Lovegame

by Tracy Wolff

  “What are you doing?” she suddenly demands from behind me, her voice higher and more strident than I’ve ever heard it.

  “I was looking for milk for my coffee,” I answer, making sure to shut the cabinet door as I turn around slowly.

  “In my cabinets?”

  “Well, there wasn’t any in the fridge, but I guess you already know that, don’t you?”

  I’m watching her now, can see the second it dawns on her that I know her secret. “It’s not what it looks like.”

  “It’s exactly what it looks like. Why is it that everyone at the shoot today was under the impression that you live here when it’s very clear that you don’t?”

  “You were under that same impression.”

  “You’re right, I was. But I’m not the shoot coordinator or the room stylist or the caterer. How could they have poked around in this place and not figured it out? And why are you lying to everybody, anyway?”

  “I didn’t lie,” she tells me, and she’s got her voice—and face—back under control. “I own this house.”

  “Yeah, but you don’t live in it.”

  “So what? I own several places around the world that I don’t live in.”

  “Yes,” I concede, because it’s true. I’ve done the research. She does have several other homes around the globe, including an apartment in Paris and one in New York, a country house in Tuscany, a villa on a private island off the coast of Greece and a townhouse in Park City, Utah. “But you don’t lie about living in any of those homes. Just this one. So what’s the deal? And where do you live when you’re in L.A.?”

  “That’s none of your business,” she snaps, striding over to the coffeemaker and pouring herself a cup. She doesn’t even glance at the sugar or empty creamer container before lifting the hot, bitter liquid to her lips and drinking it down in one long gulp.

  Jesus. My mouth hurts just watching the display of bravado, but I don’t say anything. Not when she’s staring at me over the rim of the cup, daring me to make a comment. But I recognize a distraction technique when I see one, so I keep my mouth shut and wait for her to finish scalding herself. As I do, our conversation from yesterday rings in my head. She’d called herself a masochist then and for the first time I’m tempted to believe she actually meant it.

  Neither of us says another word until she’s tossed the cup in the trash. Then, as she glances around the kitchen like she’s looking for something—anything—else to concentrate on, I ask, “What do you want out of this interview?”

  “Excuse me?” The question is incredulous, and the tone it’s delivered in pure diva.

  “When Vanity Fair asked me to do it, they said they were looking for two things. The publicity that came with having the man who discovered the Belladonna as a killer interview the woman who plays her in the movie, and the first totally honest portrayal of you. The woman behind the legacy. The truth behind the beauty. I thought, when you wiped your makeup away during the shoot earlier, that that was what you were getting at. But now I’m not so sure.”

  She lifts a brow. “I told you yesterday that no one in this town is totally honest. That’s not how the game is played. So don’t come whining to me about it now.”

  “I’m not whining. And you’re right. You did warn me.” I walk past her as casually as I can, settle myself in one of the chairs around the breakfast nook table. And wait for her to come to me.

  It doesn’t take long.

  “Look,” she says, standing next to the table with her eyes wide and earnest. “Whether I live here or not is no big deal in the grand scheme of things. I’ve been honest with you about everything else.”

  “You haven’t been honest with me about anything. You’ve dodged and prevaricated and turned questions back on me and flat-out lied when it benefitted you. The only thing you haven’t done in the last two days is be honest with me. Which, fine. I can live with that if that’s how you want to play this. But can you? Because you may be a liar, but I’m not. And if this is all you’re going to show me, this is how I’m going to write about you.”

  She’s pissed. I can see it in her eyes, feel it in the tension radiating off of her. I lean back in the chair, wait for the explosion I know is coming. And wonder what the fuck I’m doing. I need her to talk to me, need her to answer my questions—for this article I’m going to put my name on and, more important, for my research. So why the hell am I antagonizing her when I should be kissing her ass?

  I don’t have an answer, except that it pisses me off just thinking that she played me. It shouldn’t matter—God knows, she isn’t the first person I’ve interviewed who tried to take me for a ride—and yet somehow it does. It really, really does.

  It’s a feeling that she only exacerbates as she settles down in the chair next to mine, as she reaches out and strokes her fingers over the collar of my shirt. As she does, her fingertips gently brush against my neck and every nerve I have comes suddenly alive, as if it was just waiting for this moment. As if my entire being was just waiting for her to touch me.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, her tone and body language soothing as she scoots her chair closer to mine. “It’s just that during promo season I get a little defensive. A little protective of my private life.” Her fingers tangle in my hair and tug softly. “Surely you can understand that?” She leans until our bodies are intimately close. “So many people want a piece of me, so many people want to be let in. I have to be careful until I get to know them. Until I can figure out who to trust.”

  Her eyes are wide and guileless now, her lips only a couple inches from mine. For a second, just a second, I think of closing the distance. Think of putting my mouth on hers and taking what she’s offering. Only the knowledge that she’s playing me again—playing me still—keeps me from accepting her invitation.

  Well, that and the fact that she actually thinks I’m stupid enough to fall for it.

  Still, this is a game I’m intimately familiar with, one I’ve played several times through the years in my hunt for information, which is why I don’t call her on it right away. Instead I give her a little more rope, a little more of a chance to hang herself when I ask, “So, have you figured it out?”

  She leans in a little more, her full, red lips parted in invitation. “If I can trust you?”

  “Yes.”

  “I wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.” She slides her hands from my collar to my chest, toys with the buttons of my shirt. Her face is right next to mine and I can tell she’s waiting for me to make a move, waiting for me to kiss her.

  She’s emanating desire, all but trembling with it as she leans in so close I can feel her breath against my skin. My dick responds—of course it does—and if this was any other time, any other place, any other woman, she’d already be in my arms. Already be beneath me with her skirt around her hips, her panties around her ankles and my tongue buried deep inside of her.

  But this isn’t some other woman. This is Veronica Romero, Hollywood’s sex goddess extraordinaire, and she is still playing me.

  The knowledge infuriates me even as it turns me on. Which then infuriates me even more, considering she’s not turned on at all. Considering this is all an act.

  I’m close enough to her—and have enough experience with women—to tell the difference.

  She’s a brilliant actress, one who can fake a lot of things flawlessly. But not this. Not real, honest desire.

  Oh, she’s got the breath hitches down, the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the trembling hands and oh-so-open body language. But her eyes aren’t dilated, her skin isn’t flushed and the pattern of her breathing—though fast—is far too even for this to be anything but her using the same tricks on me that she used on Marc earlier.

  Which is why, when she finally leans into me—finally brushes her lips against my own—I let her. Once, twice, a third time.

  But that’s it. I don’t deepen the kiss, don’t put my hands on her and pull her body against mine, over mine. Don’t do anything that
can be mistaken for me making a move on her, even as my dick hardens to the point of pain and my hands clench into empty, aching fists.

  She kisses me once more—a soft, glancing thing that invites much, much more. It’s a good move, and if she meant it, I’d be all over her. But she doesn’t and I’ll be damned before I grab on to a woman who doesn’t want me.

  She waits several long, drawn-out seconds, her eyes level with mine. But when I still don’t take what she’s so deliberately offering, she pulls away in obvious confusion. Not that I blame her. I can’t imagine that the great Veronica Romero gets turned down very often.

  “It’s okay,” she tells me, her tongue once again running over the seam of her lips. Even as I call myself a fool, I can’t help following the motion with my eyes. “You can kiss me.”

  “Who says I want to kiss you? I’m here to do an interview.”

  It’s a bold move on my part, one that’s either going to tip the scales in my favor or send her flying into a rage that ends with me being kicked out of her house for good. At this point, both scenarios seem equally likely and though I know which one I’m rooting for, I’m willing to wait and see how this round of the game goes.

  “Oh, you want to,” she says, her fingers tightening in my shirt as her palms slide over my chest and she glances down at my very aroused cock. “We both know it. So why don’t you go ahead and just do it?” Her hand slides lower, over my stomach, and for a second, I think she’s just going to go for it and wrap her hand around my dick right here in the middle of her kitchen.

  Because I do want her despite everything—and because I’m not sure I’d be able to resist that—I grab her hand before it can slide any further down. Then I’m standing up, pulling her to her feet and whirling her around so that she’s pressed up against me but facing away from me, her back to my chest.

  “Because,” I tell her even as I rest my hand on her abdomen—right between her hip bones—in an effort to keep her in place. “I don’t kiss women who don’t want to kiss me. Ever.” I lean closer so that my mouth is right over her ear, my breath brushing against the sensitive skin there. “So, what do you say we stop this game and get down to what we’re really here for?”

  A shiver runs through her at my words—or at the feel of my breath coasting over her ear. I don’t know which. And frankly, I don’t give a fuck, because it’s the first real reaction I’ve gotten from her today. And like all good things, it only makes me want more.

  Chapter 6

  When did I lose control? I wonder as Ian’s thumb burrows between the waistband of my low-rise jeans and the hem of my T-shirt.

  Was it when he first opened the fridge and found out the truth? I wonder as he strokes over the sensitive skin of my stomach.

  Was it when I followed him to the table and sat down beside him? I wonder as his breath against my ear sends alternating shocks of hot and cold down my spine.

  Was it when I made the mistake of thinking I was the one in control, the one playing him when all along the opposite was true? I wonder as he wraps his other arm around my chest and pulls me even closer.

  Or is it right now, when I know I should be twisting away, when I know I should be calling a halt to this, and instead am powerless to do anything but stay right here, in his arms?

  I’m not sure that the when of it matters anyway, not when he’s so smoothly outmaneuvered me at my own game. And not when he’s all over me, all around me, the warmth of his body so shockingly good against my own.

  It’s an unfamiliar feeling, this pleasure I draw from being surrounded by his long, lean strength. I’ve been held by a lot of men in my life—on-screen and off—but never has it felt anything like this. Like my body’s on fire and every joint, every bone, every muscle I have is melting into him.

  He must feel it, too, because suddenly he goes from simply restraining me to actively holding me.

  “Is this what you want, Veronica?” He whispers the words against my ear, his warm breath making me curl into myself as more unfamiliar feelings swamp me. “Is this what you’ve been asking for all along?”

  “I don’t—” My voice breaks, and that never happens. He laughs a little—a low, warm sound that makes my body pulse and my skin feel raw. I take a deep breath, try again. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “Sure you do. And if you want this to go any further, you’re going to have to lay it out for me.”

  He leaves the thought dangling, leaves the idea that there could be more of this feeling—more of this pleasure—right there in front of me. For the first time since I learned the power of sex, I am powerless. More, I’m reckless.

  I want to see his face, want to read the emotions in his eyes. But he’s got me wrapped up tightly enough that I know I’m not going anywhere—I’m not even turning around—until he lets me. It’s not nearly as daunting as I expect it to be.

  “Do you want to interview me?” I finally ask, the words low and breathy and pulled from deep inside of me. “Or do you want to fuck me?”

  “Do you want to be interviewed?” he counters, his hand slipping further inside the waistband of my jeans to stroke my abdomen, my hip, the top edge of my panties. “Or do you want to be fucked?”

  I never want to be fucked.

  The words are right there, trembling on my lips, just waiting to slip out the second I lower my guard. They’re my truth, my shame, the secret I have kept hidden for as long as I can remember. Except, right here, right now, they don’t feel like truth.

  Not with the way Ian’s breath tickles my ear.

  Not with the way his calloused fingers tease my skin.

  And definitely not with the way he feels pressed against me, his body hot and strong and oh-so hard.

  “And if I told you I wanted to get fucked?” The words slip out before I even know I’m going to say them, but once they’re out there, hanging between us, I don’t want to take them back. It’s never felt like this before—I’ve never felt like this before—and I want to know what that means.

  Not that I could take the words back if I did want to, not when every muscle in Ian’s body has turned to rock against me. Including his cock, which has started to press insistently against the upper curves of my ass.

  I close my eyes at the feel of him, rest my head back against his shoulder, and wait for it to start. The mauling, the heavy breathing, the headlong rush to his orgasm that’s been the same with every man I’ve ever even thought of being with.

  As I wait, I almost regret my decision. Not to fuck Ian, because for the first time in what seems like forever—what might very well be forever—I want a man. Want to kiss him and hold him and feel him slide inside my body. I want that more than I ever imagined I could. I just regret that I gave in too soon. That this delicious tension between us, this heat that continues to spark along my every nerve ending, will soon dissipate in his headlong rush to completion.

  I brace myself for it. For the fumbling hands and the frustration. For the confusion and the blame.

  Oh, I’m sure he’ll try to get me off—every man I’ve been with has at least tried to make me come. But when it becomes apparent that they can’t—that I can’t—they immerse themselves in their own pleasure instead.

  I don’t blame them. How can I when it’s my failure that’s the problem?

  “Do you want to be?” Ian prods, as he cups my left breast in one huge hand. “I told you I was going to make you say it.” As a little extra incentive, his thumb rubs back and forth over my nipple. My suddenly hard and aching nipple.

  “Yes,” I grind out. “Yes, yes, yes.” I hope it’s clear enough because I can’t say it again. I can’t say anything right now. I’m too caught up in the ache blooming deep inside of me.

  “Fuck.” He turns me around then, his hands cupping my jaws and fingers sliding into the complicated hairstyle I’ve been wearing for far too many hours. “Thank God.”

  And then his mouth is on mine and I forget anything—everything—that I was going to say
. Instead, I just sink into it. Sink into him.

  And he lets me. More, he demands it of me.

  I’m not sure what I’m expecting—through the years, I’ve kissed a lot of people a lot of different ways—but it isn’t this.

  It isn’t the soft yet demanding way Ian’s lips move against mine.

  Isn’t the way his voice goes all gravelly as he whispers dark and dangerous things against my mouth.

  And it sure as hell isn’t the way he holds my face, like I matter. Like I’m special. Like I’m his.

  I tamp the thought down as soon as I have it. That’s not what this is, I remind myself brutally. It’s not special, it’s not important. It’s just another back room Hollywood deal sealed with sex. He wants answers that I can’t give him and so I’ll give him this instead. Just because I’ve never done business this way before, just because I’ve never let it go this far no matter what my reputation is, doesn’t mean I can’t tonight.

  I give everyone around me what they want, over and over again. Why can’t I—just for this one, brief moment in time—take what I want? Be what I want?

  Just the thought has me curling my fingers into the silk of his shirt, has me relishing the contrast between the soft, cool fabric and his hard, warm body. I arch into him, seeking contact, warmth, more. He groans in response, tilts my head, runs his tongue along the seam of my lips in a bid to deepen the kiss.

  It feels surprisingly good, the wet heat of him igniting the sparks deep inside of me. Fanning the flames. Spreading the pleasure. And so I give him what he’s asking for, my lips parting on a gasp that allows him to lick his way deep inside my mouth.

  He takes his time exploring me, licking along the inside of my lip, my cheek, the roof of my mouth. Ian’s tongue is gentle, like the rest of him, and he tastes like lemon and mint and just a hint of the coffee that started all of this. It’s a good combination, one that grows stronger the deeper he delves.