“JJ,” Brody breathed, his voice full of wonder, too.
“Jillian,” she said. “Call me Jillian.” Jillian for her family, her friends, the people she loved.
“Jillian,” he said and pushed deeply into her. “You feel so damn good,” he groaned, pulling back, then digging in again.
She grabbed his backside, loving the way the muscles tightened and released as he drove into her again and again. His strokes coaxed her upward, higher. Tight, then tighter.
She loved the rush and burn, the sweet ache of their bodies combining, separating, finding each other again and again in this most ancient, most intimate act. She was so glad they’d gone all the way, not settled for less.
She lifted her hips to meet each thrust, wanting more and more. Brody would not let her look away or close her eyes.
She felt so…naked. So open to him. The way she expected to feel with the man she eventually loved and made a life with. If she ever found him, if what she wanted was even possible.
That was too much, way too much, so she was glad when Brody’s moves intensified and she lost herself in the physicality of the moment. She wanted to relish every second, make it last, but she couldn’t hold back, couldn’t stop her climax, which struck as violent and bright, as lightning-quick as a hot summer storm.
Brody met her with his own release, saying her name like a prayer. She closed her eyes, and let her climax roar through her, wave after wave, gradually slowing to low rumbles and zings and gentle shudders that got fainter and fainter, fading to soft laps of pleasure.
Brody’s arms were tight around her and she felt his heart pounding as hard and his breath coming as raggedly as her own.
They settled down slowly, breathing and pulse returning to normal. Brody lifted his head and looked down at her. “It’ll be okay,” he said. “Whatever you do, do not panic. We had to finish it—the meal, like you said.”
“I’m fine,” she said. She felt great. Of course, she had every reason to panic. She’d had sex with the man who stood for everything she hated about the player mentality, the man who was her boss, the subject of her documentary. She’d sworn not to do this, knew it was wrong, but she’d done it anyway.
And she was grinning like an idiot, proud of herself for throwing caution to the wind and going for what she wanted so badly. She would come to sensible earth soon enough.
Right this minute, she’d revel in pure glory.
10
UH-OH, Brody thought, watching the dreamy expression fill JJ’s face like a pink cloud in a kiddie cartoon. He knew that look—he’d gotten it a couple of times in college when he’d let a serious girl slip under his radar. She thought they’d connected, that this was big, that they’d started a relationship.
He was in trouble now. This was exactly why he only slept with party girls or groupies. Women who didn’t make sex a big deal, even when it was this good.
Okay, great.
Jillian would make too much of what had been a pleasant—all right, phenomenal—physical moment between two willing—okay, desperate—people.
He should have known better. He knew himself better. From the minute he plucked that strip of condoms out of the basket on the way to her room, he knew he was up to no good.
He was as weak as he was stupid. He’d just had sex with a woman who took everything seriously. She’d asked him to call her Jillian in that warm, forever way that made his skin crawl.
Maybe not crawl. More like a hot shiver, like stepping into a steamy bath. Which felt pretty damn good. And he’d gotten this warm stab in his chest. He’d felt…homesick.
And sure, he wanted to settle down, make a home, but not until he had his new life figured out, and it wouldn’t be with someone who knew him as Doctor Nite.
And, for God’s sake, what was JJ thinking? He wasn’t her type at all. It was some bad boy thing. Doctor Nite had charmed her. That was what he did. That was his deal.
Of course, she’d charmed him, too. Right now he was running his fingers through her hair and kissing the impossibly soft skin of her neck, breathing in her smell, holding it in, as if it were some kind of healing vapor.
The sex had been effortless and real. He hadn’t been performing or watching himself from a distance—a sensation he so hated he’d avoided sex for weeks.
It wasn’t that he wanted some small-town girl like his friend Cal’s wife, who baked bread and made baby quilts for every family in town. And maybe the girl he found would be like JJ—smart and funny and no bullshit, dedicated to her career and dynamite in the sack. But it was too soon. Like hooking up right after a divorce. On the rebound, you arrived with all the baggage from your past love—or, in his case, your past life.
At the moment, he wanted to talk to her about quitting the show, writing his book, changing his life. He hardly knew her, of course, and they’d spent most of their time with her looking at him from behind a camera.
In a few days her see-all, digging-at-him, green eyes would be replaced by Kirk’s go-along, let-it-be brown ones, so he should forget it, not get carried away.
His job now was to wipe that dreamy look off JJ’s face without hurting her. Doctor Nite had gotten him into this mess, that lady-killing SOB, so Doctor Nite would have to get him out of it, too.
“You were great,” he said, shifting away from her delicious skin, stuffing an arm behind his head, going for a casual tone.
“Don’t exaggerate,” she said. “I doubt I’m in the top third, performance-wise, of the countless women you’ve had.”
Countless? That sounded pretty empty. And she’d meant it that way, he could tell. “Not countless. There’s a number.”
“You kept track? You have a black book with stars? Gives great head. Goes all night?” She was teasing, but it didn’t seem so funny right now. At least she’d stopped looking dreamy.
“No, I don’t have a black book.”
“You don’t need one, right? It’s all up here.” She tapped his forehead. He didn’t appreciate her mocking him.
“Do you ever sleep with the same one twice?” She rested her cheek on one palm and traced his nipple with her other fingers. Was she laughing at him?
“Sometimes, sure. If I’m in town long enough. If it works out. The timing. The mood. The woman.”
“I’m sure they’re all happy to go again with Doctor Nite. You’re very good, after all.”
How did she manage to make a compliment sound like an insult? And she had this wicked glint in her eye. She rolled on top of him and kissed him deeply, so that he went hard as stone, despite his irritation with her.
“Mmm,” she said, looking at him like she was ready to take a bite. “I’m game, if you’re up for it.” She reached for his obliging erection. “Oh, yes. You’re very up for it.”
But he wasn’t in the mood. Or at least he didn’t want to be. Besides, it was better to clear these things up quickly, he knew. “We said once, didn’t we?”
“Technically, sure.” She squinted past him at the clock. “We’ve got ninety minutes before we have to be anywhere.”
“And we have a long night ahead of us,” he said sternly, regretfully shifting away from her incredible fingers.
She stilled, blinked, and her face colored. “Oh. I get it.” She sat up, her hands on her naked hips. God, she looked good. “You think I’m too into you.”
“We agreed, that’s all.”
“We agreed? You’re holding me to a contract?” She was clearly hurt, but anger crackled in her eyes.
“I just want us to be clear.”
“Oh, we’re clear. Hang on and I’ll grab a Sharpie so you can autograph my boobs. I’ll never wash them off.”
“That’s not what I mean—”
“You were into this as much as I was. I saw your face.”
“I know. I was. Don’t get all wound up.”
“Wound up? What? You think because I want more sex that I’m choosing bridesmaids and picking out china patterns? You are the most arrogant ma
n I think I’ve ever—”
He kissed her. What else could he do? She was getting him all wrong and he had to smooth it out.
Except it was like mashing his lips against a door. So he’d have to explain. “Sure I’m into it, JJ. I’m just mixed up lately. So it’s better to put the brakes on. For me, not you. You might think that’s bullshit….”
“Oh, I do.” Her eyes snapped at him. “Whatever you say, Brody. Have it your way.” She bent down, grabbed his clothes and tossed them to him, smiling a cool smile that had no effect on the heat in her eyes. “I’m taking a shower. I’ll meet you in the lobby at eight. For work.”
He sat there holding his balled-up clothes while she waltzed her gorgeous ass into the bathroom. Even the shower sounded pissed off when she started it.
Unfair. He’d done the honorable thing, passed up great sex, told her the truth, but he’d ended up in trouble anyway. What the hell was he supposed to do?
Back in his room, he was grateful for the distraction of a call from Kirk. Brody hadn’t heard from either Madden or Bascom.
“The cops said they couldn’t do much unless I was threatened,” Kirk told him. “I’m staying at Eve’s right now, but picking up my messages. And today there was one from a guy who said I had something he wanted and he’d be back for it. He didn’t give his name and at the end he says in this, like, menacing voice, ‘I hope you’ll be more careful on the stairs.’”
“Sounds like a threat to me.”
“Yeah. So I called the police about it and, meanwhile, they’ve been in contact with some investigator who’s after Bascom, I guess? So, long story short, you’ll get a call from a guy named Brian—no, Ryan—Jeffers. He’s from the Attorney General’s office, he said when he called me.”
“What’s it all about? The investigation?”
“Not sure exactly. He’s coming to talk to me, too. I’m sorry I got you into all this, Brode.”
“No big deal. We just have to get you out of it. For good.”
“Yeah. I’m staying clear of strippers with Web sites, for sure. I’m done with freelance, I think. Eve says I waste money. Too many surfboards. Too many cars. I could cook more for myself. Eve thinks my quesadillas are ab-fab.”
“She does, huh? I didn’t realize you two had such deep discussions.” It sounded like Eve not only produced his show, but was working out the details of Kirk’s life for him, too.
“You gotta give her time. She comes on all tough and bossy, but she’s a marshmallow. She can’t stand movies where any animal gets hurt. Not even a horse in an old Western. So, don’t tell her about the cop thing, okay?”
“I won’t. How are you feeling?”
“Not bad. Sore in the morning. Mostly I’m bored as hell. I can’t play Grand Theft Auto worth shit. I can’t wait to get back on the road with you guys. Don’t have too much fun without me.”
“No problem there.” Now that JJ was mad at him, the fun was definitely over. He doubted she’d crack a smile the rest of the trip. No sex with crew. Some rules weren’t made to be broken. Especially his own.
IN THE SHOWER, Jillian ran the water boiling hot and scrubbed herself raw, totally disgusted with her behavior. She’d acted like some heartsick groupie. It was just that Brody had been so damn smug, as if he thought she wouldn’t be able to resist falling for him. Pul-eeze. At least she’d managed to act angry. She could only hope Brody hadn’t seen through to her hurt.
Maybe she’d misread his reaction, that naked desire, the surprise of sudden intimacy she could have sworn he felt, too. Maybe he’d been faking. That would be so Doctor Nite.
This was an important lesson. She was glad to learn it now. The best part was that she had no interest whatsoever in having sex with the man ever again.
No interest. Whatsoever. Ever again.
She dressed, checked her spare media cards, made sure her batteries were charged and grabbed her camera, determined to be the consummate professional during tonight’s shoot. Brody would completely forget the woman who’d moaned and quivered in his arms.
As it turned out, Brody made it very easy to forget the tender, attentive lover he’d been, being Doctor Nite to the tenth power—obnoxious and sexist at every turn.
At the flower shop, Brody mimicked the sex act with flowers, mashing an amaryllis, the red flower with the penis-like stamen, into the labia-like petals of an orchid. It was so childish, she thought, making nature seem tawdry.
During the bachelor auction segment, he advised the bachelors to stuff their boxers for higher bids, then, after one man earned a particular high price, Brody advised him to “check for shackles and a shotgun in the basement, pal. That lady’s going to want her money’s worth.”
By the time they headed to the club where the bridesmaids were meeting them to talk over Valentine’s Day pickup lines, Jillian had bitten her tongue so much she needed ice for the sore spots.
Set to shoot the four women at a high round table while Brody asked questions, Jillian braced herself for more offensive remarks.
“So what does a guy say that makes you want to rip his clothes off?” Brody asked the women, eyes moving from face to face.
Jillian rolled her eyes without moving her camera.
“Just the basic compliments,” said the first girl. “If he tells me I’m pretty or I have nice eyes or he likes my dress.”
“Got that, boys?” Brody winked at the camera. “Slather on the flattery like cream cheese on a bagel and you’ll score.”
“It’s more if he’s thoughtful,” the second girl said. “If he notices my drink is empty and orders me another of the same.”
“Ah. I get it.” Brody lifted her martini glass, half full of pink liquid. “Barkeep, another ’tini-weenie, please?” He turned to the girl. “Does that mean the Doctor is in?”
“Oh, yeah,” she said, planting a big kiss on him. Brody’s hand went to her back, probably to keep the woman from falling off her stool—she was pretty loaded—but it reminded Jillian that he’d done the same thing to her. It was just the Brody Treatment. Nothing special.
The next girl said, “What gets me hot is if we never run out of things to say. We just talk. I can’t explain it….”
“Give me the words, doll. Be specific. What do I have to say to get in?”
He was just doing a bit, but it hit Jillian wrong. She signaled for a break—she had to change cards—and took the camera from her shoulder. “It’s not a line that gets you in, Brody. Ask real questions and care about the answers. Get to know the woman as a person. Give something of yourself. Be freaking sincere! Maybe then you’ll get into her pants!”
It was abruptly quiet and Jillian realized she’d yelled that last bit. People stared at her and the four bridesmaids’ eyes were wide. “Sorry,” she said, her cheeks hot. “Gotta get another…” She held up the media card.
“No problem,” Brody said, clearly trying not to bust out laughing, which annoyed her even more.
She returned and managed to keep her opinions to herself while they finished those interviews, then went on to ask men about their “score lines,” and finally Brody called it quits.
Thank God.
“Can I buy you a beer?” he asked softly, clearly wanting to make peace, his dark eyes digging in. “I promise. No lines.” He crossed his heart. Even when he was a jerk, he couldn’t help being cute. Before she could answer, a couple of guys at the end of the bar hollered at Brody to “Get in,” one of them holding out an overflowing beer stein.
“They’re singing your song,” she said.
“They can wait,” he said, holding her gaze.
“It’s fine. I’d like to interview some women for my documentary anyway. Go drink.”
“Later, then.” He squeezed her arm in farewell and the warmth stayed with her, along with her annoyance.
The four women she’d selected were real estate agents from the same office, all in their thirties, and they were happy to tell Jillian what they thought about the Peter Pan syndrom
e.
“There’s a bunch of ’em,” said the first, a brunette with spiked hair and hoops the size of saucers, waving at a clump of late-twenties guys bellowing at each other like apes. “I bet at least two still live at home.”
“Or in a guesthouse on their parents’ property,” said a blonde with big bangs that got caught in her false eyelashes whenever she blinked. “They’ve had an equity setback or they’re artists or they’re chasing a dream. Whatever. They love their Xboxes and their sports cars and their mom’s cooking. They get laid now and then and they’re perfectly happy.”
“It’s so depressing,” said a third woman with black hair and tired eyes, an empty martini glass before her. “Why did I come out tonight? I have more fun watching a movie with my cat on my lap.” She shook her head. “Sex is just not that important to me and all these guys want from us is sex.”
“I know,” said the fourth woman, a redhead with long, wavy curls and flawless makeup. “I’d like to buy a house, but that’s impossible without a second income. A guy makes you feel like you’re after his freedom, when all you want is to share a life. He doesn’t even have to mow the lawn. I mean, I like yard work.”
Jillian’s heart went out to these women, disillusioned, but still hoping. They’d come to this singles bar, after all. “What do you think causes these guys to want to stay single?”
“It’s their mothers,” said the redhead. “All those Eighties stay-at-home moms spoiled the little princes. Now they expect to be pampered and praised and have everything handed to them on a titanium platter. They certainly don’t want to share or compromise or change diapers.”
Brody drew close, eavesdropping, a beer mug in one hand.
“Plus, we never look good enough,” added the flawless redhead sitting in front of Brody. “They want runway models, mannequins. Real women get cellulite and their boobs droop, guys. Get used to it!”
“I wish I could have sex like guys do,” said the glum blonde. “Just get laid, then be my own person, happy on my own.”
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