I cling to his back, scratching his skin. He grunts and holds onto the bed frame with one hand while he thrusts into me, in and out with a graceful force, and then he lowers himself down, pressing against me, finding a rhythm. My fingers run through his hair. I had to actually sit on my hands while we were working together, to keep myself from doing this. I love his hair. I love how it looks and I love how itfeels.
I raise my knees and press my feet into the mattress, arching my back. He sucks in then holds his breath. He looks into my eyes. His eyes are hooded and bleary, but there’s something in them, a yearning, that shakes me to my core. I can’tlook.
I close my eyes, push him back and climb on top of him. I pull off my top and move his hands to my breasts, feeling him so deep inside of me, and I ride him hard until I come screaming. As soon as I’ve relaxed, he sits up, deftly flips me around so I’m on my knees facing the headboard, and thrusts mightily until I feel his whole body tense up, and with a loud deep sexy groan, he releases into me and I experience aftershocks the likes of which I have never experiencedbefore.
An eternity, or a minute later, I catch my breath and detach myself from him. He loosens his grip on my hips and watches me retreat to the far side of the bed. “To be clear, we are not dating.” My heart is still racing, I may still be enjoying the tail end of multiple orgasms, and I feel like such an asshole saying this, but I can’t stopmyself.
His expression doesn’t change. He blinks once. “Okay.”
“That will never happenagain.”
“Whatever you say,boss.”
“And we will tell noone.”
“Your filthy secret’s safe with me…Non lo diro anessuno.”
Italian. Unfair. I try to kick his leg, but I don’t have full use of my body yet. I feel like a blob of post-orgasmic flesh. I don’t want him to know how thoroughly he has satisfied me on a physical level, so I close my eyes. I can still feel his eyes on me. “Don’t stare at me, it’screepy.”
He laughs. “That was some hot sex,Duffy.”
“Yes. You’re sleeping on the other bed, youknow.”
He gets up and retreats to the bathroom and I open one eye to watch himgo.
I already know that I will have sex with him again before the sun rises over San Luis Obispo. Because maybe this first time was a fluke or I just imagined how hot it was because it had been so long since I’d done it, and the next time will be terrible and that will make the next month or two of my life so much easier to get through. And maybe I’ll meet a unicorn/sexy vampire/hot single producer/director who’s even better at sex than Braddockis.
Chapter 13
*Scott*
We’re working togetherat her place now, since we’re beyond watching movies for inspiration, and are in an intense writing phase that requires laser-likefocus.
I like her apartment. There are a lot of good coffee places and restaurants within walking distance—not that we go there together. It’s clear that she lives with someone who is good with a sewing machine, because the sofa is probably from Ikea but it’s covered with a rich blue velvet slipcover that makes it look like a million bucks. The silver silk curtains are custom-made and they keep the white sheers closed all day to let the light through and hide the view of the neighboring building. There are so many throw pillows in the living room—it’s a guy’s nightmare—but it somehow works to make it all feel comfortable and sexy at the same time. And then there are the books. There is one large bookshelf in the living room that holds Erin’s books and DVDs and Blu-rays, many of which are included in my own collection—something she has failed to mention. I really like it here. It’s a hell of a lot nicer than her dorm room at Emerson—but I don’t want to think aboutthat.
Today I brought her a brand new roll of gold duct tape. It wasn’t a gift or anything—I just grabbed one from my collection. But I wanted her to have it. I don’t like that she doesn’t have duct tape. Everyone should have duct tape. I brought her a large bag of plain potato chips, to demonstrate how to use and re-use duct tape as a bag sealer, but she proceeded to demonstrate how she can eat an entire bag of potato chips in one sitting and then simply place the bag in the recycling bin. It’s prettyimpressive.
I also don’t like that she doesn’t have a security system. She says her baseball bat and off-putting sarcasm are her security system, but it certainly wouldn’t keep meaway.
So far, honestly, I haven’t discovered one thing that would keep me away from her. I think she’s just great. I keep thinking that my Mom would probably like her. She wouldn’t be obvious about it or anything, because my Dad’s such a dick about anyone who doesn’t come from money, but I bet my Mom would secretly dig this girl. I can’t remember the last time I’ve had this kind of thought, not since the succubus from Hell formerly known as myfiancée.
Erin has really gotten the hang of this horror scriptwriting thing. I’m starting to realize just how lucky I am to get the chance to work with her. Beyond getting the chance to spend time with her—it’s an actual pleasure to write with her and this script might actually kickass.
It is very difficult to concentrate on the script when she looks like this, although we’ve somehow managed to write ten new pages today already, so we’ve met our quota. Erin wants to keep going until we get to the end of the second act, which is a goodidea.
But staring at her hot body is an even better idea. I honestly can’t think of a better one, except for touching and licking and inserting myself into her hot body. We haven’t had sex since that perfect triple-header in San Luis Obispo, and it’s a miracle that I’ve actually been able to work with her without ripping her clothes off. I’m actually quite proud of myself forthat.
I know it’s not smart to mess around while we’re working together. Sam’s dated two women that he was working with and they never worked together again after they broke up. But—they were crazy hot-tempered singer-musicians. Erin’s not like that. She’s from Idaho. She’s a writer. She’s a brat, but she’s got a good head on her shoulders, and she’s in that head all the time. I trust that we can make this work. Whatever “this”is.
I try to get my head back in the game, so I bark out a line of dialogue that I think the wife should say in the script and tell her to type it up. She glares atme.
“Just type it up further down the page so we don’tforget.”
“I’m writing everything inorder.”
“Just doit.”
“Fine—fuck you!” She hammers away at the keyboard with her pretty little fingers. “I like the line, but how do we justify her saying it?...Never mind, I know.” She types up some stage direction and another line of dialogue as connective tissue, and the scene works. It’s like alchemy. We’re awesometogether.
