Making a Scene

by Trudy Doyle

  “Fantastic. Because I have another meeting with that production company on Thursday, and this time they’re bringing a scriptwriter. Not that you won’t have input on that, sweetie. I’ll make damn sure of it.” Then she looks past me, smiling toothily. “Saw you come in. Oy vey,” she says, fanning herself, “who’s the beefcake?”

  I look over my shoulder; Roark’s clutching a beer and appears to be having a fairly good time. “That’s Roark.”

  She lets out a long, slow sigh. “Well, someone as hot as him is certainly good for your image. Keep him around. Is he straight?”

  I stare right into her ice-blue eyes. “I’m done with the arm candy, Renee.”

  “Hoooof. Then you’re one lucky dolly, I’ll tell you that. Ought to be quite an inspiration for—” She catches herself, laughing. “Ohhhh, I get it now. That’s your research, isn’t it?”

  I say nothing, just smile subtlely, turning to pick up a glass of wine.

  I leave Renee, pay my respects to Consuelo, sitting regally in an armchair near the fireplace, a half-dozen or so of her authors around her. Off to the side are copies of Malcolm’s latest book, a scandalous political tell-all that’s bound to make millions as he’s already making the rounds of the chat shows. Before long we say our goodbyes and, much to the regret of Roark’s burgeoning fan base, we leave, both a little buzzed, both more than ready to get back to our room. As Roark turns the doorknob I can’t help feeling my insides start to tighten from the anticipation of being in his bed, and the dread of it.

  Once inside he shuts the door, the bed looming before me like some gaping scene of a horrible accident. I toss my purse to it then quickly snatch it back, laying it instead on the credenza near the window. I go to where we made love just a few hours before, the spot oddly comforting. He comes up from behind and slips his arms around me, his mouth next to my ear.

  “Stop angsting,” he says, kissing my cheek, “and tell me everything.”

  Chapter Ten

  Look, I could bat my eyes and innocently stare back into his, saying: Tell you? Tell you what? Now drop your drawers so we can go fuck on the sofa. But somehow I don’t think that would fly. The bed looks too cushy, not to mention normal. But I go to the sofa anyway.

  “Would you like some water?” he asks, opening a bottle. He drops ice into a glass and without waiting for an answer, pours me one anyway. I take it and he sits at the opposite end of the sofa.

  I sip it slowly then set the glass to the coffee table, while Roark waits silently. Clearly, that’s my cue to open. So I do. “I haven’t been completely honest.”

  “Oh?” He inclines his head. “How so?”

  “It’s got nothing to do with you, although it seems to be creeping into our, uh…” Should I use the word? Oh, what the hell. “Our relationship, if that’s what you want to call it.”

  “Hmm…seems as good a word as any.” He sets down his glass. “But that is interesting. Could it maybe have something to do with your not wanting to sleep with me?”

  A hit right in the solar plexus. “No! How can you say that after all we’ve done!”

  He laughs slightly, then looks to me with sincerity. “Pam, you’re the smartest, the funniest and hands-down, the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. But sex at a train stop or atop my desk or in a limo or especially on a windowsill, is just not the same as both of us getting naked so I could make love to you in a bed. All I want is to hold you in my arms all night, but for some reason that’s a problem. Why?”

  I hang my head; I can’t look at him. “I caught my boyfriend screwing my friend.”

  “You told me that.”

  “In my own bed.”

  “You told me that too.”

  “Did I also tell you I watched?”

  He’s getting irritated now. “How else would you catch them?”

  “You’re reading me wrong, I watched on purpose. For ten minutes.”

  “You were in shock.”

  I take a gulp of my water, catching his gaze. “No. I was getting off on it.”

  He blinks but his focus remains steady. “Did you want to join them?”

  I shake my head vigorously. “No, not for a second. As a matter of fact, the idea of Josh even touching me now nearly makes me sick. But this happened two weeks ago and still, I’m sleeping on my sofa. I just can’t face my bed or any other one, it seems.”

  “Could it be because the idea of a ménage à trois is morally repellent?”

  My mouth drops. “Morally repell—! Can you actually think after all we’ve done I’d be that much of a prude? No, it’s not that. It’s more like…” But I can’t finish the thought.

  “Did he mean that much to you?” Roark asks, his fingers clawing into the armrest.

  “He meant nothing to me,” I say honestly. “In the two months we were together he was a diversion, and apparently, I was nothing more to him than free rent and whatever else he could get out of me. Which, I’m ashamed to say, was plenty.” I set down my glass and inch over to Roark. He doesn’t move, his eyes still fixing on mine. “Now that I think about it, it was almost like watching porn. A total disconnect from the emotional, just purely physical. But then they saw me watching and instead of being horrified at being caught, they asked me to join them. Said it was only sex, nothing personal.”

  “But saying it wasn’t personal only made it more so.”

  It was like a light bulb went on over my head. “Yes.”

  “Then maybe it was the betrayal that got to you, not the sex.”

  “Yes.” The revelation hits me hard. “It was like I didn’t even matter.” But then, I guess, neither did they. And maybe that was the most jarring part. “Seems we all were taking something that should’ve been intimate and exclusive to such a mechanical level, the people involved didn’t mean anything—that it was just sex. Maybe for a while that worked for me, maybe back in the day that’s all I needed. But now I know I’m looking for more, for something deeper. Because after being with you I’m starting to realize,” I place my hand on his knee, “I could never share you with anyone.”

  He takes a deep breath, one I know he’s been holding for some time. “You won’t have to. Because with me, everything is personal.” He pulls me against his chest, tucking my head under his chin. “So you’re rid of the fuck now. We’ll get past it.”

  I bring my thumb to my mouth, biting the nail. “I wish it were that easy.”

  “What do you mean? Is he still around?”

  “Remember what I told you about him threatening to sue me? Well, he came by yesterday with a process server. Intellectual property theft, the writ said.”

  I can feel his heartbeat kicking up. “Yesterday? You saw that fuck yesterday? Why didn’t you tell me? I would’ve had him kissing sidewalk.”

  I wrap my arms around his waist. “Calm down, sweetie, it was after you left. I sent the writ up to Renee, my agent who’s also my lawyer. She promised me she’d take care of it.”

  “Let me catch him near you and I’ll make his life such hell he’ll end up in the slam for just breathing in the wrong direction.”

  “It’s nice to know I have you behind me, but for now I think my best defense is to ignore him. I have a more pressing thing to angst over.”

  He nudges me off him. “Like what?”

  I fall back against the opposite end, kicking off my shoes to stretch my legs onto his lap. “There’s this particular scene I have to deliver by Monday for my next book.”

  He kneads my toes. “And that’s what you’re blocking over? What’s it about?”

  “Well, that’s the thing. It’s supposed to be about sex. Sex between Tanaka and Shields. My publisher won’t accept the book without it.”

  As he rubs my feet, considering it a moment, I resist the urge to purr. “So they’re finally going to do it, huh? Well, there goes the sexual tension.”

  “That’s what I’ve said. Nothing kills it like release.”

  “But then again…” He thinks a moment
more. “Maybe it’ll bring it to a whole new level. Remember the movie series, The Thin Man?”

  “Yeah. William Powell and Myrna Loy. Nick and Nora Charles. He was a detective who retires when he marries an heiress.”

  “Right. In spite of their being married, they still had sexual chemistry to burn.” He laughs. “I remember one scene. They come home and find their bedroom ransacked. While he’s grabbing his gin, Nora goes off and yells, ‘Someone’s been in my drawers!’”

  “Yes! I remember that! Makes Nick drop the gin.”

  “See?” Roark grins. “It can work. You’re a good enough writer to pull it off.”

  I fold my arms behind my head, stretching my legs. “I suppose it would, but that doesn’t solve my immediate problem—writing the actual scene. So far I’ve only taken them to a point, and then…” He touches a spot on my foot that sends a pleasure spasm straight to my happy zone. “Oooh, that feels good.”

  He does it again. “That’s what I’m here for, baby. To help you in any way I can.” He slides my legs to the floor.

  “Don’t stop!” I cry, sliding them back to his lap.

  “We’re done with that,” he says sliding them back off. “It’s time to get to work.” He stands up, taking off his jacket.

  Now it’s my heart kicking up a notch. Roark’s starting to strip, and all I can do is sit there rapt, openly gaping at him. He notices.

  “Go ahead and enjoy the view, because you’re next. And this time, I’m driving the bus.”

  “Fine with me,” I say, lying back against the cushions, my own personal peep show playing out center-carpet. The jacket he places onto the back of a chair, his tie following as he kicks off his shoes. I can feel my pulse rising as one by one he undoes the buttons on his shirt, finally opening it to a chest so muscled it’s all I can muster not to dig my fingers into it. He balls the shirt and tosses it aside, giving me a spectacular view of his taut back. Then he unzips his fly and steps out of his trousers—his legs corded with muscles, his thighs bulging beneath his boxer briefs, his gorgeous package straining against its cotton confines as he yanks off his socks. He folds his trousers and drapes them over the chair then, turning to me, slips his thumbs into the rim of his boxers.

  I hold my breath; five times fucking him does nothing to dilute the event I’ve been fantasizing about all week.

  He stretches the elastic and down the boxers go, over his slim hips, over his burgeoning cock, down his rock-hard thighs and straight to the floor where he kicks them to join his shirt. A tiny gasp escapes me as I stare at him, unabashedly awed. He is so otherworldly beautiful, suddenly I can’t help feeling way out of my league.

  He comes to the sofa and stoops before me, pulling me to a sitting position. “Don’t look at me that way,” he says softly, clearly pained. “It’s me that doesn’t deserve you.” He kisses me ever so tenderly and stretches my leg across his thigh, sliding his hand to my garters. His touch just about undoes me, and by the time he rolls both my stockings down my legs, my garter belt over my hips, slipping my panties, my bra and my dress to the floor, there are tears welling in my eyes.

  He pulls me to my feet, our naked bodies pressing together, his arms enveloping me. “Baby, why are you crying?”

  I kiss his chest. “I’ve never met anyone like you,” I manage to say. “You’re not real, and even if you are, you won’t be around long enough for me to find out.”

  His arms tighten and he dips his head to kiss me. In it there’s such an ardor, such an all-encompassing need, if I weren’t in his embrace, I would’ve collapsed. “You have a severe case of undervaluation,” he murmurs against my mouth. “Didn’t I tell you already? I’m falling in love with you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Good,” I whisper, wrapping my arms around him. “Because I’m having a little trouble finding my way lately, and I really don’t want to go looking for you.”

  “You won’t have to. I’m right here.” He kisses me again and, gathering me into his arms, takes us into the bathroom, to the shower, setting the warm water raining over our naked bodies.

  Pretty indescribable how I’m feeling right now, with Roark just below me, slickened and aroused, soaping me up. “Jeez, you have a beautiful ass,” he says, kissing it, sliding the bar around it and over my pussy. “If I could I’d sell my business and spend all day right here, your ass in my hands, eating you up.” He angles me into the spray, the water cascading down my breasts in erotic little rivulets before he pulls me to him, kissing my inner thigh.

  I lean back against the marble and spread my legs, bracing. I’m as exposed as I can get, with this man’s mouth most intimately against me, touching me, tasting me, exploring me. I lose my fingers in his hair, now wet and sleek and smoothed back from his forehead. The muscles in his neck flex as he laces his tongue in and around so expertly, and I can’t help but sway. Then all at once he nips my clitoris.

  “Watch it, buster!” I yelp, a mini-quake of pleasure shooting through me. “That’s a pretty important piece of my lady parts. I wouldn’t want to lose it.”

  “Not likely,” he says, grasping my backside so tightly my toes lift from the floor. “That would be like tossing all the candy out of the candy store.”

  I drop my hands to his shoulders. “I’m hardly a piece of candy.”

  He runs his tongue along the periphery of my vagina, trailing his tongue up my belly before stopping to breathe into my navel, “Don’t you believe it.”

  He sets me down and picks up the soap, lathering my breasts as he kisses me, and after a few moments I slip it from him. I round the bar from his slightly tremulous chest to his back, swirling it down his taut ass then to his hardening cock before he grunts and swipes it from me.

  “Not fair,” he says.

  “Why?” I say. “Don’t you like it? It’s called foreplay.”

  He laughs. “Baby, the only foreplay a man needs is opportunity. Now be a good girl and let me get on with it.”

  Who am I to argue?

  So with a gentle prod, he leans me back against the wall and, tilting the showerhead away, begins to lather me, starting from my pussy and working his way up until I’m nearly white with poofy soap suds. He drops the bar to its tray and swirls his palms around me in an agonizingly languorous motion, slipping to my quivering bottom, hips and belly. As he opens my mouth with his, lacing his tongue around mine, my heart nearly beats out of my chest, especially when his hand palms my breast, his thumb pinching a slippery nipple.

  “Are you f-finished?” I manage, his touch sending a shiver of electricity through me.

  He licks the edge of my mouth. “Hardly. Now grab hold.” As he tilts the shower spray back onto me I latch on to the safety bars on either side of the shower and before I can blink, I’m aloft.

  In a flash he’s lifting me up, his big hands digging into my bottom. And when his hot breath blows against my tender flesh I buck against him, my heart pounding so hard I’m sure my blood supply’s gone straight to my throbbing clit. His big hand is splayed and kneading my bottom, the very feel of it sending my hips into a sway.

  “Keep still,” he breathes against me, “or I’ll bite it off.”

  “Roark,” I groan, “your foreplay is killing me.”

  He looks at me wryly. “Don’t be ridiculous. Foreplay will never kill you.” He moves closer. “But this might.”

  I slam back against the marble as his tongue finds my flesh, my already engorged clit ready to explode. He attacks it mercilessly, spreading me wide, licking and flicking until my head thrashes from side to side, a delicious spasm working its way up from my toes. I let go of one of the bars and claw my nails into his back, his tongue flicking wildly as his finger climbs deep inside me, touching a spot that sends my hips quivering as if caught in an electrical charge. A second later I’m coming so hard a scream rips from my throat, Roark relentlessly eating me alive.

  When I finally float back to earth I’m panting. As I let myself down, he draws me into his arms, enve
loping me with a kiss so tender and deep I go shivery all over. At that moment, I feel closer to him than I’ve ever felt with anyone, not that I can ignore what’s so blatantly come between us. As I step between his splayed legs, I can feel it growing exponentially, and I slide my hand down to grasp it, the water slickening it up.

  “If you think you’re going to fuck me now,” I say, “think again, my darling.”

  He grins wickedly, egging me on.

  I grab the soap, slowly circling his cock, but to his credit, he doesn’t even flinch. “Oh, a tough guy,” I say, and he just laughs. So I swirl the soap lower, giving his balls a bit of a knock-around. He grunts, but still, that smile.

  “You’d be wise not to play with me,” I warn him, but he just shrugs, leans against the wall. “That does it,” I say, slamming the soap down and myself to my haunches, the shower raining over us.

  He knows what’s coming; I distinctly felt that flinch. I grab his taut little ass and, taking a deep breath, open my throat and swallow that baby back.

  He gasps.

  And I start sucking.

  And sucking and sucking and sucking. In and out and down my throat, licking his silky head, his beautifully veined shaft, his hard-as-boulders balls. I glance up; his eyes are closed, his hand latched on to the safety bar. Then he begins swaying ever so slowly, so back in I go, breathing in, opening my throat.

  Down, down his hips recede before they buck and all at once he stiffens.

  “Pam!” he grunts, his come filling my mouth, and I’m struck with a very humbling thought. Of how much this magnificent man must trust me, to leave himself open to such vulnerability. I hug his legs, opening my throat even wider as he pours himself in me, and after it’s over, he pulls me to my feet, lifting me off them.

  “Pam,” he says, kissing my neck, “how I love what you do to me.” He holds me against him and I’m kissing him too, his shoulder, his eyes, his lips. Then he sets me down and we finish properly, soaping each other up, rinsing off, Roark shampooing my long, auburn hair.

  Afterward, we both slip into the hotel’s plush terry robes and I sit on the sink, Roark floating my hair around me. “You look like a commercial,” he opines, aiming the blow dryer, but I’m way off my snark. All I’m thinking of is what we’ll do next, in my first bed in two weeks.