by Lauren Rowe
Damn straight, you’re good with your hands, I think. I watch for a moment longer, before putting up my palm. “Okay, I think that’s enough. You should stop now.”
Savage doesn’t stop.
“Adrian, seriously,” I say. “Stop now. If you make the clay too thin on the edges, it’ll flop over.”
“I just want to make the top rim a bit thinner.”
“If you overwork the clay—"
“Nooo!” Savage shouts dramatically as the edge of his creation flops over and then wobbles asymmetrically on the wheel, before abruptly turning into nothing but a marred, spinning blob. Savage lifts his bare foot from the wheel’s pedal, bringing the turntable to a stop, and looks at me. He grimaces adorably. “Sorry, what were you saying?”
I giggle. “It shouldn’t be too hard to fix. If it is, we’ll start again. That’s life. In the meantime, though . . .” I get up and move to him, spread his thighs wide, enough to accommodate me kneeling between them, and then look up at him and say, “As it turns out, watching you making pottery is a huge turn-on for me.”
Savage smolders down at me, his face awash in lust. “That’s a good thing, since it turns out, you watching me making pottery turns me on.”
“What doesn’t turn you on, Adrian?”
He touches my face, smearing clay onto my cheek. “Nothing, as long as you’re nearby.” He bites his lower lip. “Take off your clothes for me, unless you want me to get clay all over them. One way or another, I want those clothes off.”
I rise and comply with his request, while he proceeds to peel off his own clothes, his clay-covered hands be damned.
When we’re both naked, Savage resumes his chair before me, his cock straining. So, I resume my prior kneeling position and take his erection into my mouth. As his pleasure ramps up, Savage reaches behind me, and a moment later, I feel the sensation of wet clay being smeared onto my bare back. And then, my left shoulder. My skin alive and my heart racing, I stop what I’m doing, pulling my mouth off him with a loud pop—and then dip my hand into the wet clay on the wheel behind me. When I turn back around, I smear clay across the grooves and ridges of Savage’s cut abs, while swirling my tongue across the tip of his cock.
When I’m finished painting his abdomen with clay, I lick him from his balls, all the way to his tip, and then purr, “Now you’re a real-life version of the David.”
“And you’re my Venus de Milo,” he replies, not missing a beat. He adds, “With arms, of course.” To emphasize that last point, he smears clay down my left arm, and then my right. He grabs more clay, takes my face in his palms, and kisses me. After that, he pulls me to standing along with him and smears even more wet clay across my belly and ass. He bends down and devours my breasts and nipples for a bit, making me shudder and moan softly, before smearing those areas with wet clay, as well. “You’re a work of art, Laila,” he whispers, his dark eyes blazing and his tone passionate.
I feel like I’ve got a jackhammer in my chest, as well as one between my legs. Breathing hard, I guide Savage back to sitting, gather some wet clay onto my fingertips, and smear it onto the bridge of his perfect nose. Shaking with arousal, I straddle him in his chair—he’s the hottest I’ve ever seen him right now, and that includes the times I’ve had drool running down my chin while watching him onstage—and then take Savage’s big, thick, gorgeous cock inside me, all the way, making him groan loudly as I slide down. I know when Savage suggested we get tested by a doctor, he wasn’t envisioning this particular scenario. But I can’t imagine a better way to kick off our condom-less adventure.
As my palms cup Savage’s cheeks, leaving clay all over them, Savage grips my back, leaving more clay on me. I move my body energetically on top of him, rubbing myself against him in just the right way—and soon, I find myself erupting with a delicious orgasm that causes me to scream loudly with pleasure.
As my body releases, Savage’s does too. He growls as he comes and clutches me, hard. For a long moment, we remain intertwined, our clay-streaked bodies slack. Our lungs working hard. Our hearts beating in tandem.
“So . . .” he says on an exhale. “Did you get inspired to write a sappy love song while I was railing you?”
I laugh. “I believe I railed you, sir.”
“And quite well, I might add.”
Smiling, I reach behind me and grab a handful of wet clay and then caress every inch of Savage’s smooth forehead, sculpted nose, chiseled cheeks, and steel chin with both sets of fingertips, like I’m a facialist at a fancy spa, and Savage is my client. “You’re so freaking beautiful,” I whisper, and his body underneath me physically shudders in reply. I nuzzle his nose with mine, stealing some of the clay I’ve wiped on him. “I feel drugged by you, Adrian,” I whisper. “I feel high as a kite when I’m around you.”
“Laila,” he whispers. And for a long moment, we stare into each other’s eyes, neither of us moving.
“Wait here,” I say. “Before this moment ends, I want to get a photo of you.”
He grabs my forearm. “No, Laila. Don’t go.”
“I’ll be right back.”
“Don’t take a photo.”
I knit my brows. “But you look so beautiful—like a statue. I want to remember this moment.”
Savage’s usual swagger is nowhere to be found. He’s earnest now. Vulnerable. And breathtakingly beautiful. “For your own memories?” he asks. “Not to post? Because I don’t want you to post a photo of me like this with some cringey caption that says, ‘Look what happens when I try to teach my boyfriend to use my pottery wheel!’”
Oh, my heart. The look on his gorgeous face is making my heart feel like it’s physically twisting. “I only want a photo for me,” I assure him. “Not to post. Not to brag. Just to remember.”
Savage exhales and shoots me a lopsided smile that says more than a thousand words ever could. He drops his hand from my arm, freeing me to go, and whispers, “Only if you’ll let me take a photo of you, too, for the exact same reason.”
Fourteen
Laila
“Can you believe we’re heading into the final day of auditions?” Sunshine Vaughn says into the camera. We’ve been shooting auditions for the past two weeks now, assembling enough footage for the show’s editors to cobble together the first four episodes. Throughout the shoot thus far, Savage and I have been sitting side by side at the judges’ table, barely able to keep our hands off each other. If we’re not physically touching, we’re shooting each other lascivious looks and flirtatious smiles. When we’re offering our feedback to whichever contestant onstage, we almost always wind up playfully teasing each other or laughing at each other’s jokes. Basically, we’ve behaved on-camera the same way we do when we’re home alone. We act addicted and head over heels on-camera because that’s exactly how we’re both feeling, in real life.
As a matter of fact, real life with Savage has been the most fun I’ve ever had. When we get home from work, we eat whatever fancy meal our private chef has made for us. And then, after doing our required live video for fans, we call our families and say hello, and then plug our phones onto their chargers and leave them there for the rest of the night. After that, we attack each other, basically. Usually, in order to check off another box on our proverbial bingo card by having sex in yet another room or area of our massive house. So far, we’ve been making incredible progress in our game. Thank God, “Let’s Have Sex in Every Room of the House” isn’t a drinking game, or Savage and I would be blitzed out of our minds every night.
Amazingly, though, sex isn’t even the best thing Savage and I do together, as great as it is. The best thing is just . . . hanging out. We work out together in our home gym. We watch movies while snuggled on our couch. Besides watching Ghost, we’ve watched Fast Times at Ridgemont High, too, which was hilarious. We’ve also watched some fabulous porn. And by that, I mean we watched Beauty and the Beast for me and Mean Girls for Savage. Oh, and we’ve played cards, as silly as that sounds. The games Mimi taught Savage
as a boy and loves to play with him whenever he visits her.
The only thing not going amazingly well for Savage and me? Writing the duet. Try as we might, we can’t write that damned love song. I thought it’d be easy to do, considering how prolific Savage and I usually are as songwriters, but, for some reason, we can’t come up with an idea that leads to anything good. It’s frustrating, to say the least. Not to mention, anxiety-producing, since we’re now a full week past the deadline Reed initially gave.
Speaking for myself, I haven’t been able to write the damned song because, every time I look into Savage’s dark eyes, I feel anxious that whatever idea I might be thinking about, whatever sappy and sweet suggestion I might make, will hit too close to home. Be too honest. Too vulnerable. Something Savage will know is the truth, rather than part of a “creative writing assignment,” which is what we’ve both agreed the song should be. And, just like that, I can’t come up with an idea I’m willing to speak out loud to save my life.
I have no idea why Savage has had writer’s block, as well, but I admit I’m hoping he’s been running up against the same dilemma as me. Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. He said, right from the start, sappy loves songs aren’t his thing. So, more likely than not, he’s simply waiting for me to take the lead.
Sunshine’s cheery voice yanks me from my reverie. Looking into a camera, she says, “Another batch of auditions, and then we’ll move on to Draft Day, when our judges will get to finalize their teams. After that, we’ll have Mentor Day, and then . . . finally . . . our live weekly singing competition will begin!”
The audience roars with excitement.
Sunshine looks at the judges’ table. “Are you excited for everything that’s coming, judges?”
The first three judges reply, like good soldiers, that we’re excited and raring to go. Whoop-de-doo! But Savage being Savage, he gives Sunshine nothing but a half-hearted thumbs up and an expression that says, “If I must.” Of course, the studio audience is enthralled by Savage’s disdain, since by now, that’s become his thing on the show—acting like the whole exercise causes him physical pain. It works so well for him, I think, only because, on occasion, he unexpectedly breaks free from his usual disdain to grace the world with a beaming smile or effusive praise, usually saying something so perfect on those rare occasions, he makes whatever contestant he’s speaking to burst into tears and the entire audience swoon.
Our host returns with a huge smile to the camera aimed at her. “Until next time, I’m Sunshine Vaughn, reminding you to . . .” The studio audience joins in on the show’s famous sign-off: “Sing. Your. Heart out!” And then, as the audience applauds, we four judges do what we always do at this point—we stand and applaud and dance to the theme song blaring in the studio.
Finally, when the theme song ends, we four judges stop celebrating and swiftly head backstage with some bodyguards, so we won’t get mobbed with requests for selfies and autographs from the studio audience. But as our foursome makes our way backstage, Nadine approaches the group, stopping our movement.
“Savage and Laila?” Nadine says. “Can I talk to you for a moment—perhaps in Savage’s dressing room?”
My stomach drops into my toes. When the big boss says she wants to talk to you, in private, it’s probably not a good thing, no matter how well the past two weeks of shooting have gone. I have to think that’s especially true when you’re a newbie cast member who strong-armed her way onto the show in the first place, and the producers insisted on reserving an early termination clause in her contract that’s not in anybody else’s.
When we get to Savage’s dressing room, Nadine closes the door behind us and gestures to the couch. “Please.”
Savage and I take the couch, our body language stiff, while Nadine sits in an armchair across from us, her body language confident and unapologetic. This woman has been the big boss on this show since its inception, and The Engagement Experiment before that, so her demeanor not surprisingly communicates power and confidence in no uncertain terms.
“So, guys,” Nadine says on an exhale, clasping her manicured hands in her lap. “First off, I want to compliment you on your performance these past two weeks. You’ve both far exceeded our expectations.”
I sigh with relief and grab Savage’s hand. “Thank you. I’m so glad you’re happy.”
“We’re thrilled. You’ve been selling the romance beyond our wildest dreams. You’re either amazing actors, or . . .” She raises her eyebrow and lets her facial expression finish the sentence: Or you’re not acting at all.
I look at Savage, who isn’t looking at me, and can’t help noticing his breathing has become noticeably stilted and his jaw tight. I return my gaze to Nadine, my cheeks radiating with heat.
“Either way,” Nadine continues, “we’ve been blown away by how convincing and authentic you two have seemed, both here on-set and in your behind-the-scenes videos from home. When the first episodes begin airing in a few weeks, nobody could possibly doubt the authenticity of your relationship. Which, of course, was initially our primary goal.”
Initially.
Oh, fuck.
Something about the way she emphasized that word unsettles me. If that was only the initial goal, then what’s the goal . . . now?
“Now that we’ve got our initial bases covered so well,” Nadine continues, once again emphasizing that same word, “we’re going to shift course. Add a little conflict to the love story, to make all the sweetness and happiness feel all the more special for the audience.”
Fuck.
Fuck.
Fuck!
In a flash, I know Aloha was right. We’ve given the suits too good a love story, right out of the gate, with nowhere to go but a live birth in the finale . . . or, in the alternative, a little trouble in paradise.
Nadine leans forward in her armchair. “Remember how you two were at each other’s throats during our very first conference call? That’s the dynamic we want to see during the last batch of auditions tomorrow, and then during Draft Day and Mentor Day, too. Sound good?” Her question is rhetorical. She barrels ahead without pausing. “During our break for the holidays, my team and I will pour over all the footage while editing together the first batch of episodes, and at that point, we’ll decide what direction we want to go next during the ‘live’ singing competition.”
I look at Savage, my heart crashing and my eyes wide with panic, and discover he’s every bit as poker-faced and cool as a cucumber as I am freaking out. Which makes sense, I suppose, since he has no idea about the early termination clause in my contract. To him, this is all white noise. A request he isn’t going to grant. While to me, this is catastrophic. Plainly, the producers are trying to figure out the best storyline for The Savage and Laila Show—which actually means, when you boil it down, they’re trying to figure out if maybe The Savage and Laila Show should become The Savage Show, sans Laila, like they’d initially wanted in the first place.
Nadine says, “We want to see ‘hate-lust’ from you guys! We want to see the same ‘I want to fuck you to death!’ energy that was in your famous meme! Bring us some of the fire from that viral video of you two fighting on the sidewalk. Bring us heat. Anger. Danger!” She chuckles with glee. “We want sniping, banter, and combativeness—the kind of hostility that’ll make our audience imagine you fighting at the judges’ table by day . . . and having angry but amazing hate-sex by night!”
My mouth hangs open. “But . . . Nadine, we don’t hate each other anymore. We did all that stuff when we did.”
“I never hated you, Laila,” Savage says, speaking for the first time during this conversation.
“It doesn’t matter what you feel. Fake it! The truth is that every passionate relationship straddles a thin line between love and hate. Or lust and hate.” She raises an eyebrow, letting us know she thinks the word “lust” is a far more appropriate descriptor than “love,” when it comes to Savage and me.
“But . . .” I say. I look at Savage ag
ain, but he’s no help. So, I return to Nadine. “Are you sure that’s what the audience will want to see from us? During that first conference call, you said it was your top priority to make sure our romance was totally believable. You wanted something that would make the audience ‘swoon.’ And I think we can agree that’s what we’ve delivered.”
“Absolutely. Although, to be clear, our top priority was never making the romance believable. That was a means to an end. Our actual top priority was, and still is, and always will be, supplying a show that captures maximum ratings. Now that we’re confident the initial footage we’ve gotten will convince everyone your relationship is real, we feel the next batch of episodes should offer a plot twist that will keep viewers glued to their TVs and coming back for more. We want the audience to worry a bit that your relationship might be on the rocks. We want them rooting for you to find your way back to each other—and tuning in, breathlessly, each week, to see if, in the end, you two make it to a happily ever after.”
I press my lips together, feeling flabbergasted.
In the face of my silence, Nadine addresses Savage. “Do you understand what we want?”
Savage snakes his arm behind me on the couch in an apparent show of solidarity. His jaw muscles pulse briefly, before he licks his lips and says, “I understand the meaning of your words, yes. But as far as I’m concerned, Nadine, I’m contractually obligated to be a judge on a reality TV singing competition and Laila’s devoted boyfriend. I’m not, however, contractually obligated to become, nor am I interested in becoming, a pawn on a dating show. I’m not a contestant on The Engagement Experiment, Nadine. That was never the deal.”
Nadine’s dark eyes flicker. “You both signed on to ‘sell’ the romance to a television audience. And, trust me, I know better than anyone on this planet, literally, how to do that. Based on my expertise, I’ve determined the audience will enjoy a bit more ‘Vintage Savage and Laila’ for a few episodes, as a foil to the ‘Blissfully Happy and In Love Savage and Laila’ we’ve come to know and love these past few weeks.” She flashes me a pointed look that telepathically screams at me to convince Savage to pivot with me. “You get it, don’t you, Laila? This is reality TV, not reality. We need to keep the audience entertained.”
