“As soon as we announce the other changes to the show, which is Friday. Expect a press barrage.”
Monica smiled to herself. As soon as she left the office, she’d call Theresa. Theresa lived for press barrages; so did Monica. She couldn’t wait to tell Eric her good news. According to him, the Blades no longer tuned in to W and F. Her return would bring the team, and the multitudes of other fans that had been upset by her departure, back into the fold.
Drayton stood, his large hands spread on his glass-topped desk. “I guess we’re all set, then. Expect your first batch of scripts the end of next week. In the meantime, I’ll call your agent, and we can discuss the terms of your new contract.”
Monica rose and went to the desk to shake Drayton’s hand. “Thank you for your faith in me, Mr. Drayton—”
“William.”
“William. I won’t let you down.”
“You never have. Welcome back to the W and F family, Monica.”
“Stop jumping around. You’re making me dizzy.”
Sitting on Monica’s couch, Eric watched in amusement as she pogoed around her living room, shouting out joyfully that W and F wanted her back. It was fantastic to see her happy; even more fantastic that he was the first one she’d called.
“Oh,” Monica said, breathlessly, coming to a stop. “Can you believe it? I mean, can you believe it?”
Eric chuckled. “I think that’s the thirtieth time you asked me that in five minutes.”
“It’s because I can’t believe it,” said Monica, launching into a series of small pirouettes. “I kind of knew what might happen when Drayton called me in. But I didn’t want to get ahead of myself or come off as egotistical.”
“You? Egotistical?” Eric teased.
“Very funny. So he told me Christian and Chesty were out, the writers were out, and the old writers were coming back in, and asked if would I come back to the show!” She started jumping up and down again, giving a small squeal. “This is so amazing!”
“No, it’s not. It makes total sense. You’re a great actress, and the show just isn’t the same without you.” He smiled at her cheekily. “I take it you’ve gotten over your ‘Daytime is the lowest form of acting’ fixation?”
Monica came back down to earth, plopping back down on the couch beside him, “Totally. Absolutely.” She threw her hands above her head like an excited child. “I love daytime! I love my job! I love life! I love you!”
A shock wave hit the room. Eric could feel Monica tense as he slowly turned to look at her. “Do you realize what you just said?”
Monica dropped her gaze. “Yes.”
“And you mean it?”
“Of course I do,” Monica murmured.
“Are you sure?” Eric asked skeptically. “Because I’d hate to think it just slipped out because you’re carried away.”
Monica lifted her eyes to his. “It wasn’t said in the heat of the moment.” She was tentative as she took his hand, her twined fingers sliding up and down between his nervously. “I wouldn’t say it if it wasn’t true. I’ve felt this way for a while, but I was too afraid to say it.”
“Why’s that?”
Monica hesitated. “Well, I wasn’t sure whether you really wanted me back, or just wanted me back as a good luck charm because you play well when I’m at games.” Her fingers stopped moving. “But then I realized it had to be the real you wooing me, because the fake you would have been much smoother.” She giggled. “Those things you did were so dorky, Eric. But I loved it.”
“So now do you believe I love you, and that I’d never hurt you again?” he asked, overcome with remorse for all the pain he’d caused her.
Monica looked up at him, her body trembling slightly. “Of course I believe you love me,” she said with a small quaver in her voice. “And of course I believe you won’t hurt me again.”
Relief dashed through Eric. “Good.”
Monica turned apologetic. “I’m sorry it took me so long—”
“Enough talking.”
He grabbed her and kissed her roughly, more turned on than he ever thought he could be by the low guttural sound that instantly rose in her throat, heralding desire.
“Bedroom?” Monica suggested huskily as she tore her mouth from his. The wild desire in her eyes was matched only by the hungry pout of her lips. He was tempted to take her on the couch right now; to rip the clothes from her body to reveal the perfect, soft skin beneath; to watch excitedly as she rode him, her head thrown back, her long hair cascading down her back. But he restrained himself. If she wanted to make love in the bedroom, then he’d make love to her in the bedroom. He wanted it to be all about her: her wants, her needs, her happiness.
And so he picked her up and carried her to the room where he intended to drive her crazy.
Jesus, thought Monica, I can’t take my eyes off him. They were as eager as teenagers, shedding their clothes the minute Eric had kicked the bedroom door shut behind them. How many times had she bitten down on those powerful shoulders, making him cry out in hoarse but delighted pain? Run her finger along the white scar across his knee from an old hockey injury? Kissed her way down the taut abdomen and slim hips to take him in her mouth? She felt her nipples rise just looking at him and thinking about it; saw him rise, too, nakedly, unabashedly. Lust twisting through her, she tugged his hand and led him to the bed. She lay down, Eric propped up on his elbow beside her.
“Kiss me,” she commanded, quietly reassured by the way he was looking at her, as if she were a wonderment created just for him.
Eric, sloe-eyed, leaned over and kissed her softly, his hand brushing her cheek. “I love you so much.”
“I love you, too.”
Her words seemed to enflame him. Gentleness disappeared, replaced by the desperate ardor that had possessed both of them once they hit the bedroom. His mouth claimed her mouth, then her breasts, the kisses searing her skin, branding her as his and his alone. Monica returned his passion, running her hand along his solid hips and down his muscled thigh, the skin hot beneath her fingers and hard, as an athlete’s body should be. The burning sensation licking its way through her began transforming itself into complete fire as Eric began stroking her inner thighs.
“Wider,” he urged.
Shuddering, Monica opened her legs wider to accommodate him. A gasp erupted from her lips as his fingers began exploring her, teasing out all the wildness she usually kept so well-hidden and under control. His fingers moved faster, but Monica resisted the temptation to explode. She wanted him to know the same delicious agony she was now in. Something they could share in together.
“Stop.”
Eric stopped, panting lightly. A thin sheen of sweat coated his body. Monica loved it; it was sexy, animal. She pushed him gently so that he was on his back, then climbed on top of him, her teeth biting down softly on his sculpted shoulders, her hair brushing against his face. Eric groaned as his splayed hands came up to run themselves up and down her back before cupping and kneading her bottom. Monica lifted her head; she wanted to see the hunger in his eyes ignite as she began a trail down his body, first with her fingertips, then with her tongue. When she got below his hips, she grasped him, hard. He was rigid, pulsing in her hand. Smiling at him wickedly, she lowered her head and began flicking her tongue around the tip, moving her hand up and down him gently.
Eric groaned with pleasure. “You’re torturing me.”
“Good.”
“Let’s see who’s better at it.”
Pulling her back up his body, he flipped her so she was on her back. He was poised above her, his face flushed and wanting. Monica could feel the heat rippling up and down his body, the way it joined with her own, doubling the threat of complete conflagration. Eric kissed her hard, then reached over and opened the night table drawer, pulling out one of the foil packets left there from when they’d been intimate months before. He sheathed himself, then smiled down at her wickedly.
“Torture time for Miss Geary.”
&n
bsp; He parted her wide. Monica held her breath, waiting, waiting, excitement beginning to punch its way through her.
He entered her slowly, so slowly she thought she might go mad. The whole time, he was watching her, his gaze hooded and sure.
“Is this how you want it?” he asked, beginning to move inside her. Monica couldn’t speak. Eric’s hands reached to take her wrists, pinning them over her head. His grip was hard enough to leave bruises. It was what she wanted. She wanted him to love her so hard it hurt.
He began thrusting deeply, his thirst for her an assault on her senses. Monica’s head thrashed wildly on the pillow, her juddering body arching up to meet his. Yet she could feel him holding something back from her as his grip on her wrists slowly slackened.
“What?” she asked, her own voice sounding strangulated to her ears. “What is it?”
“Ride me. Hard.”
Monica let out a low moan as they flipped positions once again, and she mounted him, slowly taking him inside. His eyes were absolutely riveted to her, his gaze glazed. She began moving atop him, the rhythm slow and easy, her loving it as Eric threw his head back, the taut muscles of his neck rigid with self-control.
She was breathing hard now. Eric reared up, grabbing her face, kissing her with brute force, biting down hard on her bottom lip. Monica cried out in violent pleasure. He lay back down, watching her, his hands coming to stroke her hips before reaching around her to clasp her buttocks. Monica, full with the feel of him inside her, arched back, riding him as hard as she could, slamming her body down against his again and again, each jolt of flesh against flesh shattering her body into pieces. He bucked beneath her, clearly wanting release, but Monica refused to give it and kept riding him fiercely, this man whom she’d doubted for so long.
She wanted him to be the first to explode, but Eric tricked her as he began to tease and caress her most intimate place. Monica fell forward, a series of small sobs shaking her body as the room around her seemed to fall away and she lost control, her orgasm pounding through her as she screamed her pleasure. Barely able to breathe, she lifted her head just in time to see the pleasure on Eric’s face as he grabbed her hips and pumped her wildly atop him until he exploded inside her, gasping and groaning.
The real Eric.
Her Eric.
THIRTY-THREE
GRAYSON: My God, Roxie! You’re alive!
ROXIE: Yes, my love. (RUNS INTO HIS WAITING ARMS, WHERE THEY KISS PASSIONATELY.) Nothing could ever separate us—not even a zombie priest!
GRAYSON: And now—now that evil has been vanquished and the zombies are no more, we’ll never have to be parted again. My darling, will you marry me?
ROXIE: Oh, Grayson. Nothing could make me happier (PUTS HER HAND ON HER BELLY). You, me, and Grayson, Jr., all together as we should be. It’s what I dreamed of all those lonely nights in the cabin.
GRAYSON: You’ll never be lonely again, Roxie. Not as long as I draw breath.
“Cut!”
Jimmy waddled down from the control booth, scowling. “Royce! That sucked! We’ll have to do another take—as if I have goddamn time!” He turned to Monica, his scowl quickly transforming itself into a smile. “Great job.”
Monica took a small bow. “Thank you.”
“Everyone, take five.”
Monica moved off set, where Gloria stood waiting, a proud smile on her face. “That was exquisite, darling. And that glow on your cheeks that you’ve been sporting all week—I assume it has nothing to do with being back in Roxie’s fuck-me pumps and everything to do with Eric?”
“Yes,” Monica said, on the verge of gushing like a love-sick adolescent. The two weeks that she and Eric had been back together were the way she’d always hoped her life would be: a man she loved, a job she adored—things were finally coming together.
Eric life’s, however, had hit a major glitch: The Blades weren’t playing well. The hot streak they’d attributed to cardboard Monica had run its course, and they were playing mediocre, inconsistent hockey, stuck at around the .500 mark. She tried to make him feel better about it, but soon learned there was no talking to a hockey player about his game unless you were a hockey player yourself. She was still front and center at every home game she could attend, but it seemed the magic had worn off.
Gloria continued to look elated. “I’m so happy for the two of you, darling.” She shook her head, sighing contentedly. “What a change of atmosphere since you returned. Everyone is back to his or her old self. Jimmy’s screaming. Royce is sucking. It’s pure heaven.” She leaned in close to Monica. “I’ve heard some rumors about the upcoming story line,” she said under her breath.
Monica’s ears pricked up. “From?”
Gloria shrugged. “Just around. Do you want to hear?”
“Of course.”
“Apparently,” Gloria said authoritatively, “Roxie’s baby isn’t Grayson’s.”
Monica drew back. “What?”
“It’s going to turn out that Grayson has a twin brother he never knew about. He had Grayson kidnapped and put in prison in the Seychelles, and he’s tricked everyone into thinking he’s the real Grayson, including Monica, who slept with him.”
“Wow.” An evil twin story line. Monica had never done one of those. It was a daytime convention she wasn’t fond of, but she supposed it could be fun.
“Then the brother gets killed fighting in Bovinistan—”
“That’s not a real country!”
“Of course it isn’t, darling. Anyway,” Gloria continued breathlessly, “Roxie, thinking he’s dead, finds love with the new hot attorney in town; except the real Grayson escapes from prison and returns, and Roxie must decide between the two men.”
Monica’s toes curled happily in her shoes. “Oooh, that sounds good.”
“My role is being expanded, too. Antonia’s old love, Thane Wintergreen, will be returning to town, and the two will rekindle their love from years ago.”
“That’s great, Gloria. It sounds like bringing the old writing team back will really make a difference.”
“Indeed. Have you decided what you’re going to wear to the Daytime Drama Awards?”
“Not yet. You?”
“I’m going to wear a dress Diane von Fürstenberg designed for me back in the seventies. The neckline plunges so far you can see my toes,” she said with a delighted laugh.
“Mmm.” Monica suppressed a wince, not sure she wanted to picture it. Gloria . . . plunging neckline . . . her boobs so thin and droopy she could toss them over her shoulders like scarves if she wanted to . . . it could get ugly. Monica didn’t want her friend to humiliate herself. Maybe she’d try to gently nudge her into choosing something else.
“I take it Eric will be escorting you?” Gloria asked suggestively.
Monica sighed. “God, you’re the most lecherous woman in the Western Hemisphere. Of course Eric will be with me.”
Discussing the Awards reminded Monica that she needed to speak to Eric about it. She was excited by the prospect of him being there if she won; just imagining the pride she’d see on his face made her dizzy with love for him.
“I’d better get back on set,” said Monica.
“And I’m off to tighten my face.” Gloria clucked her tongue. “Honestly, I don’t understand women spending all that money on plastic surgery when Preparation H works just as well.” She gave Monica a quick peck on the cheek. “Au revoir for now. And thank Thor you’re back.”
“Which method of suicide do you think would be less painful?” Tully asked his teammates glumly. “Blowing my brains out, or mixing sleeping pills in my Wheaties?”
“Gun,” Thad replied just as miserably. “Definitely gun.”
Despondency dominated the Blades locker room as the team slowly, sadly undressed following their loss to Jersey. Despite winning a brutal game against Philly two nights before, they’d missed making the playoffs by a single point, with Jersey beating them out tonight for the last spot.
“We could all kil
l ourselves together,” Ulf suggested. “Like a cult.”
Eric frowned. “You’re an idiot.” Still, he couldn’t help picturing their motionless bodies in a heap on the ice. That’d sure get press coverage.
“I think we lost because Coach got rid of the Monica cutout,” said Burke, grimacing as he removed his shoulder pads, the result of suffering a serious hit in the second period. “I’m not kidding.”
“You lost because you weren’t at your best. Period.”
All eyes swiveled simultaneously to Ty Gallagher standing in the locker room doorway, his trademark scowl firmly fixed in place. The displeasure on his face sent a small bolt of humiliation through Eric. At least he knew he wasn’t alone: his teammates looked just as degraded as he did.
“Listen up,” said Ty, unsmiling, as he closed the locker room door behind him.
Rank with sweat and in various stages of undress, the Blades did as their coach asked. He tortured them in his usual way, making prolonged eye contact with each and every one of them. He who flinched was a pussy. When it was Eric’s turn, he held Ty’s gaze despite the strong impulse to drop his eyes to the floor.
“I’ll make this brief,” Ty began tersely. “We didn’t make the playoffs because we didn’t come together as quickly as we needed. A lack of chemistry on and off the ice led us to dig a hole too deep for ourselves to climb out of. We’ve gelled now, but unfortunately, it’s too little, too late.”
He sighed heavily. “We have the nucleus for a good run at the Cup next year. We’ve got the players we need. It’s just a matter of you guys hitting the ice running the minute next season starts. You feel like shit right now, right?”
The team nodded.
“I’ve been there,” Ty told them. “My advice is to savor your disappointment. Remember this feeling. Hold on to it. Keep it with you so that you’ll do anything to make sure you’re never in this position again.”
He dismissed them with a curt nod of the head. Eric was turning to his locker when Ty gripped his forearm. “Come to my office when you get out of the shower.”
Power Play Page 28
