His face tensed again beneath her fingers. “You, getting knocked to the ground by those bastards. Me, not able to stop it.”
“Is Dr. Dale Jameson a superhero?”
The confused look he gave her was utterly adorable. “Um, no?”
“You’re not a surgeon or a superhero in real life, you just play one on TV. This wasn’t a choreographed scene that went wrong or one where someone yells ‘cut’ at the end. Stop trying to make what happened your fault, okay?”
“You mean like the first time we met when I was responsible for knocking you over?”
It almost sounded like he was teasing, but there was still too much self-deprecating in his tone for her peace of mind. “I think it’s clear who the problem common denominator is. I can’t stay on my feet around you. Maybe I should be apologizing to you.”
He rubbed his hands over her back, the cut of the dress allowing his hands to caress bare skin. It wasn’t sexual though—she got the feeling he was soothing himself more than her, making sure she was okay, finding the control he’d thought he’d lost. “The paparazzi usually don’t pay that much attention to me—at least not to that extent. I guess with the show being renewed, and the rumors of Dr. Dale’s death, I’m newsworthy again.”
She’d heard the taunt that reporter had thrown out, but she’d figured it was just that, a taunt meant to garner an explosive reaction. “Is it true? Are they killing you off Sexy M.D.?”
He shook his head and lifted one shoulder in a halfhearted shrug. “Don’t know. I’ll probably find out next week. Still want to spend your evening with a potentially unemployed actor?” The tension was subtle, but there, his body stiffening, his arms constricting a fraction where they wrapped around her.
Was that why he’d shied away from celebrating the show’s renewal over dinner? Because he didn’t want to talk about the fact he might be losing his job? Or because he was afraid she only wanted the guy on TV?
It sucked to be doubted, even though logically and rationally she understood. They’d only known each other a few days. Just because she was falling for him and was ready to hand him her heart and everything that came with it, didn’t mean it would be mutual. Still, a tiny shard of disappointment lodged in her gut.
She considered her response carefully, feeling like she was preparing to read for the most important role of her life.
Wait a second. Sure, she loved acting, but auditioning to win the part of Micah’s girlfriend? Nuh-uh. If she couldn’t do that by being herself, it would be better to know now, before she fell any deeper for him.
She pushed out of his embrace enough to look into his face. She’d expected him to be closed off, locked behind a wall of impenetrable steel. She couldn’t have been more wrong. A wealth of emotion made his eyes shine brighter than the garage lights could account for—yearning, fear, need, uneasiness. Micah was staring at her like her words could make or break him. Maybe…maybe she wasn’t the only one falling here.
Hope made her voice strong. “I want to spend the night with Micah Watley, the guy who texts me lame jokes and replaces torn shower curtains even though I told him he didn’t have to. And I want to spend the night with Micah Watley, who currently plays Dr. Dale Jameson on Sexy M.D. and who might be unemployed next week. I want to spend the night with every side, every piece, every everything of Micah Watley, because I like the Micah Watley I’ve gotten to know this week, and I want to get to know him even more. So, Micah Watley, do you still want to spend your evening with me?”
Maybe she’d used up all the words, because he didn’t try to speak. He studied her, his fingers following the path of his eyes, caressing her cheek, her jaw, her neck with the softest strokes. His strong hands framed her face and he kissed her. More than kissed her, he enveloped her, fingers moving through her hair, tongue pressing against her own. Making love to her with his mouth and hands. Slow, thorough, perfect.
His lips brushed over hers, once, twice more. “Lame jokes, huh?” he rumbled, the slightest hint of happiness tilting the lips still wet from the kiss.
“The lamest. Luckily those are my favorite kind.”
“Mine too.” He squeezed her hand and guided her toward the house.
Micah unlocked the door that led inside. The wood was old and warped, and he had to give it an extra push to get it to open.
An extra push…like he’d just done to Jenna. Not physically, but with words, his consuming need to know that she cared for him and not what he could give her. Because even though she’d shown him in action, word and deed, it wasn’t enough.
He was an undeserving asshole.
He shouldered the door a little harder than necessary, and he had to grab it before it slammed into the wall on the other side. The hinges squeaked in protest as he held the door open for Jenna to enter.
“It can be difficult sometimes. Just like me.”
She brushed against him as she walked through the narrow doorway, an innocent caress that had him feeling a not-so-innocent response. When she threw him a naughty look over her shoulder, he reevaluated her innocence. “I guess it needs to be touched the right way. Just like you.”
And just like that his world was right again. She soothed his ills with her presence, lighting him up like nothing and no one ever had before.
“If you keep this up,” he murmured, following her like the siren she was, “we’re not going to make it past the laundry room.”
She laughed, the sexy sound echoing in the tiny room, bouncing off the walls and surrounding him until all he could see, hear and breathe was her. “My kitchen earlier tonight, and now your laundry room? Why, Micah, I think you have a room-christening kink.”
He backed her against his washing machine, leaning over to nuzzle her neck. “No, just a Jenna kink.”
“Well this works out nicely then.”
“I think so.”
It would’ve, too, his hands sliding up her curves and hers working his belt, except the vibration in his pocket wasn’t the sensation he wanted to be feeling.
His phone.
The wrongness of his world came crashing back.
Shit, he didn’t want to look. Didn’t want to deal with this tonight. The paparazzi, the confrontation, the curses he’d yelled and the asshole he’d shoved to get to Jenna…it was all going to bite him in the ass in a big, nasty way. He was going to suffer through character assassination, rumors, lies, all because he hadn’t lain down and shown his belly when the wolves had gone in for the kill.
He dug his phone out of his pocket. The number wasn’t familiar. A good enough reason as any not to answer.
“Do you need to take that call? I can…” She tipped her head to the side, suggesting she’d go into another room and allow him privacy.
Fuck, no. The last thing he wanted was for her to walk away from him, even if only down the hall.
“No. No calls tonight. The only person I want to talk to is you.” Taking her hand, he crossed to the small nook he used as a mini office, where he emptied his pockets, throwing his wallet, keys, change and cell onto the wooden desk.
The shitstorm could wait ’til tomorrow. He’d shelter Jenna from it as much as he could.
Feeling immeasurably lighter, he toed off his socks and shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, leaving it hanging over the chair where Jenna had placed her purse.
“Can I get you a drink?” He crossed to the fridge and tugged open the stainless-steel door. “I’ve got beer, water, soda…” He dug deeper. “I think I’ve got some tea back here.”
She moved next to him, her red dress drawing his gaze away from liquid refreshment to the curves he’d much rather be tasting. Suddenly he wasn’t all that thirsty anymore. He just wanted Jenna.
What was it about her in kitchens? Maybe he did have a room-christening kink, because all he could think about was all those surfaces he could take her up against. And over. And on top of.
“Can I have the butter and eggs instead?”
Deep in sexual-choreograp
hy-planning stage one, where the fridge became the first stop on a long and thoroughly detailed romp around the kitchen, he blinked at Jenna, trying to make sense of her words.
“You were thinking about sex in the kitchen, weren’t you?” She laughed—and he moaned—as she bent over and plucked the box of butter and carton of eggs off the lower shelf in his fridge. “Well, I’m thinking about dessert.”
“Dessert?” He was pretty sure she wasn’t talking about the sexual variety. Not even he could come up with a fun way to use butter and eggs in that capacity.
She set the ingredients on the counter. “It was part of our quiet evening in, remember? You, me and dessert. If you could see inside my mind and the fantasies I came up with…” Her tongue teased over her lower lip, there then gone, leaving a smile behind. “Well, you’re not the only one with secret kinks.”
“Never let it be said that I’ll stand in the way of a woman and her kinks. What do you need me to do?”
Several minutes later Micah knew that if Jenna decided not to be an actress, she could easily be a director. She had him moving all over the kitchen, digging out ingredients, bowls, measuring cups, cookie sheets. Her shoes had been kicked off, she’d tied her hair into a haphazard knot at her neck, and she swayed her hips and hummed while she mixed and pinched and stirred.
And he fell deeper in love. How could he have only known her for five days?
Better question: How could he have lived more than thirty years without her?
After setting a bottle of vanilla next to the bowl, he wrapped his arms around Jenna from behind and nuzzled her neck. “What cookies are you making?”
“Chocolate chip.”
He paused mid-nuzzle. “Not to throw a kink in your dessert kink, but I assume said cookies require chocolate chips?”
She paused mid-stir. “Well, no chocolate chips might change the dynamic of the recipe just a bit.” Tipping her head back, she rubbed her cheek against his. “You clearly need a feminine hand around here. I never run out of chocolate. I have secret backup stashes hidden strategically around my apartment.”
That idea, not the chocolate stash, but the feminine hand around his house—specifically her hand, attached to her body, living here with him—held a lot of appeal. “Like truffles in the medicine cabinet?” he teased.
“Of course. Right next to the condoms. And a bar of deep, dark, luscious chocolate in my sock drawer right next to my vibra—” She cleared her throat. “Ahem. Well. Chocolate and sex. Two of my favorite things.”
He needed to find chocolate stat, because he was damn sure going to provide her two favorite things tonight. “Hold that thought. I’ll be right back.” Untangling himself from Jenna, he jogged down the hallway. Where had he put that goodie bag? He’d come home from the Golden Globes and tossed it…there. The Tumi duffel was on the bottom shelf of his storage closet, next to the swag bag he’d gotten at the Emmys. He’d never emptied them, and if he remembered correctly, tucked inside one of the pockets of the Tumi…
Score.
He returned to Jenna, black-and-gold-wrapped bar in hand. “We’re actors, we can improvise, right? So how about chocolate chunks?”
Her eyes widened in her beautiful face. “Um, Micah, I’m pretty sure that’s one of those candy bars with real gold flakes in it.”
“It is.”
“And you want to smash it into hundreds of little pieces for the cookies?”
“I do.” He proceeded to do just that, using a meat tenderizer to bash the crap out of the helpless chocolate bar. Jenna broke into infectious giggles when he pretended to be Thor wielding his hammer to slay the vicious chocolate monster, and she got him in turn with her dead-on Julia Child impersonation as she added the chocolate bits to the dough.
He hadn’t had this much fun in his kitchen…ever. This house had felt like his since his real-estate agent first showed it to him, its dated elegance and understated glamour hidden beneath shoddy seventies remodeling. He’d made an offer within the hour and moved in within the month, and he’d spent the last three years rebuilding the house bit by bit.
Today, with Jenna making dessert in his kitchen, this house he’d slaved, sweated and bled over finally felt like a home.
“I think these might be the sparkliest cookies I’ve ever made.” She dropped a gold-specked ball of dough onto the cookie sheet.
“It’s like Tinker Bell or a lameass vampire died in the bowl,” he agreed. Unable to resist, he swooped in for a taste, first of Jenna’s lips—mmm-mmm good—and then of the dessert, which he’d stolen a sample of while distracting her with the kiss.
“Hey, I saw that.” She raised an eyebrow at him as he ate the pilfered treat off his finger. “So, thief, was it good?”
“I’d let you call me a lot worse for another bite.”
“You’re incorrigible.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, did you want a taste?” Scooping up another finger full, he held out his dough-covered digit, crooking it to draw her closer.
“I never say no to dessert.” When her expression grew wicked, he knew he was in trouble. One soft hand circled his wrist, holding him still, as that luscious mouth closed over his finger…
And sucked.
And nibbled.
And sucked again.
Christ, each wet tug on his finger made his dick even harder, like he had a direct, electric line between those two needy extremities. No doubt she knew exactly what she was doing to him too. He could see it in the way her eyes stayed locked on his, even when they grew heavy-lidded, even as she scraped her teeth from base to tip.
“Mmmm…” she moaned appreciatively. “Mmm…mmm.” She withdrew her naughty mouth from his cock, um, finger—dammit. “That’s good dough. I bet the cookies’ll be even better.” With a slight, knowing, devilish expression playing over her face, she returned to scooping little balls of dough onto the cookie sheets, like there wasn’t something else she should be doing with her hands, her mouth, her body.
The little tease was going to pay. He stifled his grin to avoid warning her of what she had coming.
Heat washed over both of them when she opened the oven door and set the cookie sheets inside. Door closed again, she set the timer. “Okay, nine minutes until they’re ready.”
She let out a surprised squeal when he scooped her off her feet and swung her around, setting her on the countertop across from the stove where there was more room to play. “Nine minutes for me to make you come.”
“I had a feeling you were going to exact your dessert revenge on me.”
“I never say no to dessert.” He repeated her earlier refrain as he leaned in close. “I plan on enjoying every bite.” He nipped up the sweet curve of her neck. “Savoring every taste.” He layered teasing bites along her jaw. “And licking up every…” he ran his tongue over her slightly parted lips, tasting her panted exhalations, “…last…” he stole into her mouth for a long, leisurely kiss, “…drop,” he finished.
“That sounds like a lot to get done in…” she glanced over his shoulder, “…six minutes and forty-two seconds…forty-one…forty…”
“I’ll get you off with time to spare.”
“Someone’s cocky.”
“Someone’s horny.” He paused. Chuckled. “And by someone I mean me. And hopefully you too.”
“Yes. How’d you guess?” She wiggled her hips. “Hurry. Twenty-nine, twenty-eight…” She huffed out a laugh when he tugged her to the edge of the counter and slid his hands beneath her skirt.
“Lift your hips,” he ordered. “Underwear’s outta here. Now.”
Fingers beneath the waistband of her panties, he dragged the fabric down her legs as she held herself up. “They’re damp.” He fisted the silky red material. “You wet for me, Jenna?” Lord knows he was fucking hard for her, had been for most of the night.
“Maybe you should go find out.” She said it cheekily, but the rapid rise and fall of her breasts as she sucked in air showed how much she wanted this.
&n
bsp; “Spread your legs.” He’d barely gotten out his directive before she’d done just that, but the flirty red skirt of her dress was doing its job, covering all the parts he wanted full access to. That wouldn’t do. “Lay back.”
Jenna reclined on her elbows, a splash of red against the yellow and black tiles, blue eyes dancing as she looked at him. “Four minutes thirty-seven seconds…”
“Thirty-sex, thirty-five…” he continued for her, twisting the skirt in his fist and lifting it out of the way so nothing barred his view of her pussy, all glistening and pink and swollen. She was wet for him. Needy. Ready. Wanting. Desperate. All the same words he could use to describe his state of mind and body since meeting her. And suddenly, four minutes twenty-five seconds wouldn’t be enough time. Twenty-five years wouldn’t be enough.
He wanted all of her, her heart, body, soul, in his kitchen, in his home, in his life.
He pressed his face to her stomach and kissed the dimpled indent of her bellybutton, then moved lower, breathing in the scent of her warm, wet heat. “God, Jenna. What you do to me.”
“Micah…” she whispered, her hand curling over his where it was still bunched in the fabric of her skirt. “Please…”
He couldn’t deny her anything. Didn’t want to.
He swiped his tongue through her folds, pushing past the silken layers, drinking her in. Her panted moans and the ache between his own legs urged him deeper, until he was fucking her with his tongue the way he wanted to be fucking her with his dick, owning her with his mouth. Or was she owning him? Because nothing but her pleasure mattered. Hearing her lust-filled cries, feeling her arch and rub against him. It was a drug. Pure craving.
Her legs circled his back, feet bumping his shoulder blades, her body lifting to the rhythm of his tongue and fingers. With three fingers now he thrust into her, pushing for the sweet spot inside, while his tongue teased her sweet spot on the outside, her clit, knowing both together would take her over the edge.
Her back arched off the tile, and she cried out his name as her pussy contracted around his fingers, her clit spasming beneath his tongue. He drank in the soft shudders of her orgasm as she trembled below him, and when she’d calmed, he lifted her into his arms and cradled her against his chest.
Starstruck: Hollywood Heat, Book 3 Page 9