by Regina Kyle
“Not if you want this to last.” He ripped open the package and rolled the condom on. “And I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but I’m nowhere near done yet.”
He lay next to her, his erection hot, hard and demanding against her silky thigh. “You’re beautiful, Holly.” He took in her soft curves, her short dark hair fanned out across the pillow, her pale skin damp from their lovemaking. “So damn beautiful.”
A pink flush crept up her cheeks and she tried to look away, but he stopped her, taking her chin and tilting her head toward him for a deep, soul-searching kiss. She wound her arms around his neck and kissed him back with a hunger that left him breathless and pretty much incapable of rational thought.
“Please, Nick,” she whispered when they came up for air. “Take me. I can’t wait any longer.”
Neither could he.
He entered her in one swift, powerful thrust, her slick heat enveloping him. She sighed and hooked one leg over his hip, allowing him to slide in even farther.
“More.”
With that one word, hoarse and needy, she shattered what little remained of his self-control. He moved over her, his hands tangling in her hair, their mouths connecting as he drove into her like a storm pounding the shore. Claiming her. Drowning in her. She wrapped her legs around his waist, locking her ankles as if she’d never let go, and met him thrust for thrust, lifting her hips and taking everything he had.
He wished he could have her like this for hours, so perfect and pulsing underneath him. But he was close—so close—to letting go, and he could tell from her sexy little moans and the way her inner walls clenched around him that she was, too.
He eased his mouth from hers and slipped one hand between them, skimming it down through her soft, dark nest of curls until he found her clit. She cried out and arched off the bed, her head falling back and her hands sliding up his arms to grip his biceps. They were pressed so tightly together, and all that mattered was their race to the finish line, a race he was determined to lose.
“Don’t hold back,” he rasped as he stroked her. “Come with me, sweetheart.”
That was all it took. With a shudder she was gone, screaming his name, her heels pressed into his back, her nails digging little half-moons into his arms. And he went right after her, exploding with the force of Mount St. Helens before collapsing on top of her and tucking his face into the curve of her neck.
“Nick, that was...”
“Yeah.” There was so much more he wanted to say, but that was all he could manage without access to his brain.
He rolled over with her in his arms and she rested her head on his chest, her sweat-dampened hair tickling his chin. They lay like that for a few minutes as their breathing evened and their pounding hearts slowed until, finally, he felt her muscles go slack and she fell asleep.
9
THE PHONE shook Nick out of his stupor. No one had his apartment number yet but the front desk and his agent. “Damone,” he mumbled into the receiver.
“I’ll be there in fifteen. Just giving you the heads-up.” Garrett sounded tired, too.
Nick rolled onto his back, alone in his big empty bed. He wanted Holly’s naked ass pressed against his hip. Not only for some morning nookie—although that would have been good, too—but because...well, he didn’t know why exactly. Because waking up alone this morning sucked when usually it left him feeling relieved.
He knew she was gone, had heard her quietly fumble her way out the door near dawn. It had taken every measure of self-control not to jump up and stop her. Escort her home. Take her to a diner for breakfast. Something.
But she’d said one night, and she’d meant it. Letting her leave on her own terms had felt right at the time.
Now it felt vaguely stupid.
“Nick. Are you there? Drunk?”
“Yes. And no.” Staring at the ceiling, he pictured Holly moving over him. Shifting her weight every time he came close, to draw out his orgasm. And hers.
Fuck, she was hot.
“Just let me in when I get there, all right? Shit’s happening.”
“Right.” Nick clicked off the phone. Nothing happening now could beat last night.
They’d made love three more times—once in the tiny pantry that served as a kitchen, where they got creative with the Ben & Jerry’s, once in the bathroom, where they washed it off, and finally back in the bedroom. Each time had been better than the last.
Holly was incredible, open and passionate, with an innocent enthusiasm that more than made up for her lack of experience. And she was surprisingly funny. Nick was no stranger to hot sex, but she’d made him laugh as he never had before. Hell, he’d never known hot sex could be so damn much fun.
Only once did shy, nervous Holly reappear. They were in the kitchen, breaking out the ice cream. She looked so sexy wearing one of his T-shirts, the hem skimming her lush ass, and eating straight out of the carton. The sight of her tongue stealing out to lick the spoon made his cock stiffen and his brain cells turn to mush.
“You know what would make this taste even better,” he said with a low growl when he couldn’t stand any more.
“Sprinkles?” she suggested, her eyes twinkling.
“I was thinking more along the lines of this.” He threw his spoon into the sink, hoisted her up onto the marble countertop and grabbed the bottom of her shirt, inching it away from her smooth thighs to her hips.
“Wait.” She stopped him with a hand on his arm. Her eyes, wide and moist, reflected panic. Or doubt.
“Does this have anything to do with why you wanted the lights off earlier?” he asked softly.
She bowed her head, covering her eyes with her free hand.
Slowly, carefully, he took her hand in his and lowered it to his chest, holding it there as he spoke. Her palm, still cool from the ice-cream container, chilled his bare skin, but he pressed it tighter against him, wanting her to feel the wild beat of his heart so she’d know just what she was doing to him. “Whatever you’re hiding, it doesn’t matter. It won’t make you any less beautiful to me.”
After a long pause, she raised her head and relinquished her grip on his arm. Then he lifted her shirt and understood.
He wanted to ask about the scars, ask what—or who—had hurt her so badly, but one look in her eyes told him she wasn’t ready to go there. So instead, he slathered her with ice cream, licking and kissing and caressing her until she came so hard she would have fallen off the counter if he hadn’t been there to catch her.
She returned the favor before they moved to the bathroom for soapy, slick shower sex, then back to the bed for exhausted, grinding, desperate sex. She’d been half-asleep when she fell on his chest after her last shaking orgasm. He’d held her there for an hour before she shifted to his side and curled around him, so soft and sweet.
And then she’d left.
Nick pulled on his jeans, not bothering to fasten them, and wandered through the apartment. Signs of her were everywhere, from the spoons in the sink to the seat down in the bathroom. It was almost like she’d stepped out to get them coffee and bagels.
But she wasn’t coming back.
He’d just had the best sex of his life, with a woman he’d fantasized about for years. Who hadn’t begged to stay the night, hadn’t waited for the cameras to be ready at the door when she left, hadn’t handed him a head shot and said they’d be great together on film. Holly should have been the perfect woman for him. After all, he was Nick Damone, king of the fuck-and-run. Or, at his place, the fuck-and-hustle-her-out-the-door.
Except he hadn’t brought a woman home in ages.
Couldn’t remember the last time a woman he slept with hadn’t asked for anything.
And he found the hangdog face staring out of the mirror a shock.
The front desk rang, and Nick gave the okay for Garrett to come up. Not ten seconds later his agent was knocking. The cocky bastard must’ve slipped past the concierge when he was on the phone.
“You look like shi
t.” Garrett brushed past Nick and took up residence on the overstuffed couch.
“Thanks.” Nick slammed the door shut, hastily doing up his jeans and sitting in one of the club chairs opposite Garrett. “Now tell me why you’re here first thing in the morning on a Saturday.”
“First you tell me. Who was she?”
“What she?”
“The she who kept you up all night. One of your L.A. bimbos? Or someone you met here in New York?”
“Not your business, as you know.”
“Fine. I’m just saying. I tried to text you.”
“Shit.” Nick stalked into the bedroom and found his phone still in the pocket of his jacket, lying on the floor with the rest of his clothes. When he turned it on, he saw that he had a crap load of voice mails and texts, including at least six messages from Garrett.
“Are you serious?” He came back into the living room, cell phone open in his outstretched hand. “The show’s back on?”
“Dead serious.”
“They found another theater?” Nick couldn’t hide the twinge of excitement in his voice, and not just because he’d be back on the boards. Sure, rehearsals had been better than he expected, even with all the bad luck and drama. But who was he kidding? That wasn’t the reason his heart was doing the happy dance. Again. If the show was a go, he’d still be working with Holly. And while he was working with her, he could also be working on her.
“In a manner of speaking.”
Nick sat on the arm of his chair and studied Garrett. This was how his agent delivered bad news, like when a costar quit and was replaced by some no-talent hack. Though in Malcolm’s case the reverse would be true, so it couldn’t be that. “What aren’t you telling me?”
“I warned them.” Garrett shuffled a few papers from his briefcase. “Said there was a good chance you’d walk. But it’s the only option within fifty miles, and thanks to an unexpected hole in the schedule, rehearsals can start right away and the show can open in July as originally planned. So I brought the waivers and contracts for you to review and we can discuss—”
Nick rubbed his face. “Seriously, Garrett. Spit it out.”
Garrett snapped his briefcase shut and set the papers down on the coffee table. “The Aaronsons have decided to do an out-of-town tryout. They’re hoping for good reviews and a strong box office so they can move the show to Broadway when a venue opens. It’s a limited run. Just a few weeks, then the show will either transfer or fold.”
“Did you think I’d throw a tantrum over going to Jersey?”
“It’s not Jersey, Nick.”
“Chicago?” In recent years, the Windy City had seen the first bow of huge shows like The Producers, Billy Elliot and Kinky Boots.
“Nope.”
The pinpricks on his neck told him what was coming next. And if it hadn’t been for Holly, Nick would’ve ditched the show right there. Signed the waivers, found a new project and avoided the damn town like he’d been doing for years.
But leaving wasn’t an option.
Not yet.
“The show’s moving to the Elm City Repertory Theater. In—”
“New Haven.” Nick completed the sentence for his friend, his tone flat and his mood grim. “I’m going home.”
* * *
NOTHING IN STOCKTON ever seemed to change. Maneuvering her cart through the aisles of Gibson’s Grocery, Holly could have closed her eyes and still grabbed the Parmesan, the pancake syrup and the Popsicles. Her eyes were open to check the list her mother had sent her with, written on a white envelope filled with ones and fives, but she needn’t have bothered. Even the list didn’t change.
“Hello, sunshine.”
“Hey there, Earl.” Holly approached the meat counter, confident that the shop owner and butcher would already know her order.
“The usual?”
“Mmm-hmm. But double it up.”
“Ah.” His biggest grin yet. “All you kids back in town?”
“Just three of us. Ivy’s in Florida.” Sunday dinner was always an event at the Nelson homestead, and her mom had coerced Noelle and Gabe, their brother, to make the two-hour trek north from the city. Ivy, Gabe’s twin, was in Miami for the week, working on a spread for Cosmopolitan. She’d been cryptic about who she was shooting, which meant it was probably a hot, famous actor.
If Holly didn’t know better, she’d think it was Nick.
Nick.
Holly cracked her neck, trying to stay awake. She didn’t usually mind coming home, despite the grilling she knew she’d face at dinner. It was a nice break from city life. But today she felt more naughty than nice, her lack of sleep punishing and her muscles outraged. Nick might be used to hour after hour of acrobatic lovemaking, but last night had been Holly’s first experience in sexual gymnastics and her thighs were screaming that they’d never recover.
Nick.
After leaving his place—okay, turning tail like a coward—Holly had grabbed her purse, phone and a change of clothes and headed north to avoid any awkwardness. She didn’t want to dish the dirt with Devin, or sit pathetically waiting for a phone call or flower delivery when that was never part of the deal.
Halfway home she’d gotten the news about the Elm City Rep and been knotted with tension ever since. It was great—hometown support would be incredible, and it was a brilliant publicity move—but she didn’t know how Nick would handle the possibility of seeing his father.
Or seeing Holly, for that matter. She wasn’t so sure she wouldn’t drop to her knees before the man involuntarily. He was a sex god, and her legs were still weak from the pleasure.
“Did you say something, Holly?”
“Uh, no.” Holly bolted awake. Had she? “I’m a little tired. Must’ve zoned out there for a minute.”
Earl gave her a concerned look. “Sounded like ‘nick,’ or maybe ‘lick.’ You need ice cream? Aisle...”
Her face began to boil. “Four. Yeah, thanks.” She shot off.
“Don’t forget your order.” He rushed around the counter and dropped three tightly wrapped white packages into her cart.
“Right. Thanks, Earl.” At the last moment, she lifted onto her toes to give him a kiss.
With his face red, too, she felt better. She was whistling her way to the register when she veered off the list. Chips and guacamole were her specialty. As she ran back to the produce section, a child’s laugh, followed by the thump of falling boxes, stopped her in her tracks.
“Balloon!”
A towheaded little boy sat surrounded by the remains of a cereal display, babbling happily and pointing at a Mylar caricature of a tiger floating above the rubble. He looked to be about two years old, the same age as...
“Balloon,” he repeated, struggling to regain his footing on chubby toddler legs. Holly thought she might cry as she watched him, his blue eyes filled with wonder as he reached for the string of the balloon.
She scanned the aisle. No mother. No father. No responsible adult in sight.
Except her.
Blinking back tears, she set down her basket and scooped up the little boy, who had one foot on the bottom shelf of the display in his quest for the balloon. “Easy there, partner. You’re going to get yourself hurt.”
“Balloon?” His eyes widened and his lower lip quivered.
“No, sweetie.” She tightened her hold on the squirming toddler. He was soft and sweet and smelled of talcum powder and milk, and her heart felt like it was about to shatter into a million pieces. “No balloon today. We have to find your mommy or daddy.”
“Mommy?” His lip trembled again and his eyes watered. Holly braced for a full-blown meltdown. Instead, the little boy’s face broke into a toothy grin at the sight of a woman about Holly’s age with hair as blond as his, racing toward them down the aisle. “Mommy!”
“There you are, Brendan.” She stretched out her arms to her son. “Mommy was so worried about you.”
Holly handed the boy over to her, savoring one last whiff of talcum an
d milk. “He’s fine. He just wanted a closer look at that tiger.” She gestured to the balloon.
“Oh, no.” The woman frowned at the pile of cereal boxes. “Did he make this mess? I swear, I only turned my back for a second.”
“Fast, aren’t they?” Holly knelt and started picking up the boxes, thankful for the distraction.
“Here, let me help.” The woman went to set her son down, but Holly stopped her. “It’s okay. I’ve got it.”
“Thank you.” The woman hitched the boy higher on her hip. “For everything.”
With a little wave she turned and headed back the way she came before Holly could even choke out a “you’re welcome.”
Holly picked up her basket, paid for her groceries and loaded them in her VW Bug. She sat for a few minutes, her head resting against the steering wheel, still shaking from her encounter with Brendan and his mother. She thought after almost two years the empty feeling would go away. And it did. Sometimes. For a while. Only to come back to haunt her when she heard a child laugh. Or call for “Mommy.” Or when she saw a family walking hand in hand.
She lifted her head and stared at herself in the rearview mirror. Her hair was matted down from where she’d laid on the steering wheel, and her face was chalky, all traces of the minimal lipstick and blush she’d applied earlier long gone. God, she looked like crap.
It had to stop, this falling apart whenever she saw or heard a child. It was the only way she’d have a chance at a future, a family. Holly wasn’t naive—or stupid—enough to think that an average Jane like her would fit into the world of a big-time move star like Nick as more than a fling. That was why she had promised herself to stick to the one-night-only deal. She needed a nice, safe, stable guy. The kind of guy Clark had started off being, before he’d lost his job and spiraled down into a cesspool of alcoholism and depression.
With one last, long sigh, Holly pulled herself together. She was about to back out of the parking space when her phone rang. “Hi, Mom,” she answered with a false gaiety she hoped her usually all-knowing mother would fail to detect. “You’ve got mayo, right? I’m going to make some guacamole.”
