Max winced and hunched over. He had suspected that, of course, but it still sucked to hear.
"So," Judith said, and plunked herself onto the loveseat beside him, her thigh brushing against his. "I'm going to need a bit more from you to convince me that I should fight for you with Isabelle." She thrust a drink into his hand, the glass wet and cool against his palm.
"More?" His gut twisted.
Her palm slid along his thigh and before Max's brain could catch up, she had her hand on his dick.
He yelped and hopped off the couch.
Judith laughed and stood. "Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."
"Judith, this isn't – " He retreated from her, seriously alarmed. She flung her arms around his neck and he tried to hold her off, but he was a big guy, he didn't want to hurt her, which limited how forceful he could be. "Judith, I – this is not what I came here for."
"Maybe not." She stood on tiptoe and her lips grazed his mouth, leaving a sticky lipstick print along his cheek as he jerked his face away.
He felt like he was standing on a gravel hill and the whole thing was sliding out from under him. "Judith, I'm with Nicola. It's complicated, but she and I are together."
"Max," she said, sounding amused. "This isn't a big thing. I'm not trying to start a relationship. This is about fun. A fling." Judith pressed against him, smooshing her boobs into his chest, and dug her fingers into his hair, tugging. Max wanted to shove her away, and if she were a guy this would already be over. But he didn't want to manhandle a woman. He had to try if he could to talk his way out of this.
He swallowed and plucked her arms from his neck. He held her away from him. "I'm sorry, Judith, but I'm not interested in you that way. You are a great director, though, and I was looking forward to doing Henry V with you."
Her mouth flattened to a thin, white line, and her nostrils flared. "I am a great director. And if we work together it could do great things for your career. Reed Dixon won an Ovation award when I directed him as Hamlet. That jump-started his movie career. I could do as much for you. Nicola doesn't even need to know."
A great part, future opportunities, the big chance he'd been waiting for. Everything he'd thought he wanted. And he wasn't tempted at all. Not at that price. "No, Judith."
Her face twisted with anger. "With your history, Max, there aren't many directors who'd trust you in a lead part, carrying a production. You said before you'd do anything to win this part." Her lips curled in a smile as her gaze roamed over him, head to foot. "Prove it. Make it worth my while to cast you."
Bile coated his throat, and he swallowed with difficulty.
She raised her eyebrow in question.
"Let's be clear," he said. "If we don't fuck then I'm not playing Henry? Is that the gist?"
"Trust me, Max. You'll enjoy it. I'm not just a great director." Judith flashed him a warm smirk and pressed her palm to his chest, rubbing his muscles through his shirt. "You'll be a marvelous Henry." She popped onto her toes to kiss him.
He stepped back.
Judith staggered, losing her balance a little. As he walked away, she gaped at him. "Where the hell are you going?"
He grabbed his coat and stormed toward the door. "Have a good night, Ms. O'Fallon. I'll see you Tuesday for Midsummer rehearsals." He slammed her front door on his way out.
***
Nicola's car was parked in front of The Bunkhouse when he got home, and he was almost sorry to see it. He was still in a rage over the thing with Judith. A casting couch. He still couldn't believe it. He wondered if Isabelle knew about Judith's . . . proclivities. A male director couldn't get away with this, but Judith was one of Isabelle's oldest friends. Did Isabelle know, and she was ignoring it? Or did she not want to know?
As he walked inside and up the stairs, The Bunkhouse rang with emptiness. Abe was no doubt off with his boyfriend. Lachlan and Peter might have gone off to booze around together. But the bedroom light was on in Max's room. Nicola was still here.
She sat reading in bed, wearing one of his old shirts and a pair of boxers which she had rolled at the waist so they'd fit. She appeared so at home in his bed, so warm and comfortable and right that his heart ached. How nice would it be to pretend nothing had happened at Judith's. That he'd been happily rehearsing Henry V and not getting sexually harassed.
Something in the book made Nicola chuckle. Max stepped further in and saw she was reading his dog-eared, much notated paperback of the Henry V script. His chest constricted. "What's funny?" he asked.
"Oh, hi." She smiled at him, but her eyes looked hunted. "I was re-reading the first scene. Henry says, 'take heed how you awake our sleeping sword of war.'" She pulled her mouth down in a comic grimace.
"Ah. 'Sleeping sword of war' is kind of dirty, isn't it?"
"Shakespeare is obsessed with penis." She dropped the book on the bed. "I have to talk to you."
Max was enough of a man that his first reaction on hearing those words was a heartfelt: Oh shit. What did I do? He slumped against the doorframe. "Yeah, we should talk."
Nicola pressed her palm against the book cover, her fingers going white with tension. "Lach told me – he said Judith . . . that she . . . with her male leads – "
"Oh shit." Max turned into the doorframe and knocked his forehead against it once. Of course Lachlan would tell Nicola about something like that without warning Max in turn.
"You knew about Judith?" Nicola's voice was cold, but with a quiver in it, a tremulo of hurt.
"Not until tonight when she tried to stick her tongue down my throat." He crossed to the bed and sank onto the foot of it. He wanted to go to Nicola, hold her, comfort her, but she was so rigid right now he didn't dare. "Nothing happened. Judith landed one kiss on me before I figured out what was happening. Then I ran away. Fast. Arms pumping." He demonstrated, jerking his arms like he was jogging.
Nicola puffed out a laugh. "I believe you."
His muscles had felt like iron before, rigid with fear, but now the anxiety melted. Mostly.
Except Nicola was flipping the pages of his book with her thumb, a nervous tic.
"Nic?"
"Lachlan is upset about the Henry V thing."
"Lachlan's irritated with me. What else is new?"
"He kind of . . . sort of hit on me. He didn't kiss me or anything, and I think he was half joking, but I . . . thought I should tell you."
"What?" His blood was doing that pounding in his ears thing, and a hot, hollow place burned in his gut.
"I think you getting Henry V screwed with his head," she said. "He didn't mean it. He apologized. He knew he was wrong."
"So why did he fucking do it?"
"He has been hitting on me since I got here."
"That was before you and I started. . . He should know better now. You and I are together. Sort of. If he’s my friend then he keeps it in his pants." Max pushed from the bed and paced the room. He wished Lachlan was here. The blood was rushing through Max's veins. He needed something besides the wall to punch, and Lachlan's smug face was perfect.
The bed covers rustled, then Nicola was holding him, her front pressed against his back, her hands banded around his waist. "I'm sorry."
What a screwed up evening they were having. He covered her hands and leaned back against her. "What are you sorry for?" he murmured.
"I dunno. For the possibility I might have hurt you."
"You didn't. We're OK."
"Good."
"And I'm sorry for the Judith thing. If I'd known I never would have gone over there."
She pressed her forehead in between his shoulder blades. "Max, Lachlan pointed out that with a fling there isn't an expectation of monogamy."
"He would point that out."
"If you had slept with Judith it wouldn't technically have been cheating. You and I are having a fling, I can't get mad if you wander."
"That's bullshit." He turned around and gripped her shoulders. "Is that what you want?"
"I thought it might be
what you wanted."
"I only want you. While we're doing this fling-thing it's only you and me. I'm not doing this any other way."
"Good." She settled against him again, wrapping her arms around his waist, burying her face in his chest. He bundled her up in his arms then rested his cheek against the cool silk of her hair. The vice of fear circling his chest loosened, and he could breathe.
She puffed a wry laugh out.
"What?" he asked.
She made a small moue with her mouth, but her eyes were laughing. "Rehearsal on Tuesday is gonna suck."
Chapter Twenty-Three
Nicola didn't ever want to return to her apartment.
It wasn't just The Bunkhouse itself with its airy rooms, and pool and the bathrooms. Though none of those things hurt exactly. No, it was the warm sense of home she got every time she stepped through that heavy wooden door into the cheerful light of The Bunkhouse. Peter – probably under heavy threats from Max – had de-camped to their mother's house for the night.
Lachlan, understandably, had disappeared on Sunday evening after her talk with him but before Max got home. She'd texted Lachlan, I'm still pissed at you but you didn't come home. I'm checking you're not dead. Are you dead?
I'm fine. Be back Tuesday, he'd texted. I'm getting reacquainted with the lovely Cassie. I won't be home. I've got a ride to rehearsal. No worries.
Good for Cassie. And Lachlan. He was a bit of a coward for avoiding Max, but Nicola couldn't blame him. The anger between Max and Lachlan had built too high. A confrontation was inevitable, but she was glad it wouldn't be now. Not tonight. Maybe if both men had a day to cool down, adjust to things, there wouldn't be a fight. Maybe they could even salvage their friendship.
She scoffed to herself. Yeah, Nicola. They'll cry and hug and braid each other's hair while they're at it.
She left it at that. She was too busy enjoying Max to worry much about Lachlan. When she and Max swung the front door closed Sunday night it was like they'd sealed themselves into a little oasis of calm and happiness.
They didn't spend the whole day on Monday naked, but it wasn't for lack of trying.
***
Monday night, before they expected everyone to descend on The Bunkhouse once again, Max went out to get the two of them Thai for dinner, and Nicola hopped into his beautiful shower. It had frosted glass doors, creamy black and white tiles, and a shower head that seemed to pour manna from heaven. Or at least hot water which hit all the right spots when she adjusted the spray.
Max had some high quality man products. Maybe windfall from Peter's movie star stash? As she lathered her hair with designer shampoo, Max knocked on the shower door.
"Is Miss Czerwinski receiving visitors at present?" he called, his body a vague blur behind the frosted glass.
Nicola rolled back the shower door, and she peered around its edge at him.
He was already barefoot, working on the buttons of his blue plaid shirt.
"Taking a lot for granted, aren't you?" she said.
"I'm only doing my part to save the planet. Water conservation, don't you know." He curled a finger around the shower door and stood on tiptoe to peer past the glass at her. "Hey, are you naked in there?"
"The finer showering facilities do tend to have a required un-dress code to gain admittance."
"Damn." He whipped his shirt over his head. "I'm over-dressed!"
Being a master of the quick change, his boxers were around his ankles in seconds. He fumbled at the finish, hopping on one foot as he tried to free the other leg from his jeans. But then the shower door was rattling on its track and his feet were slapping in the puddle water of the shower.
"Ah." Max plucked the bar soap from her hands. "Were we lathering up? Allow me. I am an expert."
Nicola giggled and folded herself closer to him as he proceeded to cover her in soft, soapy suds. She leaned into him, her wet skin sliding on his, the heat of the water and their bodies warming her down to her marrow. "What happened to dinner?"
"Fridge."
"What if I'm hungry now?"
He cupped her neck, gripping her hair in his fist as he gently pulled her head back. "Are you?"
"Bet your ass." She hopped onto her tiptoes to kiss him. He moaned, his tongue sweeping into her mouth, strong but slow, massaging, savoring. His hand still made languorous progress over her body, applying the soap to her skin with one hand and spreading it with the other. The kiss continued. Long, rich, a sweet drowning of a kiss that felt as if they had truly melted into one.
When he ended the kiss, she let out a deep, shuddering breath. Her legs were shaking.
His hands moved to her breasts, circling with the soap once. He kept his eyes on her face, his gaze hotter than the steaming water. "Oops, missed a spot." His hands supplanted the soap, caressing and rubbing until she was ready to climb out of her skin.
She groaned as he cupped her and coaxed her nipple to a firm bud with his thumb. She tilted into him and licked the water off his lips. He teased his thumb over her nipple – pulling another groan from her. Bending, he proceeded to lick and suck the water from her neck. His mouth was startling, exciting, slightly cooler than the water of the shower.
While he was distracted, Nicola plucked the soap from his hands. Building a good lather, she wrapped her hands around his cock. He moaned against her skin and thrust into her hands. She ran her palms along his length, slicking him with soap as her hands slid along his skin.
She'd thought him already big, but even as she soaped him, he grew against her palms.
His tongue plunged into her mouth, thrusting, and her hand increased its rhythm. He gasped and his free hand moved to her neck to hold her to him while he so sweetly savaged her mouth.
With her free hand, she gave his balls a little tug.
Max straightened and, without a word, turned the water off. He rolled the shower door open, blasting her with cool air. He tugged her out of the shower, their wet feet leaving puddles on the tile floor.
"Max, wh – "
He pushed her against the bedroom wall, bracing his hands on either side of her head. Her skin was hot, over-sensitized as she prickled all over with sensation, a delicious tickle which started on her skin then swam its way into her blood until she felt light-headed, drugged with feeling.
He nibbled at her neck, his long, heavy cock pushing against the softness of her stomach. "I must have you now." He said it in his Oberon voice, all deep and rumbly and bossy. And damned sexy.
She laughed. "All this from a ball tug? I didn't know you liked it that much."
"I like you that much." Max wrapped his arms around her waist and lifted her. Her wet body slid against his as he bounced her onto the bed. Then he was covering her body with his own, a delightful, wonderful weight pressing her into the mattress.
"Still want dinner?" he whispered.
"Oh, shut up and kiss me."
***
"My noodles are soggy." Nicola spun up a forkful and put the peanut-y but sadly limp knot of food into her mouth. The noodles were slimy and badly reheated – one bite ice cold, the other blistering hot. She shot Max a reproachful look. "I think you should have grabbed something more reheat-friendly if you were going to jump me."
"You weren't complaining."
She pointed her fork at him. "Smug. There's smug all over you. I think you need another shower."
"Will you wash my back?" He wiggled his eyebrows.
"Only if you promise to drop the soap."
"And . . . ick," Peter said by way of greeting. He slapped a pizza box onto the kitchen island. "I brought dinner, but I see you guys are provided for."
"Ha." Reaching for the pizza box, Nicola pushed her plate of cold noodles away with her other hand.
"Hey," Max said, pouting.
"No guilting me, Fiesengerke," she said. "Rock beats scissors. Fresh pizza beats lukewarm noodles. You've already displayed your manly prowess for today, let this one go." She bit into the pizza – mushrooms with roasted
garlic and black olives – then groaned in ecstasy.
"Garlic, Pete?" Max asked. "Is this an evil plot to keep us apart?"
"Yes, the tale of the star-crossed pizza."
Max stared glumly at his own dinner then glanced at his brother, at Nicola. He slid the soggy Thai into his mouth, chewed like penance, and grimaced as he swallowed. With a sigh, he grabbed his plate and Nicola's then dumped their cold food in the trash. When he returned from the sink, he snagged a slice of pizza for himself.
Nicola froze at the sound of a key scraping in the front door lock. Max swallowed then glanced over at her. Peter frowned, maybe picking up on their odd vibes.
"What are you going to do about Lachlan?" she murmured.
"Kick his ass."
"He thought you might have been cheating on me, Max. He probably thought I should have some warning on that."
Max glanced over at her, looking uncertain.
"I missed something," Peter said then indulged in a thoughtful bite of pizza.
Footsteps shuffled in the hallway and Nicola froze, praying Max and Lachlan weren't about to get into a fistfight.
But The Bunkhouse tenant who rounded the corner was Abe, not Lach. The character actor blinked somewhat owlishly as he saw them. "Hello?"
Max chuckled. "Abe. Pull up a chair. Have some pizza. I almost forgot you lived here too."
Nicola's breath streamed out of her in a relieved sigh, and she snuggled up to Max. Tomorrow, Lachlan and Max were going to have to work together for the school performance with Isabelle. And Max would have to face Judith after rejecting her advances. And Nicola was going to have to play nice with Judith instead of killing the bitch.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow . . .
Wow, you know your life is a mess when Shakespeare plots are less complicated than the shit you're going through. Nicola took another bite of pizza. Tomorrow. Ugh.
***
The next morning, Isabelle texted Max's cell. He was busy getting dressed while Nicola idled in his bed. He'd forgotten how difficult it was to wake Nicola up.
He glanced at his phone, and his eyebrows rose in shock. He nudged her shoulder. "Nicci."
A Midsummer Night's Fling (Stage Kiss Series Book 1) Page 23
