by Tracy Wolff
He grins. “Amber’s great. Give her a year or so and everyone will know her name.” He snaps me out, then pulls me in again, fast.
“You once said the same about me.” I turn with him, let him sweep me around the whole back half of the dance floor. People are starting to notice, starting to watch all the fancy moves he’s pulling for both of us. With anyone else I’d be anxious, partly because of the not being in control thing and partly because of the trust thing. But Damon’s helped guide me through the shark-infested waters of Hollywood for years now—one dance is nothing, no matter how flashy it is.
“I did. And look how well that turned out.”
“Does it count when I had a head start?”
“Famous offspring isn’t the same as world-renowned actress. I figured if anyone would know that, you would.”
I do know it. I do. It’s just that sometimes it’s easy to forget when you’re free-falling down the rabbit hole.
He dips me again, and as we go down I can see him searching my face, my eyes, looking for I don’t know what. But when he pulls me up again, the grin is gone from his face and his eyes are serious. “You okay, Roni?”
He’s the only one I let call me that. “Yeah, of course.” I clear my throat, nearly choke on the lie. “Just busy. You know how it is.”
He nods, but his eyes are still searching mine as he pulls me closer into the shelter of his body. Then he’s moving us until we’re in the corner of the dance floor, no more fancy steps, no more showing off. Instead, he turns me so that I’m facing the wall, away from any prying eyes—including Ian’s. Not that it matters. I don’t have to see him to be able to feel his eyes on me.
But Damon is oblivious to everything but me, his face concerned as he says, “Tell me.”
I shake my head. “Not now.”
“Is it a guy?” His eyes narrow. “Is he here?”
I don’t know how to answer that. Because Ian’s a part of it—of course he is—but compared to the garden and the bathtub and the fact that I’m desperately afraid I’m going insane—being kicked out of his hotel room this morning seems pretty minor.
“It’s not a guy,” I finally say, but I can tell he doesn’t believe me.
The fact that the song ends and Ian chooses that moment to slide a hand around my waist and ask, “Can I cut in?” certainly doesn’t strengthen my case.
Damon’s eyes dart from my face to Ian’s and I can see him trying to figure out what’s between us—and whether or not I want him to relinquish his hold on me. But before I can say something one way or the other, before either of us can even acknowledge the question, Ian is tugging me out of Damon’s arms and into his.
I stiffen instinctively, but I don’t try to pull away. Partly because I’m pretty sure he won’t let me go until he’s good and ready and partly because I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing just how confused and messed up I currently am.
Damon moves as if to intervene, but Ian shoots him a look that freezes him in place. It’s pretty impressive, considering I’ve never seen Damon back down from anyone. What’s even more impressive is that Ian doesn’t whirl me away. Instead, he chooses to stay right where we are, an obvious fuck-you to Damon if I’ve ever seen one.
I should do something, say something, but it’s like my brain stopped working the second he touched me. The idea terrifies me considering how hard I have to work to stay even half a step in front of him.
“You look beautiful,” he tells me as he pulls me close. “Your dress is very evocative.”
His hand is just a little too low on my back, his fingers just a little too possessive where they curl around my hip. I do my best to ignore it, just as I ignore the soreness between my thighs and the too-rapid beating of my heart. Instead, I concentrate on keeping my voice steady as I answer, “My mother picked it out. She thinks I need to try out a more serious look if Belladonna is going to be an Oscar contender.”
“It can’t hurt,” he agrees as we rock back and forth to the slow, sultry sound of Natalie Cole’s “Unforgettable.” “But the nomination is yours. I’ve seen the rushes—you’re brilliant as the Belladonna. An absolute natural.”
I know he means it as a compliment, but I can’t take it that way. Not today. Not right now. Still, I try to be gracious, try to say thank you. But the words stick in my throat.
He moves us a little away from Damon, and out of the corner of my eye I can see my old friend watching us. I should reassure him, should let him know that I’m totally fine with dancing with Ian, but he knows me well enough that he’d see right through me if I tried.
So I don’t look at him, but I don’t look at Ian, either. Instead, I keep my head up and my eyes focused anywhere—everywhere—but on the man who is holding me so close. The man whose hand is on my lower back and whose breath is hot against my cheek.
I can do this, I tell myself. I can keep myself from melting into him, can keep this dance completely impersonal. I just have to pretend that I’m dancing with anyone but him. It should be easy—after all, pretending is what I do for a living.
But in the end, it’s not as easy as that. How can it be when Ian is all around me? Crowding me, pinning me down, making me remember everything that happened in that hotel room last night. Making me forget all the promises I made to myself about not sinking into him again.
I take a deep breath, then regret it immediately as the sexy and now familiar scent of bergamot and orange seeps into my senses, into my skin.
I try to move back, to put some distance between us, but he follows me and the overwhelming strength of his long, lean body presses against my breasts, my thighs.
I try to tune him out, but the dark sound of his voice, low and gravelly and just a little hoarse, murmurs hotly against my ear.
And his hand—the same hand that pulled my hair, that pressed bruises into my hips, that spanked me—is now resting against my collarbone, while his long, elegant fingers softly stroke my neck, my jaw, the hollow of my throat.
“Where are the bruises?” he asks quietly, his warm breath sending shivers up and down my spine.
Again I try to ignore him, but there’s something in the black magic of his voice that demands an answer. I want to resist on general principle, except…“Still there. I used makeup to cover them up.”
What is it about this man that makes it so necessary for me to give in to him? No one else would get away with what he so effortlessly does.
“I’m glad. No one needs to see those marks but you and me.” Except even as he’s saying it, his thumb is rubbing back and forth against the right edge of my jaw. It’s a tender spot, one that I know houses a bruise. Just like I know that when he finally stops rubbing it’s because the small, dark purple love bite he left there has finally been exposed.
I should be annoyed considering the effort I went through to cover it, but instead I’m just turned on. There’s a part of me that likes the fact that he knows exactly where the bruises are that he left on me. It’s the same part that likes knowing he wants to see those same bruises—and that he wants others to see them, too, no matter what he says.
The final chorus rings through the ballroom and never in my life have I been so grateful that a song is almost over. I’m trying to stay aloof here, trying not to let him know just how turned on he makes me, even after everything that’s happened. But the longer he holds me, the harder it is for me to fake it. The harder it is for me to keep my body under control.
So much for bringing him to his knees. At this point, I’m almost ready to drop to mine and to hell with anything that’s come before or will come after.
But just as Natalie croons the last lyrics, Ian whirls me around so that my back is to his front. It’s definitely his favorite position when we’re together and I fight the newest wave of arousal it brings on as I try to decide if I’m going to let him get away with holding me like this. Before I can make a decision, he loops one arm around the top of my shoulders and another around my hips even as he propels me toward the
closest set of doors.
We make it there in seconds and he pushes the doors open, leads me onto one of the twelve small pocket balconies that surround the ballroom.
I’ve deliberately kept the lights off out here, choosing instead to string twinkle lights across the ceiling and through the wrought-iron railings. The result is fairy-like and sophisticated, light enough for people not to stumble around and dark enough to grant privacy to any guests who find their way outside.
Once the doors close behind us, I wait for Ian to make a move even though I’m still deciding how I’m going to respond. Am I going to be magnanimous or am I going to make him suffer? Am I going to let him kiss me or am I going to make him work for it? My panties might be damp, but I felt his very long, very hard cock pressed against me when we danced. I’m not the only one who’s aroused here.
I’ve just about decided to go the suffering route—at least until I get some kind of explanation for why he all but kicked me out of his hotel room this morning—but he doesn’t reach for me. Instead, he moves me forward, out of the shadows, and doesn’t stop until we’re looking out over the grounds of the estate.
We’re on the east side of the ballroom, though, which means the grounds we are looking over are the same ones that were ravaged this morning by Jensen and his crew. I try not to look at the lit path that used to be my rose trail, try not to look at the belladonna plants that have replaced them.
I’m afraid if I do I’ll freak out and tumble down the rabbit hole again. I’m barely holding on as it is and the last thing I want right now is to lose it in front of Ian. I may be fucking him, but that doesn’t mean I trust him. Not after what happened in his hotel room this morning—and not when he’s writing an article about me. He might not be a typical journalist, but in my opinion, that only makes him more dangerous, not less. He sees too much, knows too much about the dark side of human nature.
And so I turn away from the gardens, choosing to face him instead of the desecrated mess below me. Sleeping with him might have been a mistake, but at least I remember every second of it. I know it’s real and, right now, that’s all that matters.
Always take the devil you know.
The phrase comes to me fully formed, and I swear I can hear her saying it. Celeste Warren. The Belladonna. In preparation for the role I watched hours upon hours of interview footage with her in various stages of her life. She was a smart woman and a beautiful one, and she dominated any room she was put in.
She controlled everyone around her with her beauty and her ice-cold intelligence and the fact that she could run circles around them verbally. Many a reporter had tried to pin her down on one subject or another through the years, but she’d never let them trap her. She’d always had some joke or glib adage to get her out of sticky situations—and that was one of them. Always take the devil you know.
It had worked for her, too, it had all worked for her. The whole package. Right up until she took that fateful interview with Ian and her whole carefully constructed pack of lies fell like dominoes around her.
And Ian wonders why I’m wary around him? Why I dance around his questions instead of giving him the direct answers he wants? He’s so good at reading people, at seeing below the surface to who they really are, that I can’t help being terrified he’ll do the same to me. And then where will I be? My public persona is at least as carefully crafted as the Belladonna’s ever was. And my house of cards so much more delicately balanced.
Which is why I wait for him to make the first move. His face is blank, his jaw clenched, and I have no idea what he’s thinking. Just like I have no idea why he brought me out here. If it wasn’t to try to fuck me—and so far it doesn’t seem like it was—then I am at a loss. But I’ve played studio politics long enough to know that, unless you hold all the cards, it’s always better to hang back and wait for the other side to show theirs.
But Ian is as well-versed in power games as I am and so, for long seconds, he makes no move, either. Instead, he just stands here watching me out of eyes that see far, far too much.
We might have stayed like that all night—or at least until I was needed inside again—but a waiter opens the door carrying a tray heavily loaded with champagne glasses. “Would you like a drink, ma’am? Sir?”
“We’re fine, thank you,” Ian tells him, a trace of impatience in his voice for all of his studied politeness.
“I’d love one, actually.” I say, more to contradict Ian than because I really want the champagne. Still, once I’m holding it, I can’t resist the siren’s call of false courage that it brings and so I drain it much the same way I did my first three glasses. Ian just holds on to his, like he’s barely aware he picked it up.
I’m just reaching to put the glass down when Ian makes his move. “I’m sorry,” he says, and though he’s not touching me I swear I can feel the heat of him in my skin.
“For what?” It’s the last thing I expect him to say. Still, I make sure my tone says much more than the question does—namely, that I’m not implying that he doesn’t need to apologize, but rather that he has so much to apologize for that I’d like to know, specifically, which of his many transgressions he is referring to.
His answering smirk proves he’s as smart as I think he is—and that he knows exactly what I’m doing. In response, he touches me for the first time since we came out here, his elegant writer’s hand curling around my upper arm. “For whatever you think I’m guilty of.”
“Blanket apologies are such cop-outs, don’t you think?”
“Absolutely. Almost as much as the habit of answering a question with a question.”
“A girl has to have some secrets.”
“Even from the man assigned to write the definitive article about her?”
“Especially from him.” I reach for the glass of champagne in his hand and knock it back, too. Playing cat and mouse is such thirsty work.
He watches, lips quirked in amusement. But the second I put the glass down, he’s crowding me. His hips pressing against mine. His body squeezing me against the balcony railing.
It should make me uncomfortable—I’ve spent my life making sure I have plenty of wiggle room—but there’s something about Ian being the one to crowd me that somehow keeps me from freaking out.
I don’t trust him—of course I don’t—but the feel of his long, hard cock rubbing against my sex rekindles the fire inside of me. Makes me hotter than I have any right to be. It was only four days ago, after all, that I had been certain a man would never be able to make me come. Now, here I am, ready to drop my panties in the middle of my mother’s birthday party. And enjoy the hell out of every second of it.
It’s a humbling thought. And an arousing one.
That doesn’t mean I’m ready to let him win, though. To the victor goes the spoils and, frankly, after what he pulled this morning, he hasn’t earned me. Yet.
“I should get back inside. Make sure all my guests are comfortable.” I slip out of his arms, making sure to rub my breasts against his chest as I go. Never let it be said that I’m not willing to suffer for my art.
I barely make it two steps before his hand is around my wrist, holding me in place. “I’m a guest.”
“You’re a reporter.”
“Oh yeah?” He lifts my hand to his mouth, presses an openmouthed kiss to the center of my palm. “Is that why I’m here?”
“You’re here,” I tell him as I stroke my free hand along the clothed length of his erection, reveling in the way his breath catches and his hips stutter forward, “because I wanted you here.” I lean forward, press a lingering kiss to his mouth. “But now I have to go. Good night, Ian.”
He lets me make it to the door, even lets me open it. But then he’s grabbing me, whirling me around, pressing my back into the wall next to the door. “You didn’t really think it’d be that easy to get rid of me, did you, baby?”
Ian might be a worthy adversary, but in the end, he’s just a man. “If I’d wanted to get rid of you, ba
by, you’d already be gone.”
Chapter 19
Fuck.
The mouth on her.
The fucking attitude.
It makes me crazy. She makes me crazy. Even the knowledge that she’s very deliberately yanking my chain isn’t enough to calm me down, to make me back off. Not when she’s right here, staring up at me with a look that’s half “go to hell” and half “fuck me if you dare.”
There’s a voice in the back of my head telling me to walk away before I lose control with her again, but it’s drowned out by the blood pounding in my head—in my dick—to the rhythm of mine, mine, mine.
Her hair is down tonight, falling over her shoulders and down her back in the just-tumbled-out-of-bed look she’s known for. I fist my hand in it, pulling just enough to have her neck arching and her head tilting back. And then I’m kissing her, my mouth ravishing, plundering, devouring hers as I hold her in place.
She whimpers, moans, her hands coming up to push against my shoulders even as her mouth moves ravenously under mine.
Still I pull back, check her over to make sure she’s good. Her color is high, her lips swollen. And her eyes—those crazy violet eyes of hers—are already dazed, already halfway to being checked out.
My dick grows even harder at the sight. Fuck, the way Veronica can go under so easily completely blows my mind—especially when she’s so guarded the rest of the time. It also shoots my control straight to hell and for a second I think of fucking her right here, think of bending her over the balcony railing and plunging inside of her as I make her come again and again.
But her hands are still on my shoulders, still pushing me away, and I have to ask. Have to make sure I’m not misreading the signs. “Do you want me to stop?”
Several long, excruciating seconds pass before she answers with a small shake of her head. “No?” I ask once more, just to make sure.
“No,” she answers, her voice still hoarse from everything we did last night. I want to feel guilty, but it’s hard to when I can picture her on her knees in front of me and how fucking amazing it felt to thrust myself into her mouth again and again and again.