You Had Me at Hola

by Alexis Daria

  The thing about doing karaoke with actors was that they didn’t just sit around singing. They performed. Lily and Nino knew all the dance moves to *NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye.” Peter treated them to a rendition of “My Way” that would’ve made Sinatra proud. And when Jasmine’s song choice finally came up, she took the mic and said, “Yes, I am that basic karaoke bitch,” as the first strains of “Everlasting Love” rang out.

  And then she turned and held out the other mic. “Sing with me, Ashton.”

  He couldn’t refuse.

  By tacit agreement, they alternated lyrics and harmonized on the chorus, like in the Rex Smith version of the song. It could have been sexy. It could have been emotional. But they did sexy and emotional every day for work. Instead, they made it as silly as fucking possible.

  Ashton couldn’t remember the last time he’d had more fun.

  When they took their seats again, it was to a round of applause and hollers. Then a Marc Anthony ballad came on and Nino took the mic.

  Ashton flopped down on the purple vinyl couch. It had been years since he’d done karaoke, and he’d forgotten how much he enjoyed it. Still, thanks to kitten-induced congestion, he was worn out. He stretched his arms across the back of the sofa and fought to catch his breath.

  “Well, that was fun.” Jasmine took the seat next to him and cozied up to his side. “I knew you’d be a good singer.”

  “Nah, I just play one on TV,” he said, and she giggled.

  Damn, he loved making her laugh. The joyful sound, the way her cheeks scrunched up, the way her warm body shook against him. He wanted to put his arm around her, to hold her close. To look deeply in her eyes and then—

  But they weren’t alone. And he wasn’t supposed to want that, although he was starting to forget why. Instead, he just played with the ends of her hair, styled into a mass of defined curls by the hair team at Carmen. When she tilted her head closer, he let the backs of his fingers lightly brush her bare shoulders and pretended her shirt wasn’t setting him on fire.

  Movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn. Lily Benitez crawled across the long sofa to Jasmine’s side. “Oh my god, you guys,” she said, slurring her words a little. “You two are so cute together. Is there, like, something going on?”

  Ashton snatched his hand away from Jasmine’s shoulder like it was a hot stove. His throat locked and his heart rate rocketed.

  Coño. This was how rumors started. How could he have been so stupid? He should have known better than to—

  Jasmine just gave Lily an unconcerned smile. “Nah. Why do you ask?”

  At that, Lily shrugged and slumped against Jasmine’s shoulder. “Just curious. It happens on a lot of sets, you know.”

  Jasmine laughed. “Oh, I know.”

  “Cool.” And then Lily flipped her hair and went back to nursing a cup of water at the other end of the room.

  While Ashton struggled to get his pulse under control, Jasmine looked up at him from under her lashes. Her eyes were dark and unreadable, reflecting the light from the screen flashing lyrics for “You Sang to Me.”

  Then she poked him in the side and muttered, “Don’t get bent out of shape.”

  “You handled that well,” Ashton told her, impressed by how easily she managed awkward interactions. He would have stammered and rambled, then run away.

  Her gaze held his for a long moment before she looked away. “Nothing to tell.”

  Her tone was cool, but there were many things unsaid in those words, and they were at odds with the heat in her eyes. Ashton felt like he did when they were on set together, when Carmen and Victor spoke without speaking, conveying so much connection in a single look or touch. Right then, he felt it. Like he knew her deeply, as if all their time on set pretending to be other people had also brought them closer together.

  The powerful impulse to know her even more deeply rose up inside him.

  But as much as he wanted to kiss her right now, as himself, they were in a room full of their coworkers. And this was a line he’d sworn he wouldn’t cross ever again.

  A shout went up as the others recognized the opening bars of “Livin’ La Vida Loca.”

  “That’s my song,” he whispered to Jasmine alone.

  Her teeth bared in a fierce smile and her eyes gleamed. She handed him the extra mic and said, “Kill it.”

  He did. Allergies be damned. He gave the song his all, copying Ricky Martin’s mannerisms and revving his voice. The others danced and sang along, urging on his theatrics. Through it all, he kept finding Jasmine’s eyes shining at him from across the room.

  It was all for her. He wanted Jasmine to see him, the real him. Ángel Luis, the boy who’d grown up dreaming of being a big movie star. And Ashton, the man who ran around with his son playing superheroes.

  He wanted to tell her everything, but he couldn’t. Instead, he let her see a glimpse of who he felt himself to be inside . . . through the words and moves of the great Ricky Martin.

  When it was over, the crowd, as they say, went wild. Jasmine found him and slipped a hand around his waist when no one was looking.

  “You’re amazing.” Genuine admiration glowed on her face, lighting him up from within. Then she winked and grabbed the mic from him as “Jenny from the Block” flashed across the screen in garish pink. “But let me show you how it’s done.”

  Jasmine raised the mic to her mouth. “Gotta remember your roots,” she said, then proceeded to serenade the room with a powerful rendition of JLo’s early hit about growing up in the Bronx.

  Ashton couldn’t take his eyes off her. She shone like the brightest star in the sky, commanding the heart and imagination. Everything else paled in comparison to her radiance.

  He should leave. Watch some TV, go to sleep, wake up tomorrow with new resolve to keep his distance. His life was complicated enough without developing feelings for his costar.

  Instead, Ashton drank more. He sang more. He chatted with the others and shared a basket of french fries—his weakness—with Nino. And somehow, he never lost track of Jasmine. She appeared at his side periodically, checking in on him, handing him wine, water, tissues. Touching his waist, his back, his arm. Driving him wild with her smiles and small touches.

  And despite his reservations, he touched her too. With as close as they got on set, it seemed normal to rest his hand on her hip when she reached past him to steal a fry, or to trail his fingers down her arm while she whispered anecdotes to him about the songs, her lips achingly close to his ear, sending tingles across his scalp.

  He already knew the feel of her mouth under his. But those kisses had been choreographed, controlled, and scrutinized by others. He wanted to know how she tasted.

  As Lily treated them all to a wild interpretation of a Shakira song, Jasmine found her way to his side once again.

  “I’m going to go back to the hotel,” she told him, pitching her voice low.

  “I’ll go with you.” The words came without forethought. He knew how it would look if they left together, but he didn’t give a shit. As much fun as he was having with the rest of the cast, he didn’t want to be there without her.

  “Okay,” she said softly.

  They made their farewells, delivering the expected goodbye kiss on every cheek. When Peter exclaimed, “Leaving so soon?” Ashton blamed it on his allergies, even though his nose had stopped running sometime during the night.

  Outside, he and Jasmine caught a taxi back to the hotel. They rode in silence, walked through the lobby in silence, and when they stepped into the elevator, Jasmine pushed the button for her floor and turned to him, blocking the control panel. The doors whooshed shut.

  In a quiet voice, she asked, “Do you want to come to my room?”

  Ashton searched her face, her eyes, the way she held herself. He knew this woman’s mannerisms, her body language and nonverbal cues. He knew exactly what she was asking.

  And he wanted it too.

  “Yes,” he said.

  The eleva
tor doors pinged open on her floor.

  Chapter 22

  Jasmine’s fingers trembled as she removed the key card from her purse and unlocked her hotel room door. She didn’t turn to look at Ashton as she opened it and entered the room, trusting—hoping—that he would follow her.

  He did.

  The second the door clicked shut behind them, he pressed her up against the wall and brought his mouth down on hers.

  Jasmine dropped everything. Her arms banded around his neck, and she arched her body flush against his. His body was a revelation, all hard muscles and the thick, solid length of his cock pressing into her abdomen.

  She knew his touch, his scent, the feel of his lips against hers. But this was different. This time was for real.

  When his tongue slid against her lips, she opened for him with a moan. Finally they would do this right.

  Their tongues touched, tasted, caressed. His kiss was stronger, more audacious, than when he was Victor. And she relished in it.

  As many times as they had done this before, this was all new. They weren’t Carmen and Victor now. They were just Jasmine and—

  “Ashton,” she whispered against his mouth.

  He pressed his lips to the curve of her neck and made a questioning noise in the back of his throat.

  “Touch me. Please.”

  He did.

  His hands slid down her back in an unerring path, molding over her sides, her hips, stopping at her butt to give it a squeeze, then traveling down to the backs of her thighs. He lifted her like he had when they’d filmed episode four. The move had thrilled her then and it thrilled her now. Still kissing, he carried her to the table where they had once shared wine and pizza and set her down on top. Then he pressed his pelvis to hers and the feel of him against her made her desperate to touch him.

  “Off,” she pleaded, tugging at his T-shirt. “Take this off.”

  He released her for just a moment to reach back, fisting his hand in the material and yanking the whole thing over his head. In the dreamy ambient light of New York City filtering in through the windows—they hadn’t even thought to turn on the lamp—she trailed her gaze and her fingers over the angles and planes of his muscled form. When she’d seen him on the treadmill in the fitness center, she’d wanted to touch him. And now she could.

  But Ashton wasn’t content to just sit back and be touched. He leaned into her, capturing her mouth again with fervor.

  Then he surprised her by murmuring against her lips, “This is not kissing practice.”

  “No,” she agreed, tangling her tongue with his, just to prove it to herself. Full-on tongue kissing was a line they’d never crossed at work. “Besides, you clearly don’t need any practice.”

  He chuckled, then his mouth left hers to trace a line down her neck and over her bare shoulder.

  “This shirt,” he muttered, his fingers crawling under the band. “Did you wear it to drive me wild?”

  “Maybe.” She’d picked the lacy white crop top because it was cute, but she’d worn her most effective strapless bra underneath because she’d known he would be there tonight. “Okay, yes. I wore it for you”

  “Sinvergüenza,” he scolded, then peeled the shirt from her body.

  He’d called her shameless, and when he unhooked her bra and cupped her bare breasts in his hands, all she could do was sigh and say, “You know it.”

  Then he dipped his head and pressed his open mouth to her nipple, and she was beyond words.

  She locked her legs around his hips and pulled him against her, grinding on him through their pants as he sucked and tugged at her nipples with his mouth and fingers. Bolts of electric desire streaked through her body at his touch, building a roiling sense of pure need deep within her.

  She pulled at his hair, whimpered his name, and rocked her pelvis against his until finally, he said the best word in the world: “Bed.”

  Jasmine slid off the table, grabbing his hand and pulling him into the bedroom after her. They fell onto the bed together and he made quick work of her pants. Her sandals had already been lost by the door. Ashton peeled her jeans and simple black panties down her legs, then he stood and just gazed at her. His expression showed hunger, yes, and appreciation, but also something like affection. Right then, Jasmine felt like the most beautiful, most loved, most desired woman in the world.

  “Come here,” she said, and while she meant it to sound seductive and alluring, it just sounded desperate. But she didn’t care.

  At her breathless command, a new urgency overtook him. He kicked off his shoes and shoved down his jeans. She sucked in a breath and bit her lower lip at the sight of his rigid cock, outlined beautifully by tight dark blue briefs. The head peeked out over the waistband. She couldn’t fucking wait to get her hands on him.

  With something like a growl, he slid next to her and gathered her close, kissing her like their lives depended on it.

  This was a side of Ashton she hadn’t seen before. She’d caught glimpses of it when he played Victor, a sexy intensity that came out when he acted. But this was more—more passionate, more overwhelming—and she loved it. All she ever wanted was to be the single-minded focus of someone’s attention. And his was 100 percent entirely focused on her.

  His mouth moved over hers like all the stage kisses they’d shared had been foreplay, a prelude to what he was truly capable of and what he’d wanted to do. Now, finally, he was kissing her for real. No pretense, no direction from others. This was pure, unfiltered Ashton. No holding back.

  Jasmine took everything he offered and gave him everything she could. Their hands roamed, learning each other’s bodies more intimately and more ardently than they ever had on set. Jasmine grasped the waistband of his underwear and shoved them down over his taut ass before taking his cock in hand.

  It was thick and fully rigid, his skin hot against her palm. She gave him a few experimental pumps and he groaned against her mouth.

  “Jasmine, what are we doing?” His voice was hoarse, rough with need. He sucked in a breath when she wrapped her fingers around his shaft and gave him a gentle squeeze.

  “I don’t know,” she whispered, meeting his eyes. “But I don’t want to stop.”

  “Yo tampoco.” The words held a note of confession. He cupped her cheek and kissed her, then shifted out of reach. She almost whimpered in dismay when the move pulled his cock from her grasp, but then his mouth found her breasts again and one of his hands slid up her inner thigh. With a satisfied hum, she decided that, on second thought, she was totally okay with these new positions.

  ALL THOUGHTS ABOUT what a bad idea this was had deserted Ashton’s brain somewhere between walking through the door and Jasmine’s ass hitting the table.

  Now that they were naked and alone together in her bed, all he could think about was touching her more, tasting her more, and making her moan even more than she already was.

  He sucked her tight little nipple deep into his mouth, rolling the bud with his tongue and nearly dying from pleasure at the breathy gasps and pants she made. Her response was genuine, and he hadn’t realized how much he’d wanted that from her. Every other time he’d touched her, their reactions had been worked out in advance by committee.

  But this? This was only between them.

  She’d been right. He loved eliciting an emotional reaction from her. His hand slipped between her thighs to the warm, wet heart of her. Her fingers tangled in his hair, urging him on. Her legs parted, making room for him, inviting his touch.

  Before he did, he moved up her body to bring his mouth back to hers. He wanted to be closer, to swallow her sounds of passion when he touched her for the first time. She clung to him, pressing closer and arching her hips.

  But there was one thing he had to make clear first. Communication was key, right? That’s what had gotten them here. Even though desire urged him to cast words aside, he had to make sure they were on the same page.

  “Jasmine.” His voice broke on her name.

  “H
mm?” She shifted restlessly. The heat between her thighs called to him, but he had to get this out.

  “I don’t think—” He swallowed hard, wondering if he was just being stupid, then blurted it out. “We shouldn’t have penetrative sex.”

  Don’t ask why don’t ask why don’t—

  She blinked like she was in a daze. “Okay?”

  She sounded confused and he couldn’t blame her. But she hadn’t asked why, and she hadn’t called a stop to this, so he dropped his voice to a purr and moved his hand so it covered her mound. “But don’t worry, querida. I’m going to make you feel so good.”

  “Just touch me,” she whined, arching impatiently against his hand.

  He couldn’t make either of them wait any longer. Slowly, he brought his middle finger down and slid it gently over her folds.

  Jasmine threw her head back. “God, yes. Keep going.”

  He did it again, this time his fingertip slipping between and gathering her wetness. He parted her with two fingers and found her clit, rubbing it in small circles. She cried out against his lips, and he was lost. The taste of her, the smell of her, the feel of her so close against him, skin to skin. Time and space had no meaning anymore. There was only her.

  “Lube,” she whispered mid-kiss, so quick he almost missed it.

  “¿Dónde?”

  “Drawer.”

  He yanked open the bedside drawer, almost ripping it out of the nightstand in his haste, and removed a small zippered pouch. When he opened it, he found all sorts of interesting battery-operated things, but he only removed the small bottle of clear gel she’d asked for. After squirting some onto his hand, he reached between her legs again, groaning as his fingers sank right in.

  She stretched her arms up over her head on the pillow. Eyes closed, she let out a throaty sigh every time he thrust into her, and a high moan when he slicked his fingertips over her clit. Unable to take it anymore, he kissed her hard, swallowing her sounds as her sheath, so tight and so hot, squeezed his fingers, killing him slowly. How good would she feel around his dick?

  He wasn’t going to find out, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t come with her.