And now wasn’t she a participant in this scam that robbed people of their sexual comfort? Because the love scenes they were shooting were anything but real. With a body double, makeup, lighting, special diffusing lenses, and every other trick in the book, she’d be up on the screen making every woman in the audience feel inadequate.
She hadn’t slept with Sam. And even though she wanted to, wanted to so very badly that she found it hard to think of anything else, she wasn’t sure that she would. What would he think of her scars? How would she explain? And, worse, once she had given herself to him, how would she control her feeling for him? How could she keep the upper hand? Continue the Estella role. Mai had given her advice—“Don’t ever be liking heem more than he is liking you!” It was advice Jahne planned to follow, but it was becoming difficult to resist him.
He was certainly attentive. In fact, it seemed as if he tracked her all day long, that every comment he made, each joke, each order, was also a secret message to her. Each evening, after work, he came to her suite, or sent a car to bring her to the house he had rented for the duration. They discussed the day, the difficulties with Michael, the problems with the crew, the script. She thought about telling him who she really was, toyed with the idea each evening, but never acted on it. They laughed a lot, ate together, and drank some wine—though Jahne was careful of the calories as well as its effect on her face and libido. She never talked about herself. And she tried to be as seductive as possible. Yes, she was making him crazy! But since the one kiss in Santa Cruz, she hadn’t let him touch her. Except once. Yesterday, as she was leaving, he took her hand and held it up, flat, against his hard chest.
“Can you feel my heartbeat?” he asked.
“Yes.” She tried to keep the breathlessness out of her voice.
“You’ve kept my heart beating like that for weeks now. What is yours like?” He moved his hand, still on hers, to her own chest and pressed her hand against her own heart.
“It’s quite steady,” she lied to him.
“Liar!” he said, and for a moment she thought he had read her mind. “Liar!” he repeated and smiled. “You’re heartless. Heartless or sexless. One or the other.”
“Men’s oldest incorrect assumption: that any woman who doesn’t have sex with them doesn’t have sex at all! I’m sexless? Just because I don’t roll into bed with you?” she asked, trying to laugh.
“No,” he said, serious, his voice low. “Because you don’t love me back. Do you?”
She’d pulled away from him wordlessly and gone back to the hotel, to her empty bed, to another night of troubled sleep. When she awoke at 2:00 A.M., she felt so upset she almost called Mai. But Mai needed her rest. The old woman looked so drained and tired. Well, Jahne told herself, so will I if I don’t get some shut-eye. Yet she was as nervous as a cat. She had never in her life played hard to get. But was it morality and strength that kept her from sleeping with Sam, from loving him? Or was it simply fear that he’d be turned off by her scars, that he’d stay involved with April and reject her once again? Or worse, she asked herself. Worse, that he’d make love to her and realize who she was. Or, worst of all, that he wouldn’t.
She laid her head against her rumpled pillow again. Did Sam love her? she asked herself. And if he did, who was it that he loved? Did he love who she had been, or only who she was? Had he only left Mary Jane because of his weakness for beauty, and now that she was beautiful, would he not leave her again? Or was he simply…
There was a knock on the door. It was soft, but it was unmistakably a knock. Jahne lay absolutely still. La Brecque’s security people were on the job, as well as the movie security staff, and the hotel’s. But the knock came again, this time with a whispered “Jahne.”
Her heart jumped within her, but not in fear. She got out of bed, took a minute to turn on a low light and run to the mirror. Then she went to the door.
“Yes?” she asked. “Who is it?” But she knew.
“Please,” he said, and she opened the door. Sam made no move to come in. He simply stood there, his face wet with tears. “I’ve never felt like this,” he whispered. “Never.”
She looked at his long, lean face, the shadow of his dark beard on his cheeks, the wrinkles at the corners of his deep-set eyes, eyes wet with tears, tears shed for her. Surely this was proof. No man had ever cried for her before.
“What about April?” she asked.
“Forget her! I have. It will probably ruin my career, but I have. And you don’t care.”
“I care,” she told him. Taking his hand, she drew him into her room and into her bed.
38
Sam’s long body lay beside Jahne, his right arm over her shoulder and just barely touching her back. She was having trouble breathing, and she couldn’t swallow. Her hip bone was pressed against him, her left foot just brushing his. And all those places where they touched—her back, her hip, her foot—felt as if they were burning.
She would have him at last! And have him on her terms. Have a man—not just any man, but Sam Shields—have him love her. Adore her. Have him lusting after her. Wild for her. Crying for her.
But the excitement, the thrill, was almost too painful. She wanted to tear off her bra, her panties, rip off his blue boxer shorts, and fuck him to death. She wanted to ride him, to swallow him inside her and rock away this unbearable tension. She could hardly control herself. And I must tell him, she reminded herself. I must tell him who I am, now, before it’s too late.
His face was inches away from hers. In the semidarkness, she could see his eyes gleaming. He, too, was breathless with desire. Looking deeper into his eyes, she saw two tiny reflections of her own face. What was he seeing in her eyes? Surely the ghost of Mary Jane?
He began to move, only the slightest bit, and now her nipples were just brushing his bare chest and she could feel the head of his penis—through his shorts—pressing against her thigh. His shorts were wet there, and the wetness echoed her own. He lifted his hand from her back and gently, ever so gently, ran it all along her side, from her shoulder to her knee and back. She shivered.
“Cold?” he teased, and his voice was almost unrecognizable, it was so gritty with desire. She couldn’t speak at all, she only shook her head. He reached over to her face then and held her head still, his long hand cupping her chin. His hand on her face felt so good—she could only think of Snowball and the way the cat pressed itself against her hand, pushing the caress. She, Jahne, wanted to rub every part of herself against him, like a cat pushing on a rubbing post. Then, still holding her face, Sam kissed her, and she stopped thinking of anything.
His lips against hers were so hot that they sent another shiver down her back. But his other hand was there to draw her closer against him. He held her face to his as if her mouth were a fruit that he was eating. His tongue moved slowly around her mouth, tasting each cheek and under her tongue and behind her upper lip. Then, gently, ever so gently, he took her full lower lip between his teeth and slowly—ever so slowly—bit her.
She groaned, and he let go just at the second the sensation moved from pleasure to pain.
“I want to eat every bit of you,” he whispered. “You’re delicious. I want to love you with my hands and my mouth and my dick.” He unhooked her bra and effortlessly freed her from it. Oh! The heat of his chest on her breasts was exquisite, and she felt her nipples tingle. Yes! She had sensation there. They tingled. She took a deep breath, and it pushed them even harder up against him.
He took her hand, and moved it down, to his penis, still clothed in his boxers. It almost burned her hand. It was hard, and she let the head press against her palm. It was slick with his fluid. “That’s for you,” he told her. “All for you.”
He moved his own hand and put it down the waistband of her panties. He pressed it against her flat stomach, the very tips of his fingers just touching her pubic hair. She groaned again, and he moved his fingers—not any lower—he simply drummed them gently for a moment there. She shuddered
, and he laughed and kissed her again, this time only lip to lip. But she wanted his tongue, wanted his hand, wanted his cock. Still, he pulled back, and began to kiss her cheek, then her neck, then, slowly, her upper breast. His left hand remained on her mons, but he moved his other to cup her breast to his mouth. “Oh, God, yes!” she whispered, but instead of taking it in his mouth he only held it to his face, and then, gently, breathed on it. And her nipple felt every breath.
She was crazy with desire for him. And she felt his desire, but also his control. He isn’t like Pete—all humping and no technique. And he’s not like Michael, who was all technique and no passion. Sam had the control and subtlety to choreograph his lovemaking, but he also had the passion and energy to make it so much more than a horizontal dance.
Her body had never felt so alive. The slightest touch, the least change in pressure or position, made her tingle. Now, at last, he put both of his hands on her breasts, covering them completely. He put his mouth against her ear. “Hold me tighter,” he told her, and he squeezed her breasts gently in his big hands. “Hold me like that,” he said, and she felt his penis jerk in her hand. She closed her fingers around it and echoed his kneading. He moaned, and she felt a surge of power and lust that was electric. She had made him sound like that. She tightened her fingers around him again, and again he moaned.
She used her other hand and pulled down his shorts. Then she took him in her hand again and rubbed his cock slowly against her belly. “Oh, yes,” he groaned. She felt the trail of wetness it left. She put both hands around it and squeezed hard. He had his tongue in her ear, and what he was doing felt so good, so wild, that she had to let go of him. She felt as if there were no time, no place, only the waves of feeling from her ear to her neck to her nipples to her pussy.
“Don’t let go,” he begged, and moved a hand down to hers, pulling it back to his penis and pushing himself against her palm. “Don’t ever let go of me,” he begged, and kissed her, deeply and hard. He rolled on top of her and his weight was perfect. Face to face, chest to chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh, they lay for a moment.
“Let me come inside you,” he whispered, and, when she nodded, he reached for a condom and slipped into it. It gave her a moment to breathe. What am I doing? she asked herself. This wasn’t what I planned. Not to sleep with him. Not to keep in the dark about who I really am. I have to tell him now. It’s my last chance.
But he moved his hand down, again to her panties, and then, quick as a fish, slid his hand under them to the slickness between her legs. “Ah. Yes,” he sighed.
She felt him slip a finger inside her. She arched her back and pushed against his hand. “Does that feel good?” he asked, his voice a thick whisper. He began to stroke her, and she thought she’d die from the pure pleasure. “Do you feel good?”
“Yes,” she whispered back. “But I want more.”
He pulled her panties down to her knees. She started to wiggle out of them, but he stopped her. “No, let me look at them there. Let me look at you exposed.” He got up on one elbow, eyeing her. “Open your legs a little wider,” he said. The panties pulled at her knees, but she spread them as far as she could, conscious of him staring. “Ah,” he sighed. “That’s how I’ve pictured you a hundred times. It’s such a wanton look. Let me put on the light.”
“No!” she cried. “No. Not now.”
He shrugged. And reached over and put his hand back on her, opening her first with two fingers, then a third. She had to thrash her head back and forth on the pillow, her pleasure was so intense. “Oh, God,” he groaned. “You’re so beautiful. I don’t know if I want to watch you or fuck you.”
He pulled his hand away from her, and she opened her eyes. He was rubbing her wetness on his cock, covered as it was by the condom. Then he tore off her panties and spread her legs wider, positioning himself between her knees. He bent over, kissed her belly, and moved his mouth up to her breasts, her neck, and then covered her own mouth with his.
“Now?” he whispered. “Can I have you now?”
“Oh, yes!” she nearly screamed, as she felt him slip just the head of his penis inside her. He didn’t move for a moment, but her urgency had her shivering and almost bucking underneath him. “Slow down,” he whispered. “You’ve got me so nuts I’ll come in a second if you move.”
She stopped, trembling. Slowly, bit by bit, he slid the entire length of him into her until she felt so full that she almost clawed his back. “There. Is that what you wanted?” he asked, and she felt tears spring to her eyes.
“Yes. That’s what I wanted,” she confessed.
“Me too. Me too,” he whispered.
He began then to move on her, slowly and smoothly, entering her over and over and over. “Oh, you’re so good. It’s so good,” she wept.
“It’s all for you, baby. All for you.” She felt the waves of pleasure overtaking her then, and knew she was about to come. “Ah,” he cried. “Give it up. Give it up, baby,” he told her, and she did.
Jahne sat the next morning, smiling and humming, in front of the makeup vanity. “Are you likink him more than he iss likink you?” Mai asked.
“No. No. Not at all.”
“I think this is qvite dangerous,” Mai warned. “He is critic, not artist, don’t you think? You give all to him. Vat does he give you?”
“His love,” Jahne said, simply.
“How do you know?” Mai asked.
Jahne turned to her, serene. She had proof. She almost shivered as she remembered Sam’s passion in the dark the night before. And the tears that had coursed down his face. “Because he cried over me,” she told Mai, turning back to her own reflection in the mirror.
“Phaw! Men alvays cried over me. They cry over beautiful vimmen every day. Vat else?”
And Jahne watched the smile disappear off her own beautiful face. Because she didn’t have an answer.
39
Lila was beginning to look forward to her time with Marty. At first, when his attention to her on the set became obvious, Lila had accepted it as both a tribute to her beauty, and a stroke of good luck. But beauty is an abstract, and an abstraction isn’t human. Marty craved glamour, and glamour was remote. If she warmed to him, would he still worship at her shrine? No one in Lila’s life had ever given so generously of his time to her. No one had ever really listened. At first, she was like a caged animal suddenly let loose in the jungle. She had pushed and criticized, obstructed Marty in every way. And Marty had hung on. Until she began to trust. Now he listened to her all the time, and she even occasionally listened to him. He knew stuff. He was really smart.
Trust was new to her. How could she ever really trust anyone? Not the PMS, that was for sure. Not Kevin. And not Aunt Robbie, she had gradually come to learn. Not that she believed that Aunt Robbie would deliberately hurt her, as she believed her mother had and would, but Robbie was a little too far out for anyone to consider dependable. Since Lila had laid out her terms of forgiveness, she hadn’t seen Robbie, and she knew why: he was afraid to burn his bridges with Theresa by bringing Lila her “sisters.” Fine. He’d made his choice.
She was spending all her free time with Marty, and she found that she didn’t need anyone else. At first, being seen with Marty in public was enough of an incentive. The man had a presence, a persona, that seemed to appeal to everyone, men and women. It wasn’t the allure of sexuality, nor the macho attitude that some men projected. Marty was different.
For one thing, when they were out in a restaurant, or at one of the A-list parties, Marty never took her elbow to steer her around. Lila appreciated that. She hated to be touched, and led around like a dog on a leash. Marty seemed intuitively to know that, and to respect her separateness. As a result, when she walked into a crowded room with him, she felt she walked in with him as an equal, not as a prized possession.
And the more Marty’s attentions to her became known, the more everyone on the set treated Lila special, with a heightened awareness of her presence, of her unsp
oken needs. She knew that, of the three co-stars, she was the one that was feared. And the fear made Lila feel secure, because she knew that there had to be something to keep people in line, and fear was the basis for power.
Except Marty didn’t use fear to project his strength. It puzzled her.
While Marty was single-minded in his work, he also knew how to spend his free time, the little he had. Marty loved opera, so they went up to San Francisco. And symphonies, ballets, art shows. And theater, although there was less of that in L.A. than one might imagine. Marty seemed to take pleasure in exposing Lila to those things that, despite her privileged background, she had not experienced before. Marty was knowledgeable. And very patient. He was making the down time of the hiatus fun for her. And the publicity of their dates wouldn’t hurt her Emmy chance at all.
Meanwhile, he hadn’t tried to touch her. They spent an evening at her place, sitting on the deck, overlooking the Pacific. Marty had been in production meetings all day, and now he was talking about the new opening for the season. Lila was staring at the water, mesmerized by the spectacle of the sunset over the waves. He droned on while she nodded.
“And we’ll have Theresa play your mother,” Marty said casually.
For a moment, Lila’s expression didn’t change, as if she hadn’t heard what he had said. Then, suddenly, her face was ashen. “What?” she asked.
“Theresa has agreed to play your mother.”
Lila couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “No, Marty. Not my mother.” Lila finally croaked out a hoarse whisper.
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