by Alexis Daria
“We have Little Red Riding Hood as our fairy tale, which is perfect.”
He held his index fingers up on the sides of his head like ears. “Am I the Big Bad Wolf?”
Even his attempt at humor sounded tired and quiet. And other day, it would have had the sexy growl that drove her crazy. She forced a giggle, since he was trying to make it seem like he was fine. “No, I am.”
“Explain.”
“You’ll be a combination of Red and the Woodcutter. I’m going to be the wolf.”
He nodded, but his gaze was distracted. “Sounds good.”
Jackson came over to say goodnight, and Gina chewed on her lower lip while the guys chatted. Stone’s movements were slow and restrained, his head bowed. Shit. He was really bummed about their jive score.
Their paso doble was going to suck if he couldn’t get his head back in the game and dance with force. It was up to her to help him, to reignite his competitive spirit. The paso doble was perfect for him, and she needed him at one hundred percent.
In a flash of insight, she came up with an idea to cheer him up. When Jackson walked away, Gina spoke to Stone in a low, rushed voice.
“We’re going to break early tomorrow.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Why? After tonight, I probably need more practice, not less.”
“You’ve been working really hard. I want to do something nice for you.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “Another salsa club?”
“Ha. No.”
“What did you have in mind?”
Her stomach flip-flopped at the thought of being completely alone with him, but she grinned. “Since our last attempt was thwarted, you’re coming over to my place for a home-cooked Puerto Rican meal. I hope you like pork.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The door to Gina’s apartment was ajar. Stone knocked anyway, even though she’d just buzzed him into the building a minute earlier.
“Come on in,” she called from inside, so he pushed the door open and entered. He was greeted with the mouth-watering aroma of garlic, spices, and slow-roasting pork, and the more appetizing image of Gina in a crop top and cut-off jean shorts chopping vegetables in the kitchen. Pop music played softly in the background.
The floor was covered in soft, pale beige carpeting, so he removed his boots and placed them next to the neat row of women’s shoes by the door.
“Good timing,” she said as he shut the door behind him. “The meat will be ready soon.”
“You did say it would take a few hours to cook.”
“It does, if you do it right.” She tossed cucumber slices into a large salad bowl. “Are those for me?”
He held up the plastic-and-paper-wrapped bundle of peach tulips in his hand. “Ah, yeah.”
“Oh, they’re so pretty. Thank you.” She lifted her chin so he could give her a peck on the cheek, and then she nodded her head at the fridge. “Can you take down the vase from up there and put them in water?”
Once he was done with the flowers, he set them on the kitchen counter and looked around for something to do. “How else can I help?”
She jerked her chin at the pile of dishes on the counter. “Take those over to the coffee table. We have chairs at the kitchen bar, but Tash and I always eat in front of the TV. Bad habit. If you’re more comfortable at the counter, we can sit there instead.”
He did as she asked, taking in the apartment. It was smaller than he’d expected, but cozy. The kitchen was separated from the living room by a bar, and the living room had tall windows that led onto a tiny patio and revealed a view of the building behind hers.
The furniture, like the carpet, was beige or white. Above the sofa was a large framed print of the New York City skyline at sunset. A low bookcase filled with DVDs sported an array of framed photographs on top.
He set out the dishes on the coffee table and returned to the kitchen. “Give me something else to do.”
She shot him a smirk over her shoulder. “Why, because you’re used to me bossing you around?”
“I don’t want you to have to do all the work.”
She handed him the salad bowl. “Stone, I’m the one who asked you over. Besides, I like cooking, and I haven’t had pernil in forever.”
“What was that word?” he asked, taking the salad to the coffee table.
“Pernil.” She spelled it. “It’s a traditional Puerto Rican dish—slow-roasted pork shoulder.”
He wandered over to the photos and picked them up one at a time while she bustled around the kitchen. There were photos of Gina and Natasha together at various ages, including one where they both showed off their braces in big grins. Of the rest, half showed Gina with her family. He recognized them from other pictures Gina had shown him. Her mother was beautiful, and Gina looked just like her. And there was her brother, her sister, her brother-in-law, and her nieces and nephew.
No father.
“Ready?” Gina walked over with glasses of water. “Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot to offer you a drink. Do you want wine? Beer?”
“I thought you don’t drink during the show season.”
“I don’t, but Natasha does, and we keep stuff on hand for guests. I don’t mind if you drink.”
“Beer, then.”
“I’ll get it. Sit down, please.” She gestured at the sofa and headed for the fridge.
Stone sat and glanced at the skyline on the wall. Another reminder of their differences, though lately, they seemed less extreme. Or at least, didn’t matter as much.
She handed him a cold, open bottle of a local IPA, then raised her glass of lemon water and clinked it against the beer.
“Cheers,” she said, meeting his eyes. “To winning.”
“To winning.” He took a sip, savoring the bitter taste of hops, and sat back while she filled two bowls with spinach salad.
“You have a lot of reminders of home,” he said between bites.
She glanced up at the wall print. “We do. I miss New York, and my family, but having Natasha here makes it bearable.”
“You’ve got a beautiful family.”
“Thanks.” She smiled into her food, her cheeks turning pink. “My brother’s a stage actor. He’s done a few regional tours of Broadway shows, and sometimes he comes through LA. Right now, he’s overseas.”
“A talented family, too.”
She nodded, the smile dropping from her face. “My mom is an amazing singer, but . . . things happened. She never got to have the career she deserved.”
There was a story there. He sensed it had to do with the missing father in her photos. He waited, not want to push her, but interested nonetheless. Now that they were away from the cameras, the studio, and the other cast members, he wanted to know more about Gina, to understand her.
“My dad was kind of a douchebag,” she said with a sigh, setting her half-finished salad aside. “Old-school in his thinking. He wanted to settle down and start a family, so they did. Mom gave up her singing career, just as it was about to take off. They had three kids—I’m the youngest—and then he split when I was little and started a new family in Orlando.”
She recited the story like it was no big deal, but his heart broke for her. Despite his own issues with his father, he couldn’t imagine Jimmy ever jumping ship. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She gathered up the salad dishes. “It’s his loss. We’re an awesome family.”
“Are you still in contact with him?”
She shrugged and carried the used plates to the kitchen. “Birthdays and holidays. He says he’s proud of me, but . . .” She trailed off, filling their plates from a pot on the stove and a pan she pulled out of the oven. The delicious smells amplified.
“But what?”
She huffed. “He doesn’t get to be proud of me, you know? He didn’t do anything to contribute. He didn’t scrimp and save whenever I needed new ballet shoes. He didn’t volunteer to sew recital costumes so I could get mine for free. He didn’t fill out applications for
every kind of scholarship and grant that would help me get to where I am now. So, no, he doesn’t get to be proud, because he wasn’t there for any of it.” She slammed the plates down on the coffee table and balled her hands into fists.
With a gentle tug, Stone pulled her onto the sofa with him. Hugging her had become as natural as breathing. Over the weeks, she hadn’t just taught him to dance, she’d shown him the importance of human contact. A hug could convey encouragement, support, and empathy. He wanted to give her all those things now.
“I’m sorry.” She gripped the back of his shirt. “I don’t talk about this a whole lot. It still makes me angry. Not for me, but for my mom. She loved him, gave up everything for him, and he left her.”
“His loss.” Stone smoothed his hand down her hair, twining his fingers in the cool strands. “For what it’s worth, he should be proud of you, even if he doesn’t deserve the credit.”
She leaned back, laughing and dabbing at the corner of her eye. “For what? You’re always grumbling about how you hate Hollywood. You don’t value this stuff.”
Stone shook his head. “That’s not why.” Releasing her, he gestured at the food before them. “When we met, I scared the shit out of you with a gun. But you’ve stuck by me through every step of this process, including that disastrous jive, and then made this meal to make me feel better. Gina, this is above and beyond your duty as my dance partner. I never would have expected something like this.”
Her lips curved a little as she passed him a plate. “You didn’t have to ask.”
“Exactly. You did it all on your own, because you’re a good, kind person. That’s reason enough for any parent to take pride in their kid.” He took a bite. Delicious salty goodness exploded over his tongue, and his eyes rolled back in his head. The pork was perfectly seasoned, perfectly cooked. “Oh god. This is fucking amazing.”
“I know.” She took a small bite. “I make it the same way my mom does, and my abuela. My grandmother, I mean.”
He scooped up a forkful of the rice. It was yellow, with tiny greenish beans and chopped green olives. “What kind of rice is this?” It had a mild salty flavor, a perfect complement to the meat.
“Arroz con gandules,” she said. “A staple of the Puerto Rican diet.”
Stone wolfed down the food on his plate, not surprised that Gina had served him three times the amount of food she’d given herself. Every few bites, he paused to tell her how delicious it was, both because it was true and because he liked the pleased little grin she gave in response. When he was done, he leaned back, rubbing a hand over his stomach.
“Gina, you are a goddess.”
She bit her lip and tried to hide her smile.
“I mean it.” He rested his hand at the base of her neck, kneading the muscles there. “This whole evening . . . it’s exactly what I needed.”
“I’m glad.” When she leaned into his touch, he spread his fingers along her warm skin, seeking out the curve of her neck and gently working out the tension. Her hair was a warm weight on the back of his hand. She let out a small sigh, eyelids fluttering shut.
“I have to tell you something.”
“Hmm?” She opened her eyes. “What’s that?”
“It’s a confession. One I can’t tell you on camera.”
Her lips curved. “A secret?”
“Kind of.” He stilled his mini massage, but kept his hand on her shoulder, rubbing small circles with his thumb. “There was no bear.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “What?”
“No bear. It was all a set-up by my producers. I had to get you over to the woodpile, pretend to see a bear, and shoot a blank.”
His pulse pounded in his ear as he waited for her reply. She stared at him, mouth agape, blinking rapidly. Then she echoed his words, “There was no bear?” and burst into giggles.
Years of experience with his sisters had taught him that laughter wasn’t necessarily a good thing. He had to tread with caution. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” She laughed harder. “God, no. I’m relieved.”
“You are?”
“Hell yeah. I can handle being set up by asshole TV producers. In fact, I should have known. Bears are a whole different ball game.”
“I felt terrible for scaring you.”
She patted his knee, and said in a quiet tone, “I know you did. I don’t blame you for it.”
Since she wasn’t mad, he resumed kneading the knots at the base of her neck. “You’re tight,” he said, changing the subject.
“I know.” She tilted her head down to give him better access. “Mmm, that feels good.”
The energy in the room changed. Stone had been aware of her all night—her outfit, in line with her usual brand of cute and sexy, the way she chatted easily with him about food, shared about her father and her anger toward the man—but now sizzling tension pressed in on him from all sides, and all he could focus on was the feel of Gina’s skin under his hand. He shifted on the sofa, turning sideways so he could reach her with both hands. She leaned closer, too.
“More?” he asked, the word deep with desire.
“Yes.” Her voice was high and breathy, but clear.
He shifted her hair out of the way, pushing the dark heavy mass over one shoulder. With both hands, he devoted himself to his task.
He wanted to make her feel good.
The air thickened. His breathing became labored, catching with every soft sigh and moan she uttered. He worked his hands down her back, fingers tangling in the fabric of her shirt, when she surprised him by—holy shit, holy shit—leaning forward and pulling her shirt over her head.
He froze. Her back was to him, now covered only by the thin blue band of her bra. He’d seen her back before, of course. The show’s costumes didn’t leave much to the imagination, and he’d had his hands all over her during practice. Still, there was a big difference between dancing with an entire camera crew and audience present, and being alone, on her sofa, when she’d just removed her shirt of her own volition.
She grabbed a hot pink throw pillow and held it to her chest, waiting. He stroked a finger down her spine. “More?”
“Yes. And harder.”
He pressed his palms to her back, noting how big and rough they looked next to the smooth expanse of tanned skin. She wasn’t complaining, though, so he continued his work, kneading and pressing. When she sucked in a breath, he paused with his thumb on her lower back.
“Sorry. Old injury.”
“Gotcha.”
Noting the spot, he carefully worked the muscles around it, using gentler movements. Eventually, she let out a deep breath, and more tension eased from her body.
He skipped over the very center of her back, where the band of her bra impeded his movements.
“Stone.”
“Yeah?”
“Take it off.”
Again, he stilled. Had she really . . . ?
Yes, she had. So why was he questioning his good fortune? The woman said to take it off.
Pulse pounding in his throat, he undid the clasp on her bra.
Just to make sure he wasn’t reading the situation wrong, he asked once again, “More?”
Her head jerked in a slight nod, and a second later he got his reply: “Yes.”
Smoothing the straps over her shoulders, he shifted closer. As he ran his hands up and down her bare back, he curled around her and rested his cheek against her ear.
“Gina.”
She shivered. “Yes?”
“More?”
“God, yes.”
She turned, lips seeking his. He claimed her mouth in a kiss even as she twisted in his arms, pink pillow and blue bra abandoned. Her tongue was warm, and she tasted like lemons. Her scent pervaded his senses, drugging him, as he lost himself in the movement of her tongue against his.
In a move made easy from weeks of dancing together, he scooped her up and settled her into his lap, before leaning over her and pressing her into the couch cushions. She tu
gged at his shirt, yanking it up.
“Take this off,” she said, panting. “For the love of god, take this off.”
He leaned back to pull off his t-shirt and in the process got his first glimpse of her naked breasts. Her nipples were pale brown and tight, and he groaned as he fell onto her, wrapping his lips around one pebbled peak.
She whimpered and clutched handfuls of his hair, left loose to dry after his post-rehearsal shower. Her sounds of pleasure urged him on. He cupped her breast with every ounce of gentleness he could summon. Maybe it would counteract the roughness of his hands.
She didn’t seem to mind. Shifting underneath him, she wrapped her legs around his hips, bringing his aching cock right against the warmth between her legs.
He groaned, tonguing her other nipple as he dragged his hands up her rib cage, a move reminiscent of their tango. Her head thrashed against the arm of the couch, and she arched against his mouth.
He was the luckiest fucking guy in the world right now.
When she grabbed his cheeks to pull his face to hers for a deep, searching kiss, his brain exploded. No more thoughts. Just feelings.
The heat of her skin—smooth and sleek, toned and taut—sliding against his. Her mouth—hot, wet, and so, so, sweet. Her hands—strong and exploring every inch of his exposed skin, digging into his muscles and skimming along his abs.
He was losing his mind.
“Touch me, Stone,” she said, gasping. “Please.”
He couldn’t deny her. In the time they’d known each other, their dynamic had always been she spoke, and he obeyed. He ran his hand down her body, drawing it over her hip before pressing it between her legs. Her warmth emanated through the shorts, which were short enough that he could slip his fingers under the denim and her panties to touch her.
She was hot and wet, so slippery, and as he plied her slick folds with the goal of bringing her to orgasm, all he could think of was sinking inside her. He touched her clit, circling it with his fingers.
“More?”
She threw her head back and flung her arm over her eyes. “Yes. Shut up and touch me.”
Again, he obeyed. Before he knew it, she was clinging to his shoulders and crying out in his ear. His whole body clenched with need as her core contracted around his fingers. With his other hand, he lifted her head, claiming her mouth to devour her gasps and moans with a kiss.