The Private Rehearsal (Caught Up In Love: The Swoony New Reboot of the Contemporary Romance Series Book 4)

by Lauren Blakely

  I didn’t know it was possible to be wanted this much, but Davis makes me feel as if no woman in the world has ever felt like this before, as if all the pleasure cascading through my body is happening for the first time. He flicks his tongue against my clit, and I grab his hair harder and buck against him. Then his lips are on me, kissing me between my legs, and it’s beyond amazing the things he can do with his mouth.

  Until I learn what he can do with his fingers at the same time. He thrusts two inside me, and my head falls back from the dizzying feel—the softness of his mouth, the roughness of his fingers. He swirls delirious lines with the tip of his tongue, all while fucking me hard and deep with his fingers, and all I can picture is him inside me, filling me up, stretching me. Soon, my world spins off its axis, sending me into a place of pure and absolute bliss, like every molecule and atom inside of me is vibrating, and I’ve never felt more alive.

  Somewhere, somehow, I’m vaguely aware of all these sounds I’m making, these wild moans, and pants, as I cry out, and beg for more and more because I’m racing, rocking against him, reaching for his hair, his shoulders, as I move harder and faster, my breaths erratic as I climb my way to the far edge of desire.

  I am devastated by the feelings that wrack my body.

  I am undone. Completely and utterly undone for him.

  I call out his name, and it echoes around the theater, reverberating across the walls and crashing all over the empty auditorium as I come on his mouth, his tongue, his lips. He holds tight to my hips, slowing his moves, but still kissing me until I can’t take it anymore, and he pulls away.

  My shoulders heave, and I pant hard, as if I’ve just finished a race, and maybe I have. Soon, I open my eyes, but I still feel woozy, as if I’m barely grasping at reality, as if I’m still on the edge of a dream. But he’s here, looking at me with the same wildness in his eyes that I felt moments before.

  “Did you picture that before I did it to you?”

  I press my teeth into my lips once, then nod, still dazed on the aftereffects. “Yes.”

  “Was it how you imagined it? Coming for me?”

  I shake my head. “It was so much better.”

  He inhales sharply, and his expression says he wishes he could take me now—yank me off the piano, and slam me down hard on his cock, and take me right here, like this.

  “Do you want to have me now?” I ask in a voice that’s comprised solely of lust.

  “Yes. But I’m not going to.”

  21

  Jill

  I wash my hands then dry them, checking out my reflection one last time. My cheeks are still rosy, and I have that just-been-fucked look still. I don’t think that’s going to disappear any time soon, and I’m okay with that. I toss the paper towel in the trash can, smooth my hands over my red sweater and return to the backstage hallway, then to the stage. I still feel like I’m floating, but there’s another feeling surrounding me, and it’s harder to get a handle on.

  Nervousness maybe? Chased with a touch of hope? I’m not sure of anything that’s happening inside me. I hardly understand who I become around him, how I can spin out of my carefully constructed world of happy-go-lucky, everything-is-fine, and transform into this ravenous woman grasping at pleasure as if I need it for my very survival. When did the release I feel with Davis become as necessary as breath and air?

  I move the curtains aside and walk to the piano, trying to compose myself. But into who, I don’t know. The actress here for rehearsal? The woman unfazed by her boss? Or the person who doesn’t have a handle on herself?

  He’s on the bench, straddling it rather than sitting at it, and he’s swiping his index finger across his phone.

  “Texting someone?” There’s something unsettling about him doing something so ordinary as texting while I’m having some kind of identity crisis that he caused.

  He shakes his head. “No. I’m reading the news.”

  “Oh.” That’s better, I suppose. I sit down next to him. “Anything interesting going on in the world?”

  “It’s snowing, and the government still has a deficit,” he says with that wry smile. I want to reach out and touch his face, trace the outline of his lips. So I do, and he leans into me, like a cat who likes being petted. Then I stop because I want to know more about him. I want to understand him.

  “Are you a news junkie or a weather junkie?”

  “Both. But in this case, news. I read the New York Times religiously.”

  “What else? Do you read books?”

  “I have nothing against books. But I would have to say nearly all my reading is the newspaper. Well, the paper online.”

  “Cover to cover?”

  He nods, and it seems fitting that he’s a newshound. It suits him. He seems like a man who wants to understand the world, and so that’s what he does. But I also think there’s more to it. “Do you think you lean toward news so much because you spend your day with make-believe?”

  His lips quirk up as if he’s intrigued by the question, considering it. “I hadn’t thought of it that way. But you’re right. I spend all my hours constructing the most believable artifice I can, so when I’m not playing pretend, I want to know what’s real.”

  Real. There it is again. The word makes me wince because I’m struggling so much with holding on to real and make-believe, and they seem to be seeping into each other.

  He fingers a strand of my hair absently, and it’s such a sweet gesture because that’s all it is. It’s not the start of something. It is what it is. “What about you, Jill? What do you read?”

  I take a long but quiet inhale and stare off at the faraway balcony of the theater. The balcony that will be full of people soon. I flash back to Sunday with Patrick, to how I was paralyzed with fear about answering truthfully. Maybe that’s why I’ve been asking Davis these questions—so he would ask me back. So I can test myself. See if I can speak a simple truth.

  I look at him, and it doesn’t hurt. I don’t feel like all my words are stuck. It’s remarkably easy to answer.

  “Romance,” I say, and it’s as if a piece of my regret floats away. It feels good, so I keep going. “Racy romance, to be precise.”

  A grin tugs at his lips. “Of course you read racy romance.” His voice is flirty, sexy. No judgment. No teasing. Just knowing.

  “Why do you say of course?”

  “Because you couldn’t play this part if you weren’t a romantic. Because I see it in you. Because I see all this passion, all this pain, all this hope. All this sexiness.”

  I can feel it again. The same thing I felt when I sang in our first private rehearsal. As if a fragment of my frozen heart is breaking away, as if the ice I’ve encased myself in is calving off, freeing up a tiny part of me that wants to be known. I give up more words, like a confessional. “I read dirty stuff. And racy stuff. And erotic romance. And I love books with heroes who talk dirty,” I say as I move closer, and run my fingers along the smooth buttons on his shirt.

  “I had a feeling you did,” he says, grinning like he can’t stop.

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Why would it bother me?”

  “I don’t know,” I say with a shrug.

  “Do you masturbate when you read your erotic novels?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would love to watch you sometime.”

  My eyes widen with shock. “You would?”

  “Of course,” he says, as if it’s the most normal thing in the world, when the idea never occurred to me. “I want to know how you touch yourself.”

  My skin is burning again, and if we keep talking like this, I’ll be doing a striptease for him in the middle of the stage. But I can’t seem to resist. I reach for him, trailing my hand through his hair. I love how soft it is under my fingers. He sighs deeply and leans close to me, resting his forehead against mine. “Jill,” he says in a low voice.

  “Davis,” I say, and that’s all. We’re silent like that for a few moments, and there’s s
omething very comforting about being with him while the snow falls outside and we’re warm and safe inside.

  But soon I break the silence. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did I taste like sin and heaven?”

  He nods, then presses his lips lightly to my forehead. “You are my sin.” He brushes them gently against my earlobe. “And my heaven.” Next, the barest of kisses on my lips. “And everything between.”

  Then he pulls back, and his expression has changed from soft to steely. “And I hate that you’re in love with Patrick. I hate it. Because it makes me crazy to want you this much and to know how you feel for him. It makes me utterly insane.”

  I open my mouth to ask why he thinks—then remember him shutting me out that morning in the stairwell, and my pride-saving response. I don’t know what keeps me from correcting the mistake. From saying, “No, I’m not in love with Patrick. Not at all. Not the way you think.” I don’t say that though. Maybe my pride still wants protecting.

  The words—whatever they might be—take longer than he’s willing to wait. He stands up and turns away from me, coolly reminding me why I’m here. “We need to get back to work.”

  “Do you want to do that scene again?” I ask tentatively, the words coming out all choppy.

  He shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand. “The blocking is fine. We’ll work on your solos.”

  So we spend the next two hours working and nothing more. When we’re done, he holds open the door for the car, but doesn’t join me. Of course, I’m an actress, and maybe riding in a car together is too much like a date.

  Reeve grunts as he bench-presses a heavy set of barbells. He’s working out even more as he preps for his leading role in Escorted Lives.

  We’re at his gym in the East Village early the next morning after a run. I do bicep curls with ten-pound weights to the sounds of dumbbells hitting the floor and machines slamming down.

  “How did you know it was real?”

  He gives me a curious look. “What do you mean?”

  “With Sutton,” I say, as if he should be able to follow the random thoughts that have percolated in my head since my last private rehearsal with Davis.

  “Ah,” he says with a twinkle in his eye. “With the complicated, vexing, inscrutable Ms. Brenner.”

  “Yeah. How did you know that you were feeling something for real?” I switch to triceps. “Or that she was?”

  He pushes the barbell up for one more rep then places it in the rack, sitting up on the bench, elbows on his knees.

  “It wasn’t easy, let me tell you. She was a tough one. Hard to read. Lots of layers of self-protection there. Took a while before I could really figure out if it was real.”

  “And even then, she tried to deny it,” I say, remembering when Reeve came to my apartment a few days before my Crash the Moon audition, completely flummoxed over what to do to win her over. Before he laid it all on the line for her.

  “That’s my woman. She could put up walls like no one I’ve ever seen.”

  “Hmm,” I say, as I push my arm back for another curl. If Reeve only knew about my walls. My secrets.

  “Is this about Patrick?” he asks, tilting his head to the side and pushing a hand through his brown hair.

  “Um, sure,” I say.

  He gives me a look that says I haven’t fooled him. “Should I ask?”

  “Please, God, no.”

  Nearby, a burly man with a worn blue T-shirt that shows off arms as big as tires brings a set of weights to the floor. They clang loud enough to make me wince.

  “So, how is it going with Patrick? Still going on these friends dates?” Reeve helpfully sketches air quotes.

  “I hope so.” It would not be the worst thing to end up with a friend in Patrick. Until Davis brought it up—a mild way of putting it—I hadn’t thought beyond the friend zone. “I could use an idea for a non-date activity.”

  “Oh, I know what you should do. Bowling. There’s that bowling alley in Port Authority. It’s awesome. It’s two blocks from the St. James so you can go there some evening after rehearsal.”

  “That does sound fun.” It sounds like a way to get away from confusing, unsettling things that I don’t know how to fit into my life. And Patrick is even-tempered, low-key, and comfortable after an afternoon with Hurricane Davis.

  My phone buzzes. I reach into the pocket of my workout shorts, and for the briefest of seconds, I find myself hoping it’s a text about another private rehearsal. But it’s from Kat, and it’s a picture of a wedding gown she wants to try on this weekend.

  I smile and write back. Can’t wait.

  She’s going to look beautiful when she walks down the aisle to marry the only man she’s ever loved.

  Patrick holds the green bowling ball in front of his chest, pausing on the polished wood floor. He bends, his arm swinging gracefully behind him, then in front of him as he shoots the ball down the lane.

  Lifehouse plays loudly in the Port Authority bowling alley, a strange choice. I’d expected a bouncy Katy Perry tune, or even some hair metal from the 80s, like Poison. But the guy who runs this place loves his alt-pop music, so we’re treated to one of my favorite songs—“Broken”—mixed with the sound of arcade games and gutter balls.

  Patrick’s ball rolls in a perfectly straight line. Ten pins spill with a loud crash, rattling under the lane, and he raises his arms, does a victory spin, and smiles widely.

  “Strike!”

  “You are a rock star,” I say as I high-five him. This guy is a unicorn. Good at everything and literally the nicest guy I’ve ever met.

  He waves off my compliment, as if it’s nothing. “Nah. I’m just having fun.”

  At the St. James, they’re working with other chorus members, so we had two hours free at lunch and slipped out to the nearby lanes at the Port Authority. It’s been a welcomed break from the building, rehearsal, and Davis’s broody mood.

  Patrick is easy company. He doesn’t blow hot and cold. He doesn’t make my brain hurt. He doesn’t confuse me with all his mixed messages.

  No drama. No angst. No worrying.

  I can’t imagine it would be different if we were more than friends.

  The scores come up as 188 for Patrick and 102 for me. We congratulate ourselves on a good game and head the few blocks back to the theater.

  “This was a good idea,” Patrick says as we reach the alley behind the St. James. “We have to remember this place.”

  “For when the cast needs a break before their brains leak out onto the stage floor?”

  “Or for less dire situations. What are your feelings on mini-golf, and where can we find that in Manhattan?” Patrick asks as we reach the stage door.

  “Randall’s Island,” I tell him, as he holds open the door for me. “There’s mini-golf on Randall’s Island.”

  “Then, Jill, that’s exactly what we’re going to do the next time we get together,” he declares as he bounds up the steps and into the hallway. I’m right behind him as we round the corner, but I freeze when I see Davis at the end of the hall, head down and wrapped up in a conversation with Shannon who’s holding her clipboard and taking notes.

  He doesn’t even see me, but an icy dread spreads through my bones, as if I’ve been caught. I’m ready to turn around, run, hide. Then I remind myself I did nothing wrong. There’s no reason I can’t hang out with my castmate. No reason at all. So I tell myself to pick up my boots and put one foot in front of the other and walk on.

  I keep pace next to Patrick, who’s musing about whether the mini-golf range at Randall’s Island has one of those crazy, macabre clowns for the final hole, and I force a smile on my face, and then I even manage a laugh, because I’m sure I’ll feel as lighthearted as I possibly can while whacking a small white ball into a clown’s face.

  The sound of Patrick’s voice chatting about mini-golf and bowling carries in these cramped hallways, and it’s enough for Davis to look away from Shannon. He app
raises the scene instantly—Patrick and I coming from outside, Patrick and I gone for two hours, Patrick and I chatting. His blue eyes turn dark and steely, and I can almost feel the anger radiating from him as we pass by. He’s like a high-tension line, and his jaw is set hard, his eyes narrowed.

  “Hey, Milo,” Patrick says amiably, giving him a quick salute. “I’m ready to start on whatever you’ve got for me this afternoon.”

  “Great,” Davis says through gritted teeth.

  I tell Patrick I’ll see him out on stage and then duck into the bathroom where I lean against the wall, taking deep and shaky breaths. I press my thumb and forefinger against the bridge of my nose, wishing I could erase that encounter. Wishing I knew what I would do differently. But I can’t go out and face Davis right now, so I lean forward, my hands on my thighs, as if I’m winded and need air.

  Then I stand up straight, open the door, and head back into the hall. It’s empty—everyone must be gathered on the stage now. I hold my head up high, my spine straight, and remind myself that everything is fine.

  There’s a hand on my waist, gripping me. I spin around, and Davis is staring hard at me. He pulls me into a dressing room and shuts the door behind us. It’s empty, but the exposed bulbs are bright and glaring around one of the mirrors, and makeup and brushes litter the counter.

  He backs me up against the closed door, caging me in his arms as he presses his hands against the door on either side of me. My pulse speeds up.

  “You were out with him, weren’t you?”

  I narrow my eyes. “We were out of the theater in each other’s company.”