He pauses for a minute. A minute charged with tension and wanting and chemistry. “No. I don’t have feelings for you.”
It’s the answer I expected. And wanted. Of course he doesn’t have feelings for me. How could he?Whywould he? Aside from the two times we’ve had universe-implodingsex, we’ve done nothing but bicker and tear each other down.
“But I do like you, Emmy. I never hated you, despite what you seemed to think. And I didn’t come here to mess up this movie for you.” He closes the space between us and threads his fingers through mine. “I think we should be friends.” He lowers his head and places a single kiss on the side of my neck. “And I sure as hell wouldn’t say no to continuing our sexual relationship.”
He sounds so calm, so even-keeled. Like we’re making dinner plans or a grocery list.
In the meantime, just one brush of his lips on my neck and I’m practically salivating. I swallow thickly. Scratch that, I’m actually salivating.
“Just friends then.” I meet his eyes, and they flash with something shadowed. “Friends who have sex. Grown-ups who have a sexual relationship and also a working relationship, because we are adults and we can separate feelings from sex.”
“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” A slow smile spreads across his face, and his free hand snakes around my lower back, drawing me closer.
“No convincing needed.” I slip my hand under his shirt, tracing my fingers along the edge of his waistband. “My room or yours?”
He presses my back against the door. “Yours has the fireplace.”
I pull my room key from the back pocket of my jeans. “Sex in front of a roaring fire? How very cliché of you, Mr. West.”
He takes the key from my hand, unlocking the doorwhile still keeping me pressed close. “How about going down on you in front of a roaring fire? Is that too cliché?” He kicks the door closed behind us and wastes no time leading me over to the cushy rug in front of the fireplace.
“I write romance movies for a living. I love a cliché.”
—
Three delicious orgasms later, I collapse on top of Grayson’s bare, slightly sweaty chest. “That was incredible.”
I wait for him to shift me aside and move out from underneath me as he’s done previously, but instead, he wraps his arms around me, hands stroking up and down my bare back in a soothing and sleep-inducing motion. A contented sigh escapes my lips, but as soon as I start to get comfortable, I force myself to sit up, clambering off him in a move that is part drunken stumble, part toddler gymnastics.
The second he’s free of me, he jumps up and heads for the bathroom.
That doesn’t mean I can’t check him out, though, because asking me to keep my eyes off his Greek god naked statue body would be cruel.
“Why are you staring at me?” He beelines out of the bathroom to collect his various items of clothing.
“Because you’re naked and gorgeous?” Pretty sure the “duh” is implied.
He turns away from me as he steps into his boxers and yanks on his jeans. As he tugs his shirt over his head, he spins back my way. He doesn’t school his face before it’sclear of his shirt, which means I catch the flush on his cheeks and the hint of doubt in his eyes.
But it can’t actually be doubt hidden in those deep pools of blue. Grayson West is one of the cockiest, most confident men on the planet.
The look is gone before I can really puzzle it out. He strides over to me, offering me a hand and pulling me up with enough force I land squarely in his arms. He lowers his head and gives me a blistering kiss. My still naked body automatically responds to him.
I’m a second away from asking him to stay for another round when he plants a final close-mouthed kiss on my upturned lips.
“See you tomorrow, Harper.”
The door has already closed behind him by the time I’m able to make my brain and mouth connect enough to form words.
And so it begins. For the next several days, I have nothing but Groundhog Days. Possibly the world’s greatest Groundhog Days, but Groundhog Days nonetheless. Grayson and I continue to deliver performances worthy of my script and our own individual talents. The mood on set lightens noticeably, everyone else’s performances bolstered by the fact that the stars of the movie no longer seem to want to kill each other. I walk off set each day happy and proud of the work I’m turning in.
Liz still hasn’t asked about what happened between Grayson and me. She’s my best friend, and I know she knows, but I think we both assume that by not talking about it, it means we can continue making movie magic,and for both of us, that’s priority number one. At least for the time being. As long as Grayson and I don’t pop this fragile bubble of perfection, we don’t have to discuss why I’m sleeping with the man I’ve referred to as a skull-numbing, fart-fragranced dickbag for half of my life.
And I don’t want to discuss with Liz why I’m sleeping with Grayson, because that would requiremeto examine why I’m sleeping with Grayson, and really all I want to be doing is sleeping with Grayson. It’s easy and hot and satisfying and sexy, and it makes me feel good. And so every day when we’re both dismissed, we pick a room. We each get an orgasm—I usually get two or three—and then we part ways and do it all again the next day.
I keep waiting for the excitement of it to wear off. Surely, part of our explosive chemistry has to be due to the almost forbidden nature of our relationship. Eventually we’ll get bored, the urges satisfied, the tension well and truly managed.
Instead, the opposite happens. We grow more comfortable with each other, and instead of making the sex boring, it actually makes it better. With Grayson, I’m not afraid to ask for what I want, and so far, he’s willing to try anything, do anything I ask him to. And it’s hot as fuck.
