Oh well.
Ever so slowly, she felt herself relax into the comforts of her bed. Her eyelids fluttered gently as sleep pulled her under.
Buzz.
Buzzzzzzzzz.
Buzzzzzzzzz.
Adrenaline spiked through her abdomen and she jumped to her feet, unsure of where she was for a brief second. She steadied herself on the wood of her nightstand as everything in her vision tilted from side to side. When her equilibrium was re-established, and her wits were restored, she realized what had pulled her from her nap. Someone was downstairs. Charlie.
She jogged to her front door, pressing the intercom.
“Hello?”
“Ah, you are home. I was beginning to think this was a gag.”
“No, sorry, I fell asleep. I’ll buzz you up.” She pressed the button, allowing him entry to the building. “Second floor.”
She opened the door, listening to Charlie trudge up the stairs with his luggage. She glanced into the starburst mirror next to the front door, dragging her fingers beneath her eyes to remove the bit of smeared mascara. When she poked her head into the hallway, Charlie was just reaching the top of the stairs. When he rounded the corner, he smiled, his shoulders relaxed.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” he said.
God, he was sexy. His bright blue eyes were wide with anticipation and energy. He was dressed in a simple black T-shirt and jeans, canary-yellow Converse on his feet. There was just something about Charlie Hutchins and the way he made her feel unbelievably sexy, even when she felt like a lazy slug who’d just dragged herself out of bed less than a minute before. The moment he said those words, she knew he still had a legitimate hold on her—on her curiosity, on her heart, and on her libido. There were no games, no “not yets,” no playing hard to get. Everything was out in the open, transparent. Real. She and Charlie were similar creatures—when they wanted something, they went after it and weren’t afraid to admit their attraction, their desire, their goals. In many ways, she felt as if they were kindred spirits.
“Come on in.” She stepped to the side, allowing him entry to her place. He tossed his bags inside the door and pulled her close, pressing his lips to hers. Whitney wished she’d had time to swish with mouthwash first after her impromptu sleep.
Whitney pulled away casually, looking him in the eye. “You didn’t respond to my text so I wasn’t expecting you.”
“Oh, sorry ’bout that, love. I was so excited to see your address, I jumped in the first cab in the queue.”
“Well, aren’t you sweet?”
He offered a nonchalant shrug. “I’ve missed you.” Whitney took his hand and led him inside. She closed and locked the door behind them.
“Me too. How was your flight?”
“Bloody awful. I’m knackered, actually.” He ran his fingers through his wavy hair, scratching at the back of his neck. Whitney was pretty sure knackered meant tired, but wasn’t entirely sure, and didn’t want to admit her lack of knowledge in the British slang department.
“Turbulence?”
He nodded. “That wanker needs his pilot license removed. He took us for a nosedive somewhere over Las Vegas.”
Whitney formed her lips into a fake pout, ready to tease the man who appreciated her playful side. “Poor baby.”
He puckered his lips and narrowed his eyes, pulling her over. “Oh, so you’re taking the piss?”
“Um . . .” She looked down at her dry pants. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Charlie shook his head with a low chuckle. “Sorry, language barrier. Um, you’re”—he raised his fingers to make quotes and attempted an overly dramatic American accent—“making fun of me.”
He looked adorably goofy as he overpronounced his vowels, which in turn made him look unbearably sexy as he imitated the American cadence.
“What am I gonna do with you?” she asked, wrapping her arms around his neck, loving their banter, the way he set her at ease.
“I can think of a few things. But perhaps a nap first?”
“Or after?” She raised a wicked eyebrow, tracing one finger from his shoulder to the waistband of his jeans.
“Somehow I think you can persuade me.” He pressed his lips to her ear, sucking gently on the sensitive skin.
“Do you have anything?” she asked, digging her fingers into his muscular ass.
“Always, love.” He smirked and kissed her lightly on the nose. “Back in a sec.”
Whitney quickly ran her fingers through her hair, turned her body away from Charlie, and did a quick breath check, puffing into her cupped hands.
Not bad at all.
Charlie rummaged through his duffel bag, retrieving a handful of condoms. He licked his lips as he rose to his feet. Walking back to Whitney, his usually bright eyes turned dark with lust. He wanted her just as much as she wanted him.
“I love your optimism,” Whitney teased as she motioned to the condoms in his hand.
“You mean confidence.” He winked, pulling her close. “It’s only noon. We have all day.”
“Well, Mr. Hutchins”—she pulled at the strap of her tank top, batting her eyelashes in a dramatic, playful manner—“what are you going to do with me?”
Charlie’s nostrils flared as he stalked toward her. Whitney, enjoying his aggressive nature when it came to their sexual escapades, followed his lead and walked backward toward the front door of her apartment.
“I’m going to make you scream, love.” He pressed her into the wood, linking his hands with hers, raising them above her head and pushing them against the door. Her knuckles knocked against the wood as he sucked at the skin of her neck. “So loud your neighbors will hear. They’ll be startled at first, but then they’ll know—”
“And then I’ll have to move,” she murmured, laughing as she pictured the puritanical sneer of Mrs. McHenry, the crazy cat lady next door. “I’ll never be able to show my face again,” she joked, knowing full well that the opinions of others had no effect on her. She lived her life in her own way, not a people-pleaser in any way, shape, or form.
“Bollocks. They’ll be jealous. All of them.” He snickered, pulling her tank top above her shoulders and dropping it at their feet. She felt the soft cotton tickle her toes just before she unbuttoned his jeans and unzipped his fly, pushing them toward the floor. Charlie hoisted her legs around his waist, his fingers digging into her thighs. He pressed her against the door, and explored her breast with one hand as the other released the clasp of her bra. The straps slumped from her shoulders. He wrapped his fingers around one strap, ripping it from her arm. He released the other and tossed it behind him, grinning as he took in the sight of her.
“What are you waiting for?” she asked, running her fingers through his hair, challenging him, pushing him, daring him to take what he wanted.
“Nothing,” he snarled, lowering her to her feet and pulling her yoga pants off with a new determination. She knew he liked the challenge. Their compatibility was ridiculous. “I’m gonna fuck you right here, right against this door.”
“Yes,” she murmured, pulling his T-shirt over his head and exploring his sinewy shoulders. His fingers stroked her over the fabric of her lace panties. “God, yes. Take them off. Now.”
The banter stopped as she and Charlie succumbed to their desires. He yanked off her panties and pushed his jeans to the floor.
“Give it to me,” she panted, grabbing a condom from his hand. He dropped the others to the floor. Whitney raised it to her mouth, tearing the wrapper open with her teeth.
“Aw, bloody ’ell.” He shook his head, watching her with obvious lust. “I’ve never seen anything sexier than that.”
Whitney smiled and, satisfied with her ability to turn him on, she reached for him. He was hard, ready, waiting. With one hand, she rolled the condom onto him and he closed his eyes, inhaling deeply as she cupped him with a firm grasp.
Charlie grabbed her ass and hoisted her back up, pressing her into the
door. With one simple thrust, he filled her. She arched her back, enjoying the feel of him inside her. With her feet crossed behind his lower back, she pumped her hips in unison with his. His mouth claimed hers once again and he tugged on her bottom lip, driving her mad.
“Mmm,” she moaned, feeling her arousal build with each thrust. She was getting close to orgasm. “Harder.”
Charlie seemed happy to oblige, slamming into her again and again, each thrust more aggressive than the last. The door thumped beneath her hips, and Charlie’s fingers dug into her ass. He grunted and groaned into the crook of her neck as she looked up to the ceiling, enjoying the sweet agony of anticipation.
“Oh my God,” she cried, “I’m gonna come.”
She moved her hands to grip his hips, pulling him forward just as her orgasm consumed her. She screamed his name, just as he’d promised. He groaned, sweat beading on his brow as he continued to pump his hips, crying out as he found his release. They stood, connected and intertwined, Whitney still pressed to the front door of her apartment. Her legs felt like jelly as he lowered her to the ground. He removed the condom, handing it to her.
“Gee, how romantic,” she said, rolling her eyes, disappointed in the gesture. Was she grossed out? No. But it was definitely a mood killer.
“Sorry.” He laughed. “Not sure where the rubbish bin is.”
“Ah,” she deadpanned, walking to the kitchen to dispose of their protection, wishing he’d just taken a look to find the obvious garbage can next to her kitchen island. “I’m gonna take a shower. Make yourself at home, okay?”
Charlie pulled his boxer shorts back on, wiping the sweat from his brow. “Thanks, love.”
When Whitney finished her shower, she found Charlie in her bed, lying on his side with eyes closed, a contented smile on his face. She looked down at him as she gripped the towel on her head and squeezed the moisture from her hair. She removed her bathrobe and slipped beneath the sheets, next to Charlie. He wrapped his arm around her waist, cleared his throat, and nuzzled his nose into her clean hair.
“You smell amazing.”
Whitney smiled, allowing her body to relax against Charlie’s, to lose herself in sleep once again. But despite their sexy encounter and her incredibly satisfying orgasm, her thoughts drifted to Wes and their kiss, wondering how a simple kiss could have her so unglued. And feeling guilty to have one man in her bed and another on her mind.
Roslyn stared at Whitney with one raised eyebrow. Her elbow rested on the table of the bustling café and her tight fist covered her mouth. Whitney knew what was coming. She’d confessed everything to her baby sister, hoping for sympathy . . . or clarity, whichever one was offered. Instead, she was confronted with sarcasm. Why in the hell was she even surprised?
Roslyn released her hand from her mouth and leaned back in her seat. “Ya know, big sister, I wish I had your problems.”
She expected the snark, but had no intention of dismissing the topic. She’d seen Rozzie through many dating debacles. It was her turn for sisterly advice. “Sorry, but I have to talk about it.”
“Two hot guys wanna nail you and your movie star ex won’t leave you alone. Boo hoo.”
“You make it sound so simple, but it’s not,” Whitney snapped, taking a sip of her iced tea. “I’m not sure what to do. They’re both contestants, both hot, both charming, both sexy as hell.”
Roslyn shifted in her seat and released an audible sigh. “And . . . ? What exactly is the problem?”
“They’re contestants. Both of them.”
“Yeah, um, tell me again why you convinced the hot cowboy to compete? Why didn’t you just keep him grilling steaks and shooting guns in Montana?”
“Because he’s good, Rozzie, like really good. His food melts in your mouth.”
“Yeah, I’ll bet it does.” Roslyn nudged her under the table.
She rolled her eyes, secretly proud of her sister’s dirty mind. If the roles had been reversed, she probably would’ve said the same thing. But she wasn’t in the mood to give Rozzie the satisfaction, so she ignored her snark and completed her original thoughts on Wes.
“And he’s got charisma. The cameras will love him and the women at home will go nuts. I had no choice but to cast him.”
Roslyn cleared her throat, shaking her head before tossing her black hair behind her tiny shoulders. Despite the five years between them, Whitney and Roslyn were entirely too alike, so alike that Whitney almost always knew what her sister was thinking before she even uttered the words. The only significant difference between the two women was their careers. Whitney was highly devoted to her chosen field, whereas Roslyn was still stuck in self-discovery mode, and Whitney suspected her sister might stay there for a while. Rozzie bounced between jobs as often as she rebounded from man to man. She’d first arrived in Los Angeles determined to make it as an actress. She had high hopes of landing a pilot, but when Whitney refused to be her ace in the hole and cast her without auditions, her determination seemed to fade. Since relocating three years prior, she’d balanced several pursuits. Roslyn painted, sculpted, waited tables, answered phones, and spent her evenings in dance clubs with her single friends. She was, if nothing else, fully enjoying her twenties.
“You’re so damn devoted to that job.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
Roslyn ignored Whitney’s response, extending her hand instead. “Let me see their head shots again.” Whitney jumped into business mode, removing them from her leather laptop case. All of the semifinalists had arrived for the first week of filming and were currently tied up with producers in makeup and wardrobe, allowing Whitney to sneak off for a quick lunch/therapy session with her sister. She returned her attention to her neglected cobb salad as Roslyn studied the black-and-white eight-by-ten photographs.
“This one . . .” She held up Charlie’s shot. His confident charm permeated the photograph. “He’s got a British accent, right?”
“Totally.”
“Mmm-mmm, I’d hit that. And look at this cocky grin.” Roslyn fixated on the photograph, staring at it for several seconds. Whitney giggled at her ogling sister. Roslyn pointed at the photo. “Blue eyes? Green? They look light.”
“Blue. Sparkling blue.”
“Oh my God, listen to you.” Roslyn shook her head.
“I know, I can’t help it. He’s pretty irresistible. And the accent is delicious,” Whitney conceded, remembering his accent when he pressed her up against her door . . . Even though Wes had her completely under his spell in Montana, Whitney’s return to Los Angeles had been eye-opening. As casual as it had begun, her relationship with Charlie had stayed constant—text messages, late-night phone calls, and more jokes than she could count. Charlie got her, he understood her, they clicked. But there was just something about Wes. Perhaps it was his elusive yet attentive nature or the fact that he hadn’t yet called even though that’s exactly what he said he’d do once he arrived in L.A. . . . regardless, the cowboy occupied her thoughts just as much as the cocky former rugby player. How could he not? Memories of their kiss haunted her.
“How is he in bed?”
“Roz, stop!” Whitney waved her sister off, taking a bite of avocado and bleu cheese, remembering the intensity of her adventures with Charlie . . . against the door, on the floor . . . Geez, she sounded like Dr. Seuss.
I would do him in a car. I would do him near or far.
“Is he rough? I bet he’s rough.” Roslyn formed her hand into a claw and growled.
“Oh my God, you’re such a tart.”
“Damn straight.” She looked back down at the pile of photos. “Hey, if you choose this guy”—she held up Wes’s shot—“I call dibs on Charlie.”
Whitney shook her head. “Like hell you do.”
She surprised herself with her protectiveness over Charlie.
“Wait, I thought you had it bad for the cowboy. I’m so confused.”
Whitney broke eye contact, looking around at the other diners. “It’
s complicated.”
She craved more time with Wes, but seeing as the only contact they’d had took place earlier that morning when he nodded to her across a crowded soundstage, she was wondering if they would reconnect at all. Perhaps he’d switched his focus from his attraction to her to excelling on the show. Normally, Whitney would never waste her time pining over a guy who she wasn’t certain was just as interested, but she couldn’t resist . . . she wanted him.
“Don’t get me wrong,” Roslyn said. “He’s gorgeous. He’s got this whole rugged masculinity thing going on . . . but, I don’t know . . . you two just seem so different.”
“We are, but is that such a bad thing?”
“No.” Roslyn paused. “I guess not. But c’mon, can you really see this guy living in L.A.? He’s probably broken out into hives already just thinking about it.”
Whitney shrugged. “Hadn’t thought of it, honestly. I’d like to sleep with him first before, you know, plotting out our future.”
“Touché.” Roslyn paused to take a bite of her sandwich, then practically sputtered after she swallowed. “Oh my God, I cannot see you in Montana. I can’t even picture it.”
“Shut up.” She glowered at her sister. “I was just there, thank you very much.”
“Oh, I know. You were a badass at the gun gallery . . .”
“It’s a range, dumb ass.”
Roslyn leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. “Whatever. But seriously, can you imagine yourself scooping horse shit? Or butchering a cow? I’d pay money to see that.”
“Wow.” Whitney rolled her eyes. “You’re such a delight this afternoon.”
“I do what I can.” Roslyn laughed. “When do you have to be back?”
Whitney glanced at her watch. “Soon,” she lied.
She could reasonably stay away for the rest of the afternoon, seeing as the casting of the show was technically complete. However, she knew Chris relied on her for more than that and she was happy to oblige. Whitney enjoyed the buzz of the soundstage, the hum of the personal assistants accomplishing this task and that. The environment was intoxicating. In fact, when not traveling the country for casting calls, sitting next to Elle on the sets of her drama series was one of the best perks of her job with the network. Being a part of the global mosaic of pop culture was fascinating to her. They were making a contribution to the fabric of modern-day society through entertainment and Whitney was grateful for her role in that contribution.
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