But he was tired of trying not to want her. He’d spent six years trying not to want her. Six years of losing himself in his work and the beds of women he would never see again, but nothing had worked. Maybe nothing ever would.
In two days, Wolf would be there and Noah would convince the producer to hire him. And then in a little more than a week, he would join the film crew for three months. He wouldn’t ask her to wait for him. This thing with Callie had an expiration date. And while he was absolutely certain now that he would never dig her landmine out of his chest completely, that there would always be shrapnel embedded in him, maybe he could at least give her the closure she deserved. A few days to get her out of his system, and then the rest of his life to live without her.
“Come here,” he said, his voice low and rough, before he claimed her mouth, swallowing her moan and reveling in the taste of her. He dragged his lips over the column of her throat, his hands already tearing at the sheets to get to her.
He lost himself in the salt of her skin, in the little whimpers and moans that slipped from her lips as he slid his hand between her thighs. He worked her hard and fast, her hand wrapped around his shaft giving as good as she got. It wasn’t long before she arched beneath him, crying out his name as her heat contracted around his fingers. She was still coming when he grunted out his own pleasure, his sticky release spilling over her hand.
After he’d washed them both with a warm washcloth, he gathered her to his chest and pressed a kiss to her hair. He held her close as she drifted off to sleep, as though he could hold her close enough to calm the fear clawing its way through his chest.
∞∞∞
Callie tossed aside her romance novel and looked at Noah where he sat next to her in bed, the sheet pooling around his hips. He scribbled on a piece of staff paper, occasionally pausing to conduct for a few bars with his pencil before furiously erasing and scribbling again. The fine bits from the pencil’s eraser had mixed with the dusting of hair across his chest and he absent-mindedly scratched at it between bursts of writing. Dark frame glasses, like Clark Kent’s, perched on the bridge of his nose. She never knew he wore glasses before.
“You’re staring at me again,” he said without looking up from his work.
She sank down into the pillows, letting the sheet fall lower on her chest, the tiniest bit of areola peeking out. His eyes snapped to the spot. He shook his head, exhaling hard through his nose as he tried to hide his smile, and returned to his work.
“When did you get glasses?” she asked.
“A few years ago. I mostly wear contacts, but I forgot to clean them last night.”
“I like them. They’re sexy.”
The flicker of heat in his gaze made her squirm. “I thought you were reading.”
“I finished my book and I didn’t bring another one.”
He set down his work. “I can fix that,” he said, climbing out of bed.
He was a thing of beauty, the perfect curve of his ass, the muscles moving and shifting beneath his skin. Would she ever get used to seeing him naked?No. You won’t have time to get used to it before it’s over.She shook the thought away, focused on watching him rummage in his suitcase. When he climbed back into bed, he handed her a small brown paper gift bag.
“What’s this?”
He shrugged. “Just something I picked up a few days ago. I thought you might like it.”
Her chest warmed, a bright glowing ball of something that had nothing to do with the fact that Noah Van Aller was sitting naked a few inches from her and everything to do with him buying her a gift just because he thought she’d like it. Inside the bag was a small paperback. It was fairly beat-up, the spine cracked and bowed, one corner of the cover dog-eared. She ran her fingers over the raised lettering of the title,Marrying the Secret Dukein swooping gold script.
She blinked, tracing the letters over and over, her eyes suddenly stinging.
“It’s signed.” He reached over and opened the front cover. Sure enough, the author’s signature was scrawled in black marker across the lower corner of the stunning step back, the ink carefully avoiding the couple and only slightly obscuring the field of wildflowers in the image. “I know you probably already have a copy, but—”
“Thank you,” she said, her voice small. “It’s my favorite book.”
“I know.”
“How did you know?” she asked. Her heart was beating wildly as she clutched the book to her chest.
He looked away, returning his attention to his composition. “You know how.”
He remembered the name of a book she mentioned to him once. Did he also remember the costume she’d worn that night? The way he’d kissed her like he couldn’t stand not to touch her? Had he worked out what happened after, why she hadn’t answered his call the next day, or the day after that?
They’d never talked about it. She’d lain in a hospital bed, woozy with pain killers and wishing she didn’t have to pee again from the multiple bags of fluids they’d been giving her all day, and she’d wanted to call him so badly to tell him what had happened. But she didn’t have words for it then. She was scared and her mother was making her crazy and all she wanted was to hear his voice, but she hadn’t wanted to come to him like that—needy and broken and not knowing if she’d ever be fixed. So she hadn’t called him back. It had only taken a week before he stopped calling her.
“Noah…” she began, not sure what exactly she wanted to say.I’m sorry. I was sick and scared and so young.
“What do you think of this?” he asked, tilting his pad of sheet music towards her so she could see what he’d written.
She blinked, unable to switch gears so quickly when her mind was still in that hospital room. She refocused her attention on the notes on the page and hummed the melody as she went, pausing when she hit the end of the second stave. Frowning, she returned to the top of the page, humming more slowly, her fingers tapping absent-mindedly as though she were playing the piece. Again, she stumbled on the same note.
