Reel (Hollywood Renaissance 1)

Staring into my eyes and tangling our fingers on the bed beside my head, he enters me on one deep thrust. The slick, hot entry, with nothing separating us, is startlingly good. He clutches my thigh, pulling it up and sinking deeper, his eyes blazing into mine. A harmony of gasps and sighs are accompanied by the pounding rhythm that thumps the headboard against the wall. A voracious hunger builds between us, and we grip, our hands tight on each other like we might slip away, might lose this if we don’t cling. It’s like riding a rocket, the propulsive force of it beyond our control, and its destination a place our minds can’t even conceive. When I unspool inside, I turn my face into the pillow, bury my scream of release. When my body jerks beneath him, it triggers an answering response, a matching release. This is the moment I treasure most, when he comes apart in my arms. When all the rigid discipline fails him in the face of our passion, and he drops his head to the curve of my neck, his breaths coming harshly, holding onto me like we are indeed in outer space and I’m the only solid thing in his universe.

Zero gravity.

Celestial. Astral.

Infinity: immeasurable.

50

Canon

“What are we waiting for?” I ask Kenneth.

It appears that everything is finally in place. And I say finally because this morning can kiss my black ass. Working with film presents enough challenges without the power going out and lights not working. At least we have a backup generator until we figure out what the hell is going on. If I hear one more person yell we’re working on it from the equipment truck, I can’t be held responsible.

“Uh, so . . . we’re missing someone,” Kenneth says.

“Missing someone?” I gesture to the beach and what seems like an army of extras. “Seems like the gang’s all here. We’ve had enough delays. Let’s get started.”

“We’re waiting on one cast member.” Kenneth adjusts his glasses and averts his eyes.

“I know you’re not saying an actor is late to my set. That can’t be what you’re saying.”

“Well, late may not be the right word,” Kenneth hedges. And I know he’s hedging because I’ve known him for a long-ass time. “Delayed.”

“Delayed is late if I can’t start shooting. Who is it?”

“Neevah.”

Right. So now the uncomfortable silence and shifty stares make sense. No one is late to my set. I’ve been known to track tardy actors down and deal with them myself. Everyone knows Neevah and I are together and are watching to see how I’ll handle it when my girlfriend is late.

I didn’t spend the night with her. I forced myself out of bed, left her asleep and went back to my own cottage to prepare for today. A lot of good that did me since the day feels shot to hell before we’ve even gotten started.

“Did she report for hair and makeup?” I demand, sitting forward in my director’s chair.

“Yeah, Takira—”

“Where is Takira?”

“I’m here,” Takira says from a few feet away.

I walk over and ask her in as low a voice as I can manage when I’m this annoyed. “Where is she?”

“She got hair and makeup over an hour ago,” Takira says. “And she was headed for wardrobe. Maybe she—”

“Where’s wardrobe?” With it being a new set on location, I don’t actually know where everything is situated.

“This way,” Takira says, starting to walk. “But she probably isn’t—”

“Do I look like I have time for probably? We’re wasting money and time. Believe me, the first union break will come before you know it.”

I stride past craft services and through a jungle of equipment and crew to a white hard-topped tent marked wardrobe. When I walk in, the large space is divided into smaller sections, separated by privacy dividers and populated with hanging wardrobe bars. Linh glances up from a table where she’s seated in front of a sewing machine. Her eyes flick, filled with curiosity, between Takira and me.

“Is there a problem?” she asks.

“We’re looking for Neevah,” I say. “She came to wardrobe?”

“Of course.” Linh frowns. “But that was like an hour ago. She was headed for set.”

“Well, she hasn’t made it to set and I need to get started.” I turn on Takira. “Did you check her room?”

“I knocked, but there was no answer, and I didn’t actually expect her to be there because she’s been here.” Consternation pinches Takira’s expression. “I can go check again.”

“No, I will.”

I certainly know the way after last night, and I have a key.

I’m an idiot.

I lowered my guard. I can’t afford to be lax on this—the biggest project of my career. And instead of nailing down shot lists and making sure I was ready for the first day of shooting, where was I?

With my girlfriend.

Even irritated, I can’t dismiss what we had last night. It shook me. Being inside her raw was . . .