felt like a hamlet to me.

  He stops at the fountain and pulls me in close. “I’ve always wanted to kiss you by the fountains at Lincoln Center. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Not at all,” I say, as he brushes his lips against mine, kissing me slowly at first, tenderly, then claiming my mouth with his in the way I love, the way that makes me feel like I’m his, because that’s all I want to be.