by Elle Kennedy
She glowers at me. “The complicated kind. The distracting kind.”
“Interesting. What is it about me that distracts you?” I close the distance between us and plant my hands on her waist. “Let me guess. I distract you because—much as it bugs you—I turn you on like nobody’s business. Am I right?
“No.”
I chuckle. “It’s okay to be in denial. And it’s also okay to feel disappointed.”
She pushes my hands off her. “Why would I feel disappointed?”
“Because the ship has sailed.”
“What ship?”
“The sex ship.” I cross my arms. “You blew it, Red.”
“Excuse me?” Both her eyebrows sail up to her forehead, and I feel like kissing that indignant frown off her sexy mouth.
But I don’t.
“You heard me. You missed your chance.” I poke the inside of my cheek with my tongue and fight back a grin. “I’m sorry to inform you—I won’t be fucking you tonight.”
“Wow. You are the most egotistical—”
“Enough small talk,” I cut in with a pleasant smile. “Will you be showing me to my room or should I just take the couch?”
12
Maggie
Is it possible to hate a man and want to rip off his clothes at the same time?
I’ve been pondering the question all morning, but the answer still eludes me. What remains clear, however, is that on the one-to-ten scale of sexual frustration, I’m sitting at eleven right about now.
As the sunlight streams in through the open window blinds, I slide up into a sitting position and lean against the headboard, wondering if Ben slept as horribly as I did. Probably not. Knowing him, he dreamt of kittens and rainbows all night long, unfazed by everything that happened.
I, on the other hand, spent eight hours tossing and turning and fighting the urge to jump out of bed and jump Ben Barrett’s bones.
God, I acted like a spoiled brat last night.
Try bitch.
Fine, I’ll call a spade a spade.
When I brought Ben back to the apartment, I truly had every intention of having some fun with him. But then we walked inside, and the first thing I saw was the pile of textbooks on the computer desk. The stack of bills on the hall table. The jam-packed schedule tacked on the fridge.
Then I looked over and there was Ben. A gorgeous, confident man who made it clear he wanted to tear off my clothes with his teeth. A man who kissed like a champion and made me feel dizzy with desire.
That’s when the confusion kicked in. Somehow this cocky movie star managed to make important tasks like studying and paying bills seem secondary. And then, to make matters worse, when I let down my guard and admitted I don’t usually make time for sex, Ben had backed off. Just when I’d been ready to stop acting like an uptight party-pooper—fine, bitch—he’d promptly taken sex off the table and gone to bed. Alone.
I guess I deserve that.
Yawning, I glance at the clock on my bedside table. Ten thirty. I can’t remember the last time I got up later than eight, and the realization that I’ve wasted half my morning stewing over Ben’s rejection and my own stupidity isn’t one I like waking up with.
The faint sound of music finally draws me out of my warm covers. I wrinkle my forehead as I search for my slippers, the fuzzy, pink cat ones the kids at the center collectively bought me last year for my birthday. I find them in front of the closet, slip my bare feet into them, and leave the bedroom.
In the narrow hall, the music grows louder. Sounds like…the Beach Boys? Yep, it’s the Beach Boys, I realize as the soft strains of “I Get Around” become clear. Then I make out a male voice humming along and roll my eyes. Hard. Of course Ben is listening to this. It’s probably his life’s theme song.
I find him in the kitchen, frying eggs over the stove and singing along with the song playing on his cell phone, which he set up on the work island in the middle of the room.
I open my mouth to utter a crack about making himself at home, but the words die in my throat the second he turns around.
He’s barefoot and bare-chested, wearing nothing but a pair of jeans that ride low on his lean hips. His dark hair sports a serious case of bedhead, and the stubble on his chin is thicker, giving him a masculine sexiness that causes heat to simmer in my belly.
My gaze drifts to his tattoos, the tribal designs and lines and lines of text that I can’t read from where I’m standing. My pulse quickens when I glance south again and note the absence of a second waistband. Is he not wearing any boxers?
Ugh. Why does this man have to be so damn…fuckable?
“Finished gawking?”
His rough voice causes my head to snap up. Ben’s grinning at me, looking totally pleased by the fact that I’ve been checking him out.
“I wasn’t gawking,” I lie, breezing toward the fridge to get some orange juice. “I was just—”
“Shhh.” He holds up his hand to silence me, cocks his head toward the phone, and starts singing the first few lines of “Barbara Ann.”
Open-mouthed, I just stare at him, waiting until he tires of the song and turns his attention back to the sunny-side eggs sizzling in the pan.
“I take it you’re a Beach Boys fan,” I say, sipping my juice. I set down the glass so I can run my fingers through my frizzy, slept-on hair.
It’s slightly unnerving having him here, cooking breakfast in nothing but a pair of jeans. Tony and I never do the breakfast thing, or the morning thing, or any thing that doesn’t involve hot sex followed by goodbye.
“The biggest,” he replies, shooting me a toe-curling grin before reaching over to turn off the stove.
Using a spatula, he drops one egg on a plate, followed by a piece of brown toast, and hands it to me. “Enjoy.”
When was the last time a man cooked for me?
Oh right. Never.
Oddly touched, I take the plate, and settle on the lone stool by the counter. The kitchen is too small to be considered “eat-in” on any real estate listing, and I’m about to suggest moving to the dining room when Ben picks up his own plate, leans against the counter, and starts eating standing up. Well. At least he isn’t one of those celebrities who expects to be served while he sits on a throne.
“You know, I dated a girl named Barbara Ann once,” he says after he’s swallowed a bite of toast.
“Doesn’t surprise me.” I chew slowly. “I bet you’ve also dated a Rhonda, and every other girl the Beach Boys sing about. You’ve also dated every actress and model in the eighteen to thirty-five demographic.”
“What makes you say that?”
“I Googled you last night.”
“No, you didn’t. We slept in separate bedrooms.”
I roll her eyes. “I couldn’t sleep, so I researched you.”
Winking, he polishes off the rest of his breakfast. To my surprise, he washes his dish and sets it to dry on the plastic tray on the counter, then leaves the frying pan in the sink to soak. Wow. Even Summer doesn’t do her dishes this quickly, and I’ve dubbed her the ultimate neat-freak.
“Why couldn’t you sleep?” Ben asks.
“I just told you I researched you and you want to know why I couldn’t sleep?”
“Yep.” He grins. “So why couldn’t you?”
I was too busy fantasizing about licking every inch of your body. “I was too tired.”
“Right.” It’s obvious he doesn’t believe me.
“Anyway,” I go on, hoping he’ll leave it at that, “it turns out you’re quite the playboy.”
I don’t mention the unwelcome pang of jealousy I experienced while reading about Ben Barrett’s conquests. Considering the only type of appearance Ben will be making in my world is a cameo, I have no idea what to make of the claws that came out when I saw all those photos of him with other women.
He looks insulted. “I’m not a playboy.”
“Sure you are. You travel the world and have casual affairs with gorgeous women. That m
akes you a playboy.” I quirk an eyebrow. “Or would you prefer fuckboy?”
He raises an eyebrow right back. “Well, with you getting laid only twice a year, I can see why my reputation might intimidate you.”
“Sometimes three times,” I correct. Then I scowl. “You really are one of those annoyingly cheerful morning people, aren’t you?”
“I sure am.”
He waits while I shove the last mouthful of eggs into my mouth, and then takes my plate. To my surprise, he washes it as well.
“Don’t tell me you dated Martha Stewart too,” I grumble.
Ben wipes his hands with a pink dishcloth. “No, but I grew up with one. My mother never let me leave the kitchen until it was spotless.” As if to punctuate that, he uses the dishcloth to wipe the counter until it squeaks. “So what are we doing today?”
The question catches me off-guard, but I quickly cover up my surprise. “Well, I have a ton of stuff to do, and you, I assume, will be finding a hotel. Or maybe you’ll be talking with your publicity people about your recent scandal. I read about that too, by the way.”
His cheerful expression fades. “You did?”
“Yep. So that rich lady left you her money, huh?”
I hit a nerve. I can tell from the way his features harden and his eyes narrow into slits. I’d only managed to dig up a few details about Ben’s involvement with Gretchen Goodrich, but enough to suspect how touchy a subject it must be.
Goodrich was the heiress to a salad dressing empire and wife of an Academy Award-winning director. She lost the battle with breast cancer three months ago, and from what I read she’d left Ben close to twenty million dollars in her will. The press hinted at an affair between Ben and the fifty-three-year-old, but since there doesn’t seem to be any actual evidence of it, I’ve decided it’s most likely a rumor. Still, Ben must have been pretty close to the woman if she’d left him a part of her fortune.
“You can’t believe everything you read,” Ben says in a mild tone. The frown leaves his face, but his stiff posture tells me he’s still on edge.
Before I can say anything else, he breezes past me, bare feet padding against the tiled floor. I figure he’s heading to Summer’s room to get dressed, so when he flops down on the couch and reaches for the remote control, I bolt to my feet and scurry into the living room.
“What are you doing?” I demand. “I just told you, I’ve got tons of stuff to do.”
“I’ll wait.” He flips on the TV and turns it to ESPN.
“You can’t.” Exasperation climbs up my chest. “I have a really busy day.”
Ben presses the mute button and shoots me an expectant look. “Doing what?”
“You want me to write you a list?”
“No, a verbal break-down would be fine.”
Oh, I’ll give him a verbal break-down, all right. I don’t care how sexy he looks in those jeans or how enticing his chest is. It’s Sunday, and Sunday is my day. The only day I don’t work or volunteer or take notes in a classroom. Sure, I spend the free time cleaning and doing homework, but it’s free time nonetheless.
“I need to finish writing a paper,” I say, setting my jaw. “Then I have to research child abuse law and make notes so I can write another paper. Then I need to study for exams.” I take a breath. “And after I’ve done all that, I was going to wax my legs. Satisfied?”
He furrows his brow. “Why do you wax your legs when the only guy who sees them comes to town twice a year?”
“Sometimes three times,” I snap. “And I don’t need to justify my leg-waxing routines to you. So get dressed and go do some movie star things, like, I don’t know, golfing or staring at your reflection in store windows.”
His answering laughter sounds like honeyed sandpaper. “Is that what you think movie stars do?”
“I don’t care what you do,” I growl, starting to grow annoyed. “I just want you to go away. My schoolwork requires silence.”
“So I’ll be quiet.” He shrugs and directs his attention back to the sports highlight reel on TV.
It takes all my willpower not to pull my own hair out by the roots. What does he want from me? Obviously not sex, considering he hasn’t touched me since last night.
“You’re seriously not going to leave?” My voice is a cross between a squeak and a groan, with another growl thrown in for good measure.
His blue eyes never leave the screen. “Nope.”
“But…I…you…” I groan irritably. “Just keep the volume down!”
Spinning on my heel, I storm into my bedroom and curse myself for not being strong enough to physically throw him out. As I get dressed, I hear him chuckling from the other room.
13
Ben
Because I’ve taken a vow of silence, I spend most of the afternoon fighting back laughter and watching TV with the volume off and the captions on. In the dining room, Maggie sits at the table, typing away on her laptop and stopping every now and then to rustle through the pages of a textbook the size of an encyclopedia.
She’s been working for hours, her eyes glued to the monitor, her fingers on the keyboard. And the way she keeps biting her bottom lip in concentration makes me want to walk over there and capture that pouty lip with my teeth.
I’m not really sure why I’m forcing my presence on her, especially after last night. If any other woman had grumbled that much about the idea of fucking me, I would’ve just said goodbye and moved on. So why am I still here?
I don’t know if pursuing a woman who views sex as a complication is even worth the hassle. I mean, I have nothing against playing hard to get, but in Maggie’s case, it goes beyond a coy little game. Under normal circumstances, I’d pass on the challenge and focus my energy on a woman who actually wants to be around me, but there’s nothing normal about this situation. Or about Maggie.
Since I’ve met her, I’ve barely thought about the scandal hanging over my head, or the fact that reporters are camped outside my home. Thanks to this infuriating woman, I’ve managed to think about something other than my own troubles, and I kind of want to hang on to that liberating feeling for a while longer.
“You should take a break.” I speak before I can help it, hoping Maggie won’t reprimand me for breaking my oath of silence.
“I just have to write my conclusion,” she says without turning around. She taps a few keys with her fingers. “Give me a sec.”
I try to tell myself I’m not thinking of my own needs as I rise from the couch and walk toward her. Instead, I focus on the fact that Maggie has been working for five hours straight without so much as a bathroom break.
Standing behind her, I place my hands on her shoulders and start rubbing the knot between her shoulder blades. She flinches for a second and then leans into my massaging fingers, sighing softly.
“See, you need a break,” I chide. “You’re so stiff.”
And boy, do I know what stiff feels like. Although the material of her long-sleeved shirt is woven from thick cotton, I can feel the heat of her skin underneath my fingertips. From there, my mind plays a torturous game of What other parts of her body are hot? Her breasts? Her thighs? Her—
“I can feel your boner poking against my back, by the way.” The chair’s backrest leaves a gap between her lower back and shoulders, and she wiggles her tailbone against my growing erection.
“So?” I drawl.
“So it’s not appropriate.”
I roll my eyes, wondering what she’d say if she knew I wasn’t wearing anything under my jeans. Tomorrow I’ll need to buy some new clothes, but until then I’m going commando.
Actually, she probably wouldn’t even blink if she knew that. Why would she? This chick is neither easily affected nor impressed.
Christ. How is it possible that the one woman who’s intrigued me in a long time is also the one woman who wants nothing to do with me? The chemistry between us is combustible, but apparently chemistry doesn’t impress Maggie Reilly either. We haven’t even had sex and already
she’s shooing me off the stage.
But being the seasoned performer that I am, I have no intention of being shooed away.
Instead, I taunt her. “Don’t act like you’re not getting wet feeling me against you.”
“Wet? No. But I am a little hungry. Should we order a pizza?”
Some primitive part of me makes me swivel the chair, determined to prove to this woman that my aroused state turns her on. Maggie’s eyes widen as I sink to my knees and rest my hands on her hips. My fingers toy with the waistband of her black yoga pants.
“What are you doing?” She practically squeaks out the question. “I told you I have work to do.”
“And I told you it’s time to take a break.”
“You don’t get to dictate—”
“Orgasm,” I interrupt.
She blinks. “What?”
“Do you want an orgasm?”
Exasperation fills her eyes. “Do you always talk in riddles?”
“Who’s riddling? I’m asking you a question—are you in the mood for an orgasm?” I lick my bottom lip. “Because I’m in the mood to give you one.”
Her lips part slightly. Then her mouth falls entirely open.
Grinning at her reaction, I gently lift her ass off the chair so I can peel her pants off her legs. She doesn’t stop me. In fact, her breathing quickens as my palms slide over each smooth inch of skin that is revealed.
“You don’t need to wax your legs,” I accuse as I toss the yoga pants aside.
She sighs. “I know. I lied.”
My mouth lifts in another grin, partly because of her admission, partly because the agitated look on her face is completely foreign on her. Since I’ve met her, she’s been cool and composed, even when her green eyes flash with anger, when her cheeks redden with arousal. I like it all, but not as much as I enjoy the naked vulnerability and raw desire on her face right now.
Maybe it’s the challenge, or maybe it’s infatuation, or maybe she simply represents some level of normalcy that’s been missing from my life since I became famous. Whatever the reason, I can’t help myself from trying to seduce her. I continue to stroke her legs, and then move my hands north again. Touching the damp crotch of her bright yellow panties, I fight a chuckle. “Told you you’re wet.”
