Come Again (Big Rock)

But my favorite part comes when her palm slides up my thigh.

Oh yes, sweetheart. Travel anywhere you want. You can visit any place on the map of me.

Her hand roams up my leg, higher and higher, and we kiss deeper, our mouths turning urgent, frenzied. Sighs and moans sound between us. Breath rushes in and out.

A hot spark sizzles down my spine, and my cock thumps in my jeans.

Squeak.

The door groans open, a heavy push across the carpet.

We scramble apart. I jump to my feet and she does the same, both of us catching our breath. Moving away from the entry, I smooth a hand over my jeans.

Bellamy tucks her hair behind her ears as a man in horn-rimmed glasses steps into the studio. He sweeps his gaze over her, head to toe then back again, like he’s enjoying the view.

“Oh, hey there, Bell. So good to see you. Lucky me that you’re still here.” He sounds like he’s been waiting all day to catch a glimpse of her and doesn’t even look to see if anyone else is here.

“I was just leaving, David,” she says, her voice strained. There’s no returned warmth in her tone. Does she sound that way because he nearly caught us? Because he’s her producer? Or for some other reason? That last possibility nags at me as he stares at her, possession in his eyes.

She doesn’t look his way at all. She looks anyplace else.

“No need to rush out,” he says, missing or ignoring her discomfort. “We can hang together the rest of the afternoon, go over the script and stuff in my office. Order something for dinner if we need to work late. No hurry, Bell.” The man’s tone is way too suggestive, and his stare hits ogle territory and lingers before he bothers to look at anything else in the studio. Then, his grin vanishes in the blink of an eye. “Oh.”

His gray eyes laser in on my face like an inspection. What the hell? Is he checking to see if her whisker burn matches my stubble?

He jerks his focus back to Bellamy. “I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”

“I’m . . . not.” She seems uncomfortable, but she’s holding herself carefully, like she doesn’t want to rock the boat.

“Hey, there. How are you doing?” I ask him, because one of us should be polite. Maybe that will remind him there is someone else in the room besides her.

The guy doesn’t answer me. “Do you want Vietnamese or maybe Italian tonight? Italian is your favorite, right? You pick and we can dive into your script as long as we need.”

She mumbles something that sounds like doesn’t matter.

“Well, with as pretty a shirt as that, let’s not risk the red sauce,” he says, adding a wink.

I’m certain of two things—this sleazeball thinks he can fuck her, and he makes Bellamy feel awful. When he’s around, a different side of her comes out. She mumbles and stares at her shoes, shifting away from the confident woman she is. I wish she weren’t bothered by him so much.

But there’s a thing I know too. If I can help her, I will. “Ms. Hart, if you’d like to continue our interview, I’m happy to stay for longer.” I try to catch her eye, hoping she gets my meaning.

I’ll be your out to escape this fucker if you need me to.

She shakes her head. “I’m good. Thank you.”

As much as I don’t want to, I leave. Because that’s what she wants.

18

Inappropriate

As I walk away from the studio, I replay that encounter. The first time, I simmer. But the next few times, I turn angrier.

I can’t fucking believe he’s doing that.

You don’t compliment the clothes of a female co-worker.

Not like that. With sex in your voice.

You don’t give her a nickname while you invite her to a late dinner in your fucking office.

And you don’t stare like that.

But just because I know these rules and live by them doesn’t mean I know what to do when I see them broken in front of me. More to the point, it doesn’t mean I know what Bellamy or any other woman would want me to do.

So later that day I call in reinforcements in the form of my sister, and my cousin Jo. They meet me at Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium that afternoon. I order something gooey and sugary for my sister and something with bubbles for Jo, and when they arrive, I slide the drinks in front of them.

Jo’s grin is as wide as the city—that’s her style. She’s an art expert, and one of the cheeriest people I know. “You remembered I like black cherry seltzer water,” she says.

“He’s amazing, truly,” Rory deadpans then snags the sugar concoction. “And thank you for the caramel-monkey-cino for me.”

Jo laughs, her blue eyes glittery, then she turns serious eyes to me. “What’s going on, Easton?”