Shacking Up (Shacking Up (Shacking Up 1)

He shoves his underwear the rest of the way down and steps out of them. Nudging my knees apart with his, he stretches out over me. My legs are still hanging off the bed and so are his.

“First, I’m going to fuck you, then I’m going to love you.”

I shiver from the promise and his tone. And then I groan when the thick head of his erection slides over slick skin. Bancroft keeps his eyes on mine as he rocks forward, easing inside.

The first few strokes are slow, but it’s been a long week of silence and uncertainty, so an undercurrent of desperation makes it hard to maintain the sweetness.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He strokes my cheek with warm fingers. “For what?”

“For thinking the worst.”

“No need for apologies, but if you still feel bad about it later you can let me fuck your mouth.”

“I was going to do that anyway.”

He flashes a smirky grin. “I figured as much since you couldn’t seem to get enough of it last time.”

“You’re losing points again.”

“I guess I should do something to earn them back, then.”

Bancroft starts with a slow grind that makes the bed rock a little, but when he picks up speed and starts fucking me in earnest, the creaking grows infinitely louder.

I’m getting close, but I’m worried we might actually break Amie’s bed and it’s distracting.

“Maybe we should move to the floor,” I say somewhat breathlessly. It’s hard to talk and be plundered at the same time.

Bancroft shoves a hand under me, grabs hold of my right butt cheek, claps my palm against the back of his neck, and lifts me up on the next thrust. Spinning around, he pins me against the wall, and keeps right on going.

Every muscle in his torso is straining and tight, his neck corded, biceps flexing. He really wasn’t kidding about fucking me. It might be lovingly, but the impending orgasm promises to be nerve shattering.

I struggle to keep my eyes on him, on his dark, intense expression, on his gorgeous face, his parted lips.

“Come on, babe, I want to feel you come. Let me know how much you missed my cock.”

I have no idea why that makes me so hot, but it does the trick. I come. Hard.

“There it is,” he groans.

All I see is black, not because he’s fucked me blind, but because I’m looking at the back of my lids. I pry them open with some effort. Bancroft’s expression is complete male satisfaction. With one hand still gripping my ass cheek he brings the other one up, his index finger and thumb slide along the line of my jaw and he holds my face, his mouth an inch from mine.

“This is what I want. You. The way you’re looking at me right now. This feeling right here. Don’t take it away from me again.”

It doesn’t sound like an order so much as a plea. He kisses me hard and shudders as he comes. We’re both sweaty and breathing heavily as he adjusts his grip and backs up until he hits the bed. He sits down on the edge and I unhook my legs, maneuvering us until he’s lying with me on top of him, stretched out on the covers.

He slips a hand behind my neck and pulls me down, claiming my lips. After a few minutes he rolls us over, so he’s on top.

“What are you doing?” It feels a lot like he’s getting hard again.

He rolls his hips. “Exactly what I said I was going to.”

“Which is?”

“I’ve already fucked you, so now it’s time to love you, isn’t it?”

And he does. All night. With actions and dirty words I can’t get enough of.

Chapter 23: Break a Leg

RUBY

“You need to call your father.”

The water is running in the sink, so I pretend not to hear Bancroft, making loud splashing noises while I drop pots into the water. Dishwashing is one of my preproduction stress relievers. I didn’t realize it was my thing until this past week.

His arm slips around my waist, lips brushing the shell of my ear. “Are you ignoring me?”

I tilt my head to the side, encouraging him to put his lips there as well. He nips a slow path from my ear to my shoulder and then back up again.

“Opening night is a week away, you need to call him.”

“He’s not going to drop everything and fly down to see me play pretend on stage,” I reply, distracted by his mouth and his hands.

Gently, Bancroft forces the pot I’m scrubbing out of my hands and turns me around. He’s smart enough to pin me to the counter with his hips and barricade me in with his hands.

“First of all, do not belittle yourself like that. You are an incredible talent and calling it anything other than performing or acting is unacceptable. Secondly, you need to at least give him the opportunity, Ruby. This is a huge accomplishment and he should learn to appreciate how hard you’ve worked to get here.” I hate how soft and logical he’s being. And sweet. It makes it difficult to argue.

Two weeks ago I finally caved, at Bancroft’s insistence—he enticed me with orgasms and Italian takeout, in that order—and called my father to inform him of my role in an Off-Broadway play.

His response: So I still wasn’t done playing pretend yet.

It was painfully deflating. I had to beg Bancroft not to call him back and give him a piece of his mind. I didn’t want their first introduction to consist of Bancroft calling my father names, such as insensitive, dream-crushing dick. However, I do appreciate how willing Bancroft is to come to my defense. It’s rather sexy.

“I’ll call later today. After rehearsal.”

Bancroft sighs. “Call now so you’re not thinking about it all day.”

Getting it over with is a double-edged sword. “If he says he doesn’t have time it’s going to ruin my day, and I need to be on point. Dress rehearsal is later this week and I don’t want anything compromising my performance today.”

Bancroft sighs and strokes my cheek with a fingertip. “So tonight you’ll call?”

I swallow past the lump in my throat and nod.

“Is there anything I can do to make today easier for you?”

I finger the buttons on his dress shirt. I’m wearing yellow rubber gloves, they’re still sudsy, so I’m making a mess of his outfit. “You could love me–fuck me,” I say softly.

“You want me to love you first?” He peels the soapy gloves off my hands.

“Please.”

He takes my face in his palms and kisses me. It doesn’t seem to matter that we’ve been dating now officially for a month—every kiss still makes my toes curl.

“I always love you, don’t I?” he whispers against my lips.

“You do. And I love it when you do it slow and soft or hard and dirty.”

Bancroft shoves my shorts down my legs and lifts me onto the counter. He drops to his knees and loves me with his mouth first, then with his fingers and his cock, still fully dressed.

It’s an excellent distraction from the nerves. I also never get tired of being loved by him.

* * *

Later that evening I’m sitting in my lounger—my old, ugly one that still takes up space in Bancroft’s condo—reviewing the script for the four-hundred-millionth time while he watches a DVR’d rugby match. I’d sit next to him, but then he’ll want to touch me, and I won’t be able to focus.

I know my lines. I can see the stage, my placement, the position of the male lead—I have to kiss him, which makes me a little nervous since Bancroft is going to see that happen. I’m not sure how he’s going to react. He’s said he’s fine, and he knows it’s acting, but I’m not so sure he’ll be as okay with it as he says he’s going to be once he actually sees it.