“No. Thank you.” Ashton gave them a brief smile, then looked back at Jasmine. “Just... saying good night.”
As he turned to leave, she caught the slight creasing of his brow, the tightening of his features, and before she knew what she was doing, she whispered, “Ashton.”
He paused and glanced over his shoulder, something wistful in his eyes. “Good night, querida.” Then he jogged down the stairs, away from her.
Jasmine inhaled, ready to shout for him to come back, but this time, she held the words in, even though they suffocated her.
Hehadbeen looking for her. Before and after they’d filmed.Seeing the others in her trailer had clearly thrown him off. Was he looking to get her alone? And if so, why?
Hope bloomed in her chest, and she didn’t know whether to nurture it like a flower or squash it like a roach. Either way, it pained her to see Ashton reverting to his old ways and turning down invitations to hang out with the cast. She wanted better for him. But she’d resolved to give him space, so she closed the trailer door and addressed her friends.
“Let’s go,” she said. “There’s a margarita out there with my name on it.”
AFTER LEAVING THEshoot, Ashton headed to the short-term rental on the Upper East Side that he’d booked for his family. He would have loved to have had them closer, but with all the paparazzi roaming around, he couldn’t chance it.
The irony of filming a scene about opening up to people and then turning around to go visit his secret family wasn’t lost on Ashton, but what could he do?
Although even Ashton had to admit nothing about this was normal.
It was late when he got there, and his father was the only one still awake. Ashton chatted with him briefly, peeked in on Yadiel’s sleeping form sprawled out on a twin bed, and left.
By the time he got back to the Hutton Court, Ashton was practically dead on his feet. He picked up his bag from the front desk, which production had retrieved from the hotel he’d stayed in the last few days, but when he stepped onto the elevator, he found himself pressing the button for Jasmine’s floor instead of his own. Then he found himself at her door, andbefore he could question his motives or talk himself out of it, he knocked.
It was late. She was probably sleeping, or still out with the others. He should go back to his room and go to bed. But just as he took a step back, the door opened.
He’d spent what felt like all night looking for a moment alone with her. And now here she was.
She wore a simple black tank top and gray shorts. She looked tired, but her eyes were alert.
He didn’t say anything. What was there to say when you showed up at a woman’s hotel room in the middle of the night? But she stepped back and let him in.
“Were you asleep?” he asked quietly.
She shook her head. “Couldn’t.”
And then he saw the TV was paused, and a lone glass of red wine sat on the coffee table.
“Come on.” She led him to the sofa, which had one of the hotel’s extra fleece blankets bunched up on it. She shoved the blanket aside and sat, leaving room for him to sit beside her. “Wine?”
“No, thanks.” He glanced at the TV. “What are you watching?”
“Real Housewives.” She looked at the screen, which was paused on a frame of two women shopping. “It’s what I watch when I can’t sleep.”
She picked up the remote, and just when he thought she was going to press play, she put it down again and turned to him.
There was a wary look in her eyes, and he knew she was going to ask him what he was doing there or why he’d cometo her trailer. Slight panic rose in anticipation—he didn’t know what he was doing there. He didn’t know what he wasdoing, period. Everything was a mess.
Except this. With her, things seemed to make sense, even though they shouldn’t. So before she could voice the question in her eyes, he slid his hand around the back of her neck and sank his fingers into the warm mass of her hair.
She didn’t move toward him, but nor did she pull away. They hovered like that, his intention clear, and her—waiting? So he leaned in and kissed her. Until their lips touched, he still wasn’t sure if she’d stop him, but she met his mouth with open enthusiasm, and he had a flash of kissing her earlier on the stoop. The two experiences merged—then, wanting to kiss her more deeply, but needing to stick to the agreed-upon choreography—and now, feeling a jolt at the touch of her tongue on his, craving the heat but worrying he needed to pull back.
Except they weren’t Victor and Carmen now. It was just the two of them, alone. He shut everything else out and lost himself in her. In her touch, sure and confident as she stroked his chest. In her taste, so sweet and with faint fruity notes from the wine when her tongue teased his.
He tugged at her clothing, needing to be closer, to touch more of her. She helped him strip away her pajamas before tossing them to the floor. Then he stretched her out on the sofa, taking a moment to gaze down at her body, cataloging her curves in his memory and feeling a deep sense of contentment. How lucky he was, that this amazing woman let him be close to her, let him touch her, let him—
He cut off the thought before it could go too deep and bent to kiss her breasts. She let out a long sigh, holding his head closer to her, but he had another destination in mind. Shifting lower, he spread her legs, draping one over the back of the couch. When her hips rocked toward him in invitation, he lowered his mouth to her and worshipped her.
Her response delighted him. She gripped his head, pulling his hair and urging him on as he licked her. When he stroked her and tongued her clit, a litany of “yes, yes, yes” fell from her lips. She writhed and shook beneath his touch, kneading and pinching her own breasts, the most beautiful sight he’d ever seen. And when she climaxed against his mouth, around his fingers, he knew bliss.
