by Tracy Wolff
“I’m fine, Cole.” Even I can hear how short and off I sound. I take a moment to breathe, then deliberately soften my voice. “Honest, I am. I just need to never have to see Ian Sharpe again.”
Chapter 9
“Are you kidding me?” I shove off the bed where I was working before my agent called and start pacing back and forth across the red-and-gold carpeting of my hotel suite. “Veronica Romero has blackballed me?”
“She hasn’t blackballed you,” he answers soothingly. “She just doesn’t have time for another meeting, so she’s hopeful you got everything you needed in the first two.”
“Yeah, well, hope springs eternal, doesn’t it?” I shove a hand through my hair, frustrated beyond belief that she’s pulling this. I’m not surprised, necessarily, just frustrated. And furious. “How the hell could I have gotten what I needed, Mitch, when she totally stonewalled me at our first meeting?”
“You didn’t tell me that.”
I snort. “What exactly was I supposed to say? That she went all diva on me the second I asked a question deeper than who her favorite designer is?”
There’s a long pause. Then, “Were you pushing her? Because maybe—”
“I wasn’t pushing her. I hadn’t even brought him up. I was asking questions for the article—not even hard questions, if I’m being honest—and she totally shut down. It’s the same thing she’s doing now and I’m not putting up with it.”
“What about yesterday? You were at her house all day, right? Surely you got something you can use.”
“She was doing a photo shoot all day. I got no time with her at all until the very end of the day.”
“Okay.” Mitch draws the word out, and the fact that his South Carolina accent has become pronounced says everything about how confused—and concerned—he is by my reaction. “So what happened then?”
Images of Veronica flash through my mind at the question.
Stripping down.
Spread-eagled on the table, hands pinned above her head.
On her knees, pushing her ass against my cock as she begs me to fuck her.
Crying out as she comes around my dick…then kicking me out of her house twenty minutes later.
And now, apparently, being completely unprofessional and refusing to see me again. Seems like she really meant it when she said she doesn’t go back for seconds.
“Ian?” Mitch prompts. “Is there something you’re not telling me?”
Oh, about a million or two things at this point. But what am I supposed to say to him? That Veronica let me fuck her brains out on her kitchen table? That it was darker and more intense than either of us had anticipated? That it shook me up, so it probably shook her up, too? And that now she’s screwing me over in order to take back the control she feels like she lost when we were together?
Mitch would have apoplexy if I told him any of that, especially considering how important this interview with Veronica is to my career. Not the Vanity Fair piece—that’s just an ego stroke and we both know it. No, this interview is important because I have questions and, after seeing that photograph in her parents’ room, I’m more certain than ever that she’s the only one who has the answers.
Which means she’s just going to have to get the hell over what we did on that kitchen table yesterday. If her ego’s bruised, I can stroke it. And if it’s just her ass that’s bruised…well, I’m more than happy to stroke that, too. Because I didn’t come all this way and agree to do this Vanity Fair piece just to come up empty now that the answers are right here in my grasp.
“I’ll take care of it,” I tell him, already grabbing my boots from the corner of my hotel suite and shoving my feet into them.
“Hey, wait. What does that mean exactly?” For the first time, Mitch sounds wary. He obviously knows me as well as he thinks he does.
“It means she’s going to talk to me whether she wants to or not.” I grab my wallet and keys from the dresser.
“Okay, look, let’s not do anything crazy here, man. I can call her agent back, see about getting a short meet over coffee. I don’t want to get Vanity Fair involved, because the last thing we want is for them to yank the story from you. But that means we don’t want her to call them, either. You’ve worked too long and hard on the book to just—”
“Believe me, I am well aware of that fact. Don’t worry. I’ve got this—”
“You don’t have this. You—”
I hit end call, shove the phone in my pocket. Then I’m slamming out of the room, taking the stairs three at a time because I’m too impatient to wait for the elevator. Thankfully, the valet isn’t busy and it’s only a couple of minutes’ wait before I’m cruising toward Burbank and Warner Bros. studios.
When we had originally been trying to come up with a time to meet, either Veronica or her agent had mentioned that she was filming at Warner Bros. for the next few weeks, before taking time off to do the international press junket for Belladonna. And since I have no idea where she lives except that it isn’t in the house she claims publicly as hers, catching her at work is my best bet. With my Vanity Fair press pass and other credentials, I’m pretty sure I can talk my way on set.
Half an hour later, I’ve done just that—turns out the security guard at the main gate is a big fan of both my books and Veronica Romero. He nearly jumped out of his skin with excitement when we were talking about Belladonna coming out, so a flash of my Vanity Fair credentials was pretty much all it took to convince him to let me through—and to direct me to the soundstage where Veronica’s new movie is shooting.
From what I understand, it’s some big-budget action-blockbuster remake, about as far from Belladonna as she could get. At least until you realize that she’s playing the role of the action hero and not the damsel in distress. It’s a big risk for a studio to take—hanging an entire action franchise on a female lead—but if there’s a woman in Hollywood right now who has the credibility and the audience to make it a success, it’s Veronica.
When I get to the right soundstage, the light is on signaling that they’re filming inside. The writer in me is a little disappointed—I’d like a chance to see her act, to see her immerse herself in a character just to see if I can spot the difference. If there even is a difference. I’m beginning to think that everything she does, everything she says, is an act. And that the only time I’ve ever seen the real Veronica was when she was coming apart on my dick.
Instead of waiting around outside the soundstage for her to finish, I make my way onto the lot, where the actors’ trailers are set up. Veronica’s name is on the one closest to the soundstage door—perks of being the lead—and I very deliberately walk toward it.
I half expect a security guard to stop me, but the only one I can see is at the other end of the set and he doesn’t seem at all concerned about my presence. I’m not sure if it’s because of the very prominent press pass I’ve got on my hip or if it’s because I look like I belong. Either way, I make my way to her trailer with no problems.
I figure she’s filming, so the quick knock I give on the door is cursory at best before I’m trying the knob. It turns easily, and maybe I should wait outside—okay, I should definitely wait outside—but at this point, the element of surprise is all I’ve got. I’m totally going to take advantage of it.
Except as I pull open the door, I’m the one who’s surprised. Because Veronica is standing on the other side, dressed in nothing but a short, red silk robe that shows off miles of show-stopping leg. Her hair is in a ponytail, her face devoid of makeup. Somehow, she’s even more beautiful.
Maybe it’s because there’s nothing to detract from her incredible bone structure.
Maybe it’s because that dark blood red is definitely her color.
Or maybe it’s because, despite the lack of artifice—of armor—she looks anything but vulnerable.
“What are you doing here?” she spits at me, color high and eyes narrowed dangerously.
“What do you think I’m doing here?” I
counter as I gently ease her backward and push my way inside.
“Are we back to this? Answering a question with a question?”
“You tell me. It’s your modus operandi, after all.” I advance a few more steps, expecting her to back up a little. But she doesn’t retreat. Of course she doesn’t. Instead, she holds her ground, looking me straight in the eye until I’m forced to either stop or run her down.
I choose to stop, but not until I’m so close that a deep breath on either of our parts would have her nipples brushing against my chest. Just the thought turns me on.
And I’m not the only one. I watch, silently, as her skin flushes. As her pupils dilate. As her breathing becomes more and more rapid.
She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. We’re locked in a battle of wills, one that can only have one winner. This time, I’m determined that it’s going to be me. And so we stare at each other for long seconds, the tension growing thicker and thicker with each moment that passes.
She leans back a little. I lean forward the same amount.
She bats her impossibly long eyelashes. I cock a brow.
She strokes a finger down the collar of my shirt. I slide a finger along her full lower lip.
And still neither of us speaks. Still the tension ratchets up another notch as we stare each other down.
There’s a part of me that wants to say to hell with it and just pull her into my arms, a part of me that wants to promise her I won’t write anything she doesn’t want me to write or say anything she doesn’t want me to say. But that won’t get through to her—she’s used to men she can walk all over, men she can bend to her will. If I give in now, I’m just one more.
So I wait, holding her gaze. Refusing to look way. Refusing to back down.
It takes a little while, but she breaks first. “Look, I’m sorry if—”
“No, you’re not.” I narrow my eyes warningly. “Try again.”
“Excuse me?” With those two words, the imperious queen is out in full force and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t glad to see her.
“You can tell me a lot of things right now that I would believe. You could tell me that you don’t want to talk to me. You could tell me that you’re going to call security if I don’t get the fuck out of your trailer. Hell, you could even tell me that you don’t want to want me. But to say that you’re sorry? I don’t believe for one second that you’re sorry—not about what happened between us and not about anything that happened after. So. Try again.”
“You need to leave.” She puts a hand on my chest, pushes firmly against me.
“Maybe I do.” I wrap my hand around her wrist, then twist so that I’m holding her fist against the small of her back. “But I think we both know that’s not going to happen.”
She gasps, wiggles against my hold. But that only brings her body into closer contact with mine and lets me feel just how hard her nipples are right now.
They’re really fucking hard.
I bring my free hand between us, flick my thumbnail across one hard little bud. She gasps and arches into it, so I do it again. And again. Then I squeeze her nipple between my fingers until she cries out, whether in pleasure or pain, I’m not sure. Both, I think, as I do it a second time and watch her pupils dilate until her eyes are nearly all black.
“Ian.” She gasps out my name, her free hand coming up to curl around my wrist. But I’m not having it—I’m in control here and the sooner she figures that out, the better off we’ll both be.
There’s a part of me that’s standing back and watching this whole thing, that’s wondering what the fuck I’m doing. I’m not this guy. I don’t play games with women. I don’t push at them and try to make them uncomfortable. I don’t try to control them. I sure as hell don’t get locked in a battle of wills with them.
And yet here I am, doing all of that and more with Veronica Romero. And though I know I should probably back off if I want to have any chance of getting the answers I so desperately need, I also know that there’s no chance that I’m going to do that. Not now, when heat and tension and sex pulse so overwhelmingly between us.
“I could scream,” she says as she tugs at the wrist she’s still holding on to. “Security would drag you out of here in a heartbeat.”
“So scream.” It’s a dare and she knows it.
I pause for several long seconds, waiting for her to make good on her threat. On my dare. But she doesn’t. Instead she just stands there, watching me watch her. It’s her own version of a dare, a giant fuck-you to me and everything I want from her.
I’m not having it, not after everything she’s already pulled.
I twist out of her hold, then pull this hand behind her back as well. I shift my grip so that I’m holding both of her wrists in one hand, then use my other hand to undo the belt of her robe.
She gasps as the red silk falls open, hunching her shoulders inward as if she’s trying to hide herself from my gaze. Or protect herself.
“Don’t!” I order, tugging on her wrists until she’s once again standing straight and exposed in front of me. And then I look my fill—at her creamy skin, her rose-colored nipples. Her waxed bare mons.
She doesn’t try to cover herself again. Doesn’t try to hide from my gaze. Instead she stands there, head high and eyes blazing at my scrutiny.
It’s a good look on her, one that turns me on almost as much as her beautiful body does.
Because I am turned on—and because she knows it—I stroke my thumb back and forth across her bottom lip hard enough to chafe. When she still doesn’t pull away, I push inside her mouth and wait to see what she’ll do.
There’s a part of me that expects her to bite me—God knows, I probably deserve it at this point—but that’s not what happens. Instead, she lets me stroke my thumb over her tongue for one second, two.
And then she begins to suck.
Fuck. Pleasure arrows through me as she licks along the bottom of my thumb, skates down my spine and along my skin before shooting straight to my cock. I can tell she expects me to pull away—this is her power play, after all—so I don’t. Instead, I push deeper, letting her do her worst as I relish the feel of her tongue and teeth and the soft, sexy heat of her mouth. As I relish the way her lips purse and her cheeks hollow out even as her eyes stay locked with mine. It’s pretty obvious she’s enjoying this as much as I am.
When I finally pull out, she whimpers softly. It’s a high-pitched, desperate sound that nearly has me coming in my fucking pants even as I slide my thumb over her chin, down her throat, between her breasts, over her stomach and navel, and finally—finally—down her abdomen and mons to her sex.
I press hard against her clit then, loving the little gasp she makes. Loving even more how hot she is. How wet. “Open your legs,” I demand as I slide my hand between her thighs.
She doesn’t move at first, and for long seconds I wait—my gaze locked with hers—as I wonder if she’s going to defy me. And what I’ll do if she does. In the end, she does as I ask, though, shifting her thighs apart just enough for me to turn my hand palm up.
To reward her—and because I can’t resist any longer—I circle her clit with my thumb. Stroke two fingers along her sex. Press my pinky finger against her anus.
She gasps, stiffens, instinctively tries to pull away. But I can see the pleasure in her eyes, feel the wetness of her arousal against my skin, so I use my other hand—the one still wrapped around her wrists at the small of her back—to put pressure on her and keep her in place. Then, without warning, I slide two fingers inside of her, fast and hard and deep.
She lets out a strangled little scream as I hit her G-spot on the first try, stroking slow and easy. And then she’s coming around me, her body rhythmically clenching on my fingers as I continue to work her over. To take her higher.
At one point, her head falls back and her eyelids flutter closed. “Don’t!” I order as I flick my thumb over her clit and corkscrew my fingers against her G-spot. “Look at me.”
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It takes a moment but eventually the words get through. She opens her eyes and pins her gaze to mine just as I set off a second orgasm inside of her.
She gasps then, her mouth falling open in a silent O as I draw out the pleasure. As I take her higher. She’s riding my hand now, her hips thrusting back and forth against my fingers in an effort to take me even deeper.
My cock is throbbing, my whole body on fire with the need to bury myself inside of her. But this encounter is as much about control as it is about sex and there’s no way I’m giving that to her. Not when she’s already struggling so hard to take over. To push me out of her space, out of her life. There are too many answers I still need from her, and too much I still want to do to her, for me to let that happen.
And so I hold back, concentrate instead on wringing every drop of pleasure that I can from her. Concentrate on turning her body and the part of her brain that worries and schemes to little more than mush.
I’m certain that it works, too, her body sagging against mine as its rhythmic contractions around my fingers finally end. She takes several long, unsteady breaths. Rests her forehead on my chest. Continues to tremble against and around me.
I pull out slowly, then wrap my free arm around her and rock her gently as she comes down. She feels good pressed against me—feels right—but I don’t let myself dwell on that. Instead, I focus on her. On making sure that she’s steady. That she’s okay.
At least until she pulls away from me and points one shaky hand at the trailer door. “Get out.”
Chapter 10
The second the words leave my mouth, I know they’re a mistake. I can tell from the way his eyes narrow, from the way his head cocks to the side and his full lips thin out to almost nothing.
“What did you just say?” He sounds as incredulous as he looks.
I fight the urge to take an instinctive step back, fight even harder the odd and terrifying compulsion I suddenly have to drop to my knees in front of him. I don’t know what’s going on here, don’t know what power he has over my body—over me—but it ends here. Now.