I tracked him through the house, hearing the jingle of his keys on the table inside the front door, the lock clicking closed for the night, the slip of the leather jacket as it left his shoulders, and the soft slap of his shoes on the floor.
Comfort.
He spied the open door and came to stand in the doorway, squinting into the darkness. “Gracie?” he asked quietly.
“Hey,” I answered, stretching in the chair as he walked toward me.
“Hey, yourself,” he said, settling on the ottoman in front of me. I placed my feet in his lap, and he took off my flip-flops without thought. He began to rub my feet, and my toes curled.
“How was the interview?” I asked.
He smiled a knowing grin. “It was good. Holly’s going to kill me, though.”
“No filter?” I asked, arching my eyebrow.
“No filter,” he confirmed, winking at me like the devil himself.
“Good party?” I asked, leaning up a little, but keeping my feet in his lap.
“Eh, it was fine. These L.A. parties are just not my thing, but it was pretty cool, I guess. How was dinner with Holly?”
“It was fun. I know a secret . . .” I said in a teasing voice, offering my glass of wine to him.
He took a large swallow and handed it back. “About Holly? A secret? Is it that she and Lane are having the sex?”
“You knew? And you didn’t tell me?” I cried, slapping him lightly. He increased the pressure on my feet and began to work his way up my calves. His long fingers slipped underneath my legs, rubbing circles and kneading my muscles.
“I knew, but it wasn’t my secret to tell,” he replied, lowering his gaze and looking at me from beneath his lashes. I could feel my heartbeat speed up.
“Well, she seems to be enjoying herself,” I said, rubbing my legs together slightly as he continued his massage, working his hands now to the backs of my knees. My skin tingled and warmed under his fingers.
“I should think so. Lane says they’re having quite a good time. He wonders why we didn’t start dating older women years ago.”
His hands slipped higher on my legs. His palms rubbed in between my knees, parting them slightly. He wrapped his hands under my thighs and suddenly pulled me closer to him, bringing me to the edge of the chair.
“We love taking young pups and training them. You’re so much more moldable when you’re young, ripe for the picking. And the recovery time is reason alone . . .” I teased back, trying not to moan as he pushed my legs open farther.
“Recovery time, you say?” He laughed, his eyes staying on mine as he pushed my skirt up higher, his hands now inches away from my panties. He continued to watch me as he scooped underneath me and pulled me into full recline in the chair. With precision, he flipped my skirt up and removed my panties slowly. His breath quickened as he brushed against me and felt how he had already affected me, how he always affected me. My body never, ever failed to respond to him.
“Jack,” I breathed, opening my legs to him and arching my back in invitation. He grinned that half grin that was mine alone and, without another word, stood and unzipped his jeans. The sight of him bringing himself forward from his boxers was insanely stimulating. I leaned forward and pushed him back down on the ottoman. I imagined he’d been mentally fucking me since I heard his car pull into the driveway. He sighed heavily at the sight of me, and I peeled off my shirt and straddled him, skirt still on, but now bare beneath.
There was no sound except the crickets, the occasional car, the music, and our breathing as I sank down onto him, taking him inside me. No matter how many times this happened, it never failed to stop my breath as I felt him within me, perfectly. We both exhaled as I rose up, my feet flat against the flagstone, controlling this completely. I lifted, then lowered again, increasing the sweet friction between us. His hips drove into me, uniquely positioning him to hit that spot, both inside and out, every time I brought myself down onto him. His mouth found mine, our kisses frantic as I tasted the wine on his tongue. He unclasped my bra, his hands and mouth each finding one breast and addressing them equally. He rained kisses on my skin as my hands clung tightly to his shoulders.
“You feel amazing . . . how can you feel this good . . . every . . . single . . . time . . . God . . .” I struggled to speak, continuing to maneuver myself above him, legs shaking in exertion as I gave him everything I had.
He watched me move above him, teeth biting his lower lip as he groaned and closed his eyes at my words. I breathed in his ear, nibbling on his earlobe and kissing the space just below, the way I knew drove him crazy.
“I love feeling you around me, Grace. So warm . . . so fucking warm . . .” He moaned, his hips increasing speed and pressure, and I could feel myself tightening, my stomach clenching, toes curling, hands fisting, then fingers turning into little daggers as I dug into his back.
“So good . . . please . . . please . . . please . . .” I cried, and I screamed his name as I shook and shivered on top of him. He drove into me, holding me tightly against him, grabbing my legs to push deeper into me. I let him have me. He made me come a second time, the first rolling right into the next as he burst into me, sinking against my chest and calling my name.
“Jesus, Grace.” He sighed, and I cradled his head, running my fingers through his hair and scratching his scalp. We stayed like this for a few moments, and then I laughed. Laughing in this position was a little uncomfortable, and so he lifted me easily, and as we replaced our clothing, he looked at me curiously.
“Why are you laughing, Crazy?”
“I was just thinking that if any paparazzi followed you home, this would be all over the world tomorrow.”
“Not funny,” he said, slapping me on the ass as I tried to put my panties back on.
“And that right there? With that shot they’d say you’re into rough sex, you deviant, you!” I laughed, dodging his next swat.
I ran toward the house and turned to see him pulling up his pants. “Now you look like you had a little solo love out there all alone. Poor lonely Brit,” I sang out, still laughing.
He turned to me, eyes twinkling. “What was it you said about recovery time, love?” he asked, striding toward me.
I laughed and ran into the house, with Jack right on my heels.
The next morning we had to get up and move. Jack had a photo shoot, and I still had quite a bit to get done for our dinner party the following night. Jack had invited Rebecca and Lane, and I was very interested to see how things would go down between Lane and Holly—although I wasn’t so sure about Rebecca.
Apparently she was still upset with me about what I did to Jack at the premiere. And frankly, I couldn’t blame her. I knew how close they were, and I knew how Holly would feel if someone did that to me, especially on such an important night. But if Jack and I could move past it, she was going to have to as well. I was glad she was coming to the house, and I was happy to have her to dinner. I hoped this could be the impetus for a new start for us. I was in Jack’s life to stay, as was she, so we needed to get past this.
Jack left early for his shoot, and I spent the day prepping for the party and wrapping all my presents. We’d be exchanging gifts as part of the festivities. I baked pies, peeled veggies, and made as much as I could in advance so I could enjoy the time with my friends and not be stuck in the kitchen all night. Before I knew it, it was almost 4:00 p.m., and I still hadn’t had a shower. I made my way to the bathroom, stripped down, and stood under the spray for almost a solid hour, pruning. I had something I wanted to ask the Brit, but I wasn’t sure how to present it . . .
Later that night, starved, we drove to Pink’s. I craved a hot dog for some reason, and nothing would satisfy like a Pink’s. There was no way Jack could get out of the car and stand in line without being recognized, so he pulled into a parking lot half a block away, and I gladly hopped out and stood in line. This was one of the first places I’d frequented when I moved to L.A. the first time, and I’d seen a celebrity on e
ach and every visit. Everyone loved Pink’s.
After waiting for almost an hour and having a tiny fangirl moment when I saw Jim Carrey getting a dog, I took our treats (Mulholland Dog for him and Martha Stewart Dog for me) back to the car and we devoured them—top up, as we didn’t want to risk pictures. Paparazzi tended to circle Pink’s at night since one never knew who was going to show up. In between bites of the best hot dogs ever (they snap when you bite them), we laughed and joked and talked. He told me about the day’s photo shoot and then about the fans at his apartment when he’d gone by that afternoon.
“Even though that’s been my place for more than a year now, I’m ready to let it go,” he said. “Enough with the constant fangirls.”
I swallowed hard, thinking of what I’d been wanting to ask him.
“I mean, I’m headed back to London, and who knows where I’m going to be in January. Then I’m on location for the next film. I’ll never be here,” he continued, his voice trailing off.
I wiped the pickle juice off my fingers and turned to face him in the car. His eyes were serious. We each took a breath, then spoke at the same time.
“So, I was thinking—” we both said, then laughed.
“You first,” I said.
“No, you go.”
“Uh-uh, you,” I insisted.
“Ladies first.”
“There ain’t no ladies in this car,” I said, accenting my statement with a loud burp.
He wrinkled his nose and shook his head in mock disgust. “Age before beauty, Grace,” he chided.
“Did you just call yourself beautiful and me old?”
“Yes, yes, I did.”
“Well, hell, I really can’t argue with that logic. Okay, I’ll have the balls to say it first. Why don’t you just move in with me?” I said quickly, not giving myself a chance to puss out.
He stared at me, then started to speak.
I shook a finger at him and pressed on, “Wait, let me say this. You travel so much, and who the hell knows what I’m going to be doing? When we’re in the same town, when’s the last time we spent a night apart?”
He thought for a second. “I can’t remember. Not since we started . . . well . . .”
“Fucking?” I asked, laughing.
“Yes, exactly. You’re so crude, love,” he said, smiling.
I knew how much he loved it when I was crude.
“So, it just makes sense, yes? Do you even like your place?” I asked.
“Not anymore. I mean, it was only ever just a place to sleep, never a home. And now with the paparazzi knowing where I live and all the fans surrounding the place, I suppose it does make sense . . . You sure about this, Crazy?” he asked, brushing my hair back with his fingertips.
“Yes, I’m sure,” I answered, kissing his fingers as they got closer to my lips.
“I can’t guarantee the press won’t figure this out. You ready for them to be camped outside your house?”
“What’s the difference? You’re there anyway. Who cares if you bring your shit over?” I smiled.
He sat back in his seat and ran his hands through his hair. He stared out the window, then looked back at me. His gaze was piercing.
“What are you thinking, George?”
“I was going to ask you the same thing—if I could move in with you.”
“Are we insane?” I asked him.
“Totally and completely,” he answered, leaning in to capture my lips with his own. His mouth was warm and sweet, tasting of relish and mustard, and I couldn’t get enough. We kissed slowly and romantically, the glow of Pink’s neon sign in the distance.
And when we went home and walked inside, it felt good. We slept wrapped around each other in our bed.
twenty-one
The day of our Christmas dinner party was warm and sunny, but with enough of a nip in the air to remind you it was the holidays. And if you still weren’t sure what time of year it was, there were always the reindeer strung across Rodeo Drive to remind you.
Jack slept in while I busied myself around the house. When he finally got up, he helped me as best he could. I assigned him to help me trim the brussels sprouts, but instead he kept trying to throw them away when he thought I wasn’t looking. “Brussels sprouts, Grace, really? These are our friends. Why are you doing this to them?”
But I made brussels sprouts so well that even people who never liked them asked me how I made them taste so good. I had mad brussels skills. The Brit was not convinced. Finally, I sat him at the counter and put him in charge of dicing celery for the stuffing. He paid great attention to detail, making sure each dice was the same size as the sample I sliced for him. With him doing busywork, I had time to finish everything else.
Once I got enough stuff done that we could relax a little, we burritoed ourselves in a blanket on the couch and watched retro specials, starting with Charlie Brown and ending with Rudolph. The rich scent of turkey wafted through the air, and it was incredibly cozy.
When it was T-minus two hours, I finally got up to take my shower. I repeatedly refused his attempts to get into the shower with me, as I knew we’d never make it out in time. I needed a utility shower today; showers with Jack always turned recreational.
Sixty minutes later I was in the kitchen, beginning the gravy and letting the turkey rest. Veggies and stuffing were in, whipped cream was made, and we were in good shape. I bent over to grab the turkey platter and heard a low whistle behind me. I straightened up and turned. Jack leaned on the counter, taking in my dress. It was a deep green with a full skirt. I’d paired it with little gold heels and a string of pearls. Over the dress? A retro-style apron.
It was going to drive him mad all evening.
“Fucking hell, Grace. What are you wearing?” he asked, as his eyes took in everything.
“I wanted to get dressed up a little, that’s all,” I answered primly, twirling so my dress flared out.
He clenched his fists and bit down on his lower lip as he watched me. He came closer, and I pointed my hot pad at him.
“No, no, Sweet Nuts, after dinner. I still have too much to do. Self-control, please,” I instructed, and he finally backed away. As I futzed with a few last-minute things, he set the iPod on shuffle and got us some drinks. Heineken for him, dirty martini for me. He’d been practicing the last few months, and he could now mix me one mean cocktail. I sang a little as I finished up, and soon the doorbell rang. Jack went to get it, and I heard Holly’s and Nick’s voices from the entryway.
“Get in here, dillweed. I need help!” I yelled.
“What the fuck do you think I can do?” she asked as she entered. “I’m kitchen disabled.” She headed for the martini shaker.
“Yes, I know this. But you can open cans. I’ve seen you do it. There are olives over there, and cranberry sauce, and they need to be on the table. Hop to it, missy. Jack will make you a drink,” I instructed.
She rolled her eyes, but she went for the cans. Jack walked back into the kitchen with Nick stuck next to him. His arms were looped through Jack’s, and he gazed at him adoringly. I laughed when I saw them, and Jack smiled down at Nick.
“Would you quit molesting my boyfriend and get your ass over here, so I can hug you properly!” I squealed. He reluctantly let go of the Brit, then launched himself at me.
“Girl, I’ve missed you so much!” he said, and he picked me up, twirling me around the kitchen. Then he stepped back to admire my dress as I giggled. “This is nice. Very fifties-housewife-meets-porn-star. It works for you,” he said, sneaking an olive from the dish Holly wrestled with.
“Yes, it does,” Jack whispered in my ear as he snuck up behind me and put his arms around my waist. I sighed as he kissed the back of my neck and released me with a squeeze, off to make drinks for our guests.
I heard my phone ring, and as I was up to my elbows in gravy, I asked Holly to answer it. I heard her voice rise in excitement, and I looked curiously at her. She gave my address, and Jack and I shared a glance over Nic
k’s shoulder. Nick was now eating olives with no regard for whether anyone else wanted any. Jack finally took them away from him like you’d take something from a child.
Holly hung up the phone and turned to me. “Is it cool if we have one more for dinner?” she asked.
“I guess so, since it would seem you’ve already invited someone. Who’s coming?”
“Um . . . Michael,” she answered, and glanced at Jack. He stiffened for a moment, but then relaxed. I looked at Holly, then back at Jack.
“Michael? Why is he in town?” I asked as Jack handed Holly her martini. He rubbed my shoulders reassuringly. I looked at him, and he nodded. He was okay with this.
“I’m not sure. He didn’t say,” she answered, sipping her cocktail. “Jesus, Jack, this is great. Is there anything you’re not good at?”
“Nope,” I answered, winking devilishly at him.
He waggled his eyebrows back, and Nick sighed happily.
By the time I finished my gravy, Rebecca, followed quickly by Lane, had arrived. Rebecca greeted me coolly, but seemed to soften as she walked around the house, complimenting me on the festive decorations. Lane swept me into a fierce hug and kissed me on the cheek.
“Glad you’re back. I missed this sweet rack,” he said, openly staring down my dress.
I saw him wink at Holly, then saw a blush creep into Holly’s face. She busied herself with the sweet potatoes, but Jack caught it too. I smiled when Lane pulled out his cigarettes and Jack immediately dragged him out back. Jack knew the rules: no smoking inside. He was already asserting himself as the man of the house—charming.
I began to carry the dishes out to the table, and Rebecca joined me.
“So, you back for good now?” she asked, setting down the brussels sprouts, which had turned out great. She eyed me carefully as I smoothed my skirt and looked back at her.
“Yep, back for good. I know you’re still upset with me, Rebecca, but I’m glad you’re here tonight,” I said.
The Redhead Series Page 48