by Chant, Zoe
He began to frame some questions for Shelley once they reached the asphalt again. But when the trail widened to a road, they saw lights ahead in the fading twilight. And right where the road met the highway, where he’d thought to stop, they found Madison and her jeep, Jorje, and several others waiting, apparently on the point of mobilizing a search.
He lost sight of Shelley as his people closed around him. All were understandably anxious, and equally determined to be heard first. He knew to the third decimal place how much a single hour of delay cost, so he couldn’t blame them. The talkers pressed in—and when he finally had a chance to look for Shelley, she had vanished with Madison and Jorge.
Mick was surprised at the strength of his disappointment. All right. He promised himself he would make time for Shelley.
Deep down, the bear subsided serenely.
Weird.
***
Shelley enjoyed the challenge of the ride down the mountain. She had to concentrate on the dangerous trail, but still, images and sensations kept intruding: his eyes in that firelight, the color of honey or mead; the powerful ripple of muscle under her hands; the exquisite fit of his cock inside her.
Her core pulsed with an echo of pleasure at that memory. She’d relished every passionate, searing second of their lovemaking with such an intensity that it felt like it had been a dream. Dangerous as it was, she sneaked reassuring peeks at him as they rode down the slippery trail.
Damn, he was fine.
As soon as they reached the parking lot where the others waited, she knew by the crowd that Mick Volkov the director had replaced “her” Russian Bear. As messengers and other production people crowded around him, Madison and Jorge came to her.
“Hey, there you are,” Madison exclaimed, rubbing her hand through her short salt-and-pepper hair. “We were just about to send out the cavalry. What happened?”
“Lightning hit twice near us. We spotted a forest service cabin and holed up until the worst was over.” The word ‘cabin’ made her shiver with reaction—but the others took it differently.
“Oh, geez, that sucks,” Madison said sympathetically. “You’re probably soaked through. Our huddle can wait until you get a chance to grab a shower and something dry.”
Jorge added, “We found two really good spots where the camera crews have easy in and out, and perfect ramps and landing where we could do some Supermans and other aerials.“
Shelley nodded. She could perform most of the basic motocross tricks, though her preference was for speed and maneuvering rather than twisting about when the bike was in the air. A Superman was lifting your body away from the bike at the height of the jump. It looked great on film, so she’d practiced it with her trail bike brothers.
Jorge closed in on one side of her and Madison on the other. Jorge said, “How about we meet at the coffee shop at seven? We might even have the actual new pages by then. We can talk out our basic moves . . .”
Shelley lifted her helmet to shake her sweaty hair free, which gave her an excuse to look for Mick. But even if he wanted a look or word back she couldn’t even see him, he was so surrounded.
Just as well, she told herself firmly. Remember Rule One.
At seven she met the others at the coffee shop. For about an hour they talked motocross details, until one by one they found themselves joined by a bunch more of the extras and stunt people. During those two days of work on the bar fight they’d all gotten to know each other’s names. A lot of them were leaving in the morning, so they gathered in an impromptu wrap party. They wouldn’t see one another again until the official wrap party at the studio.
Shelley would have been one of them, but for this suddenly added bit of motorcycle chase in the mountains.
I wanted to see you on a bike.
Once again that molten lava deep inside her sent shivers of heat through her nerves.
It didn’t mean anything. It couldn’t mean anything. Her own rule demanded it not mean anything. But as the party got so crowded people began shouting over one another, then finally breaking into little groups, she found herself pulling out her phone to text Jan.
Guess what happened?
OK, Jan texted back. Bearzilla summoned you to his bear lair, ripped off your clothes and you had mad, passionate sex all night.
It was a funky cabin, Shelley texted.
!?
And only all afternoon.
!!?
All we had was a table. We damn near broke it.
!!!?
He was too big for the condom and it shot across the room.
!!!!!!!?????? Shel, if you are putting me on, I WILL. KILL. YOU.
There is no putting here. Hot table sex. I even had my boots on!
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! Who knows?
Nobody. And nobody will. It’s not like it will happen again.
I wish I was there. I would pick out your clothes. Do you want me to drive something out there? Where is he? Have you made a date for some more table-rocking?
Jan, you are wonderful, but it won’t happen again. I doubt I’ll even see him again—this bike chase is strictly B unit stuff, and then I’m on my way home.
Where I will be waiting to hear. Every. Detail.
When Shelley closed her phone, she was surprised to find out how late it was. No wonder her eyes were burning. And she wasn’t the only one who was tired. The people who were on call for five a.m. started leaving.
“I’ll walk you back,” Jorge said.
“I’m fine,” Shelley said.
“I’m on the floor above you,” he replied reasonably, gesturing across the parking lot—a wedding ring glinting on his hand.
She laughed at the not-so-subtle hint. They each paid their part of the bill, and left.
***
It was late when Mick finally got back to his hotel suite for a fast shower—where he found himself reluctant to lose the last faint scent of Shelley on his skin, the taste of her on his tongue.
It was nearly midnight when he sent off the last messenger. At last no one was waiting for him. He was alone.
He slipped out to get some air, and began walking randomly, glad to stretch his legs. When he recognized the motel where they were putting up the extras, he knew what he was doing.
It was stupid. It was even dangerous, because he was tired and stressed and exhilarated from the memory of the afternoon, and he had no idea what to say, or how to say it. But the urge to see her was so strong he kept going, pausing only when the sound of voices and laughter drifted over from the coffee shop near the motel.
It looked like half the crew had all had the same idea. His bear surfaced, instantly on the alert, having picked out her voice from the hubbub.
There she was, tall and curvy and delectable, laughing at something Jorge was saying. They were walking together. They weren’t holding hands, and nothing in their voices that indicated anything but a couple of people sharing a walk. And Mick knew Jorge was happily married. But instinct was stronger than rationality. He felt like a teenager again, with jealousy burning in his heart.
Headlights shot twin beams nearby as a car swung into the parking lot. He ducked back. Great. Now he felt like a sleazy stalker villain from one of his own movies, lurking under this stairway, watching her in secret. His bear was so close to the surface that his hands prickled, and a growl rumbled deep in his chest.
No, he said, fighting his bear down.
Mine. Mate, his bear insisted, always honest, homing straight for the truth.
Mick stared down at his hands, knowing he was far too tired to fight his bear nature. He retreated to his hotel to lock himself into his suite, where he stood under the hot spray in the shower again as he tried to pound some sense into his skull.
He spent a sleepless night alone. Dawn brought the grueling schedule to catch up on the time they’d lost during the thunderstorm.
Just as well, he told himself when he faced the glaring light of day. Busy was good.
He walked out, coffe
e in hand, determined to keep himself on the move so he wouldn’t have time to think about Shelley’s flashing dimples when she laughed, her low, sexy voice, her luscious body . . .
Damn.
The B crew, Jorge, Shelley, and Madison had already departed by the time he reached the trailer that served as his office. Knowing that Shelley had gone into the hills to shoot those bike chase scenes made it easier to keep his mind on work.
The reports texted in throughout the day were all good news. The trick riding shots went like a dream. Shelley was done. The Evil Biker Chick wiped out in a canyon after trying to run the hero off the road. All that was left was for the CGI techs to add a suitable explosion. By tomorrow she would be heading back to L.A.
Good, good, good, but by the late afternoon he knew he had to see her again. Just to talk. See if she was all right. Hear her voice again.
By the time the sun began sinking, bringing the B crew rolling back in, he was on the watch. He waited for his moment. After the bikes were turned in to the transportation people, he sent his assistants off on errands that he’d concocted over the afternoon, and timed his visit to the transportation trailer for when Shelley would be heading for the motel after her day of work.
She looked up. His body flashed heat when she saw him—and smiled.
All his carefully rehearsed casual speech fled from his mind, forgotten.
“Hungry?” he said.
***
All day she’d tried to keep him out of her mind. She’d decided to think of him as Bearzilla, the Russian Bear, His Majesty, anything but Mick. Just thinking the name brushed her secret places with whispered intimacy.
Rule One! It wasn’t like she had any chance—a stunt rider and a big name director who had a string of thoroughbreds in his stable? Please. She was more of a heavy horse, and she liked being a heavy horse. But the glitzy Hollywood world was skewed toward the slender thoroughbreds. Fact of life.
Anyway, she got to do the work she liked most. They’d done some great takes, and her final wipeout was pure art.
She’d left the sturdy Yamaha with fond regret, tired but thoroughly satisfied with her efforts. And it all vanished like smoke when she rounded the corner by the transpo trailer, and there he was, alone.
“Hungry?”
His deep voice really did sound like a bear’s growl. She felt it all the way to that pool of hot lava deep inside that always seemed to be on the simmer whenever he was around.
“Sure,” she managed, after swallowing twice.
“There’s a really good steakhouse ten miles up the road,” he said.
“That sounds great. Um . . .” She indicated her grungy leggings and T-shirt, grimy after a day of sweaty labor between skin and her expensive leather costume.
“How about I pick you up . . . how long do you need?”
“Half an hour will do it,” she said, then grimaced, wishing she’d taken Jan up on her offer to bring clothes. “Um, I didn’t bring anything besides jeans.”
“Those will be fine,” he said, and flashed a grin. “That’s what I’ll be wearing.”
Shelley returned to her room to take the fastest shower of her life. As she dried her hair, she kept changing her mind about her skimpy wardrobe. She’d thrown in one long sleeved shirt in case the weather turned cool. She had no shoes besides her grubby sports pair, meant for rehearsals, and her boots. It was going to have to be the boots. She spent the last few minutes before he arrived in polishing them up after the day’s ride.
When he knocked on the door, she opened it. He’d put on a good shirt and a sport jacket over his jeans. Her eyes zeroed to the open button at the top of the shirt, and the blonde curl of hair visible there.
She had to swallow again before she could say, “This was the best I could do.”
Shelley felt awkward—usually she didn’t give a second thought about what she wore, once she’d picked an outfit.
But there was no doubting the deep note of sincerity in his voice as he took her in from hair to the boots, and said, “You look great.”
And that set the note for the evening. He had a beautiful ride, of course—a model of Mercedes designed for tall Northern men. She felt comfortable in it, the way she never had in Dominic’s flashy Italian sports car. That thing had always made her feel like Goldilocks breaking Baby Bear’s chair.
Bear. Bearzilla. Russian Bear. Maybe it was the growl in his voice as well as that remembered reflection in his eyes, probably from the ruddy fire. She kept thinking about bears as they chatted easily, mostly about the day’s work. Well, she liked bears—that is, the idea of bears: big, brown, honey-loving, and strong.
When they got to the steakhouse, they were given a booth. He recommended the prime rib, and he was right.
As they attacked the meal with enthusiasm, he asked, “So how did you get into stunt riding?”
“My brothers,” she said. “We rode a lot up in the hills behind Altadena, where I grew up. Did you ride in Russia?”
“My grandparents emigrated with me when I was a kid.” He laughed. “Everyone tells me I’ve got an accent. I don’t hear it myself. Anyway, I got into dirt bikes in high school. That’s one good thing about small towns in the Imperial Valley—ten minutes and you’re completely out of the urban sprawl. It’s heaven for kids.”
They traded stories about bikes they’d ridden, spills they’d taken, tricks they’d tried and failed or tried and nailed—all easy talk, enjoyable. When she’d mopped up the last bit of juice with her roll, she happened to glance up to find him smiling.
“What?” she asked.
“I love to see a woman eat,” he responded. “I don’t get to very often. My recent ex would have stopped with the salad, after inquiring into the exact calorie count in the dressing like the FBI interrogating a suspect.”
Shelley shrugged. “Hey, if my livelihood depended on my keeping my weight at 110, I’d exist on kale, too. But I kissed 110 goodbye at age thirteen.”
His lips parted, then he fiddled with his coffee cup as he made a low sound, deep in his chest.
She set her own cup down. “Did you just growl?”
He looked away, his lips compressed like he was about to laugh.
“You did,” she muttered, leaning forward. “You growled! What was that for? Are you laughing at me?”
Clunk. The coffee mug hit the table. There was that molten gold in his eyes as he said in a rumbling, husky whisper, “Never.”
She sat back then. “But you were grinning. And growling.”
Now it was his turn to lean forward, his voice so low it resonated somewhere down on the abyss, “I was just thinking. Of you. In those boots. And nothing else.”
Her body flashed with heat.
He added with utter sincerity, “I would like more than anything to see that again.”
She froze, unable to even breathe. Rule Number One, the sane part of her mind insisted.
But sanity drowned under the thunder of desire. Who cared about sanity? It wasn’t like she’d ever see him again. Why not part with two memories to take out and revisit for the rest of her life instead of one?
“I can do that,” she whispered, her own voice low and husky.
He threw a couple of big bills on the table.
They got back to his hotel in record time.
The second the elevator doors closed on them, he jammed her against the wall and kissed her. When the ding! went off, she’d slammed him to the opposite wall, kissing him back.
They stopped outside his suite while he fumbled out the key card, both taking quick breaths. She couldn’t get enough of his kisses—gentle and wicked, exploratory and coy, inviting her to attack with tongue and lips, then retaliating with heat that blew her brains to smoke.
The door opened at last and they fell in.
He whispered huskily, “I want to see you first.”
Oh, bossy in the bedroom, was he? Two could play that game!
She smiled and deliberately took her time unbuckling
her boots, slipping off her jeans, then buckling the boots back on. By the time she’d finished slowly unbuttoning her shirt, his pale blue eyes had definitely changed to that honey brown again. Funny, that.
She held her shirt by a finger, then dropped it on the floor and took a wide stance, wearing bra, thong, and boots.
“You want more,” she said in a low, throaty voice, “come and take it.”
***
The hard-on had started the instant she purred, “I can do that.”
He held himself together to drive. He barely held himself together during those maddening, smoking hot kisses while getting from the lobby to the suite.
By the time he sat on the edge of his bed while she tortured him with a strip-tease, he was about ready to come in his pants. He tightened his gut, determined not to lose it. There was a whole lot he planned to do first.
Then she said, “You want more, come and take it,” and he knew he was fighting a losing battle.
But this was a battle he wanted to lose.
And a magnificent battle it was, the sexiest foreplay he had ever experienced in his life. Shoes, boots, and socks went flying; both of them were determined to get the other naked. He might have been stronger, but her martial arts skills made her as difficult to pin as an eel. They wrestled, treacherously nipping, licking, and kissing in tender places: she got him with a bite. He shot upright, and she wrapped him in a headlock.
He didn’t even try to struggle out of it. Instead, he ran his hands lingeringly over her delectable curves, pausing to appreciate every contour of her fabulous breasts, then swooping down to slide two fingers inside her thong to stroke her clit.
She yipped and her hold loosened. He was free in a flash.
Shelley growled, “Not fair,” grabbed his shirt and yanked. It ripped open, buttons popping in all directions.
