A storm in repose.
Genius at rest.
Canon asleep in my bed.
I should wake him because I know he has things to do before tomorrow’s first day on location, but he’s exhausted. And as much as I’d like to think it’s the potency of this pussy that put him out . . . it’s more than that. The man’s been working sixteen- to eighteen-hour days for months. I don’t want to touch him in case he wakes, but with my gaze I trace the powerful lines of his shoulders and the defined muscles of his torso and abs. He’s dark and rich in my sheets, like chocolate left on my pillow. I could eat him up.
I did.
Canon’s pleasure fed mine. The taste of him, the blissful agony on his face when his control broke, the rough tug of his fingers in my hair.
I’m lucky he didn’t pull out a chunk of it. This is no time for jokes, but it’s better than fear and uncertainty while I wait for my test results. And if bad jokes don’t distract me, these lines I need to nail down will. I grab the script from my nightstand and try to absorb the words swimming before my tired eyes.
A yawn from Canon’s side of the bed tears my attention from the page.
He props his head in one hand. “I wouldn’t get too attached to that.”
Now that he’s awake, I can touch him, so I run one finger over his high cheekbone and brush across his incongruously long lashes. “Don’t get attached to what?”
“That version of the script.” He kisses my finger and drags himself to sit up against my headboard, swallowing all the space with the breadth of his shoulders. “Verity is doing rewrites.”
“No. I just learned these lines.” I slap the script against my forehead and let it fall to the bed. “Are you kidding me?”
“It won’t be that significant. It needed more emotional pull. The stakes didn’t feel high enough the way it was written originally.”
“And by originally you mean the way I just learned it?”
“Sorry. Them’s the breaks. The script sometimes evolves once we get into it.” He must see the dismay on my face. “We know you’ll be getting new lines. We’ll be patient.”
I look at him disbelievingly. Patient?
“Okay. I’ll try.” He laughs, linking our fingers on the sheets. “But we do slow things down a lot when we shoot on film instead of digital. There will be more rehearsals. More time to nail it because it’s so much more expensive. We can’t afford a lot of throwaway takes.”
I know he meant that to reassure me, but a screw turns in my chest tighter at the thought of less room for error.
“How long did you let me sleep?” Canon reaches for his phone, which goes off just as he grabs it. “You set my alarm?”
“You said you still have things to do, but I also thought it wouldn’t hurt to nap for ten minutes.”
“You wore me out.” He pulls me from my side of the bed to his lap, and I’m completely unresistant, looping my arms around his neck. He palms my hip through the sheet.
“You complaining?” I nip his earlobe with my teeth.
“What do you think?” He tilts his head to capture my lips, deepening the kiss, drawing my tongue into his mouth. The script forgotten, I turn until my legs are spread over him and I’m pressing him into the headboard. The sheet wrapped around my breasts falls away, revealing that they are naked and tight and ready for his attention again.
He kisses down my throat and takes the tip of one breast into his mouth. A jolt of pleasure steals my breath, and my knees tighten at his hips. I slide my fingers into his hair. He groans at my shoulder, traces my spine and kisses my collarbone before pulling back.
“I need to go,” he says, gently setting me off his lap and swinging his long legs over the side of the bed.
I stare at the broad expanse of his back, tapering down to the narrow waist and tight ass. I wish I was a painter and could skillfully commit him to canvas. Or a sculptor like Linh’s father, molding his muscles into clay or chiseled stone. Or even a musician like Monk and could set this feeling to music.
Stay.
It whispers through my head, and I’m so close to asking him, but I don’t want to be the clingy girlfriend who distracts him from work.
I’ll have to unpack my giddy feelings about him using that word later.
“I ordered Thai,” I say, watching him slip his jeans on.
He looks over one naked shoulder, a dark brow lifted. “When did you have time? Between the blow job and the climax?”
“Silly rabbit.” I pull the sheets around my breasts and walk on my knees to the edge of the bed, leaning up to kiss his nose. “I ordered as soon as you fell asleep. It should be here in like ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes?”
I nod, even though it might be closer to fifteen. His phone pings, and he grabs it, reading the screen.
“Verity just sent over some rewrites. I may be able to give you the new lines before I leave.”
“That would be awesome. I guess it does pay to date the director.”
His expression sobers and he steps closer, resting his hands low on my hips. He presses his forehead to mine. “I don’t know if I actually said it, but I’m sorry it happened like this. I wanted to shield you from this kind of shit so early in your career.”
“I don’t get stronger when you shield me from things, but I can draw strength from you if you walk with me through them. The way you came into the meeting today and claimed us; not acting like it was something to be ashamed of, or I was something to hide; how you showed them you were fine if they know we’re together? That made me feel like I wasn’t in this alone.”
“You’re not alone. I want this, Neevah.” He sighs, tightening his grip on me possessively, comfortingly. “I don’t want outside forces wrecking us before we even get off the ground.”
“Oh, we are off the ground, Mr. Holt. After how you put it down tonight,” I say, laughing and throwing my head back, “I’m way off the ground on cloud nine.”
He shakes his head and grins, rolling his eyes. The doorbell rings and he pulls on his T-shirt.
“I got it. That’s probably the food.” He tosses me his phone. “Meanwhile, you wanna look at these new lines?”
I dive for the phone like a baby seal performing tricks. I want as much of a head start as I can get learning any new material. Tomorrow is a travel day, even though Santa Barbara is less than two hours away, so the crew will have to get us set up. We’ll rehearse the upcoming scenes, but not actually film anything. I’m nervous, though, because with all the dance numbers behind me, this will be my first scene singing. We’re saving the lion’s share of vocal performances for the very last part of production since they mostly only affect me, Trey and the musicians. Those scenes will be filmed primarily on our studio back lots, but this one needs to be captured on our French Riviera set.
Monk arrives tomorrow and we’ll start working on the song while production gets everything set up. It’s an original he wrote for the time Dessi and the band spent touring Europe, doing a residency at a hotel in the French Riviera. Monk sent the song to me a few weeks ago, and I’ve practiced on my own. I want to do it justice.
Which means this voice needs to rest.
My vocal coach sent a regimen in preparation for this song and the more vocal-intensive portion of the end of production. She shared the recipe for an elixir she concocted that’s “guaranteed” to get your voice ready for anything. I’ll be sipping on that for the next few days and getting plenty of vocal rest.
“Food’s here,” Canon yells from the living room.
I’ll have to kick him out as soon as he eats. How am I supposed to concentrate with him here?
When I pad barefoot out of my bedroom and up the hall, he has our food and two place settings in the small dining room. He looks distracted half the time, like his mind is somewhere else. Like you don’t have all of him, and the part you have wishes it were somewhere else.
Not right now.
With a hectic two weeks ahead of us on location, with rewrites burning a hole in his email, with a dozen things on his list I bet he needs to do before he sleeps, his eyes, when he looks up, are fully set on me. He’s all there . . . for me. I hold his undivided attention, even if only for the next hour, and it is like stretching out under the sun at its highest. It is warm and illuminating.
There aren’t candles on the table like there were our first night making love in Santa Barbara, but we make our own glow. Today Camille tried to steal it, to ruin it with her antics. The world tried to pick it apart, to mock it, to figure out what’s real and what is true. This is real—eating, laughing with him right now. Talking with the ease of summer breezes until we have to tear ourselves away from each other. Stealing the last kisses of the day and having to push him out the door because we both want him to stay, but know he has to go. This is true. And leaning against the door after he leaves, my heart aches and swells with the unexpected sweetness of it.
