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I’ve been on enough stages to know when my audience is captivated. Right now, this one is, so I keep it going.
“The second boy I ever kissed was in a play, a stage kiss. He shoved his tongue down my throat, even though he wasn’t supposed to, in front of an auditorium full of people.”
“That’s messed up,” Simone says.
“It was. After the performance, my boyfriend kicked the crap out of him.”
Layla’s voice is quiet, and lilting, but I hear her. “That was Coach Daniels, right? You guys used to go out when you were in high school?”
I chuckle a little. How do they know these things? No point in denying it now. “That’s right.”
Then I clap my hands. “So, how about this? You work with me and I’ll work with you. We start working on the play, and I’ll award a one-hundred-dollar gift card to the best theater student at the end of each semester.”
“Can you do that?” Michael asks.
I shrug. “We’ll call it a scholarship. I won’t ask Miss McCarthy if you won’t. If we don’t know we’re breaking the rules, we’re not really breaking them, are we?”
There’s more than one way to skin a cat . . . and there’s a bunch of ways to teach a class.
“Five hundred dollars,” David says from the back, daring me with his eyes.
I lift my chin and nod sharply.
“Done.”
My voice is brisk and authoritative, without even trying, as I walk back behind my desk.
“Michael, I’d like you to be my assistant. Auditions will start next week, and we’ll need to get crew sign-up sheets posted. Are you good with that?”
“Uh . . .” His eyes are round behind his glasses, like an owl who has no idea how he ended up on this particular branch. “Yeah. Sure.”
“Good. As for the rest of you, before auditions, there’s some basic acting techniques we need to go over.” I snap my fingers and point at the small elevated platform in the corner—the makeshift stage. “David, you first.”
He rolls his shoulders and flips his dirty-blond hair, then he rises and hops up on the stage. He lifts one leg, like a flamingo, holds his right arm over his head and his left arm straight out to the side.
I sit back in my seat and fold my arms.
“What are you doing?”
“I’m being the tree.” He grins smart-assedly. “Isn’t that what theater is all about? Feel the tree . . . be the tree . . .”
The kids laugh, and I join them.
“Theater is about taking something that’s been done a thousand times before—Shakespeare, Oscar Wilde, Arthur Miller—and making it feel like something new again. Making it your own. So forget the tree . . . be the leaves instead.”
You got this, Callie.
And I think I just might.
Chapter Eleven
Garrett
Slowly, firmly, I slide my tongue into Callie’s warm, waiting mouth. Her lips are rose-petal soft, and with every inhale I breathe in the sweet, delicious scent of her.
I forgot about kissing. Just kissing.
How good it can be—how hot—all by itself. The kind of hot that feels like my heart is going to punch out of my chest and my cock is going to bust through my zipper.
I forgot . . . but with every brush of her lips, Callie reminds me.
I feel the tip of her wet tongue stroking mine and I moan. I lean forward over her, my arms pulling her closer, my hands sliding into the silk of her hair, cradling her head—holding her right where I want her. Where I need her to stay—tight, flush against me, chest to chest, breath to breath. Right here, right there.
One hand stays fisted in her hair, while the other slips down, brushing her neck where her pulse thrums against my fingertips, and across her collarbone.
Over the years, I’ve touched lots of breasts. Hundreds. Probably thousands, if you count them separately. I’m a connoisseur of breasts, an expert. If tits were restaurants—I’d be fucking Zagat’s.
But these . . . these are Callie’s breasts.
And that makes it different. More. Better.
My fingertip circles her nipple, feather light and teasing, making it stiffen beneath the cotton of her blouse. I slide the rigid point between my thumb and forefinger, softly at first, then harder, pinching. And then I open my palm and cup Callie’s breast in my hand, massaging and rubbing.
Hello, sweet friend, how I’ve missed you.
She’s perfect . . . fucking perfect in my hand—all soft and full, warm and firm. I want to drop to my knees and worship her. Lick up her stomach, suck the hard, scorching point of her nipple into my mouth, and feast on her until she screams my name.
Callie’s hips rotate, rubbing against me, searching for friction, and the sexiest purr rolls from the back of her throat.
That’s it, baby. Give me those sounds. Fuck me, this is good.
