Meeting Mr. Steele

by Melanie Marchande

  This time, I can't help but laugh. It's weak, but it's definitely a laugh, and he reacts immediately.

  One hand gripping the back of my neck, he looms over me, breathing hard in my ear. I whimper slightly, the laugh dying in my throat. "Did I say something funny, princess?"

  Oh. Oh. That name, coming out of his mouth, in that voice, does things to me. I moan softly. "No. No, sir."

  He chuckles, low and warm. "You like when I call you that?" Leaning over further now, so he can nuzzle at my neck. I shudder, goosebumps popping up all over. "Princess?"

  I nod, and before I can stop myself, I'm explaining. "Makes me think of Han Solo."

  This time, when he laughs, it resonates through my whole body. "Right. The original scoundrel. Everything's starting to make sense."

  I'm not going to ask him what the hell that means, because all I want is to stop talking and start shaking the bed. "Push the skirt up," I suggest, softly.

  "What's that?"

  "Push the skirt up," I repeat, a little more boldly this time. "I can sort of wear it and not wear it at the same time."

  He rears back up. "Oh, are you feeling anxious? You want to get on with it, huh?"

  I just nod, afraid of what will come out of my mouth if I dare to speak. Begging. Pleading. It's going to be horribly undignified, that's for sure.

  "Tell me how bad you want it," he commands, softly, but there's no getting around it. Of course he's not going to let me off that easy. I'm still ninety-nine percent sure he was bluffing about that whole "tie you up in the corner and make you watch" thing, but how far do I really want to push him?

  "More than anything," I whisper. "Please."

  "More than anything?" He's teasing me. His fingers find their way under the hem of my skirt, pushing it up, inch by inch, just like I suggested. "Is it that exciting, the idea of having me inside you? Hmm?"

  "Touch me and find out." Desperation has made me bold. My face is burning immediately, and God do I wish I hadn't said that, but it's too late now.

  "You don't give orders." His fingers grip around my thigh, almost bruisingly hard. "Understand? If you want me to touch you, ask nicely."

  My silence must give him pause, because his grip loosens slightly. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" There's still an edge of menace to his words, just enough to keep the mood going, but he's still asking permission. He's making sure I still want him in control, and that realization makes my heart swell.

  "Yes," I admit, quietly. "But not if you don't."

  I still hate the thought that he's always playing a role around me. I don't want him to feel like he has to be anyone other than himself, when we're together.

  His hand slides all the way up my spine, finally burying itself in my hair and tugging, just enough to make my scalp ache deliciously. "Baby girl, I spend most of my life being nice. I'll fucking respect you and treat you like an equal every other minute of the day. But when we're like this...all I wanna do is own you. Just for a little while. You bring out a part of me I've always denied. I thought it was bad, I thought it was wrong, 'cause that's what everybody taught me." He practically purrs in my ear, a feral sound of a predator who's not quite tamed. "It feels dirty, but I've learned to love dirty."

  Right on cue, my phone buzzes on the nightstand. I can see Amy's userpic even through my lust-clouded eyes, but I can't even begin to interpret the words.

  "Turn that fucking thing off," Josh growls. And I obey.

  Fumbling with the button, I toss my phone onto the floor, laughing as it skitters under the bedside table.

  I hear a crinkling noise, and I picture him rummaging around frantically in the mini-bar for enough liquor to forget how much he wants me. Then, I moan as I feel his hot length sliding between my legs, banishing all thought. My panties are still on, but they're so soaked through they might as well not be. He rubs against me a little more, teasing, loving the way I squirm and gasp.

  Bucking helplessly, I rut against him.

  "Shh, relax." His hand rests on my lower back, a heavy heat that stills and controls me. "As much as I'd like to just slide into you like this, I gotta be responsible."

  He withdraws just enough to roll the condom on, and then I feel him grasping my panties and yanking them down. His fingers find me, finally, dipping in just enough to confirm what he already knows.

  Sighing, I arch into his touch, but he pulls away far too soon. A moment later it's replaced with something much better. I gasp, every nerve in my body lighting up as he stretches me open.

  And I feel it.

  Of course, I always feel it. Of course, I've had sex before. I'm not going to be so completely, unapologetically cliché as to claim that he makes me feel like a virgin. Because he doesn't - this is much better.

  I just feel like I've never known what sex was supposed to be like.

  He picks up a rhythm that's steady and slow and deep, at first. It's almost like making love, but it's not. He's too relentless, and too primal. The noises he makes are vibrating straight through me. I've never come like this before, not without some other kind of touch - I've always thought I couldn't. But I can feel it building now, something deep inside me curling with pleasure and building towards a climax that promises to rattle every last inch of me.

  I hear myself moan. "Harder."

  He growls, but he obeys.

  "Faster," I beg.

  I'm so close. I'm not sure if I tell him that or not. I've lost track of what I'm saying out loud, what I'm thinking, and what I'm just feeling. It doesn't really matter. It's all the same, at a moment like this.

  "Not until I tell you," he grits out.

  I can't, I can't hold it back. It's too big, too powerful. But I know I have to, because he said so.

  Josh. Not Landon Steele, not my fantasy, but the real man who, in this moment, really owns my body and my soul.

  "Not yet," he whispers.

  "Please," I moan.

  "Not yet." His fingers grip into my hips so hard it must hurt, but I can't feel it. I can't feel anything except the edge of my orgasm that he won't allow to come to life.

  I don't have any words left. There's nothing I can do except try to hold on.

  His rhythm is growing erratic, and I'm starting to wonder if he's going to let me come at all. I'm sure I'll die if he doesn't.

  Then he says what my whole body's been waiting to hear.

  "Now."

  Everything detonates, and I'm screaming, sobbing with pleasure. My fingers clutch the sheets as the inside of my body clutches him, and nothing matters, nothing. Nothing at all except me and him.

  CHAPTER NINE

  It's not until I'm making out with Josh in the shower that I remember my phone's still on the floor, under the nightstand.

  "What's wrong?"

  His voice rumbles through his chest, and I feel it more than I hear it, over the rush of the water.

  I shake my head. "Nothing. I just remembered I never checked my phone last night, and Amy was messaging me about something."

  "Probably just congratulating you on a successful con," he says, switching off the water and shaking droplets of water from his hair. "But I can tell this is gonna bother you, so why don't you go check, and we can get back to this later."

  Sighing, I glance down at the part of his body that was so recently pressed up against me, insistently. "I was so sure we were going to have shower sex."

  "Yeah, it's overrated." He smirks. "Water doesn't make a good lube, and you'll always end up hurting yourself. Just go. Don't worry, I'll make up for this later."

  Laughing, I reach for my towel. "Okay. Well, I'll take your word for it. I never had shower sex before."

  "We'll try it another time, if you really want to."

  Something in my chest warms at the idea that he's already thinking about our future, but I'm trying not to get too caught up in it.

  Then, he smacks my ass lightly as I turn to go, and that warms something else entirely.

  It seems to take forever fo
r my phone to turn on. It's normally never off, so I'm not used to how long it takes to find the network again. I flip between the screens idly as I wait for the connection.

  Josh comes out of the bathroom with a towel slung low around his hips. He looks like every single one of my fantasies, and he doesn't need to play a role for that. The remnants of the water drip down his body, tracing every contour and every taut muscle.

  I still can't quite believe this is real, but I know he's going to work hard at making me believe it.

  My phone buzzes in my hand, and I reluctantly drag my eyes away from the view.

  "Fifty messages?" I mutter, mostly to myself. "What the..."

  Every single one of them is from Amy. And when I log into my social media sites, I start seeing a lot more. Every single one of them with the same link.

  THE TRUTH SEEKERS' FIRST EXPOSE.

  My heart stops beating for a moment, then starts again, double-time.

  I'm trying to read the article, but the words are blurring together. I see my name, my real name, and Landon Steele's. Over and over again. I don't know exactly when I realize that I handed fucking Caleb my driver's license, and while nobody else knows or cares about my real name, I've been using it in connection with Landon Steele and it never even occurred to me how stupid that was.

  They're comparing, side by side, passages from my Kimberly Tuggey books and my Landon Steele books. Although I've consciously tried for a different style, a different voice, there are little personal anecdotes and details that I'd forgotten I even wrote into the Kimberly books. No one else would ever notice, but if you're looking for them, the connections are there.

  I'm numb.

  Josh is sitting next to me, I realize, vaguely, with the small part of my brain that's still aware of what's happening in the real world. My head throbs, my heart is pumping painfully hard and fast.

  "What is it? Kim, you're kinda...you're kinda scaring me a little."

  "It's Blackwood," I manage to say. "Fucking Truth Seekers. He figured out who Landon Steele really is."

  I swallow thickly.

  "It's all over for me now."

  Josh is looking at me, earnestly. His hand comes to my chin, lifting it up. "Kim, no. It's not. I promise it's not. You're smart, you're creative. You'll make something new, something that's not a gimmick. There'll be nothing to uncover, because it'll be real. Or some kind of real. It doesn't matter. You'll make something great. You did it before, and you can do it again."

  I'm crying. I'm crying for my own stupidity, for the mistakes I've made, for every time I ran away from Josh when I should have been running towards him. I'm crying because I have an inbox full of messages accusing me of being a liar. I'm crying because this all spun so far out of control, so far, and when I came up with the idea I never dreamed any of this would happen. Never wanted any of it, really. It was a series of small events, one after the other, and each one was a choice that seemed insignificant at the time. But it all led to this.

  I'm crying, and Josh holds me.

  "Shhh," he tells me. "I promise you, baby, this is all gonna blow over in no time. It's the fucking internet."

  At that, he manages to coax a smile out of me.

  "Seriously," he says. "Miley Cyrus comes out with a new video, everybody forgets about Landon Steele. You can start over. That's the upside. You may only get fifteen minutes, but so does the scandal."

  ***

  As usual, Josh is right.

  It doesn't take long for people to forget. To stop caring. I try to avoid the discussion as much as I can, for my own sanity's sake. But I see bits and pieces - people speculating on who the "Landon Steele" was who appeared on TV. Most of them are right that he's an actor, but amazingly, no one manages to dig up Josh's headshot. And ultimately, I only get a few hate letters by snail mail.

  Within a few months, none of it matters anymore.

  And I do start over. This time, I'm not a personality. I'm just an author. I'm just someone with stories to tell, which is who I always was. Who I always wanted to be. I'm still writing romance, but I do it as a happily anonymous woman among a sea of similar names.

  THE TRUTH SEEKERS never end up targeting anyone else. I practically gift-wrapped myself for them, and it seems they don't have the detective skills to ferret out anyone who's even slightly more subtle than me. Now that the whole thing's blown over, I can laugh about it, about how ridiculous and petty the whole thing is. When it comes out that Blackwood and Caleb were spotted getting a little handsy in the back of a cab after a New Orleans romance convention, I just smile to myself and privately wish them well.

  Okay, okay, I know what you're wondering. What about Josh and me?

  Josh and me are just fine.

  In some odd twist of fate, he actually does end up meeting my parents at a wedding. It's my cousin's, though. He wears the same suit he wore as Landon Steele, and a couple of the guests ask if they know him from somewhere, but he just demurs that he's an actor and they might've noticed him on Lifetime or something. My mom absolutely loves him at first sight, and my dad lights up when they start talking about antique cars. Of course. I should've guessed.

  "He's a keeper, honey," is what my mom says to me as we're hugging goodbye. Right in front of him.

  "Mom," I protest, blushing like a traffic light. Josh just puts his arm around my shoulders and smiles.

  Josh, as it turns out, has this weird gift for languages. One day, when he's helping me clean out my office, he finds some of the work I was doing on my fantasy worlds, and his eyes light up like a kid on Christmas. The next day, when I've finished my word count, I come out and find that he's filled a notebook with all the world-building I would never do. It's mostly pictograms and unreadable scrawls, but he knows what it means, and that's all that matters.

  Together, we start building the world I always wanted to create. I realize now what was missing. Not love, not romance, and God, no, not a man - just someone to understand. Someone to share it with. The fact that he also happens to be an incredibly sexy man, who does in fact love me, is just gravy.

  I'm still an idiot, but at least I'm an idiot in love.

  And you can't ask for much better than that.

  ***

  About Melanie Marchande

  Melanie is a young writer who loves telling stories about dominant alpha males, sassy heroines, and the tangled webs they weave when they pretend to be something they're not. Oh, and kissing. Lots of kissing. Among other things.