“Just going for a run with my friend Jill.”
Sutton felt a flare of jealousy. “Jill? Good friend, is she?”
“Great friend.”
“Can you meet me at the public library on Fifth and Forty-Second in an hour?”
“I need to shower. Make it an hour and a half.”
♦ ♦ ♦
“Gotta go,” Reeve said to Jill as they ran down the West Side Bike Path.
“Come on! You’re the only one who can keep up with me. I thought we were going for eight miles today. You’re such a wuss,” Jill said, and pushed Reeve on the arm as they kept pace together.
“Ha. I could totally school you. But I have to be somewhere.”
“One, you can not school me. Two, where do you have to go? I thought you were out of work this week? Besides, you were supposed to help me get ready for my Crash the Moon audition with Patrick Carlson,” Jill said, referring to the musical she was auditioning for. The mid-day sun beat down on them. It was November and the air was chilly, but with five miles under their belts already, Reeve felt pretty warm.
“I promise I’ll help you tomorrow. I gotta jam all the way to the east side to shower, then get to midtown.”
“What’s the gig? Who was that on the phone?”
Reeve shook his head and laughed. Then he told Jill everything. Her eyes widened and she punched him on the arm, as if she were proud of him. “Can you get me an audition for Escorted Lives? Hell, I’d be happy to play a receptionist at the agency. Anything, anything at all.”
Reeve stopped running and kissed Jill quickly on the forehead. “You know I’ll do whatever I can for you.”
Then he ran across town, showered, changed and caught the subway to the New York Public Library where Sutton was waiting outside by the lions. Damn, she looked sharp in black leather boots, a short skirt, and a black coat cinched at the waist. All that luscious hair was pinned up again and she had her glasses on. He couldn’t help himself. His eyes wandered to her legs, and just as he suspected, he saw the slightest hint of lace. Thigh-high stockings again. She was killing him, especially because she had that same plastic smile on as she did last night, and he couldn’t read her.
She leaned in and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
Hell, no. That was not going to do. “After six months together, all I get is the cheek?”
He shook his head and placed his hands on her face. He forced her to look at him, her blue eyes meeting his browns, and he gazed at her, as her pupils grew bigger and her walls started to fade away. Her body shifted the slightest bit closer, but he didn’t move. He stayed totally still. He wanted her to feel the weight of his stare. He wanted her to feel undressed with his eyes, unwound by his touch. And then, there it was. The slightest parting of her lips. He wasted no time, diving in for a deep and hungry kiss on the steps outside the library as book borrowers and researchers and students and tourists and anyone and everyone streamed up and down the steps. They were a postcard of kissing. They were the couple reunited after the naval hero was at sea. They were lovers who couldn’t keep their hands off each other after weeks apart. They were every kiss on every street that anyone ever wanted to gawk at, that anyone ever wanted to be. She moved against him, her chest lightly pressing against the cotton of his tee-shirt beneath his scratched leather jacket. Just when he felt her start to give in completely, he pulled apart, grabbed her hand and led her up the steps.
Still wobbly from the kiss, she missed a step and stumbled. In one swift move, he grabbed her elbow, then slid an arm around her waist.
“You okay?”
Her eyes were wide, the tiniest bit of shock in them. It would only have been a small tumble. It would only have caused a minor scrape or bruise. Still, she seemed glad to have been caught.
“Thank you.”
Then he stopped and gave her a soft kiss on her forehead. “I’m always happy to catch you.”
♦ ♦ ♦
That kiss.
He kissed her like it was the only thing that mattered in the world. She ran her fingers absently across her top lip, as if she could recall the kiss. She wanted to revel in it. To live in it. To encase herself in that bubble of an afternoon kiss. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair in the least when it was all an act. When he had the raw talent to pull that off, to make a kiss seem so believable that she’d suspended disbelief out there on the steps. She had to restore the balance of power somehow, especially after the way she’d tripped. She was woozy and drunk from his kisses, so drunk she could barely walk straight. She had to right her ship. So as they wandered through shelves upon shelves of hardbound volumes on science and literature, on history and make-believe, Sutton chatted in a low voice.
“So you were an American lit major,” she said as they rounded a corner on the way to Renaissance Astrology. The smell of musty old books was strong, and there was dust in the air. Nearby, quiet patrons worked on computers or slouched down in crackly leather chairs with their tomes, the pages lit by the faint flow of green lamps with pull-down chains.
Reeve nodded. “Yep. Ernest Hemingway. Ralph Ellison. Faulkner,” he said, rattling off names. He slowed and held up his finger. “Faulkner—definitely not a fan of.”
“Why not?” Sutton asked as she peered down a long row of books on—as promised—Renaissance Astrology. The wooden shelves were high and no one was in the aisle. She tipped her forehead and he followed.
“He made no sense. You ever try to read him?”
Sutton nodded. “All I remember is it felt like Yoda talking. Every sentence was written backwards, it seemed.”
Reeve laughed, and Sutton found she liked the sound of his laughter. She liked too that she was back in charge.
“But I’m definitely a fan of F. Scott Fitzgerald.”
“Right. Of course. I remember you said Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas and The Great Gatsby were your toss-ups for your favorite book ever.”
Reeve flashed a small smile at her, as they reached the end of the aisle. Sutton looked around. They were in a section of the library full of books on the most prominent constellations in the 1600s and what they portended.
In a sultry voice, he said: “I’ve been drunk for about a week now, and I thought it might sober me up to sit in a library.”
She cocked her head and looked at him curiously. “What is that?”
“Some dude says it in The Great Gatsby when Nick finds him in the library.”
“Oh. How appropos,” Sutton said, but there was something that felt like a double-entendre in the line. Drunk. Libraries. The scene they were scouting for. Or maybe her mind naturally went to double-entendres around Reeve. She felt that dryness in her throat again and she swallowed.
“So I suppose you’re a big fan of Jay Gatsby and Daisy Buchanan then?”
Reeve shook his head and leaned against the wooden panel of the shelves. “No. I think they’re selfish pricks.”
“Really?”
“All they care about is themselves. They’re held up as this great ideal of a doomed love affair, but they’re totally self-centered. Daisy especially. She pretty much ignores her kid all the time.”
“Why do you like the book then?”
“I like the writing. Lines like ‘I love New York on summer afternoons when everyone’s away. There’s something very sensuous about it - overripe, as if all sorts of funny fruits were going to fall into your hands.’”
Quoting sumptuous passages from literature in that sexy, smooth voice of his was not going to help her stay in control. Her knees felt wobbly. She pressed a hand against her forehead as if she might faint.
“You okay?” he asked in a soft voice, and then reached for her, brushing loose strands of hair across her forehead.
She nodded. She was afraid to speak. She didn’t know what to do around him. No other actor had ever affected her like this. She’d never even been remotely interested in an actor. They were work to her. They were a job. A job she loved, but that was it, that was all. Call
them in, try them out, pick the best.
The problem was Reeve was far too skilled at this role for her own good. He made her suspend disbelief too easily. He looped his hands around her neck, drawing her nearer to him.
“I like the last line of the book too. ‘Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning—So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.’”
She inhaled sharply and damn near collapsed. This was too much. She was silly puddy with him, she was a teenager touched for the very first time. There were sparks inside all the private places in her body, and her breasts felt heavier because she so wanted them to be touched. She inched closer, and he drew his arms tighter around her.
“I see great writing turns you on, Sutton,” he whispered, then left a soft kiss on her neck.
“You too,” she said, and pressed against his jeans. He was rock hard, and knowing that she affected him made her suddenly turn the tables. She felt so out of control with him most of the time, so much like an open book that she needed to get her power back, and she planned to before she fell even further under the spell of his words, his tongue, his fingers, and those eyes that drowned her in desire. She pressed a palm against the denim of his jeans, and he responded with a long, low moan. She grinned wickedly to herself. Oh yes, this was going to be fun.
She looked one way, then another. No one was near them. They were in the far corner of the stacks, all alone on a Wednesday afternoon. She heard no footsteps, only the faint ticking of a wall clock somewhere and then a low hum, likely a heater. There were surrounded only by books, by facts and fictions of Renaissance men and women trying to map their lives from the moon and the stars.
“There’s really only one way to know for sure if this is the ideal location for the famous library scene,” she said, and began unzipping his jeans. She looked up at him, as if to ask if it were okay. But she wasn’t really asking. She just wanted to see the surprise in his eyes, and yes, it was there. He hadn’t expected this. She could tell there was a nervous side to him right now. But as she reached her hand inside his briefs, feeling the hard length of him, she knew he wasn’t going to back down. He felt amazing, long and thick and sculpted. Velvet soft outside, rock hard inside. She could have spent all afternoon playing with him, toying with him, delighting in the perfection of his size. But there was work to be done, and orgasms to be achieved, and the clock was indeed ticking. She kneeled down. Keeping one hand wrapped firmly around the base, she kissed the tip. He let out another quiet moan, and when she glanced up, she saw him leaning back against the books and he bit down hard on his lip. She teased him for a few seconds with her tongue, and from the way he twined his fingers into her pinned-up hair, he rather enjoyed the feel of her lips on his long, hard length. She wanted to run her tongue from one side, then the other, tasting every inch. She wanted to savor his deliciousness and take her sweet time getting to know every fabulous inch of him. But instead, she wrapped her lips around him, and brought him all the way into her mouth.
He gripped her hair tighter, as little sounds and moans escaped his lips. As she moved up and down, bringing him as far into her throat as she could, wanting him to feel completely surrounded by her warm, inviting mouth, she gazed up at him. His eyes were shut hard, and his features were screwed up in a look of exquisite pleasure. At last, she thought. She could do to him what he’d done to her. She could take charge of his pleasure. She could ensure that he would be the one feeling waves of sweet release wash over him. She wanted to tell him, “Don’t worry. I’ve got this,” but she had a feeling he wasn’t worried at all. Besides, her mouth was quite full. She teased him with her tongue and her lips all over, pressing her hands against his strong, hard thighs—toned from all that cycling—for balance. He grabbed at her hair, and that made her even wetter, knowing how close he was.
She wanted to touch herself at the same time. She was aching, longing desperately for him to lift her up so she could wrap her legs around him and slide onto him, riding him here in the library, all the while suppressing her own desire to scream his name in pleasure. She was a screamer, that’s for sure. She was a loud one, and she never held back.
But she could take care of herself later. This moment was for him. Because pleasing him would give her back her power. She wouldn’t feel so helpless. He was a perfect specimen of hotness in every way and she couldn’t resist bringing him in deeper.
“Sutton,” he moaned, and that made her tighten her lips around him. She loved that he was so far gone into the feeling that he had to say her name, that he couldn’t keep quiet. Soon, he rocked his hips into her, and she went faster, as more low and quiet moans met her ears. Then he thrust once, twice, and she tasted him for the first time, and she loved it. She wanted more of it, more of him. She could do this every day.
When he was done, she rose and brushed one hand against the other. Reeve had a dazed look etched across his gorgeous features.
“Why yes, I think the Renaissance astrology section will do just fine.”
Chapter Seven
Later that night, Sutton had just finished researching all the vital details on a rising filmmaker who’d requested a meeting with her next week. The filmmaker had nabbed top honors at Sundance and wanted to bring both marquee and unknowns into his next project, a dramedy about a group of guy friends a few years after college. She placed her file and notes on her coffee table, and poured a glass of chardonnay, allowing herself a few minutes away from work to kick back.
With a wine glass in one hand, Sutton wandered over to her bookshelves, scanning for a paperback she’d held onto since university. She took a sip of the chardonnay, then pulled the dog-eared book from the shelf and sank down into her soft couch, pulling a red chenille throw over her legs. The Artful Doger hopped onto the sofa and curled up next to her. She opened the book and turned to her favorite page. “Tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther…And one fine morning—So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.”
Was it kismet that he adored this line too?
A sign, maybe?
She ran her index finger over the line, letting the memories of this afternoon flash past. Reeve and his kiss. Reeve and the way he caught her on the steps. Reeve and his words “I’m always happy to catch you.” Then, there was the picture he sent her after they’d said goodbye. She placed the book on the couch and reached for her phone on the coffee table, scrolling back to his text. He’d taken a picture of the steps leading into the library, the exact spot where he’d kissed her in such a way it seemed as if time had stopped and that the world had begun spinning around them. The moment she came undone for him.
There was only one word with the photo. One word and one punctuation mark: Encore?
She ran her fingertip lazily across that message, as if the word itself made her feel all these tingles, even though it was the memory of Reeve’s lips.
Encore. He was asking for an encore. Not of what she’d done to him in the stacks, though she was sure he wouldn’t mind another one of those, thank you very much.
But an encore of a show-stopping kiss.
She didn’t answer his question. She wouldn’t admit how very much she wanted another one. But she did allow herself a reply: “I am reading your favorite book right now.” She let her finger hover over the send button. If she sent this, she was choosing to engage. She was pressing beyond the physical and acting on the emotional. She would be getting to know him in a deeper way. She hit send.
Moments later a reply arrived. “Tell me one of your favorite lines…”
She flipped through the book, easily finding another one. “You won’t like it, because it’s about her.”
“Try me,” he wrote back.
Sutton tapped out another quote, one that tugged at her heart. “There must have been moments even that afternoon when Daisy tumbled short of his dreams--not through her own fault but because of the colossal vitali
ty of his illusion. It had gone beyond her, beyond everything. He had thrown himself into it with a creative passion.”
She took a sip of her wine, and soon Reeve’s name reappeared, but it wasn’t a text. He was calling. Sutton froze. Should she answer it? He knew she was around. Would he think she was ignoring him if she didn’t pick up? But she couldn’t fake her way out of this one.
“Hello there,” she said in her best sparkly voice. She was never aware of her own British accent, but she’d been told occasionally that it made her sound both smart and aloof. Those were traits that might serve her well right now.
“I love that line too.”
“Oh you do?”
“Yes. I think it’s about the ways we have these ideals of different things and people. Don’t you? I mean, why do you love the line?”
She loved it because it was passionate, because it was big, because it was epic. But she wasn’t prepared to say that, so she turned the question around. “Do you, Reeve? Have ideals about things and people?”
He paused before answering, and she wondered where he was. She heard music in the background, but the kind from a stereo or iPod, not a club. He must be at home. “Yeah. Of course. I mean, I’m sure I have this ideal about acting and theater and the craft, right? I kind of have to.”
“Why? Why do you have to?”
“I just think you can’t do this as a career if there’s anything else you remotely can see yourself doing.”
She nodded. “I believe that. I believe that about any type of art. Writer, painter, actor. It has to be the only thing for you.”
“Right. And it’s like that quote. It goes beyond her, beyond everything. It becomes everything.”
Everything. She let that word resonate in the air around her. Actors loved acting first, best and only. If she let her heart too far out of her chest then she’d have no one but herself to blame. Reeve might sound alluringly interested in this lovely getting-to-know-you phase right now, but that’s because he was throwing himself into this role—the role of the boyfriend—in the only way he knew how. Wholeheartedly, and with a creative passion.
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