by Max Monroe
“Oh, no, no, no. Jesus, Rock. They didn’t get you here. You did. Your talent did. Haven’t you heard the song ‘Don’t Call Me Angel’?”
“Huh?” I sniffle and crinkle up my nose. “What does a song have to do with anything?”
“This song?” he asks rhetorically. “Everything.”
He moves around the couch toward the stereo on the other side of the room and turns it on before pairing it with his phone. I wait—somewhat impatiently—but not long after, the song finally starts to play.
The intro beat is all it takes for my eyes to widen so far I’m not even sure if they’re on my face anymore, any trace of previous tears completely gone.
Harrison dances, bouncing his hips back and forth and mouthing the words before throwing back his head for a phantom hair toss. When Miley Cyrus dives into her solo, Harrison points to me with a powerful finger gun, emphasizing each word carefully about being the one to make the money and write the checks.
I listen along as three badass women go on about being sexualized and undervalued despite their tremendous success, and by the end of it, every word feels ingrained in me.
I’ve spent my entire career being offered up on some sort of twisted platter as a sexed-up virgin without a voice for herself. I’ve created my success—I’ve performed my job beyond expectation and to great accolades—and yet I’m afraid to stand up for myself and make my own decisions about my life?
Harrison is right. It doesn’t make a damn bit of sense.
I am the star. I’ve never, ever recognized it in myself, and yet, he’s been treating me that way since the beginning.
Heidi’s entrance may have stolen the sexiness from the night, but as I watch Harrison dance around without regard for pretense or posturing, all in the name of empowering me—making me an advocate for myself—I can safely say that not even remotely all has been lost.
In fact, it might just be that a whole hell of a lot of perspective has been gained.
The very early morning of August 16th, 2:45 a.m.
Raquel
Hakuna Matata, baby.
My fingers are warm prunes, and I can barely contain my excitement at the smell of my clean hair and the satisfying brush of a dry, fluffy towel.
The scents are manly, compliments of Harrison, but after laughing at his jokes and staring at his smile for the last several hours, it’s not exactly a hardship.
Tonight, it’s like I was able to press pause on my life.
I don’t have my phone. I don’t have my team. And for once, I don’t even have the shell of the image they want me to have.
The New York rain more than washed it away.
I’m just Rocky, the woman who used to be a girl Harrison Hughes knew.
It’s all so gloriously simple.
And right now, I want to be a woman who takes what she wants—him.
With newfound confidence, I wrap the crisp white towel around my chest, tucking it in like the fold of a burrito, take a deep breath, and quietly open the bathroom door.
I peer outside into the bedroom. It’s empty and dark, and the soft whir of the TV down the hall is the only thing I can hear.
I tiptoe on bare feet along the hardwood until I make it to the end, and only then do I peek around the corner.
Harrison is stretched out on the couch, bare feet up and crossed with a long arm up along the back. A football game plays softly in front of him on ESPN Classic.
Yep. The jury is unanimous—grown-up Harrison Hughes is a certified babe.
I’m talking full-on hottie.
And in my line of work, I spend some time around guys who’re almost unnaturally good-looking. Some of them, I guess, probably do come by it unnaturally via surgery.
But Harrison was born this way. It’s in the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes and the mesmerizing flecks in the irises of his foresty eyes.
I can’t even count how many times I watched his slightly overlong hair fall down on his forehead while we were at the bar, weighted by the rainwater.
Hell, I’d probably still be doing it back at that bar if he hadn’t been ready to leave.
When he spots me playing a Tom of the peeping variety, he smiles and climbs to his feet.
“Hey there. Feel better?”
“Exponentially.”
“Good.”
I awkwardly shuffle on my feet as I try to get my seductive bearings.
Do I drop my towel now? Or do I…?
“You okay?”
“It’s just…” I want to seduce you. I want us to do the sex. I want to not be a virgin anymore. “I…uh…” I pause again and search for something—anything—to say to him that would actually make sense. “I could use some clothes.”
Ugh! No! You don’t want clothes! You don’t even want him to have clothes right now! No clothes for anyone in this apartment until the sex has been had!
“Oh,” he says with a chuckle. “Right. I keep forgetting this isn’t a nudist colony. My bad.”
“A mistake I’m sure many men make.”
“I’m glad you understand,” he teases with a wink. His stride is long as he blows past me on his way back to his bedroom, but his gaze moves at a much slower pace, lingering on the bare skin at my neck long after he’s gone by me. I’m actually impressed by his neck’s ability to turn that far.
I follow in his wake, watching as the muscles of his back flex and stretch beneath his plain white T-shirt.
He’s got a perfect body—heavy muscle mixed with long, lean lines—and he carries himself with the confidence I only pretend to have in front of a crowd.
As he waves me inside his closet behind him and pulls his T-shirt over his head to switch it out for something with long sleeves, I can’t help but wonder if the moment hasn’t been lost completely. If I can still manage to get this seduction, lose-my-virginity show on the road.
I mean, will I ever get another opportunity with someone I can trust?
What if I really did just make it happen? Right here, right now? I could just step forward and put my lips to his bare back and unwrap my towel and let it fall to the floor.
A shiver runs down my spine at the fantasy I’ve been having since I thought of it back in the safe constraints of his bathroom, and I swallow thickly around my arousal as it threatens to come up and out through my throat.
Before I can lose my nerve, I reach out with a timid hand and flatten it against the warm, hard surface of his back. He twists to glance at me at the contact, but when he notices the look on my face, everything between us slows to a halt.
“Rock?”
“Harrison.” It’s all I can say, and yet, I know it’s not really saying anything at all. It’s not confessing my thoughts or a profession of feelings or even a seductive invitation to make love to me. And it’s sure as hell not an admission of my inexperience.
But evidently, it does at least carry a tone because I could swear the green color of his eyes darkens right before my own.
With a shaking hand, I reach up to the twist I’ve formed at the top of my towel and undo it, clutching at the fabric as my nerves ramp up my heart to a blistering pace.
I focus on his eyes and the comfort I find in them as he stares intently at my hand.
Slowly, I force my fingertips to release the hold they have on the clump of plush fabric and swallow hard as the soft whoosh of the towel hitting the floor echoes between us.
Ironically, I’m kind of thankful to be naked at this point. My heart is beating so fast, I’d swear he’d be able to see it knocking around in my chest if I hadn’t presented him with other things to look at.
It’s the first time on record I can honestly say I’m happy my nutritionist restricts my complex carbohydrates.
Wide, interested eyes run down the length of my body and back up again before stopping earnestly on my face. He’s looking for the gimmick, the joke—maybe even the regret. But for as nervous as I am—and we’re talking really freaking nervous—I’m not feeling in the least like this is a
bad idea.
It feels like a good idea.
The best.
Like the solution to a problem that needed to be literally put to bed a long-ass time ago—and a good time to boot.
I’m no expert, but I can’t imagine the twenty-woman-screwing, freaking hot-as-hell guy in front of me is bad in bed.
Forcing my hands to stay loose at my sides, I look down to the pebbled nipples at my breasts and then beyond—to the very obvious bump in Harrison’s pants. The fact that I’m turning him on is tremendously powerful. It’s like years of being a public sex symbol are finally making practical sense.
With two steps, Harrison closes the distance between us, his finger catching under the bottom of my chin and lifting up on it until our eyes meet and hold.
“Are you sure you want this?”
I start to nod, but when a swirl of uncertainty finds its way into his eyes, I force myself to open my mouth and speak. “Yes. I’m sure.”
Apparently, I succeed in my endeavor to sound certain because he doesn’t pause to ask again.
Soft yet sure hands run down the sides of my body and curve in at my hips before stalling just over the skin below my belly button. I savor the weight and warmth of their touch as Harrison places a kiss to the hollow of my collarbone before skimming his lips on a straight line downward until his face is between my breasts. He drops to his knees to better position himself, and I allow myself the pleasure of sinking my hands into the silky strands of his hair.
My breath comes in staccato pants as I try to gather myself against the absolute flurry of emotions attacking my system.
Holy shit, I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
I’m going to have a penis in my body. Like, inside. All the way.
Holy, holy shit.
He looks up to meet my eyes as his lips touch the skin under my belly button, and it’s all I can do to stay standing.
I’ve never had a role on a medical show, but I’m pretty sure I’m on the brink of cardiac arrest.
“You’re beautiful, Rocky,” Harrison whispers, the tiny flutters of air from his words tickling the skin of my belly and sending my stomach for a ride up into my throat.
They’re words I’ve heard a million times, but when Harrison says them, my hair wet and face fresh from the shower, for the first time in a long time, I actually allow myself to believe it.
He moves his lips from my stomach downward, over the bone of my hip and following the line of my thigh all the way to the inside.
My knees start to shake, but if he notices, he doesn’t make a big thing of it, for which I’m eternally grateful. I don’t want to think too hard. I don’t want to get so lost in the details of how momentous an occasion it is that I forget to enjoy myself. I deserve this. I deserve this night for me and no one else, and by God, I’m not going to let myself ruin it.
I close my eyes and get lost in the sensation of his lips on me. Warm and sure, they show affection to each inch of my skin with equal and devoted attention. His hair feels soft in my hands, and he hums appreciatively at each new part of my body.
When my legs grow so weak that the tremble can no longer be ignored, he picks me up with an arm behind my knees, swings me fully into his arms, climbs to standing, and carries me to his bed as though I weigh nothing.
I wrap two tight arms around his sculpted shoulders and hang on as he settles me into the plush comforter and steps back again to push his pants down his legs.
I swallow hard as his cock goes from a foggy bulge in his pants to an undeniable thing of majesty. Thick, long, and veiny, it screams its arousal with impressive attention.
Dear God, I was not prepared for a penis of this magnitude.
This penis is king of the pride of penises on the most magical wild safari.
This penis is Mufasa.
“You okay?” he asks, climbing onto the bed in front of me and spreading my legs with sure but gentle hands.
I nod before blurting, “I just want you to know I wasn’t planning this. This is unexpected but welcome, and I…I think you’re great.”
His smile takes over his entire face as he falls to his stomach on the bed and looks up at me from between my parted legs. I have to actively work at not passing out. “I wasn’t expecting this either. And I think you make great look bad.”
“Gah. Is someone scripting these lines for you?”
He laughs with a shake of his head. “I’ve never been in show business, but if we were in a movie, I’d just be a secondary character.”
I lift a brow.
“You, Rock. You’d be the star.”
Raquel
Hand over the damn keys because it’s time for me to drive.
When light bleeds through the curtains over the balcony doors of my bedroom the next morning at the sound of my alarm, it’s as if I can feel it shining straight into my soul. Clarity—the kind I haven’t felt for a frightening amount of time—sits at the front of my mind and begs me to set my life to rights.
I can’t let myself feel so out of control anymore. I can’t let myself be a passenger in the stupid fucking van I should be driving, and I shouldn’t allow anyone to make me feel like I should be. I have to take responsibility for my choices—good and bad—and handle them in the way that brings me the most peace of mind.
Sure, I’m successful to a degree, but I’m also a woman without a family to fall back on, no friends of my own making, and a puppet on a very large stage. And in the grand scheme of life, that doesn’t make me so successful at all.
Eager to start setting things straight, I jump out of my bed with the spright of a far less pregnant woman and charge into the bathroom with determination.
I brush my teeth with vigor, run a brush through my hair, and do a quick scrub of my face that serves as even more symbolic ammunition. I’m a clean slate in many, many ways, and it’s up to me to put the makeup on the canvas. Or…something.
I flip off the light and head out into the sometimes-busy world of my apartment, expecting nothing short of the cavalry. To be honest, I’m hoping to find them. I’m energized and ready to take on my opponents now, but who knows how I’ll feel as the day goes on. I am cooking a baby in my body after all. All I find, though, is Harrison, sleeping soundly under a throw blanket on my couch.
I soften my footsteps immediately, hoping not to wake him, but as he stirs, pushing the blanket down to reveal his muscled bare chest and abdomen, it becomes more than apparent that I’m already too late.
With a little groan and burrow of his head on the pillow, he opens his eyes and looks right at me. I freeze in my tracks as if I’m in the middle of a bank heist rather than strolling through the confines of my very own apartment.
“Hey,” he says softly, sitting up immediately and running a hand through his sleep-rumpled hair.
Good God, he’s sexy.
“Hey,” I parrot awkwardly, tapping a toe on the carpet and putting a hand to my hip to further my casual appearance. “What are you doing here?”
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth as he scratches offhandedly at his magnificent, tanned chest—which, of course, pulls a tiny bit too much of my attention. I shake my head, trying to focus as he explains. “You passed out cold out here last night. I carried you into bed, but I figured I’d stay here just in case you needed me. I know it was…kind of an emotional night. A lot of highs and lows, you know?”
A shiver runs the line of my body from top to bottom at the memory of the absolute peak—the feel of his lips on mine as we let ourselves fall into what’s evidently been building since we said goodbye after conceiving our little bundle of joy.
“Yeah,” I confirm with a blush, looking to the floor and scuffing my toe against the carpet in an attempt to make it a little less obvious. “Definitely a roller coaster, huh?”
He scoots to the side and gestures to the couch next to him. “Do you want to sit down?”
“No. Thanks. I want to grab something to eat before Freddie gets
here to head to set.” I giggle a little and sink my face into my hands. “Oh God. I’m being awkward, aren’t I?”
Harrison chuckles, stands to his feet, and closes the distance between us to wrap me in his arms. His embrace is warm and welcoming, and sweet baby Jesus, the smell of him like this—surrounding me so early in the morning—feels too good for description.
The sweet feel of his warm breath ruffles my hair slightly as he talks directly into it, his lips on top of my head. “I know it’s a lot. And I know it’s complicated. But, Rocky—” He pulls away enough to tip my chin up so that our eyes can meet, and I fall into the trap of his mesmerizing comfort. “I want the complication—I want you.”
My breath catches in my throat, and I have to swallow hard to clear a path for its exit.
“When I decided to move out here,” he continues, still looking into my eyes. “I did it with the expectation that I might not fit into your life. That you might not have room for a man you didn’t plan on, and I made peace with that. As long as I had a shot to be there for the baby, that would be enough for me.”
My heart beats a million miles an hour as he shrugs just one bare shoulder.
“But the peace I made is gone,” he says softly. “I go to sleep thinking about you, and I wake up in the morning doing the same. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself if I keep going like we’ve been, pretending that whatever’s between us isn’t worth being explored.”
“Harrison,” I whisper. “I…don’t know what to say.” For fuck’s sake, Raquel, that is the understatement of the century. I am, in a word, speechless. And it’s not because I’m not feeling the same things—it’s because I am. And I haven’t got a fucking clue how to deal with them. Not while also dealing with the rest of the mess I’ve adopted as normal life.
Somehow, like always, Harrison’s suit of armor takes the chink of my words with ease. The man is damn near impenetrable. Honestly, the only time I’ve ever even seen him restless is when he’s going head-to-head with Heidi.
“So, don’t say anything,” he offers instead. “Just think about it. I have some shit to get done today while you’re on set, so just take the time and think about it. See how you feel.”
