by Ember Casey
“Maggie?” Orlando says, touching my arm.
I jump, then grab my wineglass and quickly drain the rest.
“Let’s make a rule for this date,” I say, putting my empty glass back down on the table. “No talking about anyone either of us has slept with.”
“I think that’s a good rule,” he says, his eyes catching mine.
For a moment, I’m lost in that intense gaze, drifting on a golden sea of desire. Then I shake my head.
“Rule two,” I tell him, “is that you can’t look at me like that. Not if you expect me to hold up my half of the conversation.”
“What do you mean?” he asks. “How am I looking at you?”
“You know… Like you want to throw me down on the table and have sex with me right here.” I can’t keep a smile from creeping onto my lips. “Don’t play coy with me. You know exactly what you’re doing.”
“What if I want to have sex with you right here?”
“We’re on a date! Dates are for talking.”
“I don’t know what kind of dates you’ve been on recently,” he says, amusement flashing in his eyes. “but those men clearly didn’t know what they were doing.”
He makes a good point—and the sudden quickening of my pulse is proof of my agreement—but despite the urges of my body, I don’t want this to be all about sex. That makes me no different than Nadia. I think about those phone calls we had back in Atlanta, those nights we spent hours talking about anything and everything. I want more than just his body. Orlando is a fascinating genius, a man of ideas and imagination, and I want his mind, too.
“Let’s chat about Shakespeare,” I say, filling up my wineglass again. That usually gets him talking. “Now that I’ve finished Cymbeline and Pericles, what should I read next?”
He regards me with that familiar combination of heat and amusement, as if he can see right through what I’m doing. But he plays along.
“Either A Winter’s Tale or The Tempest would be a good place to go from there,” he tells me. “But since you enjoyed Henry VI so much, you might want to try Henry V next. The St. Crispin’s Day speech might be my favorite passage of Shakespeare of all time.”
“Really?” My heart flutters. I can’t help it—I love when he gets going about Shakespeare. When he comes alive with that fire of passion.
“I could probably recite most of it for you right here,” he admits. “It’s genius—powerful and poetic at the same time. In my humble opinion, it might be the most important passage of literature ever written in the English language.”
“Well now I have to read it,” I say.
“It’s also a good example of why I don’t try to write my own movies,” he goes on. “When I read something like that, I know nothing I write will ever match it. I prefer to leave that to the masters.”
“I still think you might be selling yourself short,” I tell him. “So what if critics hated that first movie you wrote? Prove them wrong. I’ve seen what you do behind the camera. I’ve heard you talk about these great plays and stories… You’re a master storyteller, Orlando. I can’t imagine you being anything less than a master writer, too.”
He doesn’t try to deny it. Instead, he turns those golden-brown eyes on me over the rim of his wineglass.
“I might say the same of you,” he tells me.
“What?”
“You and your so-called ‘doodles.’ ” He watches me levelly. “You claim you aren’t an artist. You claim you can’t tell stories. But I’ve seen your work, Maggie. I told you the first day we met that you have an interesting perspective, and I wasn’t lying. You’re talented. You’re imaginative. And I think if you wanted to, you could make a career of it.”
I don’t know what to make of that. I pick up my glass and twirl it from side to side, watching the wine swish around. “You’re just saying that because we’re sleeping together.”
“I assure you, I’m not. Why would I needlessly flatter you if I already know I can make you wet on command?”
He’s a little too on the nose with that comment. “Okay, then you’re just saying it to avoid talking about why you don’t want to write your own scripts.”
He doesn’t answer right away, and I risk a peek up at him. He’s still watching me closely, but his expression is more guarded now.
Have I pissed him off? I wonder. Or just hit upon the truth?
“Maybe we’re both avoiding things,” he says finally.
“Maybe we are.”
His face still doesn’t give anything away, and I wonder if this is it—if we’re finally going to talk about all the reasons he needs me as a distraction.
Instead, he breaks into a smile.
“You know just how to keep me on my toes, don’t you?” he says. “Maybe we should make a deal—I’ll attempt to write a script if you turn your drawings into a story. Comic, children’s book, graphic novel—I’ll let you take your pick.”
“I…” I thought he might be about to tell me something real. But I’m beginning to think this might just be another distraction.
“Come on, Panty Girl. I know you have it in you.” He raises his glass to me. “Are you in or are you out?”
“In, I guess.” He wouldn’t make a deal like that with Nadia, would he? I raise my glass, clinking it against his.
We drink, and our waiter arrives with our food. But I can’t shake the feeling that Orlando is holding back from me, that he’s still refusing to treat this as anything more than another diversion. I want to embrace this experience, however it ends, but the deeper I fall, the more terrifying it becomes.
I decide to shift the subject again.
“I have some good news,” I say. “I didn’t get the chance to tell you earlier, but I talked to my mom this morning. She says my dad is responding even better than expected to his new treatment. The doctors are calling it a miracle.”
His golden eyes warm with a smile. “That’s great news.”
“It’s thanks in no small part to you,” I remind him. “If you hadn’t lifted that burden—”
“It was nothing.”
“It was everything,” I insist. “You have no idea.” My gaze falls to my untouched lobster. Talking about my dad at all, even when it’s good news, tends to bring tears to my eyes. “I wish there was something I could do for you. Something that would even come close to what you’ve done for me. Anything to help your father…”
When I glance up again, his expression has grown very bleak. I remember how weary, how anxious he looked when he got home today, how he literally carried me up the stairs and fucked me senseless within minutes of saying hello.
“Did you get bad news today?” I ask him.
He stabs at a piece of ravioli with his fork. “This isn’t appropriate date conversation, Maggie.”
“But it’s important to you,” I say, reaching across the table and touching his arm. “And I want to know.”
He shakes his head. “I propose a third rule for our date. No speaking of anyone in the hospital.”
Frowning, I withdraw my hand. “You shouldn’t hold this stuff in, Orlando.”
“It’s not about holding it in,” he says. “It’s about wanting to enjoy our date. We’re here to have a nice time together, not make ourselves depressed over ravioli.” He jabs another piece with his fork, looking up at me. “I enjoy your company, Maggie. Coming home to you is the brightest part of my day. Can’t I revel in that for a little while?”
“Of course,” I tell him. “But—”
“I wanted to do something nice for you,” he goes on. “To show you that I appreciate everything you’ve done for me. I know I’ve been busy with work these past couple of weeks, but I wanted you to know that I don’t take you for granted.”
“I don’t understand,” I tell him honestly. “All I’ve done is hang out at your house and use your pool. What exactly have I done?”
He looks genuinely shocked that he has to explain it to me.
“You really have no id
ea?” He leans toward me again, stretching so that he can touch my cheek. “You give me something to look forward to, Maggie. No matter what happens during the day, I know that the moment I walk through the door and see your face, you’re going to make me smile. You just have a…brightness about you. An energy that always cheers me up. You and your grin and the way you look at the world.”
“The way I look at the world?”
“You see the world as a place of wonder,” he explains. “You’re always looking around, studying things. And then you translate those things into something bright and funny. Look at any of your drawings, Maggie. An artist expresses their view of the world through their chosen medium. I do it through film. You do it through your so-called ‘doodles.’ And your doodles are full of humor and imagination and an optimism that is uncommon in this day and age.”
“I don’t feel particularly optimistic,” I confess. “They’re just drawings.”
“If you say so, Panty Girl. But that’s not what I see.” His fingers trail down my cheek. “You might think it’s nothing, but I can’t get you out of my head. And I don’t want to.” His fingers move lower, over my jaw and down my throat. “In fact, what I want right now is to learn whether or not I was right about your panties.”
I squirm, quivering at his delicate touch. “We’re still in public.”
“Then we’ll go to the bathroom,” he says with a shrug. His eyes burn into me, making it clear that he’s dead serious about this. “We had sex in an airplane lavatory—how is this any different? If anything, the extra room will make it far more enjoyable.”
“Someone might walk in on us,” I insist, but my resistance is already fading.
“Then we’ll lock the door,” he tells me. His eyes drop to my lips. “I want you, Maggie. Right now.”
And I want him, too, despite my inner voice reminding me how risky this is. The other part of my brain is reminding me: Say “Yes!” to new adventures! “Tell me what to do.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
“Go to the women’s restroom,” Orlando says. “I’ll follow in a moment.”
Obediently, I rise from my chair. My heart is thumping in my ears, drowning out the murmur of voices around me. Everything is fuzzy, as if I’m listening underwater.
I don’t let myself glance toward Nadia’s table. Or lock eyes with anyone I pass. I only focus on the urgent pulse between my legs, of the need that has taken over every part of me.
I wonder if he fucks his other distractions in restaurant bathrooms. It’s the only thought of that kind that I allow, and I suppress it again quickly. I’ve already decided to do this, and I won’t turn back now.
When I reach the women’s bathroom, though, I realize there might be a hitch in our plans. All three stalls are occupied, and there are two other women waiting for their turn. Disappointed, I turn and leave.
Orlando shows up only a moment later.
“There are too many people in there,” I whisper to him.
He pokes his head into the men’s restroom, but apparently the situation is much the same. When I start to express my frustration, though, he grabs my hand and pulls me deeper down the tiny back hallway.
“Where are we going?” I ask him.
In response, he stops in front of a door marked “Employees Only” and throws it open. It appears to be some sort of janitorial-slash-storage closet, judging by the stacks of excess chairs and shelves of paper towels and cleaning supplies.
He tugs me into the closet and clicks the lock shut behind us.
“Now, let’s see about those panties,” he says, his voice already rough and hot with need. He grabs me by the hips and yanks up my dress, exposing a very carefully chosen thong.
I look up at him, eager to see his reaction. “Do you approve?”
“Oh, yes,” he murmurs, dropping his face toward mine. “I very much approve.”
He kisses me, holding my head back at an angle so his tongue can slide deep into my mouth. I throw my arms around his neck, silently begging him to hold nothing back.
He gets the hint. He forces me back, pushing me up against one of the stacks of chairs. They rattle behind me as he continues to kiss me with a wild desperation. He’s the hunter, and I’m his prey—willing prey, certainly, but subject to his hunger. Right now, I don’t care whether I’m just a replacement for Nadia or one of his other distractions. Right now, I just want to feel his hands on me. To give myself over to his desire.
He grabs my thong and shoves it down my legs. His lips pull away from mine, and instead his kisses rain down on my jaw, my cheeks, my hair. Anywhere his mouth can reach. I undo his tie and pull it off over his head. The buttons of his shirt fall open easily beneath my fingers.
My hands glide over his chest, across the hard planes of muscle. He reaches behind me and undoes the zipper of my dress, then pulls the whole garment off over my head before dropping his hands to my body again.
Orlando might claim he’s only a genius behind the camera, but I beg to differ. The man is a master here, too. He slides his fingers across my skin like an artist inspecting a sculptural masterpiece. His touch is steady and intentional, the touch of a man who is confident and experienced in his work. If I react in any way, good or bad, to even his slightest movement, he takes note and adapts, searching out the moments of purest pleasure. I feel worshiped beneath his touch, worshiped and molded. The sensations we share, the desire we build between us, unfolds just like one of his films—a slow buildup of tension, gradually but deliberately escalating toward a climax.
He removes my bra, leaving me naked except for my heels. I undo his belt, then his pants. As they slide down his legs, he grabs me beneath the ass and lifts me up onto one of the stacks of chairs.
This puts me at the perfect height to wrap my legs around him, which I do, drawing him right up against my body. Our mouths meet again, slanting across each other as we indulge our craving for each other. I bury my hands in his hair, my fingers twisting around those loose waves, impatient to join with him again. The sudden crinkle of the condom wrapper might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard, since it means I won’t have to wait much longer.
He breaks our kiss in order to look down and slide it on. When he glances up at me again, the pure molten heat in his eyes makes me want to weep.
“I need you.” My words are a plea, raw with longing.
He reaches up, caresses my cheeks, my temples.
“Not as much as I need you,” he tells me as his fingers slide into my hair. He closes his hands, capturing fistfuls of wavy strands. “You can’t even begin to understand how much I need you.”
He’s pulling my hair so hard it starts to hurt, but that pain brings only deeper pleasure. His eyes are burning, searing into the deepest parts of me.
“I understand,” I murmur back. “Really, I do.”
But he shakes his head. “You have no idea.”
Before I can argue, he kisses me again, and I abandon myself to his lips. He loosens his grip on my hair without letting go, and I shift my hips against his, aching to be connected to him.
When he finally slides into me, I almost collapse against him. He shifts and thrusts, impaling himself as deep as he can go, and I cling to his body, trying to express my need and understanding in ways that words can’t.
He’s wrong about needing me more than I need him. But how can he know? I didn’t realize how much I needed him until he walked into my life, until he woke me from my daze and pulled me out of my rut. My life changed when he walked into that bathroom. When I took a risk on saying yes. And I don’t just mean the movie and all that entailed. Even if I were to fly back to Atlanta tomorrow, never to see Orlando again, I know my life from this point forward will never be the same. I’m a different person than I was then. A girl who sees possibilities she didn’t see before.
But I don’t want to go home tomorrow. I don’t want to never see Orlando again. I want to draw out this connection with him, to take it deeper. I want to know all the stor
ies behind those golden eyes.
He moves against me, burying himself again and again, kissing me like he’s never tasted anything so sweet. My fingers dig into his back, my thighs squeezing his hips as he thrusts.
As my pleasure builds, I pull my mouth away from his, letting my head fall back. He buries his face in my neck, his breath hot against my skin. I move my hands up to his hair again, holding him there.
He has no idea how much I need him. How much he’s changed me. How much he’s opened my eyes. I was no one before him. No one. And now…
“I love you,” I breathe. “I love you so much.”
The moment the words are out of my mouth, my climax hits. I go tumbling off the cliff, falling headfirst into a river of sensations so deep I can’t remember which way is up. Within seconds, Orlando groans against my throat, pinning me hard against the chair as he finds his release.
We both stay there for several long moments, just trying to catch our breath. My skin is dewy with perspiration, and several large beads of sweat roll down my back, but for once, I don’t mind. I don’t even care that large patches of my hair cling damply to my throat.
With a contented sigh, I let myself lean against the back of the chair. Orlando reaches down and pulls up his pants, then takes a seat on one of the lower stacks of chairs nearby.
I rub my eyes, feeling exhausted. “That was…hot.”
He chuckles, and he sounds just as tired as I feel. “I agree.”
There’s something strange in his tone, and I open my eyes to slits, peering at him. “Is something wrong?”
“No,” he replies, shifting and reaching down for his shirt. “Just thinking about what you said. Was it the truth, or was it more of a heat-of-the-moment kind of thing?”
Through my post-pleasure haze, it takes me a moment to understand what he means. My face heats. Until the moment I said it, it hadn’t even occurred to me, but now that it’s out there, it’s easier to acknowledge the truth.
“Yeah,” I tell him bashfully. “Yes, I love you.”