Playing With Her Heart

by Lauren Blakely

  No faking, no pretending. Only truth.

  Which makes me wonder if that’s why my body responds like it belongs to him. If there’s more to this thing between us than just his amazing hands, or the way he kisses me both rough and tender, or how he talks dirty in one moment and then romantic the next. If I’m feeling things for him that go beyond these sensations that send me to another world with him.

  But right now, I let go of all those questions because he’s learning that I wore nothing for him, so he could do just this, so he could touch me under the table.

  Then he removes his hand from under my dress and shoots me a mischievous grin.

  “Um, hello,” I say playfully. “Maybe you could put your hand back there. Not sure if you got the memo, but I kinda want you.”

  “I know,” he says, leaning back against the gray leather and reaching for his scotch. “And I want something too. I want to know what you look like when you make yourself come.”

  A shiver runs through me. Is there anything this man can say that won’t make my body high on him? “You’re going to torture me.”

  “And you’re going to torture me. But I know you like to touch yourself. And I bet you can do it quietly too.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  He leans into me, twines his fingers into my hair once more, and I melt into his touch. “Because you have a roommate. Because you told me you read erotic novels. Because I bet you’ve learned how to make yourself come quietly.”

  My breath stills, and heat spreads through my body. “How do you do that? How do you just know things about me?”

  “Because it’s my job to understand people and emotions, and secrets, and the things we do in the dark and the things we tell others and don’t tell others. That’s why I do what I do. And I know you’re absolutely turned on right now.”

  “How do you know?” I ask in a challenging voice, even though I’m sure I’m an open book.

  He brushes my hair away from my shoulder, trails his tongue from my collarbone to my earlobe. “Because your cheeks have this pink glow when you get turned on and your eyes go all hazy, and you part your lips, and I know it means you’re aching for me to touch you,” he says, and I can’t help myself. I breathe harder and gasp out, “Oh God.” Neither one of us is touching me right now, but I can feel how hot I’m getting between my legs, how I’m aching for pressure, for touch, for release. “Touch yourself,” he commands. “I want you to come from your own hand.”

  I nod, close my eyes, and slip my hand under my dress until my fingers reach my wetness.

  “Tell me how wet you are now.”

  “More than I’ve ever been,” I say as a low moan escapes my lips.

  He brings my face closer to his, so he’s wrapped an arm around me, as if he’s shielding me from anyone who might see or hear. “And how does it feel to have your fingers on your clit while I’m right here next to you, and I can smell how turned on you are?”

  “Oh God,” I gasp, and he’s sending me to another plane of pleasure already with the way he strips me bare. I am burning all over, my whole body is lit up from how he talks to me. “I’m so turned on by you.”

  “And have you masturbated to me fucking you?”

  “Yes,” I say, as sparks of pleasure careen through my body with every dirty word from his mouth.

  “And how do I do it?”

  “Any way. You do it any and every way.”

  “Do I fuck you from behind? With you bent over the bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do I fuck you up against the wall, with your legs wrapped around me?”

  “Yes.”

  “And do I fuck you on a table?”

  “Yes.”

  “And are you on all fours, so I can run my hand down your gorgeous back before I slide into you and you beg me to take you harder?”

  “Yes, yes, yes,” I answer in heavy pants, my breathing growing wildly erratic as electric heat ripples through my veins.

  “And do you take me in your mouth?”

  “God yes. I want to do that to you. I want you to let me,” I whisper to him in a hungry, needy voice, because he’s driving me absolutely insane and to the far edge of pleasure. I’m an expert at self-love, this is my specialty, this is what I do, but the way he talks to me as I touch myself makes it seem as if he’s the one doing it.

  He traces my top lip with his finger. “You think you’d like having my cock in your mouth?”

  “Yes. I want to. I want to taste you,” I say, then he slips his finger into my mouth and I close my lips around it.

  “You’re so close now to coming, aren’t you?”

  I breathe out a strangled yes, as he takes his finger away.

  “I don’t want anyone else to hear you,” he says in a firm voice. “You’re so loud when you come. Do you have any idea how loud you are?”

  “I know I’m loud,” I say, in between muffled moans against his skin.

  “And I love it. I love it when you can’t hold back. And when you moan, and scream and grab my hair hard. But you need to be quiet right now. Do you know why?”

  “Why?” I manage to ask, as I touch myself more.

  “Because no one else can know what you sound like coming. I don’t want anyone in this restaurant to hear you. I don’t want anyone else to know how fucking sexy you sound when you come. I want you to be quiet, and whenever you want to scream out, you need to moan in my ear, so I’m the only one who can hear you. The noises you make are only for me.”

  “Yes.” I’m barely in this restaurant anymore. I’m some place else with him, a dark and desperate place, as he cups the back of my head, and brings my face to his neck, so my mouth is near his ear. “Now pretend you’re home, and you have to be quiet, but it’s so fucking hard to be quiet, because you’re picturing my cock in your mouth, and your beautiful lips wrapped around me.”

  “You’re killing me,” I pant out. “I want you so badly. I want to do that to you.”

  “And I want to see your gorgeous mouth on me. I want to thread my hands into your hair and feel you take me in. I want you to know what you do to me.”

  It’s all I can see, all I can picture, and I want to touch him, to know how hard he is, if he’s as turned on as I am right now, because I’m well past caring about anything except the way my body screams for him. I could hike up my dress, unzip his pants, and slide on top of him right now. I could ride him right here in the far back corner of this too-cool-for-school restaurant and I honestly wouldn’t care if anyone saw me, because I am mindless with my desire for him. I am adrift in lust, and all I want is release, and I start to cry out because it feels so good. But he silences me quickly, rasping his knuckles against my lips. “Bite down when you come.”

  And I do, as my fingers fly and an orgasm starts deep in my belly and then spreads through my body, making me quiver and shake and want to shout and moan and thrash, but instead I bite down on him to muffle my sounds as I shudder and come for him in the restaurant where we’ll be eating dinner any minute.

  Finally, when I can breathe and speak and make contact with reality, I look at him, and he has the most satisfied grin on his face when he shows me the bite marks I left on his knuckles.

  “I’m so sorry,” I say.

  “Don’t ever be sorry for that.” Then he takes my hand, and he presses it against his pants so I can feel his cock straining against the fabric. He unzips the fly, locks my fingers into his, and brings my hand inside his pants, then down his boxer briefs, and I nearly combust when I touch him for the first time. He’s so hard and big and velvety smooth. He’s throbbing in my hands, and I can tell how much he wants me to touch him.

  “Let me,” I plead.

  He gives me a smirk, then shakes his head playfully as if I’ve been naughty.

  “God, when are you going to sleep with me?” I ask because I’m so keyed up and so frustrated. “I want you inside me.”

  He removes my hand from his pants, then zips them up an
d fastens the button.

  “When I can fuck you and make love to you at the same time, Jill. Like I want to. Because that’s what I want from you,” he says, so matter-of-factly he could be giving me a note on how to do a scene better in the show. This is what he wants. This is what he expects from me. This is what I’ll have to deliver. “That’s how I want to have you. Now it looks like our food is here and I’m hungry.”

  The waiter serves our fish, and Davis says thank you, and all I can do is mumble a thanks. He is so cool and collected and yet I’m the one who got off. This man vexes me with the way he takes care of me so thoroughly, and protects his own heart so fiercely.

  But then, I suppose I know what that’s like. I’ve been doing it for years.

  He slices his fish and spears a forkful. “Now, I want to ask you to go out with me again.”

  “A second date?” I ask, as he takes a bite of his dinner.

  “Yes. Come with me to the Broadway Cares event.”

  “It’s one thing for me to be at a restaurant with you. But there will be people there we know.”

  He huffs out a sigh. “Fine. You’ll come in a restaurant for me, but you won’t attend a formal event where I have to say a few words about the fundraising,” he teases, shaking his head.

  “It’s not the same,” I try to point out, but my argument seems invalid, even to me.

  “You’re right, Jill,” he says, playing along, as he places his fork and knife down to take a drink. “That’s why it’s a good thing I have access to extra tickets. Perhaps you can go with Shelby, and I can look at you across the room and pretend I don’t know what you look like and sound like and feel like when you come for me.”

  A charge races through me, and I’m about ready to grab him, pull him into the bathroom and insist on what I want right now. Him. But instead, I try my hand at negotiation. “I’m pretty good at acting. Maybe I’ll go and act as if I’m not dying to have you. Maybe then you’ll finally let me.”

  The gauntlet is thrown.

  CHAPTER 18

  Davis

  Clay calls as I’m leaving the Times Square subway station, heading up the steps to the street.

  “Are you emailing me that new route to work? Because I’m walking precariously close to the Belasco in about thirty seconds when I cross Forty-Fourth Street,” I say, and the funny thing is it wouldn’t bother me if I bumped into Madeline.

  “Man, you are just a tough bastard, aren’t you? But that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Ah, you missed me even though I saw you an hour ago at the gym,” I joke, as the smell of pretzels wafts past me from a nearby street vendor.

  “Yeah, exactly. So, I’m calling with a heads up.”

  I groan. A heads up is never good.

  “Don is at the St. James already. He’s got some film producers there to check out Patrick.”

  My shoulders tighten. “What? Nobody told me about this.”

  “It’s the Pinkertons,” he says, mentioning the names of a pair of British brothers who bankroll films. “For the second picture in Escorted Lives.”

  “The first hasn’t even started shooting yet. They’re turning that into a trilogy already?”

  “Books were so damn popular, the Pinkertons are doing all three. And there’s a new-guy-in-town role for the second film, so they want to consider Patrick for it. You know his Crash The Moon contract is for ten months, so his agent brought in the producers since they’re in town for a few days.”

  “Do they think they’re going to watch the rehearsal? Because that’s not how it works,” I say firmly, my muscles tensing all over. “It’s not a god damn open rehearsal. If the film producers want to see him play Paolo, they buy a ticket to the show when it opens in two weeks.”

  “I know,” Clay says, heaving a sigh. “I said the same thing to Don. But you know Don.”

  “Yeah, he’s an ass. What’s the deal? Is he in bed with the film producers? Is he getting a cut?”

  “I think he’s vying for some small producer credit on the film. That’s why he brought them in. It should only be a few more minutes. He’s got that understudy with him.”

  I stop in my tracks. Like I’ve been punched in the ribs. A woman in a suit and heels bumps into me, and I mutter an apology, then step into the doorway of Sardi’s to get out of the way.

  “That understudy?” I ask through clenched teeth.

  “McCormick? Is that her name?”

  “Jill McCormick.” I shut my eyes. My blood feels like it’s boiling and I don’t know what pisses me off more—Don commandeering the stage or Jill not mentioning she’d be doing a scene with Patrick for the producers of a romantic movie.

  Rationally, I know she’ll play many romantic roles throughout her career. Logically, I would never do anything to stop her. But seeing as she’s auditioning for all intents and purposes with him I would have appreciated a heads up from her. I don’t know why she wouldn’t tell me she was reading with him, but the omission sends a hot rush of jealousy through my veins.

  “Patrick likes working with her, so he wanted to do a scene with her for the producers. Not from Crash the Moon though. Don’t worry about that. They’re just running lines from the next book.”

  “Oh great,” I say sarcastically. “That just makes it all fucking better.”

  “Yeah, sorry, man.” But he doesn’t know the half of why I’m angry. “And listen, I know you can’t stand Don. But the show opens in two weeks, so if you could do your best to let it go that would help me a ton as I work on what’s next for you. Got a few possibilities I’m working on. Maybe some Twelfth Night in London. Maybe a film.”

  “Let me know what you come up with. I’m always ready for the next challenge.”

  I resume my path to the theater. I turn into the alley, and Don is walking towards me with the Pinkertons. Don smiles broadly and I seethe inside, but do my best to follow Clay’s advice. “Davis,” he calls out as if we’re pals happy to see each other. “Have you met Nicholas and Frederick Pinkerton?”

  I extend a hand, keeping my anger tightly wrapped inside as I meet the two brothers. “Pleasure to meet you both.”

  Frederick Pinkerton shakes my hand enthusiastically, and beams a bright smile that takes me by surprise. “I’m a huge fan of your work,” Frederick says. “I’ve seen all your shows on Broadway. South Pacific, and Anything for You, and The Saying Goes. Loved your film, too. And I also saw World Enough and Time at La Jolla. Thought it was utterly brilliant.”

  I’m taken aback. I didn’t expect Pinkerton to be anything but a dick but then, that’s because he’s guilty by association with Don in my book. “Thank you very much.”

  “I’ve often thought that play would make a wonderful film adaptation,” he says, glancing up pensively at the gray February sky. Then he begins reciting lines from the Andrew Marvelle poem. “Had we but world enough, and time. This coyness, Lady, were no crime. We would sit down and think which way to walk and pass our long love’s day.”

  I flash back to the play. To Madeline playing the lead role. To the days and nights when those lines and many others from the play were all I lived and breathed. When I felt that way for her. Now, three years later, the lines are only lines, the memory just that. Only a memory, and it doesn’t hurt anymore.

  “Helluva poem,” I say, because it’s true, and because that’s all the poem is anymore.

  Frederick gives me a serious look. “You know, Mr. Milo. We should talk about you turning that into a film quite soon. Shall we set up a meeting for later this week?”

  “Absolutely,” I say, and I’m honestly not sure how the morning is working itself into such a strange turn of events. I’ve gone from being blindsided, to being offered a possible next job. But the fact is, I need to think about what I want to do next. The work of a director is done once the show opens. The actors keep it going, and I move on to the next job.

  Don and the Pinkertons walk away, and I head inside the theater as Patrick and Jill leave the
stage. She hangs her head low, and the guilty look in her eyes makes my heart stop. But she’s desperately trying to make eye contact with me, and she’s mouthing the words I didn’t know under her breath.

  Patrick calls out to me. “Milo!”

  He has such a bright smile on his face that he makes it nearly impossible to dislike him. Especially when I can’t let my professional side pander to my personal one. “Hey! That was totally last minute. Agent called late last night since the Pinkertons were in town, and Don okayed it. Hope you don’t mind us using the stage for it.”

  “Of course not, Patrick,” I say, in my best calm voice because the last thing I need is for Patrick to be less than happy. He’s a linchpin in this show, and if I want it to be the hit it can be, I have to make sure the leading man has no clue I’ve dreamed of all the ways I can take him out of the running with Jill. “The stage is always available for you.”

  “You’re the best, man.”

  Then he bounds down the hall to his dressing room, singing a cappella to a Jack Johnson tune that must be playing in his head and reminding him of beaches and sunny skies. I turn around to see Jill standing in the hallway. “I tried to call you this morning to tell you,” she says quietly so no one else can hear.

  “You did?”

  “Yeah. About thirty minutes ago. I got a crazy call this morning from my agent to be here so I rushed to get ready, and I called you when I was in a cab. But you didn’t pick up.”

  “Must have been on the subway.”

  “I would have told you. You have to know that, Davis,” she says and there’s real worry in her voice that she might have crossed some sort of line. The look in her eyes is one of genuine concern, and it erases all my irritation from before. Then it hits me, like a blow I didn’t see coming, that she can do this to me. That she has this power over me. That she alone has a direct line to my heart. Where I was jealous and angry minutes ago, now I am reduced once more to this all too familiar feeling when I’m with her.