by Hope Tarr
“Turnabout is fair play.” She reached down between them, her fingers closing around his cock.
Greg sucked in a breath. “It usually is, only in our case, I’m bigger.” He scooped her into his arms, carried her over to the vanity counter, and set her down on the Formica shelf. Sliding his hands beneath her buttocks, he grabbed hold of her panties—and pulled them down.
Sliding a hand between her thighs, he found her quivering quim with his thumb. “You’re so wet.”
“I’m wet because of you,” she confessed. “I’ve been wet ever since I first walked in and saw you this morning.”
“And I’ve been hard since last night, so I guess that makes us even.”
Francesca swallowed, her breaths coming rapid and shallow. “I suppose it does. What…what shall we do about our mutual predicament?”
“I thought I’d start by doing…this.”
A single small stroke sufficed to send her gasping. She moaned and reached out to brace herself against him. Half holding her up, he circled her with slow, deft fingers, leaving her limp-legged and weak until Francesca feared she couldn’t take anymore. She was about to beg him to finish or stop when he did what she’d fantasized ever since their first meeting. He dropped to his knees and buried his head between her thighs.
“Oh, Greg!” Looking down onto his muscled back and breadth of shoulders, she feathered her fingers through his ebony hair and lifted against him.
With soft lips he soothed her swollen clit; with firmed tongue he raised a tender aching. Awash in conflicting sensations, buzzing against his mouth, Francesca was torn between wanting to come and wanting the moment to last—and last.
Bringing her to the brink of orgasm, he suddenly drew back and stood. He pulled open a drawer, grabbing a gold foil square from the box. Tearing open the package, he took a moment to sheath himself.
“Were you really that sure of me?” she asked on a gasp. Watching the thin barrier glide over the length of him, she regretted not having time to feel him moving inside her mouth.
He shook his head. “No…but it’s good to have goals.”
He slid a buffering hand beneath her buttocks and reached for her hand. “Take as much or as little as you want.”
Fingers wrapping about him, she guided him into her. Greg didn’t only look huge. He felt huge. Fortunately she was wet and warm and ready, and when he pressed into her softness, she ground against him, driving him in as deeply as he would go.
Stretched and filled beyond believing, Francesca rocked against him, her trembling body absorbing the shock of each completion, her buttocks cushioned by the saddle of his hand.
Greg’s face loomed just above hers. The tautness of his features told her he was as close to release as was she. Pulling his head down to hers, she matched her mouth to his—and suckled her essence from his lips and tongue.
Greg groaned, “Wrap your legs around my waist.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes!”
Francesca braced her knees about his slender hips. Her arms left his shoulders and wound about his neck. Her mouth lifted from his and bit his neck.
Rising, he lifted her from the counter and carried her over to the wall. Bracing her against it, holding her securely as though she weighed little more than air, he thrust upward, sharp and sure, the side of his shaft chafing her swollen clit every time he entered, then left her, sucking her into a sinkhole of mindless, punishing pleasure. Back and forth, in and out until…
“Greg!”
Fulfillment found her hard and fast, a perfect storm of damp, throbbing flesh and budding bruises, of utter peace—and thrashing confusion.
Panting, she looked up into his eyes just as his world exploded.
“Francesca!”
Some time later they lay together on the slender sofa, Francesca lying atop with her head resting on Greg’s shoulder. He had a cushion crease on his left cheek and his cowlick stood straight up. A few weeks ago she would have insisted on “fixing” him, but suddenly it struck her.
He was absolutely perfectly right.
“Did you get your orgasm, Francesca?”
Startled from the postcoital cloud she’d been adrift upon, Francesca lifted her head to look at him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I think you heard me.”
“As I believe you’re well aware, I did.”
He grinned. “You’re blushing. It’s…cute.”
“Of course I’m blushing. Really, darling, I’m British. We don’t prattle on about…personal matters in the brash way you Yanks do.”
He cinched his arm about her; with his other hand he shaped her perfect buttock. “Are you saying that telling me you enjoyed our lovemaking is…TMI?”
Too much information? Quite!
“Babe, I’m just trying to get to know you better. We are lovers now.”
Was he suggesting they might have a future beyond Project Cinderella? Who knew what would happen once the show wrapped the following week? Soul mates or not, the practical truth was that they lived on opposite ends of the country. His company was headquartered in Silicon Valley while her life was rooted on the East Coast, at least for the next few years until Sam left for college. It was all so bloody…complicated. For now, the uncertain future was a subject she’d just as soon skirt, and yet when had ignorance ever really been bliss?
“What is this really about?” she asked, tensing.
His expression turned sheepish. “I read an interview you gave a few years ago to On Top magazine.”
Relaxing against him, Francesca blew out a breath. “Oh, is that all?”
The interview was one of those fluff profile pieces with a rubbish title: “On Top Goes Behind the Camera with Francesca St. James,” or so she recalled.
“You said, and I quote, ‘Don’t make sex all about the man. Make bloody well sure you get your orgasm.’” He delivered the latter with a fair falsetto imitation of her voice.
She pulled back and swatted at him. “I do not sound like that!”
“You do.”
“You read On Top?” Most men she knew would rather die than admit they’d cracked the cover on a women’s magazine.
“I read a lot of things.” He kissed the side of her neck where his bite mark bloomed. She’d seen it earlier when she’d gotten up to use the bathroom.
Francesca burrowed closer. “Indeed you do.”
His gaze strayed toward the far side of the room. “I really should take that shower.”
Francesca smiled, playing her fingers through the damp black hair curling on his chest. “Are you quite certain? Washing away all those lovely pheromones seems rather a waste.”
“You could join me and then we can release new ones,” he suggested gamely.
Bathing at the studio hadn’t occurred to her before, but then she’d never had such a tempting invitation, or reason, as she did now. “Perhaps.”
“The shower is probably a lot smaller than what you’re used to in the penthouse,” Greg admitted, “but the water pressure’s decent, and it’s fitted with a handheld showerhead.” Blue eyes burning, he added, “You can direct the jets to any part of the body you like. Or you can lean back and let me do it for you—from soft spray to pounding pulsing. How does that sound?”
The prospect of splaying her thighs for him to tease and torment and ultimately pleasure her set off a delicious, trembling ache. She opened her mouth to reply, but before she could, he was already sitting upright on the sofa and lifting her onto his lap.
Chapter Eleven
Francesca lifted her head from the pillow. “Congratulations, darling, it’s a wrap. We did it!”
Despite their single practice session, they’d given a respectable rendering of the bolero. After nearly two months of dawn wake-up calls and grueling filming schedules, they could finally relax. Until the final live episode when the public would choose its two Cinderella winners, there was nothing Greg could do—nothing except make long, lingering love to Francesca.
He liked her calling him darling. He liked it a lot. Even knowing that the endearment was one she widely used—Cindy, the security guard, and even Bosco were all sometimes addressed as such—still he liked to think that when she said it to him, the word held a special significance.
“You did it,” Greg answered.
Entangled with her in her high-quality cotton sheets, he reached over to the room service tray set on the night table and dunked a strawberry in the salver of whipped cream. He slid it along the seam of her parted—and very talented—lips until she opened.
She was a little tipsy, he thought. Greg was drunk too, not on the fizzy wine but on his sexy fairy god-mentor. Ever since the night of their intimate dance date, he couldn’t seem to think about much else, including Project Cinderella. Fortunately, he wouldn’t have to. The show was in the postproduction phase. Exactly what that freedom might mean for the both of them, he hadn’t yet figured out. Cracking the “code” for a woman like Francesca was a heck of a lot more complicated than hacking in even Python or Ruby.
She held out her empty champagne flute. “More champers, please! Oh, and another of those gorgeous strawberries.” They’d only just finished making love, and yet the way she said “strawberries” had him hardening.
He reached over for the bottle and refilled her glass, then his. “I love the way you say strawberries.”
Her dark half-moon-shaped brows lifted. “What do you mean? I only say it the ordinary way.”
He let out a laugh. “Believe me, Francesca, nothing about you comes close to ordinary—and that’s a compliment.”
She made a face, and then spoiled it by laughing. “Thanks a lot.”
He dunked another strawberry in cream, popped it in his mouth—and missed. “Shit!” He grabbed for napkins.
“Strawberries and clotted cream are my very favorites—among other things.” She caught his chin in her hand. Holding his gaze, she slowly slid her finger along the cleft in his chin and then just as slowly sucked it between her lips.
Thinking of where that luscious mouth had been earlier, Greg groaned. “Whipped cream, you mean?”
“I suppose you can take the girl out of London—”
“But not London out of the girl,” he finished for her. Entwining a lock of her dark hair about her nipple, it occurred to him to ask, “What made you decide to leave London for New York?”
Her smile slipped and her gaze shuttered. “Answer entails going into more of my messy, complicated life. Are you quite certain you’re up for it?”
Turning on his side toward her, he propped himself up on one elbow. “Try me.”
She surrendered with a sigh. “Very well, then, I didn’t leave London for New York. I left it for Texas.”
“Texas?” Was she joking? “I came over as an exchange student.”
“College?” Greg certainly didn’t know much about fashion, that was for sure, but he’d bet his new app launch that the Lone Star State wasn’t any kind of mecca for it.
She shook her head. “Secondary school, high school if you rather. I tried for New York and then Chicago, but by the time I got in my application, Texas was what was left, so I took it. It wasn’t what I’d intended for my first trip to the States, but then again, mostly I was minded to have a grand adventure and well…I certainly had that.”
“What happened?” he asked, playing with her hair. Teasing the curl across her nipple and seeing her sharp intake of breath, he relished how easily he could draw out her desire.
She shivered. “I can’t very well answer or even think with you doing…that.”
Feigning innocence, he said, “This? Oh, sorry. Continue—please.”
“What happened was a tall, blond, blue-eyed Texan.”
“Your ex,” Greg said, his gut providing the guess.
Freddie the sous chef didn’t much threaten him. The guy was obviously too much of a jerk to realize the treasure he’d let slip away. But Greg had looked up Ross Mannon online and from what he’d read, Francesca’s sociologist-turned-national-media-celebrity ex-husband was a force of nature. His publicity photo, reminiscent of a young Robert Redford, was all the motivation Greg needed to keep hitting the gym.
She bit her lip and nodded. “Quite. A moonlit drive to the lake, a few too many sips of boxed wine, a less-than-sturdy condom, and nine months later there I was, back in London and giving birth.”
She’d obviously had her daughter really young, but until now Greg had never quite put it all together. Beautiful, brainy, and sophisticated, it was hard to picture her as a teen mother.
Aware that she was waiting for him to say something, he remarked, “That must have been really hard.”
She shrugged her pretty shoulders, the right one bearing his earlier bite mark. “I was fortunate. For the most part, my parents were supportive. Once I brought Samantha home from the hospital, they were as besotted as I. It took me some months to screw up the courage to write Ross, but once I did, he came over directly and brought Sam and me back.”
“So, he married you after the fact.” Greg hadn’t meant to sound so critical, but the thought of a pregnant Francesca abandoned on the other side of the Atlantic raised his protective instincts—and his hackles.
“It wasn’t his fault. He didn’t even know he had a child until my letter.”
“Would you do it again—marry him, I mean?” Are you still hung up on your baby daddy ex-husband?
She considered for a moment. “I think we all knew from the start that our marriage wasn’t built to last, but it was a different place and time with a lot of well-intentioned people all trying to do the ��right thing.’ It was a morality I wasn’t entirely comfortable with and yet looking back I suppose I trod the path of least resistance and let it carry me along. And really, how can I regret what brought me my girl? Samantha is my greatest achievement, motherhood the best thing I’ve ever done—even if at times I’ve done it so bloody badly.” He started to protest that she was being too hard on herself once again, but she waved him off. “Fortunately Ross is a superb parent.”
“What about later, the divorce? Do you regret it?”
Her immediate headshake set that worry to rest. “It sounds strange, I know, but now that sufficient time has passed, I don’t think of the divorce as losing a husband so much as gaining a lifelong friend. We’re polar opposites in nearly every way, Ross and I, and yet with time and distance we’ve become really close, the best of mates.”
The best of mates. Greg heartily hoped she wouldn’t be saying something similar about him in the coming years. They still hadn’t addressed how they would work out seeing each other now that the show’s filming was finished. They couldn’t continue building castles in the air without foundations for the future. At some point very soon, they would need to start making plans. Would one of them relocate? Would they be bicoastal? Would they start out slow, seeing each other only on weekends or maybe every other month? Right now, Greg had no idea. One thing, though, he was totally clear on: Francesca was his soul mate, and he had absolutely no intention of going back to San Jose and forgetting her.
The following evening, Greg sat on the bungalow’s plaid-covered sofa watching the entertainment news. Jonas and Hadley had both left that morning. Next door, Brittany was hanging out through the weekend to do some sightseeing, but he was pretty sure Kim and Patti had headed home as well. A car pulled up outside. A minute or so later, the doorbell chimed. Thinking Francesca must be early, which would be absolutely unlike her, he crossed the sunken living room to answer it.
Opening the door, he was disappointed to see Deidre Dupree standing on his stoop. “Deidre, this is a…surprise.” He stepped back to allow her in.
She slipped past, her hip brushing against him as she entered. “Is it my imagination or is that a not-happy-to-see-me face?”
“I was expecting someone else,” he admitted, closing the door behind her. “What can I do for you?” he asked, hoping to steer her speedily toward the point.
He followed her over to the sofa, where she was already making herself at home.
“It’s customary to offer a caller a cocktail,” Deidre said, helping herself to a cashew from the bowl of mixed nuts he’d set out.
Greg stood watching her with folded arms. “Thanks for the information, but we already covered dining and social etiquette at the Spago location shoot. And I’m sorry, but I don’t have anything alcoholic to offer you.” A worthwhile lie if it got her to go.
She rose with a sigh. “Never mind, I can’t stay long. I’m on my way to the airport.”
That was welcome news. “LA traffic can be bad,” he hinted, glancing at the door.
“So thoughtful,” she purred, eyeing him as a cat might a plump pigeon. He could almost imagine the feathers sticking to her mouth. “Before I leave, I need to warn you.”
Greg could see how some men might find her attractive, but she’d always raised his hackles—and made his skin crawl. “About?”
“Francesca. She’s a man-eater. She rips men to shreds and then spits out what’s left. You seem like a good guy. I’d hate to see that happen to you.”
Greg tensed. As much as he wanted to defend Francesca, doing so would only raise whatever suspicions Deidre must already have. He glanced back to the door, willing Deidre to walk through it—and preferably before Francesca got there. Even though filming had wrapped, if Dee outed them to the producers, Francesca might still be fired, which would mean forfeiting her fairy god-mentor fee.