Take on Me

by Sarah Mayberry

  “This is nice,” she said.

  Being a nosy writer, her eye was drawn to the collection of papers scattered across the coffee table. Dylan’s notebook computer was resting on one of the couch cushions nearby, the screen filled with text. He was working on a screenplay, she saw.

  “You never stop working, do you?” she asked.

  He shrugged. “Writers only have a small window to establish themselves in this town. Once we hit forty, no one wants to know us unless we’ve got some weight behind us.”

  “I never think about this stuff. I just write what I like,” she said a little shamefacedly. She’d never been as career minded as she should be.

  “I like the stuff I do,” he said. Was it her imagination, or did he sound a little defensive?

  “So, what’s it about? Your screenplay? Or are you going to make me sign a confidentiality agreement first?”

  He shrugged. “It’s a teen movie. Vampires, high school stuff. You know.”

  She blinked, surprised. Teen schlock was the last thing she’d imagined Dylan writing. His TV work was so emotional and sophisticated.

  “It’s commercial, but so what? It’s what the studios are looking for,” he said. Definitely defensive.

  He began shuffling his paperwork together. She lay a hand on his arm.

  “I’m not judging you, Dylan. I love vampire movies. If I looked surprised it was only because it’s so different from your TV work, that’s all.”

  His shoulders relaxed a notch. “Sorry. Olly gives me a lot of shit for selling out. He doesn’t get that no one is ever going to make his movie about two old men on a fishing trip. Or, even if they do, no one is ever going to go see it.”

  It was important for him to be successful. She understood that he was still trying to shake off those bad years of being the class idiot.

  “Everyone dreams in their own way, I guess,” she said diplomatically.

  He looked as though he wanted to argue the toss a little more, but then he shook his head, smiled and gestured toward a doorway to his left.

  “You’re probably hungry, yeah?”

  The kitchen boasted plain white cabinets and polished oak countertops, the simple lines giving an impression of serene calm. Partially sliced vegetables added a splash of color on a chopping block—green and red peppers, tomatoes, lettuce, onions.

  “Fajitas,” he explained, picking up the knife.

  She studied him as he concentrated on the food, trying to define what it was that made him so fatally attractive to her, why she’d pushed aside all logic and traipsed across town to put her heart in more danger this evening.

  He was the most dazzlingly attractive man she’d ever met, various movie stars included. Perhaps because he’d always appealed to her. Or maybe it was something else, something more intrinsic to who she was and who he was. Whatever—he made her breathless just by existing. The mere thought of this dinner had kept her on edge since she’d left work—already she could feel the damp heat of her own desire between her thighs, and he hadn’t even touched her yet.

  She thought of the screenplay spread over his coffee table, and the long hours he put in on the show. He was such a dynamic man. When she was with him, she felt so alive, so energized. He always kept her on her toes, challenging her world views, teasing her, goading her.

  Suddenly she realized what she was doing—standing in his kitchen, staring at him adoringly.

  This has to stop, she told herself. A heavy feeling stole over her. This had to be the last time. The heat she was feeling, the fascination, the pull—she was a goner if she didn’t step back from the edge before she tumbled over. No more dinners, no more banter, definitely no more sex. Tonight had to be her swan song, her goodbye. Her last taste of paradise. A sudden desperation gripped her and when she looked down, her hands were shaking.

  “Do we have to eat now?” she asked, aware that there was a needy quaver in her voice. If this was going to be her last night with him, she had to make enough memories to tide her over for a long time.

  “Not hungry yet?” he asked.

  Unable to respond, she reached for the buttons on her shirt, sliding first one, then another and then another free. He followed her movements slavishly, his meal preparations completely forgotten. Exhaling lightly, she flicked her shirt open and slid her arms from the sleeves. She heard his sharp intake of breath as he saw her new bra—naughty see-through black mesh with a single bloodred poppy embroidered high on one cup. Sliding a finger into her mouth, she sucked on it briefly before sliding it inside the thin fabric of her bra. Her nipple pebbled greedily, eager for his touch.

  “That’s an excellent idea, it being a warm night and all,” he said.

  His eyes locked on hers, he slid his own shirt off, revealing his impressive chest. Her heart skittered in anticipation and she squeezed her thighs together, already imagining him there.

  Then, to her astonishment, he turned back to the vegetables. “Maybe we should eat first, on second thought,” he said.

  She stared at him for a moment, lust fizzing through her veins as the rhythmic sound of his chopping filled the room.

  She was about to object when his mouth quirked and the corners of his eyes crinkled with amusement. Laughter and desire bubbled up inside her in equal measures as she understood what he was doing—teasing her. Without hesitation, she reached for the zipper on her skirt. Two could play at that game. Her black mini slid down her legs to reveal the garter belt and stockings she wore beneath. And nothing else.

  She’d fretted over making such a bold statement before she’d come over, but now she felt a fierce wash of satisfaction as the smug look froze on his face as his gaze traveled up and down her body. There was a long moment of tense silence as desire crackled between them like electricity. Then, wiping his hands on a towel, he reached for the snap on his jeans. Her gaze gravitated to the hard length of his erection as he pulled his cargo pants and boxers down over his hips and kicked them off.

  Sure she’d won, she took a step forward—but he turned toward the stovetop to collect a frying pan.

  “Dinner will probably be about five minutes, if you want to pour yourself a glass of wine,” he said.

  She stared at the perfection of his tight male butt and broad, strong shoulders, shocked to the very core. Surely he wasn’t going to deny her? Not now?

  He spoke without turning around.

  “When I was a kid, I wanted this toy truck at the local shop. Mom wanted to buy it for me, but Dad insisted I earn it. So they bought the truck, and they kept it in the cupboard until I’d mowed the lawn and washed the car enough to pay it off. It took four weeks, but that truck was the best toy I ever had. Mostly because I had to wait for it. The magic of anticipation, I guess.”

  The tension in her shoulders eased as she got it. He wanted to see how long they could wait. Stretch it out until they couldn’t take it anymore.

  If anything, the idea only increased her desire. For the next five minutes he concentrated on cooking the chicken and beef and serving up the fillings in a series of neat white bowls, and she tried to get her breathing under control. Soon they were sitting opposite each other at his kitchen table, highly aroused and unbearably aware of each other.

  Noting the tremor in his hand when he passed the platter of tortillas, she felt marginally relieved. She wasn’t the only one struggling with the concept of delayed gratification here.

  As the meal progressed, she sipped at her wine sparingly, but she felt drunk with need. Every time his eyes slid over her body, she imagined his hands following in their wake, and she grew more and more aroused. The cool of the timber chair beneath her bottom, the brush of her own arms against the sides of her breasts, the strong flavors of their meal—every sensation seemed heightened, magnified.

  Aware that she couldn’t last much longer, she decided to up the ante. Shifting her legs apart, she shamelessly ensured that he could see the dark, wet heart of her. His gaze arrowed in on her with single-minded intent
, and she thought she had him…Then he reached for a tortilla and began methodically assembling another fajita. Frustration choked her as he polished off his creation in two big mouthfuls, licking the juices from his fingers with sensuous gusto. She shivered—she wanted his tongue on her, his hands on her, his hardness inside her, and anticipation was driving her crazy.

  By the time he was serving her fresh berries with vanilla whipped cream and crunchy meringue, she was ready to admit defeat. He managed to brush her shoulder half a dozen times with his erection as he spooned berries into her bowl before adding a dollop of cream. As he sank into his chair opposite her, she finally cracked. She was practically sliding off her chair with lust, and she could take no more.

  Her chair slid back abruptly as she stood. Her stiletto heels clicked on the floorboards as she walked around the table. Very deliberate, she shrugged out of her bra, dipped her fingers into the cream on top of his berries and smeared a generous amount over each nipple. Then she straddled him, almost groaning as she felt his hard shaft press against her slick heat.

  “I want the truck,” she said boldly.

  He went very still, then he grinned hugely before ducking his head to her breasts. The first touch of his mouth on her nipples nearly made her scream, she was so turned on.

  He sucked the cream from each tip with greedy abandon, then he was lifting her onto the table, shoving plates out of the way as he spread her before him. His dark gray eyes glinting with desire, he reached for his dessert bowl. She shivered as he dropped a handful of berries onto her belly, squirmed as he smoothed cream onto her thighs. Then she could do nothing but gasp as he set himself to the task of devouring her.

  By the time she’d emerged from the haze of lust he’d woven around them, it was the early hours of the morning. She left him sleeping in his bed. All the way home, she trembled with remembered desire and the determination to put an end to their affair first thing the next day. She had to pull out before it was too late. First thing tomorrow, she would end it. Definitely.

  10

  SHE TOLD HERSELF the same thing every day for the next three days, but each night she wound up in his arms again. She was never quite sure how it happened. One minute she would be on the verge of telling him they were over, the next she would be agreeing to dinner again. Tuesday night it was a picnic after-hours in the Getty Museum, courtesy of one of Dylan’s friends who worked on security. The next it was dinner at a little restaurant in the hills he knew. Afterward, he pulled over on the way home to make love to her against the side of the car, whispering praise for her passion in her ear all the while.

  She should have said no to it all. But she couldn’t. She was out of control, running full pelt down the steepest slope of her life with no way of stopping.

  And slowly, insidiously, she began to wonder if she even needed to stop. All her life she’d despised women who ignored the warnings men gave them at the start of relationships. Dylan had been absolutely frank about his desires—sex, no commitment—and she’d believed him. But every time he looked deeply into her eyes as he slid inside her, every time he pressed a kiss to the nape of her neck, or smoothed the back of his hand across her cheekbone, she was sure she saw something more in his eyes than simple lust.

  As she waited for him to answer the door to her knock on Thursday evening, she admitted to herself that she’d begun to hope that there was a future for the two of them. He cared for her. She was sure he did. She knew he respected her, that he valued her expertise, that he shared her sense of humor. Was it so crazy to think that his feelings for her ran beyond the strictly sexual?

  People changed. Expectations changed, all the time. Who was to say that, no matter what intention he’d set out with when they began their fling, he hadn’t discovered deeper, more longer-lasting emotions within himself? She had, and she certainly hadn’t been looking for them.

  “Hey.”

  As usual, the mere sight of him was enough to set her pulse racing. He was barefoot and wearing a pair of faded jeans and a plain black T-shirt. He looked delicious, good enough to eat.

  “Hey, yourself,” she said, standing on tiptoe to press a kiss to his lips in greeting.

  The kiss quickly got carried away, and before she knew it he was backing her onto the couch and tugging her shirt from the waistband of her skirt.

  Smoothing a hand up her legs, he lifted his head from her breast when he encountered nothing but bare skin above her thighs.

  “No underwear again,” he murmured, smiling his approval.

  “It seems kind of superfluous when I’m with you,” she said, pressing butterfly kisses to his neck and shoulder.

  “Another thing to add to my list of things I worship about you,” he whispered in her ear as he slid clever fingers into the damp curls between her legs.

  She stilled for a heartbeat, the significance of his words resonating within her.

  He didn’t say love, she warned herself. But it was too late, the damage was done—his almost-declaration forced her to acknowledge the burgeoning, fledgling truth in her heart. She loved him. Probably had for weeks, even if she’d put off admitting it to herself with her stalling tactics and prevarications. She’d fallen, hard. So hard she might never get up again.

  She thought about him every spare moment. She knew the exact second he walked into a room, even if she had her back to him. And she could recognize his voice in a crowd of thousands. She craved his touch like a drug—but she craved his smile and his eyes on her and his laughter almost as much. She felt a warm glow of pride every time she heard someone praise his work, and she was awed by his talent and discipline as he crafted some of the best episodes Ocean Boulevard had ever produced.

  As he slid a finger inside her while sending his thumb on a slow, lazy pass over her clitoris, she clutched at his shoulders and rode a wave of realization and passion.

  She wasn’t blind to his faults. He was arrogant, impulsive, cocky. The same discipline and focus that had helped him come to terms with his dyslexia made him appear distant and cold at times. He worked too hard, pushed himself beyond what was healthy. But it was all part of what made him who he was, and she wouldn’t change him for the world because she had fallen in love with him, hook, line and sinker, irretrievably, irreversibly, forever.

  “You are so hot,” he groaned in her ear as he fumbled with his belt buckle.

  Her new self-knowledge made her tremble with an urgent need to be as close to him as she could get. She helped him release his zipper, pulling his straining erection from his boxers with eager hands.

  “Now,” she begged breathlessly, guiding him to the heart of her. “Now.” All the thoughts and feelings and fears and desires of the past few weeks welled up inside her as he entered her, his thickness filling her, his body crushing hers into the sofa.

  She closed her eyes as sensation and emotion overwhelmed her. So gentle but so strong. So fierce but so tender. So demanding but so generous. The contradictions of his lovemaking thrilled her. He felt so right, so perfect.

  She loved him so much.

  Her orgasm crashed over her, undeniable, intense. She cried out incoherently, hands clutching at his shoulders as she convulsed around him. She felt him tense, knew that her climax had triggered his, and reveled in the moment of closeness as he ground his hips against hers.

  Afterward, he lay beside her on the sofa, his chest rising and falling sharply as he struggled to catch his breath.

  She felt radiant and faintly dizzy with her newly admitted love for him. Her hands never still, she mapped the smooth planes of his body, each stroke of her hands an unspoken endearment. Turning her face toward his, she loved him with her eyes, memorizing the angles of his face, the dark spike of his too-long eyelashes, the full curve of his lower lip.

  She was thinking how she craved these quiet moments after the storm had passed almost as much as she craved the storm itself when he lifted his head and smiled at her. A frown quickly replaced the smile, however, and he brushed a hand
across her cheek.

  “You’re crying,” he said, holding up his wet hand to prove it.

  She’d been so lost in the intensity of the moment her tears hadn’t registered. Not quite sure what to say, she simply held his eye. His frown deepened as he stared at her, then he abruptly pulled away and began setting his clothes to rights.

  Aware that something had shifted, she followed suit, tugging her T-shirt back into place and smoothing her skirt down.

  “Where are you going tomorrow night?” Dylan asked suddenly.

  She shook her head briefly, confused. “Tomorrow night?” she repeated.

  “Dinner. With Greg.”

  She blinked. She’d been so lost in Dylan this week that she’d almost forgotten.

  “I canceled on Monday,” she said without thinking.

  She could feel him stiffen beside her. “Monday?”

  “Yes. I had lunch with him on Monday and I told him it was over.”

  Abruptly he headed for the kitchen.

  “I ordered take-away Chinese. It’s getting cold,” he said over his shoulder.

  She stared after him, not quite sure what had just happened. She followed him into the kitchen. He didn’t look up from spooning portions onto plates, and the silence stretched awkwardly between them.

  “What’s going on?” she finally asked.

  He shrugged a shoulder. “Nothing.”

  She frowned. “Dylan,” she said simply.

  “You should have told me you’d canceled dinner with him,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “Look, forget about it,” he said. He sounded distant, withdrawn.

  “I don’t understand why it makes a difference whether I’m having dinner with Greg or not. Didn’t we agree he was none of your business?” she said carefully.

  “It changes things, that’s all.”

  “Between us?”

  He shrugged a shoulder. She narrowed her eyes.

  “How does it change things between us? We’re just about the sex, right?” she said.