“Hair pulling.” He twisted one of my curls around his finger and lightly tugged on it, and I sucked in a breath. He paused. “Breast play.”
That one snapped me out of my trance.“Breast play?”I sputtered. I was gripping the table so hard, my fingers left permanent indentations in the wood. “What is this, a porno?”
He raised his hands in concession. “Hey, you said real! But if that’s your limit…” His mouth tugged to one side before he leaned in again, his eyes dangerously dark. “But just for the record: If wewereactually having sex, I’d be spending a lot of time on your breasts.”
My heart stalled mid-beat, then sped ahead, like a metronome gone haywire. It took effort to hold eye contact—hisgaze was so intense, it stole what was left of my composure. I was drowning in deep pools of rich chocolate, lost in the rings of caramel like a hypnotic swirl. He was dying for a reaction, and I couldn’t give him one.
“How about this,” I proposed eventually, and his eyes flared, his upper body tilting toward mine reflexively. “You have my permission to do whatever feels natural in the moment. Go where the scene takes you, and I’ll do the same. I trust you to read my cues and pull back if you sense I need some space. Deal?”
His lips twitched. “What if it feels natural to smack your ass?”
“I’ll kill you,” I said instantly.
“So youdohave a red line!”
I was so hot and bothered by the time I got back to my room, not even a cold plunge could’ve cooled me down.
I laid in bed that night unable to sleep, restless with nerves and need, drunk on this strange cocktail of stress and anticipation and unfulfilled lust. What would Ryder think if he knew I was mentally mapping the exact number of steps from my bed to his door? I needed to reel myself in. This was a job, not a date. I was supposed to fake it, not feel it. This was choreography, not chemistry, and—oh, who was I kidding? I was using tomorrow’s love scene as a free pass to do what I’d wanted to for so long: kiss him, touch him, taste him.Lose myself in him.It was my chance to fulfill the fantasy that had been living under my skin since we arrived in Seafolly—or, if I was being honest, since the day we met in that audition room.
In the privacy of my darkened bedroom, I could admit what I refused to face in daylight: I was desperately, utterly,head-over-heels smitten with Ryder Perry. I just needed to know if he felt the same.
With all these competing emotions churning inside me, when I reported to work in the morning, I was so jittery I could hardly stand still. Ryder had texted me to stop by before we were due on set, so as soon as I got out of hair and makeup, I headed for his trailer.
He pulled me inside a few seconds after I knocked and quickly shut the door behind me, and before I could suss out the reason for the cloak and dagger, he produced two shot glasses.
“I know it’s a little early,” he said, pouring from a bottle of clear tequila, “and it’s not a Painkiller, but I figured we could both use something to take the edge off.”
I could hardly disagree.
He passed me mine, and we clinked them together in “cheers” before he tossed his back like water. He made a face at me when I slowly sipped mine.Guess I really am a lightweight.
He licked his lips, grinning at me. “You ready for this, Red?”
I tilted my head. “Red?”
He smiled at me affectionately, like I was an adorable simpleton, like I was missing something obvious. “Your dress, for one,” he said, fingering the detail on the cap sleeve.
There’d practically been an international summit to decide what Melody would wear for this pivotal scene, and I’d fallen in love with the costume department’s final choice: a rich crimson sheath dress, buttoned from neck to hem, with a coordinating floral print trimming the neckline and sleeves.
“And your hair,” he added, reaching up to skim the ends.
I mirrored the motion, suddenly self-conscious. Philippe had refreshed my rinse twice since we’d started shooting, making my strawberry-blond curls pop more than usual.
“And maybe the most obvious one.” He was standing so close, I could feel his body heat curling off him like steam.
“What’s that?” I asked, feeling dazed, lost in his fog of pheromones.This tequila is hitting me faster than I thought. I took another small sip.
He smiled again, that same quiet amusement playing on his face. “Your name is Scarlett.”
“Oh.” I was a dope. I knocked back what was left of the tequila. “Important question,” I said once the burn of the liquor had faded from my windpipe, and he raised his eyebrows. “Did you remember your rubber ball?”
He barked a laugh, then freed it from his pants pocket and held it up. “Guilty. And I was doing push-ups before you got here,” he admitted.
“Sounds like you’re ready, then.” I let out a heavy breath, shifting my feet. I wondered if the buzz in the air was from the tension between us or the booze.
He tipped my chin up. “Remember our pact: We only do what we’re comfortable with. But you should know I’m comfortable with lap dances.”
I snorted, his teasing helping to ease my nerves.
