Fake (West Hollywood 1)

I eased him down with soft touches. He collapsed back onto the mattress and lay there spent. I’d never seen a lovelier sight in my life. The sweat glistening on his skin and relaxed lines of his face. Only I got to see him like this now. To watch him come undone in all of his savage male beauty. Sad to note that love was quite possibly making a bad poet out of me. But oh well.

One blue eye opened and spied me sitting there staring at him. Without a word, he grabbed my arms and dragged me up his body. Not stopping until I was lying on top of him. Strong arms anchored me to him. The thud of his heartbeat constant and steady beneath my ear. Patrick Walsh was a cuddler. It was official.

His hands slid down my bare back, slipping beneath the elastic of my panties to grip my butt cheeks once more. Such an ass man. Honestly. He gripped and squeezed and massaged while I tried not to squirm. And I needed to come too. The sooner the better. If only there was a set etiquette about when it was acceptable to ask a man if you could sit on his face. And it was such a nice face, too.

We were still new and hadn’t done it before. Maybe he had claustrophobic tendencies. Or it might just not be something he liked. Then there was the small yet stupid fear associated with this act. What if I accidentally smothered him? I’d go down in history as the woman who killed a Hollywood heartthrob with her thighs. The shame of it all.

“If that’s your method of rewarding me,” he said, “then I’m honestly happy to talk whenever you want. Thoughts, feelings, whatever. I am at your disposal.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Lady’s choice. What would you like?”

“I, um . . .” And all the words up and left me. Ugh.

“What does it mean when you look like that?” he asked. “The tips of your ears are turning pink, Norah.”

“Huh.”

“What’s going on inside that head of yours?”

“Funny you should say the word ‘head.’”

He smiled. “Oral it is. Then I think we should fuck a time or two. Just because.”

Before he could flip me onto the mattress, I scrambled back. I don’t know what was stopping me from just asking. This was stupid. Like it would be impolite to grace his gorgeous face with my thighs. I was a grown woman, dammit. And allowed to want what I wanted. “Wait.”

“What?”

“I want to, um . . .” I gifted him my most salacious grin. “Why don’t you lie back and get comfortable there and I’ll just show you?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“How are you doing?” asked Patrick, appearing behind my chair.

Kelly, my makeup artist, gave him a brief smile before returning to contouring. Total lack of bedazzlement on her part. Guess seeing stars would get old fast when working on a major talk show.

“Good,” I said, hardly shaking at all.

“Everything’s going to be fine.”

I nodded. Sometimes you just got to fake it until you make it. And appearing on daytime TV in front of an audience of millions definitely qualified as one of those times. Perhaps everyone would be busy or watch something else today. You never know. Margarita Ramirez had been one of the reigning talk show queens for over two decades. Which was why Angie chose her as our sole big interview together as a couple. On school holidays Gran and I used to watch her show together. Now I was going to be on it. Whoa.

My outfit had been carefully chosen. A black crepe belted midi dress by Valentino with short sleeves that hid the worst of the bruising and low-heeled suede boots. Patrick complemented me perfectly in a dark suit with no tie. We looked like total couple goals if I said so myself. Let’s hope everyone else thought so too.

It had been a rushed morning, but I’d managed to sneak in some calls. First to the lawyer who would represent me and the second to a real estate agent regarding the shop Zena wanted. Tomorrow, Zena and I would do a walk-through of the space and then have a long talk about what being partners would entail. It was really happening and I couldn’t be more excited.

But back to the here and now.

Kelly gave me the okay and I said my thanks. This was it. A sound assistant wired us up. Then I held my hand out to Patrick and an assistant led us onto the soundstage to wait in the wings. A full audience packed the back of the room and a myriad of camera people and other types filled the floor between them and the set. A collection of cream armchairs and a comfy-looking couch along with a dark wooden coffee table. Big vibrant flower arrangements sat on pedestals farther back, in front of a screen currently displaying Margarita’s name.