by Leisa Rayven
My heart must look the same to him.
“I need you,” he says as his lips graze my breast. “Always.”
I pull him closer, but it’s not enough. I run my hands down his back. Feel the muscles as he shifts and grinds.
Finally, he pushes inside and oh . . . there’s nothing else. Nothing. No one. Just this. The perfect slide of him.
“Cassie . . . God. Oh, God . . .”
I can’t talk. Talking is pointless, anyway. As if this could be described. I could speak every language in the world and still not have enough words to express how I feel about this man.
I settle for kissing him. I make noises around his tongue. He does the same around mine. We both know exactly what we’re saying: This is precious. This is love. This is something I’ll never take for granted, because I know how it feels to be without it.
We’re not quiet as we wind each other tighter. Quiet really isn’t an option with feelings this big.
As I crest, I tell him I love him and moan his name. Repeat it, over and over again. Get louder as he increases his pace and stop breathing when I’m as high as I can go. I almost scream when I snap and fly. He carries me through all the layers of pleasure. I float for so long, I feel dizzy. Then he’s crying out my name, and his movements are erratic. Hips move back and forth to the rhythm of his orgasm. Staccato and unsteady. He’s tense and still for what seems like minutes, then heavy relief hits, and he sinks down and wraps me in all of him.
We hold each other and breathe. Dazed. Ecstatic. More in love with each other than we ever thought possible.
As the fog lifts, our hearts slow. Fingers stroke subconsciously. He rolls off and pulls me to his side until my head is on his shoulder, my hand over his heart.
I trace patterns. I think they’re random, but when I become lucid, I realize they’re words. Ethan. Love. Ethan. Mine. Always.
He’s tracing patterns, too. Also words. I’m dozing off, but I recognize some of them. Cassie. Beautiful. Mine. Need. Love.
Then he traces two words that make me stop breathing. When he traces them again, I’m wide awake.
On the third time I feel the tension in him. He’s wondering if I’ve understood. His expression says he hopes I have, and he watches me, desperate for an answer.
I push up on my elbow and look at him. I’m blinking too fast, but I can’t help it. The naked vulnerability in his expression makes me well up.
He gazes at me and brings a single finger to my chest. Then he traces the words one more time and finishes by uttering the world’s softest, “Please.”
My eyes spill over. My throat is so tight, I can barely get out my whispered, “Yes.”
I kiss him and repeat it, just to make sure he understands. “Yes.” He sighs in relief as I kiss all over his face and neck. “Yes, yes, yes.” His eyes spill, too. So relieved. So happy. So beautiful.
We celebrate by making love again, and I know without a doubt, I’ve made the right decision.
I think about how I was six months ago and marvel over where I am today. It’s hard to believe. I don’t think I’ve ever fully understood what a profound ability humans have to change, especially with the right motivation. We’re capable of remarkable evolution. Not just physically, but mentally.
Emotionally.
Although some of us get lost in the labyrinth of our own insecurities, it’s possible to find our way out. Ethan’s proof of that. I guess, in my prouder moments, I am, too. Neither of us is perfect, that’s for sure, but when we’re together, our deficiencies are complemented by the other’s strengths.
When I look at Ethan now, I don’t just see the damaged young man who hurt me in a misguided attempt to protect me. I see the man who struggled against the doubt and darkness inside himself and fought with all his might to change. And there’s something about his immense determination to be more than he was that makes him more beautiful to me than ever. There’s compassion in him now, not only for others, but especially for me. He’s known the loss and defeat I’ve felt. He’s walked in my shoes. And I’ve walked in his.
I have no doubt we’ll continue to fight and grow, and I have no illusions that the rest of our journey is going to be smooth, but I do know that whatever burdens we encounter will be halved because we’re together. As a couple, we have more than enough strength to achieve whatever we desire, and fortunately for us, we’ve never desired anything as much as one another.
That’s where our future lies.
Together.
Writing our own unconventional and dramatic love story, one page at a time.
Read on for a special preview from Wicked Heart, the next book in the Starcrossed series.
ONE
FOOL ME ONCE
Present Day
Pier 23 Rehearsal Rooms, New York City
Tingles up my spine. Blood hot and fast beneath my skin.
Goddammit. This isn’t good.
Why is this still happening to me after all these years?
I’m not a girl who swoons easily. I’m really not. If I were to describe myself I’d say I was passionate but logical, fiery but methodical, spontaneous but organized. All of these traits might seem like contradictions, but they make me a damn good stage manager, and I’m not too humble to say that at the age of twenty-five, I’m one of the most respected show runners on Broadway. Producers know they can depend on me to stay calm in a crisis. I run my shows with military precision, and I demand strict professionalism from everyone, especially myself.
My rules for a stress-free work environment are nonnegotiable: Treat everyone with respect, be firm but fair, and do not ever get romantically involved with someone in the show I’m running. For most of my career, I’ve had no problem following my own rules, but there is one thing that can derail my equilibrium in one fell swoop.
Well, not so much one thing as one person.
Liam Quinn.
As I sit in the private cinema with my production team and watch the shirtless man on the screen take down an overwhelming number of enemies, I’m embarrassed by how hot my skin feels. How my breathing is shallow, and my thighs are pressed together. How I drink in every angle of his face and body. How I thrill to the flex of every perfect muscle.
But even more than that, I’m embarrassed how the passion of his performance makes me fantasize about doing passionate things to him. Not just sexual things, but they’re certainly high on the list.
To put it simply, he makes me swoon like it’s his damn job.
He’s the only man who’s ever affected me like this, and it’s safe to say I hold it against him. It’s inconvenient and rude.
He runs toward the gorgeous redhead on the screen and pulls her into a passionate embrace. The redhead is Angel Bell—recent cover model for People’s “Most Beautiful Women in the Known Universe” and basic all-round Goddess. Perfect body. Perfect boobs. Perfect face. She’s playing a seraph princess. Liam is her scorching-hot demon slave. They’ve just about destroyed the world trying to be together, and now Liam’s kissing her like he’ll die if he doesn’t.
Goddamn, that man can kiss.
I cross my legs and sigh. This is insane.
I’m not against being aroused in general, but being aroused by this particular man is a recipe for disaster. The last time I let myself have these feelings for him, it didn’t end well.
I feel a hand on my arm and turn to see one of Broadway’s most respected directors, Marco Fiori, leaning over. His eyes are bright with excitement, and it’s clear I’m not the only one who’s noticed Liam’s … assets.
“Quite the specimen, isn’t he?” Marco whispers.
I shrug. “If you like that sort of thing, I suppose.” My raging hormones scream that we do like that sort of thing. We like it a whole helluva lot.
The only trouble is, we can’t like it, because Liam’s an actor, a
nd we don’t date actors. Also, in a few weeks, I’ll be his stage manager. Also, he’s engaged to his gorgeous costar.
Oh, and perhaps the most important reason is, once upon a time, we had a short but passionate-as-hell relationship and I’ve never recovered.
Somehow, I’ve managed to lock away the heartache he caused, possibly because I blame myself as much as I blame him. But the desire? That’s still roaming free, storming through my composure like a bull in a china shop.
Yep.
This is going to be an interesting project. It will be a miracle if my professionalism and I make it out alive.
* * *
Half an hour later, after a thunderous climax in which Liam saves the world, then has panty-melting sex with his leading lady, the movie ends.
Thank God.
When the lights come up, we all head into the nearby conference room. Our production team is small and consists of our producer, Ava Weinstein; our director, Marco; the designer and the production manager; and finally, my assistant stage manager and best friend, Joshua Kane.
“You okay?” Josh asks as we take our seats at the table. “You’re flushed.”
“I’m fine,” I say. “Just warm. It was hot in there, right?”
Josh shrugs. “It was pretty damn hot when Angel was topless in the bathhouse, but other than that, I was freezing my balls off. I think the A/C was set to ‘Arctic Blizzard.’”
I pick up the folder in front of me and fan myself. Despite Josh’s chilly nuts, my blush is set at “Surface of the Sun.”
Josh smiles to himself.
“What?” I ask, defensive.
“Nothing. Just finding it funny that after all of these years, one glimpse of Liam Quinn can still turn you as red as my credit card balance.”
“Shut up.”
“I notice that wasn’t a denial.”
“Double shut up. And if you breathe a word of this to Marco, I’ll rip off your icy balls and use them as earrings.”
He laughs. “Marco doesn’t know you two … ‘know’ each other?”
“No.”
“Or that every sexual fantasy you’ve had in the past six years has revolved around Liam?”
I glare at him.
He holds up his hands. “Fine. My lips are zipped. But if you latch on to him in rehearsals and hump his thigh, I expect to be absolved of all responsibility.”
“If I get close enough to him to do any humping, you will have failed as my platonic life partner. Just remember that.”
“God, woman,” he says with a frustrated sigh. “Keeping you in line really is a full-time job.”
Even when my anxiety levels are higher than James Franco’s, I love that Josh can still make me smile. This is why he’s been my bestie since our sophomore year in high school. Predictably, we met in drama club. He was one of the few straight boys there, and even though we both loved theater, we weren’t great at the onstage stuff. After our less-than-stellar acting “debuts,” in which we played what no doubt came across as the world’s most awkward lovers, we decided to tread the less glorious path of backstage crew. It turns out my talent for organization and general bossiness is a plus in theater, and it wasn’t long before I became the school’s youngest-ever stage manager.
For some reason, Josh was content to play Robin to my backstage Batman, and we’ve been a dynamic duo ever since. People are always confused that we’re friends and not lovers, but that’s just the way it is with us. Besties ’til the end.
“Okay, team,” Marco says when we’re all seated. “That was the final movie in the Rageheart series, starring Liam Quinn and Angel Bell, our soon-to-be leading couple for my fabulous reimagining of Shakespeare’s Taming of the Shrew.”
I love Marco’s concept to update Shakespeare’s classic comedy. His work is clever and current, and I’ve been a fan since I worked on his most recent Broadway hit. The play just happened to also star my brother, Ethan, and his gorgeous now-fiancée, Cassie Taylor. After we’d been open for a few months, Marco poached me to run this project. Of course, at the time I had no idea it would star the “Lord of My Underpants,” Liam Quinn. If I’d had that little nugget of information, I would have run in the other direction. Working with a man who lights up my libido like the Vegas strip isn’t my idea of a good time.
“Now,” Marco says, “unless you’ve been living under a rock for the past few years, you’ll know that Liam and Angel are Hollywood’s current golden couple. They dated for a couple of years, then got engaged, and judging from their regular public displays of affection, they’re revoltingly in love.”
I remember the day I found out they were dating. I’d never felt so stupid in my entire life. Or so heartbroken. I thought we had something special, but those photos were proof that even men as spectacular as Liam Quinn can be fickle bastards.
Marco points to the folders in front of us. “Those dossiers will familiarize you with our stars. They contain their official résumés, as well as quirky facts, likes, and dislikes.”
As if I need any of that. I’ve been cyber-stalking Liam for years. Not my proudest achievement.
“At the back of the dossier,” Marco says, “is a copy of Liam’s and Angel’s production riders.” A production rider is a list of things companies are requested to provide to keep stars happy. The can range from the simple to the ridiculous.
“Please keep in mind that these aren’t regular theater actors,” Marco continues. “They’re movie stars, so they’re used to having all of their outrageous demands met. Let’s try not to disappoint.”
I sneak a peek at Angel’s list.
Jesus, really?
It would seem Miss Bell’s happiness depends on her dressing room being completely white—white carpet, furniture, drapes, and flowers. Her food and beverage requirements are straight out of the little-known best seller—Gourmet Crap That Will Send You Broke.
I flick over to Liam’s rider. It lists only four things
Free weights
Wi-Fi
Chocolate chip cookies
Milk
I smile. I remember his fondness for cookies and milk. He used to taste delicious after eating them. Cookies and cream is still my favorite flavor.
Josh frowns. “Are we really providing everything in Angel’s rider? I wouldn’t even know where to look for a ‘Columbia Daylily.’”
Marco laughs. “Of course not. With our budget, we can barely afford bottled water, let alone a private chef or personal trainer.”
Our producer, Ava, clears her throat. “I’m currently in negotiations with Anthony Kent, Liam and Angel’s agent, and intend on vetoing the more ridiculous demands. Anthony needs to manage his clients’ expectations about the difference between working in theater and film. Movie stars have no idea about how humble theater budgets are. I fear Angel and Liam are in for a rude awakening.”
“Liam’s done theater before,” I say before thinking.
Ava raises an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Uh … yes. It’s right there on his résumé. Six years ago. Romeo and Juliet. Tribeca Shakespeare Festival.”
Marco narrows his eyes. “Wasn’t that the same production you and your brother were involved with? It was your first professional show, yes? You were only nineteen.”
Damn that man and his elephantine memory. “Oh. Uh … yes. It was.”
“So you know Liam Quinn?” Ava asks, surprised.
“A little.”
At least, I thought I did. The man I knew was different from the short-tempered bad boy who now shows up in the gossip rags every few weeks.
“Will he give us any trouble?” Marco asks.
I shrug. “He was very professional as our Romeo, but that was before he became Mr. Big-Shot Hollywood Icon. Now, he has a history of aggression toward paparazzi. I haven’t heard about him being difficult in
a professional capacity, but it wouldn’t surprise me.”
Marco nods. “Agreed. In contrast, his fiancée seems so sweet in interviews it makes my teeth ache. I think we should all be prepared to tread carefully and massage some difficult attitudes.”
For the rest of the meeting, I keep only one ear on the conversation as I think back to the Liam of Christmases past. He used to be passionate, attentive, and hot as hell, and he awakened a part of my sexuality I never knew existed. I should have realized it was too good to last. There isn’t a man on earth as perfect as he was pretending to be.
Even after all of this time, I hate how he played me. And I still wonder why he did it. To prove he could? To make sure I had both feet firmly on the rug before he pulled it out from under me?
Whatever the reason, what’s done is done. I can’t go back and change things. But I can make sure Liam Quinn never gets the chance to fool me again.
Wicked Heart is available now.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
There’s never enough space to thank everyone who deserves it, particularly the plethora of amazing book bloggers and reviewers whose passion and enthusiasm has driven both Bad Romeo and Broken Juliet. Ladies (and a few gents), I can never truly thank you enough for your awesomeness. You know who you are.
There are some absolutely brilliant reader groups out there who make me smile every day, (One-Click Addicts and Vixens—I’m looking at you) and they are filled with some of the most generous and supportive souls you’d ever hope to meet.
To my amazing Street Team—you ladies rock my world. I’m so grateful for all that you do.
To three amazing ladies who give me advice, hair stroking, and keep me (moderately) sane—Caryn, Heather and Andrea. I adore you.
To my Filets—I wouldn’t cope with life if it wasn’t for you, let alone the craziness of the book world.