by Lila Monroe
“I think taking off your shirt is a great idea.” I lean back, arm against the bar. Well, we’re not working together now, that’s for damn sure. What’s wrong with a little harmless flirtation? Or a lot of it. “Despite our ignoble ending, you threatening to beat the shit out of Tyler was a moment I will never forget. Thank you for that.” I hold up another tequila shot. We clink glasses, and it goes down the hatch. You know, I think I’m going to make tequila a part of my daily life. Maybe breakfast. Great time for booze.
“I’ve seen too many assholes like that in my life. Trying to claw their way to the top so they can feel less shitty about themselves.” He shakes his head. “They have no pride. People who do good work because they love it, those people have integrity. Like you.” He takes my hand, running his thumb lightly over my palm. “I think it’s what I like best about you.” My toes curl in my faux-leather pumps.
Like? Flint likes me. Things about me, that is. But still. Things are a good start.
“So you think that’s a good quality?” I ask. My blood’s singing in my veins.“It’s sexy.” He whispers it in my ear. My breath hitches in my throat. Maybe it’s just the effects of the tequila, but my skin seems to vibrate with his touch. I playfully take his arm, and keep my hand there.
“Maybe you’re a little drunk, Mr. McKay. I’d hate to take advantage of you. Again.” My voice is low and throaty. I rub my thumb in small circles against the inside of his bicep. Flint leans in towards me, his perfect mouth curving into a smile.
“Would you really hate it?” His hand slides delicately onto my knee, and I move it higher, up my thigh. He doesn’t resist. And then something in his eyes goes dark and determined, like he’s made his mind up about something, and he gives my thigh a firm squeeze that makes me gasp. Oh God, I think I’m going to explode.
“I wouldn’t hate it,” I say. “But it might be a bad idea.” But I don’t believe it for one second. Nothing about this idea is bad. Nothing at all.
“Do you think it’s bad?” he asks. Our faces are so close now. There’s a kind of energy humming between us, a tension practically buzzing in my ears.
“Yes,” I say. “But in my experience, bad can be very, very good.”
Our eyes are locked. Flint’s fingers trace the sensitive skin of my inner thigh in slow, teasing circles. I’m starting to tremble, and I think—no, I know—that the light in his eyes is growing hotter. He likes this, his hand up my skirt in the middle of this bar where anyone can see us. And fuck it, so do I.
All the thoughts I’ve had for the entire shooting and pitching process—that I shouldn’t think about Flint, shouldn’t linger over memories of that night in the alleyway, shouldn’t imagine his hands all over me—are slipping away. I want him, and right now it’s clear as day: he wants me, too. It’s the revelation I never even hoped for.
So. Make a choice, Laurel.
And I do. I lick the last of the tequila from the edge of my shot glass, nice and slow so Flint can watch my tongue tracing the curve of the glass, and then I lean forward and press my wet lips against his, the kiss hard and lingering. A shock of heat builds between us and Flint growls when I finally pull back.
“Well?” I whisper, my mouth close to his. “Bad, or good?”
“Very fucking good.”
Then Flint presses a warm, firm hand to the nape of my neck and drives his lips into mine. I moan softly as our kiss deepens, as he searches my mouth with his tongue. This isn’t like last time at all. This time, our connection is stronger, more real. Everything we’ve been through together—our triumphs and failures, the trust we’ve built, the moments we’ve laughed, the pain we’ve shared—it’s bonded us. When he finally pulls away I gasp, needing more. My pulse is pounding hot and fast in my cheeks, my chest, my cunt. I stand up, dizzy, my legs so weak with desire I almost fall down.
“Let’s get out of here,” I manage to say.
“Not too tipsy, are you?” Flint asks, wrapping his arm around my waist and pulling me against the hard lines of his body.
“To drive? Probably. Otherwise, I’m ready for anything.”
“Then let’s get you home,” Flint says, kissing me into a lusty haze all over again. His gaze is liquid, simmering. I can’t dial up Uber fast enough. I’ll get my Camaro in the morning.
Fifteen minutes later, we’re in the hallway outside my apartment door. I dig through my bag for my keys while Flint kisses the back of my neck, his hot, rough hands sliding up my skirt and over my breasts, pausing only to pinch my nipples until I gasp.
Fuck it. I throw my purse on the floor and turn around to kiss him back, grinding into the bulge in his jeans like my life depends on it. Making out with Flint is a lot like sparring in Krav Maga—intense, physically strenuous, and a total adrenaline rush—except neither of us is in pain and we both get to win.
“Oh my God,” I pant, pulling back for air. I want to eat this man alive. My pulse is pounding, and his gaze is dark with need.
“Do you need me to break down that door?” he asks. “’Cause I can’t wait any longer.”
Neither can I. And I’m just about ready to fuck him right here in the hallway, but by virtue of some actual miracle (or, you know, my purple monster keychain) I spot the keys lying on the floor, along with the rest of the contents of my bag, and I make Flint unlock the door as I hurriedly stuff everything back into my purse, both of us stumbling into my apartment with barely-contained desire.
He presses me up against the wall in the dark, dominant and a little rough, and I like it. “I want you,” he whispers, hiking my skirt up and slipping his hand in between my legs, his knuckles rubbing against my clit. “I’ve wanted you since I first met you.”
Gasping, I fumble at the buttons on his shirt, but I’m too full of lust and tequila to get them undone. In a move the Hulk would be proud of, Flint tears his shirt right off, and I hear buttons hit the floor. Fuck yes.
We somehow make it to the couch, mouths and hands tangling the entire way there. Flint pulls my blouse over my head and caresses my breasts through my lace bra, dipping his head down to suck my nipples through the thin fabric. I reach back and struggle to unclasp the hooks of my bra. The second I do, Flint’s mouth is on me again, his tongue circling my nipple. I groan, my clit throbbing with need, and throw my head back, desperately trying to think of a polite way to say ‘Fuck me.’
“Fuck me,” I groan. “Please.” Hey, at least I tried.
He leans over me and our eyes lock as I run my hands over his abs, the hard contours of his muscled torso. Then Flint picks me up, and I wrap my legs around his waist. “Where are we going?” I ask.
“You tell me,” he says, his voice a low rumble in my ear.
“Second door on the left,” I direct, as he carries me down the hall to my bedroom. He kicks the door open and tosses me onto the bed, which thankfully I made up neatly this morning, and then unzips my skirt and slides it off.
I’m lying back on the down comforter in a pair of black lace underwear, staring dreamily up at Flint, who’s doing his best impersonation of a bare-chested god in Levi’s. As I watch him unbutton the fly of those 501s, one slow button at a time, I hear my breath coming in short gasps.
When he finally pushes his jeans down, I realize he’s gone commando all day long. The thought makes my pulse race—that and the sight of his perfect cock jutting toward me. When I sit up and reach for it, he wraps my hand around the shaft, hot and hard and throbbing in my grip. “Is this what you were waiting for?” he asks.
My attempt at ‘yes’ comes out like a whimper. He pushes me back onto the mattress and tears my panties off, grabbing my thighs to pull my pussy toward his mouth. His eyes are practically sparking in the dim light, lust and need mingling in his gaze.
“Too bad you can’t always get what you want,” he says, his breath warm against my skin as he looks up at me. “Not until I’m done, anyway.” His tongue traces a hot line up to my clit, circling softly before moving back down to my opening.
/> Oh God. “Yes,” I moan, lacing my fingers through his hair, pulling his head closer to me. “Fuck me with your mouth.” He spears into me with his tongue and it’s all I can do to keep from screaming as I roll my hips in time with his thrusts. My back arches as he finds a rhythm, his tongue flickering over my clit and then diving into my cunt over and over again. God, I needed this. Needed him.
Too soon I’m nearing the edge, flooded with pleasure, his moans reverberating against me. “Flint.” I’m breathless. “I’m going to come.”
He stops and pulls away and I gasp, deliciously frustrated by his sudden absence.
“Not yet, you aren’t.” Straightening, he climbs onto the bed, the firm press of his body settling onto mine, and gives me a maddeningly endless kiss.
I moan, writhing against him, hungry for more. When I reach for his cock he lets me take it in my hand, and I stroke its length firmly, pressing the hot head against my slick clit. He groans, and I feel his whole body stiffen, as if he’s waiting for something.
Our eyes lock and we breathe heavily, our bodies on edge, aching for each other. “Say you want this,” he commands, his cock so hard and so ready against me. “That it’s not just—because we were drinking, and it doesn’t mean anything…”
Behind his steely gaze, I see a flash of uncertainty. An uncertainty it is my bound duty to crush. Because all of a sudden, I’m more sober than I’ve ever been, and there’s no doubt in my mind that I’m thinking clearly. I want Flint McKay, and I want him now. Cross my heart, hope to die.
“I want this,” I say, drawing out the confirmation slowly, making sure he knows I mean every word of it. “This is everything. I want you. All of you.”
“Then take me.” Flint looks down, eyes blazing as he pushes himself into my pussy, thrusting slowly, filling me up one agonizing inch at a time.
“Fuck,” I gasp, tilting my hips, taking him deeper. I bite my lip as he pumps harder, slowly gaining speed. I throw my arms around his neck, and a second later I’m on top, rocking my hips back and forth, moaning as I guide him even deeper inside of me, so deep I cry out.
“You’re perfect,” he grunts. He thrusts up into me, and I grip his shoulders and close my eyes, feeling the pleasure build. Heat radiates through my core, all the way into my clit. I’m losing my mind. I throw my head back and whimper as I ride him.
“I’m so close. Oh my God,” I pant, and Flint wraps his arms around me, his mouth on my breasts, sucking on my nipples. He grinds faster and I match his pace, harder, faster, more, both of us moaning loudly, completely lost in each other.
The pleasure finally crests, shockwaves of ecstasy slamming into me. With one loud cry, Flint comes with me, and we ride it out together, holding each other tight as our breathing stutters and slows.
When it’s over I lean my head against his shoulder. “That was…” I have no words. “Thank you.”
He takes a deep breath. “Was this a mistake?” he asks.
“Never. But if it was, it was one of my best mistakes,” I say, giggling. He rolls me onto my back and attacks me with kisses, and before I know it, I’m out like a light.
12
“Thanks for the towel,” Flint says. It’s the next morning, and I’m relaxing in my kitchen with a cup of coffee. He let me grab the first shower, and comes out drying his hair. Granted, a group shower would have been mutually agreeable, but that would only lead to more sexy shenanigans. And he does have a flight to catch.
“My pleasure,” I say, handing him a steaming mug. “You like it black, right?” He takes a sip and nods.
“That’s damn good coffee.” He pauses, raises an eyebrow. “Got a little Twin Peaks there for a second.”
“Hopefully Laura Palmer isn’t dead when you get home,” I say, laughing. He sits across from me, looking about as relaxed as I feel. His tee shirt is still clinging to the damp contours of his body. Good morning.
“Don’t be ridiculous. That was the Pacific Northwest. I’ll be three thousand miles away.” I get a little quiet. He will be a long way away. And I still don’t know what last night meant in the grand scheme of things. We haven’t discussed it. Flint seems to notice my contemplative energy, because he quiets down as well. “I’m sure Mrs. Beauchamp’d be happy if you came back for another visit.” He smiles. “She wouldn’t be the only one.”
“Maybe,” I say, smiling back. That’s a sweet offer on his part, but I think we both know it has to stay an offer. There’s no point in complicating simple things. Nobody’s moving across the country, ditching their family and/or career over a one night stand. Even if it was the best one night stand of at least one of our lives. Cough, cough.
“You said there’s some Uber coming?” He shakes his head. “The Uber thing makes no sense to me.”
“Well, you’re a country boy,” I say. “I’d drive you to the airport, but I’m going to need to get my car back, and I’ll probably need to go into work at some point, see if there’s any damage control to be done.” That might be a lie—if my career is as dead as I think it is, the only thing I’ll be doing at work is packing up my cubicle into a cardboard box. My phone rings in the next room, and I wonder if it’s the Grim Reaper of Career Dreams calling me right now.
“All right,” he says. The front door buzzer sounds. “That must be the car.”
“Well. Have a safe trip. Bye.” I know it’s short and awkward, but I don’t think saying ‘thanks for the great sex’ or ‘sorry I dragged you across the country for nothing’ is very smooth either.
“Oh, you.” Flint grabs me around the waist, sweeps me literally off my feet, and kisses me. It’s brief but undeniably hot, and I’m tempted to go after him when he sets me back down. But then my phone rings again. Damn. I guess the Reaper’s not giving up.
“Take care,” he says, and walks out the door. Hate to see you go. Love to watch you leave.
Actually, no I don’t. But right now, I need to grab that damn phone.
I curse when I see that it’s work calling me. I thought since my career fell apart yesterday, they wouldn’t worry about seeing me back in the office first thing this morning. I pick up. “Hi there,” I say, waiting on the big, screaming ‘you’re fired.’
“Laurel. This is Sabrina Jones, Herman Davis’s assistant. He wants to know when you’re planning to come in to his office today.” I blink, and quickly check the caller ID to make sure I’m not being punked. But no, it’s definitely the office. Sabrina sounds confused. “Didn’t you get the email?”
“What email?” My head is pounding now, and so’s my heart. I sit down on the couch.
“I’m supposed to let him tell you,” Sabrina says, dropping her voice. “But they loved your pitch. They think Flint’s the genuine article. And I mean, not that my opinion matters here, but he’s freaking hot. I’d watch the hell out of that show, and I hate everything we do.” She can’t keep the glee out of her voice. I’m not sure I remember how to speak. Loved the pitch. Genuine article. All the not-firing words I could ask for.
“You mean we got the pitch?” A huge smile breaks over my face.
“Yes! Look, let me transfer you. It may take a second.” She puts me on hold. I let out a huge scream. Oh my God! We did it. Flint’s going to save his business, I’m going to save my career, and we’re going to be working together…
All the time.
In a professional capacity.
Oh God.
As if on cue, Flint enters. He sees me and smiles.
“Hey. Forgot my—” He notices my dumbstruck expression, and stops. “What’s going on?” He looks concerned.
I smile weakly. “Congratulations,” I tell him. “You’re going to be a star.”
13
Back in 1775, a certain rider named Paul Revere took a midnight gallop around the Massachusetts countryside, calling out, “The British are coming, the British are coming!” Nowadays, if he were passing around Northampton, he’d more likely shout, “Production is starting!” And he’d be equally
terrified.
I pull up to the Beauchamps’ bed and breakfast, parking my car right in front of a dried-up looking jack o’lantern. Halloween’s come and gone, but Laurel Young is here to stay. I get out and take in a lungful of that bracing Massachusetts air. Hello again, Berkshires. I return to you a champion, bringing the spoils of reality television in my wake. The inn’s door opens, and dear old Mrs. Beauchamp steps out onto the porch. She’s wearing her signature outfit of high-waisted jeans, pearls, and cardigan, and is carrying her ever-ready porcelain coffee pot. She grins and waves a handkerchief at me.
“Laurel, dear! Everything’s all set up. Come in, come in.” She turns and bustles back inside, while I hoist my laptop bag over my shoulder. The rest of the luggage can wait. Production meeting comes first.
Inside, there’re enough crocheted tea cozies and antique wooden rocking horses to make you think you’ve gone back to all the most adorable parts of the eighteenth century. An old whaling harpoon hangs over the door to the inn. There’s even a sweet, life-sized wax figure of a wig-wearing, blue-coated General Washington—that is, until he blinks and shuffles off upstairs. Mrs. Beauchamp’s husband. He’s a little eccentric.
Okay, so it’s kind of weird here. But as soon as I knew I was heading back to Massachusetts for work, I called the inn and requested an extended stay. What can I tell you? Best cranberry scones on the planet. And feather beds so soft it’s like you’re actually sleeping on a cloud. Not that I’ll be getting much sleep once production starts.
I hear the slam of car and van doors outside as the rest of my team arrives. I’m the first one into the den, the home of all our future meetings. I shove a Raggedy Ann doll aside and sit down on a chaise, taking out my laptop and gearing up for notes. While my Mac boots up, I take a moment to luxuriate. This is it. My first production meeting, with me as the producer. Captain of the ship, master of the house, creator of the hottest new do it yourself show on prime time. And there’s nothing here that I can’t handle. Except…
