Drawn to Him: A Romance Collection

by Willow Winters

  My eyes close and stay that way. The moment zings right through me, butterflies in my belly lurch from a great height as he pulls away.

  “Sorry,” I hear him say. “Em and I are gonna make a move. Early night. Have fun, ladies.”

  My cheeks are on fire, my body on autopilot as he guides us away. I feel so tense next to him, unsure whether I should wrap my arm around his waist or leave it rigid at my side the way it is right now. I’ve forgotten how to be in close proximity to another human body.

  I’ve forgotten how it feels to have people staring at you with daggers, too. As though they want to shred you into pieces.

  “Sorry,” he says when we’re out of sight. He takes his arm from around my shoulder and I immediately regret that I hadn’t held him back during our brief pretend encounter.

  He pulls a key from his pocket and I recognise the logo. “I have a room,” he tells me, “if you want to get started.”

  “Now?”

  “If that’s cool?”

  I nod like an idiot. My feet feel like lead weights as we walk to the Plough hotel. He leads the way through the bar and it’s all I can do to stare at him. At his back. At the way he moves. His hair is short at the back and longer on top. I wonder how it would feel against my fingers.

  He takes the stairs two at a time and I scurry up after him.

  “Just along here,” he tells me, putting his key into the lock of room 7 as I join him at the doorway. “This is us.”

  I wish.

  He pushes the door open for me and I step on in.

  The place smells of him. That’s definitely a good thing.

  His suitcase is still open on the huge bed. Designer everything, no doubt. I look away when I see his boxers draped over the side. Don’t think about that.

  He has so many products on the dresser, creams and sprays and that expensive scent he starred in a TV ad for. I don’t have half as many products at home and I tell him as much.

  Stupid small talk. So much stupid small talk from my stupid bumbling mouth.

  “My skin care routine is like hard labour. For the job,” he says.

  I nod.

  Of course.

  He opens up the minibar and lifts out a bottle of wine. I nod again. “Please.”

  Kyle pours and I take, glugging some back with a smile and a thanks. It’s hot in here. Too hot. He shrugs off his jacket as if he’s come to the same realisation and drops it onto the bed. His t-shirt is short-sleeved. Dark patterns twist around his forearms. Birds and roses and some tribal stuff that I’ve seen a hundred times but never in the flesh.

  It’s different in the flesh. Everything is different.

  He’s tanned and toned. Ridiculously toned.

  Oh my God, he’s so fucking toned.

  He’s grinning when my eyes finally land on his face.

  “I’ve changed a bit since school,” he comments.

  But he hasn’t.

  He was gorgeous in school and he’s gorgeous now. The same cocky smile, the same heavy brows. The same perfect hair and cheekbones.

  More stubble. The shadow on his jaw is… perfect. Like the rest of him.

  I’m sure I’m sweating. Nothing but a clammy, sweaty, awkward mess.

  He takes a shot of whisky from one of those miniature bottles and gestures to the lounge area of the room. A two-seater sofa by a low glass coffee table, positioned perfectly for the big TV on the wall.

  Close proximity. Real close.

  I take a seat as close as I can to the edge, but when he drops down alongside me it’s with the disregard for personal space that confident people often have. His legs are spread easily, ankle hooked over his knee as he angles to face me.

  I feel like such a little nerd next to him, my knees tight together and my back straight as a rod as I dig the paperwork back out of my handbag.

  His foot starts tapping in mid-air as I straighten out the script in my hands.

  “Which bits are you having problems with?” I ask, trying my best to keep my voice even and professional.

  “Every single one,” he replies.

  I look at him over the top of my glasses. “All of it?”

  He takes another mouthful of whisky and when he answers, it’s so low it’s almost under his breath. “I can’t read, Emily.”

  That’s not true and I know it. I remember.

  He didn’t think he could read then either, but he could. I tell him so but he shakes his head.

  “I could read with you,” he says.

  And I don’t understand. My raised eyebrows must tell him so.

  “You were the only one,” he continues. “With you… I could. On my own I’m fucked. I can’t read for shit.”

  “It’s confidence,” I begin. “Stress can make your symptoms worse. It’s hard to focus clearly when you’re frustrated…”

  I’m not expecting him to tear the script from my fingers, I flinch as his manner changes in a heartbeat. His palm slams the crumpled pages, his voice a hiss of expletives as he tells me that he really can’t read for shit, that the words jumble and make no fucking sense to him, that it may as well be a mess of fucking letters that make no sense.

  “I’m a dumbfuck,” he snaps, “always have been.”

  “That’s not true,” I say, and I’m not lying. Kyle Prescott was many things at school – including one of the rebel cool gang who acted like they didn’t give a shit for academic studies – but he wasn’t a dumbfuck. “Dyslexia doesn’t have any relation to your intelligence,” I insist. “It presents additional challenges with literacy, but it doesn’t have any bearing on how capable you are.”

  He laughs in my face. “Sure it doesn’t.”

  “It doesn’t.” I hold out my hand for the script and he hands it back with a groan.

  “I hate being a fucking dumbass all the time. I hate that I can’t do this shit.”

  “You can do it,” I insist. “I heard you read, back at school. I watched you pick it up just fine.”

  He doesn’t look in any way convinced, sitting alongside me with a face like thunder, at odds totally with his cocky disposition.

  Appearances can be deceptive, and I should know it. Hell, I should know it.

  I sip my wine and wait for him to ease up a little, but as the seconds tick by I know this isn’t going to be as straightforward as helping him through a few pages of text. Far from it.

  Whatever issues Kyle has with literacy have grown worse over the years. Much worse.

  It’s in his eyes – the self-chastisement. A mantra of can’t where he could have been making good headway with the right support. Support he’ll need in order to pull off an acting role with fresh scripts every week.

  I don’t want to say it, but he’s going to need a lot more guidance than I’m ever going to be offer in one tiny weekend. He’s going to need ongoing encouragement – someone who can help him break down the text into manageable sections and keep his confidence up.

  “You’re always so fucking nice,” he says finally. “I can see you trying to find words, to make me feel better. But you don’t need to. I know I’m fucked.” He gives me a smile which doesn’t reach his eyes, and I really do recognise him after all these years – the angry frustrated version of himself that I met as he was about to tear up his English assignment after school one day. “Just help me read this stupid thing by Monday, yeah? You’re my only hope.”

  His only hope.

  It’s nice to be someone’s hope again, even if he is showing me more faith than my skills warrant.

  “If that’s what you want? Just to scrape through on Monday?”

  He nods. “That’s what I want, just to scrape through. I’ll tell them about my… problem. Just so long as they give me a shot first.”

  “You’ll tell them about your dyslexia?” I clarify.

  “Yeah,” he says, but I’m not convinced.

  I take a breath and summon the years of experience I left behind in the city. With him. The one who shall not be named.r />
  “Alright,” I say. “Let’s get started.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Kyle

  I’ve driven halfway across the country to ask Emily Foster to save my ass, but it’s already so much more than that.

  Ten years have made fuck all difference.

  A few hours ago, landing the part in Fifth Avenue Blues was the biggest deal of my life, and it still should be.

  I shouldn’t be thinking about tearing Emily’s pretty little blouse open. I shouldn’t be thinking about how she’d sound with my cock down her throat.

  I’m shit at reading, and Emily damn well knows it already. What she doesn’t know is that fucking is my number-one talent.

  Maybe I should concentrate on what I’m good at. Maybe I should throw the script in the bin and feast on Emily Foster until she screams my name. The idea is tempting.

  Really fucking tempting.

  “Tell me about your character,” she says so sweetly.

  I love the way she’s such an optimist. So good. So kind. So fucking angelic.

  I’m desperate to make her dirty for me.

  I keeps things as professional as I can as I tell her I’m auditioning for the part of Marcus Killian, long lost brother of Evan Killian. I’m supposed to rock up back on Fifth Avenue, brash and full of attitude, to stir things up and make a play for my long-time ex. Who just happens to be hooked up with my brother.

  If I’m lucky enough to get the part, that is. If.

  Emily sighs. “I can’t believe Brianna is going to cheat on Evan. I mean the douche is asking for it after the way he treated her last season, but with his brother? That’s harsh.”

  I didn’t have her down as a fan of the show. I’d have nailed her as more of a documentary kinda girl.

  I wonder what other surprises sweet Emily has up her sleeve.

  “You’ll make a great Marcus,” she adds. “You’ve got the bad boy swagger down pat.”

  She has no fucking idea, but she will. And this time I’ll make her feel too good to run out on me.

  “They’ve definitely cast well,” she says. “You have trouble written all over you.”

  I flash her my most filthy smile. She clears her throat, seemingly oblivious.

  I’ve had this script read aloud to me before, but nothing prepares me for how it sounds in Emily’s voice. The words sound like magic from her sweet little mouth.

  This scene is the first meeting between Marcus and Brianna. It’s a boiling pot of simmering sexual tension, and I hope Emily’s gonna feel it as much as I will.

  Her voice trails off as she gets to the stage directions. “And then they kiss,” she says, “passionately.”

  She clears her throat and goes again from the top. I try to assign everything to memory, as though I stand a chance in hell of recalling this shit when she’s done. I’m trying to focus on the words, on the way they flow, but there is only Emily. The way she’s so steady with her speech, like we have all the time in the world.

  But we don’t. The clock’s ticking, and so is my time with her.

  She hands me the first page when she’s finished. I can’t help but feel disappointed when the printed text still looks like a wall of letters and little else.

  “Just take it a word at a time,” she says.

  My heart is pounding at the thought of fucking this up at the very first sentence and looking like a stupid asshole in front of little miss smarty-pants.

  I really don’t want to fuck up, I just want to fuck her.

  Hard.

  “I didn’t expect to find you… shacked up with my brother. I didn’t know you’d ac–” I pause. “Acquired such a taste for mediocrity…”

  “Cocky smile,” Emily says and I shoot her my finest. “There you go. That wasn’t so bad, right?”

  “Right,” I lie.

  “Again. This time like you mean it.”

  So I do. I say it like I mean it, focusing on Emily like she really is that dirty little bitch Brianna De Laney. Like she’s really my long-term ex who moved on to fucking my douchebag brother. As though I’m jealous as fuck but don’t want to show it.

  And it’s easy, because Emily Foster does feel like a throwback from a life gone by. It’s easy to feel jealous at the thought of her underneath some guy with a first from Oxford, begging him for more in that cute little voice of hers.

  “I didn’t know you’d acquired such a taste for mediocrity,” I sneer and her eyes widen.

  “That’s good,” she says. “Again.”

  That’s good.

  I want to show her how good she’ll feel underneath me with her legs up round my shoulders.

  I throw myself back in without holding back. I’m going to get this scene right, and then I’m going to fuck her so hard she remembers me for the next ten years.

  “Again.”

  “Again.”

  “That’s great, let’s go again.”

  It’s late by the time I get to my feet for the final run through of the scene. I leave the script on the coffee table and Emily’s eyes are wide as I tell her to get to her feet along with me.

  She doesn’t hesitate, and I like that. I love the way she takes my lead like a meek little lamb.

  I’m done with the miniatures of whisky in the minibar – quietly drunk enough for the confidence to burn right through my veins. She’s had a couple of wines herself. She giggles as she stands before me.

  “I didn’t expect to find you shacked up with my brother,” I recite. “I didn’t know you’d acquired such a taste for mediocrity in my absence.”

  “You left,” Emily offers quietly. “You left everything. You left me.”

  “You were always right here.” I tap the side of my head and my voice lowers into a rasp. “I’m back for you, Brianna. Fuck Evan, you belong to me.”

  Her breath is shallow as I take a step forward, her eyes fixed on mine as I launch into the impassioned monologue I’ve learned by heart this evening. I’m improvising as I walk her backward, feeling the words as I pin her tight to the wall, my elbows caging her in position.

  “You’re mine,” I growl. “You belong to me.”

  I can’t remember what Brianna’s response is supposed to be, and Emily doesn’t say it anyway. Her eyes are wide and innocent as she breathes in my breath, her lips parted as she stares up at me.

  And then I kiss her.

  She squeaks as my lips land flush to hers, tensing for a moment before she opens her mouth like a good girl. I love the way her breath quickens. I love the noises she makes as I claim her mouth without mercy. Her tongue is gentle and timid, giving way to mine as I hunt for more, and it’s addictive. It’s everything I thought it would be.

  I pull away enough to pepper her jaw with kisses. It’s at odds with the roughness of my hands as I lift her wrists up and over her head, gripping them tight. She’s so easy to hold in position.

  “This isn’t…” she whispers. “This isn’t part of the script…”

  My lips smile against her cheek. “Fuck the script.”

  “I don’t understand,” she murmurs.

  Oh, innocent little Emily. How she makes my dick twitch.

  I press my body flush to hers and she’s so different to the other girls I’ve been with. I love the way my dick feels against her soft stomach, straining through my jeans just to get at her. Her tits look so promising under white ruffles, the bow on her blouse taunting me like gift wrapping. I’ve been desperate to see those big tits of hers since I was a kid, and they’ve only got bigger over the years. My cock’s delighted to find that Emily Foster was definitely worth the wait.

  I palm her juicy tit through the fabric, my mouth watering at the thought of sucking on her.

  “What are you doing?” she whispers, like it’s not totally obvious.

  “I’m gonna fuck the living shit out of you,” I tell her.

  She gulps in breath as my tongue tickles her ear. “I don’t, um…”

  “Don’t what?” I grip her wrists tighter and
she squirms against me.

  “I don’t understand…”

  I can’t hold back the smile. “You’ve been helping me,” I say. “Let me make it worth your while.”

  “You really don’t have to,” she replies and I laugh.

  “I know I don’t.”

  I pull away enough to stare into those pretty green eyes of hers. Her expression is magical, struggling to digest what the hell’s going down.

  There’s an uncertainty there. I can feel it.

  A long moment of make or break, and beneath the throb of my dick I feel my gut thump. She could run. Again. Run off into the night and leave me and my broken audition dreams behind her.

  But she doesn’t.

  “Make it worth my while,” she says. “Please.”

  CHAPTER 6

  Emily

  K yle Jordan Prescott’s tongue is in my mouth, his perfect body pressed against mine so hard I’m sure he’ll feel the butterflies in my belly.

  Coming home was supposed to be safe – a place to heal and recover and keep life simple. Kyle Prescott is making life anything but.

  I should put this down to what it is; another drunken mistake on his part. A guy who’s used to getting his dick wet and thinks he owes me a favour.

  My mind is whirring through my options, heart racing at the prospect of rushing back to the safety of the nothing life I’ve been living for months. But I can’t do it.

  I want him too much to stop.

  I sound like I’m begging as I whimper for more. That’s what he’s reduced me to – a begging, desperate mess of myself, in too deep to walk away. He hasn’t even fucked me yet and I’m ruined.

  His grip is tight on my wrists and I like it. I can feel the hardness of him against my belly and I like that too. He’s big. Really big from the feel of the swell in his jeans. I’m suddenly aware that it’s been a while.

  Quite a while, in fact.

  Another reason to back out gracefully, but the wine has made me brave. Brave or stupid, or both.

  “I’m gonna make you scream my name,” he growls, and I shiver from my fingers to my toes.

  He’s got me pinned so tight that it’s all I can do to grind back at him. His mouth is open, eyes dark as he stares down at my tits straining in my blouse.