“Neevah, we’re here.”
I say it softly, and she doesn’t wake, her head drooped against the passenger side window. On the short drive from her place to mine, she fell asleep almost immediately. I’m in no rush so I sit back with the car parked in the driveway and watch her sleep. She still wears the heavy makeup from being on set today, and not for the first time, I hope she isn’t overdoing it. Dr. Okafor wouldn’t have cleared her to come back if she wasn’t stabilized and able to work. Fortunately, most of what we have left is musical numbers, just her singing, so not as demanding as the last few months.
I wrestle with guilt constantly. I cast her in the movie that stressed her out so badly it triggered this flare. I push hard to get what I want from my actors. Did I push her too much? Is there anything I could have done differently? Did I overlook the signs that she was getting sicker? That day she was so exhausted she fell asleep in her room. We argued. I blasted her for being late, when she was . . .
Dammit.
She shifts, slightly dislodging the headscarf covering her hair. Right above her ear there’s a hairless spot, and my heart pinches. Not because I give a damn about her losing hair, but because she has glorious hair, and she’s worked so hard to keep it.
I’ve done this before—walked with someone I love through a tough disease. When Mama died of complications from MS, it had eaten its way through her life, and bearing witness fundamentally changed me. It’s how I learned to compartmentalize—to shelve my grief and deepest emotions so I could get through life. When The Magic Hour broke out, I was still grieving Mama’s passing. I learned how to smile for cameras and to get through press junkets with a heart torn to shreds. And to a degree, I put my heart in a deep freezer box so I could do what I needed to do, and it worked.
Until Neevah.
She found that box when she wasn’t even looking, stumbled upon it and right into my heart. It’s hard to compartmentalize—to focus on this one thing and not worry about this other thing when this “other thing” is the woman I love navigating a life-threatening illness.
Dr. Okafor keeps saying they’ve come so far in lupus research and, with the huge pool of people willing to be tested, she’s hopeful Neevah will find a donor soon. But I lay awake at night doing what I always do—running through all the worst-case scenarios and troubleshooting how I could fix them.
And I can’t.
There isn’t a damn thing I can do to control or to fix it. And this helpless feeling, the one that hounded me to every pier my mother wanted to visit, that dimmed every sunset—it’s back. The one woman who reaches my heart could shatter it the same way my mother did when I lost her. I don’t let myself think that way often because it would drive me crazy and I’d roll Neevah in bubble wrap and hold Dr. Okafor hostage twenty-four hours a day to make sure my girl is okay.
And that would be extreme.
Or would it?
I mean . . . I would keep them comfortable.
“Why didn’t you wake me up?” Neevah asks, yawning and stretching.
“You made that sleep look so good.” I reach across to cup her face. “I didn’t want to disturb you.”
She smiles, then reaches up to touch her headscarf like she’s making sure it’s still there. When she finds it askew, her wide eyes zip to meet mine. I keep my face impassive like I don’t know what’s bothering her—what she’s afraid I’ve seen.
“Um, well, I’m awake now.” She opens the car door and starts toward the house.
I grab her suitcase from the trunk and wheel it up my driveway. My house isn’t as big as Evan’s. That feels like more space than I need for just me, but it’s one of those houses I grew up seeing, thinking I could never have. Lots of glass and dark wood floors and soaring ceilings and a king’s view of the city.
“Your house is beautiful,” Neevah says. “I can’t believe this is the first time I’m here.”
Ours has been an unusual courtship, played out on location and in back lots, on secret Sunday dates, and in between takes. There’s nothing normal about this phase of our relationship either—finishing a movie while waiting for a kidney transplant.
Mama used to say who wants normal? Extraordinary wants no parts of normal.
And that’s Neevah. I should have known being with her would wreak havoc on my heart. I wouldn’t have it any other way. Wouldn’t have her any other way, but as she tugs at her scarf again, I wonder if she believes that. If she thinks I would choose something or someone different had I known this was the deal. I wouldn’t have. I want her however she comes. She’s worth all of the gambles with no guarantees.
“Can I get the grand tour later?” she asks, glancing around the foyer. “I barely had time to pack when I got home from set. I want a bath, a meal, and a bed in that order.”
“Sure. We can order something.” I gesture to the floating stairs leading up to the next floor. “Bed and bath this way.”
She looks so tired, I want to scoop her up and take the stairs for her, but I already know she would say I’m being dramatic and overprotective. When we reach my bedroom, she flops onto the California king and closes her eyes.
“Wake me up next week.” She cracks one eye open and grins at me. “I promise not to be a drag tonight. I just need a second wind.”
“Babe, you can sleep. Eat when the food comes and turn in. We don’t have to . . .”
She must know I don’t need sex. I mean, do I want sex? With her, all the time, but I’m a grown man and I love her. I’m not that selfish.
“Um, I want to get this makeup off.” She looks toward the bathroom, the door standing open. “And maybe take that bath?”
“Sure.”
I show her through to the bathroom and she closes the door, leaving a small crack, which I immediately exploit. I’m starved for the sight of her after spending so little time together this week. We were in each other’s vicinity on set, and I gave her a few notes, but we’re firmly in Monk’s territory now with the musical numbers. Most of my notes center on how we’re capturing her and the band onstage.
From where I sit on the bed, I catch quick glimpses of her at my sink washing her face. She bends to rinse the cleanser away and when she rises and pats her face dry, in the mirror I see the faint rash across her nose and cheeks the makeup hid. She unzips her sundress, letting it fall into a floral pool around her feet. At the sight of her only in panties, my cock screams for release. It’s been me and my hand for the last couple of weeks, and I’m fine if that doesn’t change tonight, but damn. Seeing her again—the intimacy of her bare skin and toned curves—I’ll settle for this reminder of what we’ve had before and will have again whenever she’s ready. I’ll be content to hold her, and won’t pressure her for anything else, but I have to acknowledge at least to myself how much I want her.
“Um, this bathtub should come with a manual,” she calls out, amusement tinting her voice. “How do I get the hot water to work?”
“Oh, right.” I open the door wider, entering, but being careful not to look since she’s scrambling to cover herself, clutching a floor-length bathrobe like a shield. I could remind her I’ve probably seen and licked every inch of her body, but I resist that temptation, along with all the others she presents.
It’s a freestanding tub, big enough for the two of us if she wanted that. I want that.
“I rarely use it.” I twist the knobs until hot water flows. “I always shower. This temperature okay?”
She nods, testing the water with one hand and gripping the collar of the bathrobe with the other.
“Can I stay?” I ask, watching her face for signs of welcome or rejection. “So we can talk?”
Something close to distress flares in her expression. Everything in me wants to growl that she is mine and I am hers, and I won’t tolerate closed doors and bathrobes between us, but I don’t want to misstep. I miss her. I miss us together.
“Sorry. I’ll leave.” I start toward the door. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by—”
“You can stay.” She perches on the edge of the tub, sprinkling something white and powdery into the water.
“Are you sure?” I ask, even though I have no intention of leaving if she’s fine with me being here. I lean against the wall, fold my arms across my chest, and watch her with hungry eyes.
“I hope you plan to eat,” she says, a slight smile playing on her lips. “Something other than me, I mean.”
I laugh self-deprecatingly, diffusing some of the tension I don’t even understand that has crept up between us. “I’m hovering, huh?”
“You are. You don’t have to worry that I’ll pass out in the tub and drown.” She says it like I’m some nursemaid instead of her man who can barely restrain himself from fucking her in that bathtub.
“I’ve just missed you,” I say. “And it feels like you . . . have you been avoiding me?”
The laughter fades and she lowers her eyes to the marble floor. “No, of course not. We’ve been busy.”
“Not that busy.”
“I’ve been tired.” She raises defiant eyes like she’s daring me to question if she’s been too tired to spend time with me. Of course, I can’t.
“Then I’m glad we have this weekend,” I say, instead of calling her out on what I suspect is an excuse. I just can’t figure out why she’s been avoiding me.
“Me, too.” She glances at me surreptitiously before dropping the bathrobe and nearly diving into the tub before I can see much. She’s a blur of coppery legs and berry-tipped breasts. If I’d blinked I would have missed it, but it was enough to make my dick hard. I shift, crossing my legs at the ankle in hopes she’ll overlook how arousing I find this whole bath situation. She’s submerged in frothy bubbles, her pretty face and the colorful headscarf the only things visible.
I can’t stay away, so I walk over to the tub and sit on the edge, running my hand through the water.
She stiffens, her eyes glued to my hand clearing a path through the bubbles. I notice the razor on the small table by the tub.
I pick it up and turn it, smiling. “Shaving your legs?”
“Uh, yeah.” She clears her throat. “I plan to.”
“Can I help?”
I’ve never wanted to shave any part of a woman’s body, but it suddenly seems like the safest erotic thing I could do. Our gazes lock, and just beneath the reserve I’ve met more than once the last week, heat stirs.
I can work with heat.
“You don’t have to,” she says, her voice barely audible in the quiet bathroom.
“I want to.” I pick up the pink canister of shaving cream. “Use this?”
She nods, her eyes flicking between the razor and my face. I’ve never done this, but how hard can it be? How different from shaving a jaw and chin and cheeks?
I lift one long, lean leg from the water and immediately recognize that this is very different.
“I don’t see any hair,” I tease. “What am I supposed to be shaving?”
“I like to shave before the hair shows,” she says, her expression loosening into a smile.
“That doesn’t make sense.”
“Gimme that,” she laughs, reaching for the razor. “You’re gonna cut me.”
I gently push her shoulder until her back rests against the lip of the tub.
“I can do this.” I squeeze a dollop of the cream into my palm, spread it slowly over the curve of her knee and down the muscle of her calf. All humor is snuffed, because I’m touching her more intimately than I have since we last made love in Santa Barbara. In tandem, our breathing hitches, hurries. I run the razor down the length of her leg, clearing a path in the foamy shaving cream. She goes still, our stare unbroken, her chest heaving with labored breaths, while I repeat the action until her leg is smooth and soapless.
“One down,” I say, unable to look away from the elegant lines of her throat and collarbone. “One to go.”
I wait for her to extend the other leg, and begin again. I’m smoothing on the shaving cream when I notice the same rash on her arm a few weeks ago on her calf and knee.
“Does it hurt or itch?” I ask, frowning, unsure if I should put shaving cream on the affected areas.
The simmering passion stirring in her eyes extinguishes, and she jerks away, dropping her leg back into the water.
“I’ll finish later. You can . . . I can do this. Thanks anyway.”
First the uncharacteristic modesty and now this. Neevah’s incredibly comfortable with her body and has never been shy with me. So her hiding and withdrawing this way—it’s not her.
“What’s wrong?” I ask, trying to keep my voice low and reasonable when I want to yell. Want to demand why she’s been avoiding me. Why she acts like I haven’t seen her naked before. Haven’t touched her. Haven’t fucked her in every position I’ve ever fantasized about. I have. I remember the slide of our sweat-slick skin—recall the mingled scents of our bodies. I know how tightly she contracts around me when she comes.
So what is this?
“Baby, please talk to me.” I dip my hand into the water, find her fingers, and link them with mine, watching her face for those feelings she usually can’t hide. “I’ve been with you. I have seen you.”
“You haven’t seen me like this,” she whispers, her bottom lip trembling. “You don’t want to see me like this.”
“Or you don’t want me to see you like this?”
“Does it make a difference?”
“Yeah, because one implies that I don’t want you unconditionally, and the other implies you don’t trust me to.”
My words linger in the silent bathroom, echoing off the walls. Neither of us looks away from the other, but for once I’m not sure what I’m seeing. She has frosted the glass, and I have no idea how to read her, how to reach her like this.
“Ya know,” she says, sitting forward so her breasts push through the suds, “if this is the set-up for a pity fuck, I’ll pass. Is this the part where you pat yourself on the back for sticking around? Where you tell yourself how noble you are for not leaving? Because you can go.”
“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” I ask, tilting my head and peering past her anger and bravado to what I suspect is beneath. “If I left so you could do this on your own and I wouldn’t have to see you any way but perfect?”
“I’ve never been perfect.”
“You are for me, and it has nothing to do with how smooth your skin is.” I gesture to her headscarf. “Or if you lose hair or need a kidney or whatever the hell this disease has in store.”
“Lemme guess,” she barks a sardonic laugh. “Because you’re in it for the long haul, right?”
“Is this some kick-him-out-before-he-has-the-chance-to-leave shit? Because if so, try something else. I will not be disposed of. You hear me?”
She stands so abruptly the water sloshes over the side and splashes my clothes.
“Then have a look.” She throws her arms out at her sides. The rash, scalier now, before contained to just a few patches on her forearms, has spread to her biceps, and sprinkled across her belly, the tops of her thighs, and a few patches on her calves. She turns so I can see it all over her back and along her nape.
“And while we’re at it,” she says, her voice breaking, “you may as well see this.”
She snatches off the headscarf, and though her hair is neatly braided, there are large areas where chunks of it are missing. I see it. I see the discolored patches on her arms, legs, stomach. I see the spots where there is no hair. I note the rash on her face that the makeup hid. I know what she thinks I see, but all I really see is light. The same light that shone blindingly bright that first night on a Broadway stage, it’s still there. If anything, this fight she’s in, what it requires of her, is the filament to make her shine even brighter.
“Why do you think I’m here?” I ask harshly, standing, stepping so close my shirt turns wet against her bare breasts.
She drops her head, shaking it, closing her eyes. Shutting me out.
I lift her chin, force her to meet my gaze. “You don’t know?”
“I don’t want you to stay out of obligation, or because it’s the noble thing to do, or because you can’t figure out how to walk away from the sick girl without looking like an asshole.”
I rear back, shocked that she would be that misguided. Here I am, literally about to come in my pants at the sight of her naked, and she thinks I don’t want her? That I’m here out of misplaced guilt? That I’m making a fool of myself to get a glimpse of a leg, a breast, anything to be noble?
I grab her hand and press it to my cock, rigid and swollen behind my zipper.
“Is that noble?” I snarl, pressing my nose to hers. “Does that feel like guilt to you?”
She squeezes and I flinch, it feels so good, lowering my head until our temples kiss. I reach blindly between us, finding the juncture of her thighs and sliding two fingers over her seam between the lips, caressing her slick clit in a rubbing rhythm, holding my breath so it’s quiet enough for me to hear how wet she sounds—to hear her breath hitch.
“Oh,” I whisper into her hair, sliding two fingers inside the hot, tight channel that clenches and contracts. “I see you’re feeling guilty, too.”
Her breasts heave, lids lowering over the smoky passion in her eyes. I pull back far enough to catch and hold her gaze.
“Do you want me?” I ask, searching her face for the truth.
She grinds her hips against my hand and nods, her eyes drifting closed.
“And did you ask Dr. Okafor if we can?” I press.
She licks her lips and doesn’t respond.
“You did, didn’t you? Because I can feel how bad you want this dick so I know you asked. And what did she say?”
“She said . . .” She moans when I hook my fingers inside, finding that spot that always sets her off. “She said as long as I feel up to it.”
“And do you feel up to it?” I ask seriously, because I could be as horny as a mustang in heat and I wouldn’t do anything to hurt her.
Instead of answering with words, she tips up on her toes, grabs my jaw, pulls my mouth open, and dives in, commanding the kiss. It feels like I’ve been holding my breath since I last had this. I go deeper, exploring the hot, sweet interior of her mouth. Our heads bob as we try to get more of each other. Teeth colliding, tongues slipping and slurping. It’s a wet, hot, heart-racing mess, and I’ve missed it. Missed her so damn much. Skimming my hands down the wet satin of her back, I dip to slide my arms beneath her ass, and my hands are full of naked woman. I lift her from the tub and she wraps her legs around my waist, dampening my shirt and jeans. I rush to the bed and lay her down gently, staring at her for a few seconds. Self-consciousness spreads over her in the hand she reaches for her hair, and the way she crosses one leg over the other, trying to hide the lesions.
“Don’t,” I tell her, the one word ragged on my lips. “Don’t you dare think I see you as any less beautiful than I ever have or that I want you less.”
“Canon.” She closes her eyes. “If I thought you stayed out of guilt or—”
“I can’t leave because there’s nowhere else to go. So it won’t do you any good to drive me away, though I can see you tried tonight.”
“Not very effectively,” she says, looking at me with a teary smile.
“I’m not going anywhere.”
I traverse her thigh, knee, calf with the back of my hand, tracing the dry places on her skin with the same reverence I do the smooth. I take her foot, kissing the arch. When my breath dusts the sensitive sole, her toes twitch.
“It tickles,” she says, her laugh husky. Our gazes catch and cling, amusement evaporating like steam the longer we stare at one another. Looking into her eyes, the glass becomes clear again, the frost swiped completely until I see all her emotions. The desire, the fear, the self-consciousness.
The love.
And the glass is suddenly a mirror, reflecting back to me something I should have told her weeks ago.
“I love you, Neevah Saint.” I chuckle, emotion crowding my throat. “Or Mathis—whatever your damn name is. I love you.”
She’s wet, naked, with rashes and all the things she’s afraid I’ll reject her for on full display, but I’m the one holding my breath. Exposed. Waiting, my future in her hands. And while I wait, watch, a single tear skates over the rash covering her cheek.
“I love you back.”
Her words, spoken softly in a wobbling voice, with a steady stare, land like a boulder. They crush my control and steal my breath. The fact that I love her is a secret I’ve been keeping from her for weeks.
I want you to find someone you love more than your art.
Mama said the magic hour was waiting on a miracle you knew would come. I’ve waited all my life to want someone, to love someone the way I do Neevah, but I didn’t actually believe it would happen.
She sits up, widening her legs so I’m standing between them, and tips her head back to meet my eyes through a spray of long lashes. When she reaches for my belt, her throat—smooth and burnished and brown—moves as she swallows and licks her lips. Every part of my body clenches when she undoes my jeans. Her cool fingers dust the muscles of my stomach as she urges the shirt up. I yank it by the collar over my head, my chest heaving as I wait for what she wants next. She pushes my pants down and then my briefs. Predictably, my cock is at full stand, begging for her attention. She obliges, leaning forward, letting her breath mist the wet tip before sneaking her tongue out for one torturous swipe.
Fuck.
My teeth grit around a collection of expletives. Her grin is all salacious mischief. She opens her mouth, sliding over me while her eyes penetrate mine. My breath hiccups at the brush of her tongue, the sweet grip of her mouth around me. She cups my balls, and the muscles in my legs go rigid. Instinctively, I cup her head and push her farther down on my cock.
Her head. Her hair.
I open my eyes, concerned that I’ve ruined this for us before it’s gotten started, but she’s not bothered, her eyes closed, full lips wrapped around me, head bobbing as she sucks me off.
“Shit,” I hiss, gripping her neck, feeding more of it down her throat. She clutches my thigh with one hand, caresses my balls with the other, and my whole body is a nerve she sets on fire with her lips and tongue and the barest scrape of her teeth—with the wonder of her hands. And I’m coming like a motherfucker, spilling down her throat and roaring like something set free. She moans around me, the hum of it extending my pleasure into impossibility—into the range of almost unbearable. I grip her shoulders, my head flung back, as she takes all of me, her nails digging in my ass possessively, her mouth moving over my cock like she owns it.
Damn, she does.
Even when I’m spent, she persists, licking at every drop like a thirsty cat. I’m her saucer, her milk, her treat. I don’t give a fuck. The room goes hazy around me, and only she is in focus. Her beautiful face, berry nipples, and the splay of her long legs, shamelessly showing me how wet she is, how ready.
“Lay back,” I mutter, still seeing stars, my head spinning.
She complies, licking at the traces of me on her lips. After lifting her leg, bending her knee and resting her heel on the edge of the bed, I run my palm up and down the inside of her thigh, with each pass moving closer to where she wants to be touched most. To where I want to touch her.
“Canon, just . . .” She watches me with passion-glazed eyes.
“Just what?” I maintain the simple, steady strokes, kneading the firm muscle of her thigh, working my fingers down to the private space just shy of her pussy. She moans, widening her legs as if to tempt me, to force my hand.
“You know,” she whispers.
I do.
Skimming my hand over the taut muscles of her stomach and the valley between her breasts, I pluck her nipple in time with the taunting touch along her thigh. In slow inches, I slide two fingers inside, searching for that elusive spot that sends her to bliss. When I find it, she gasps, her neck arched, nails clawing the sheets. A frantic pulse batters beneath the vellum skin at the base of her throat. Lifting her foot, I kiss the delicate arch, run my nose over the fragile bone of her ankle, and lead a procession of kisses down the curve of her calf, behind the delicate bend of her knee. I grip the backs of her thighs and drag her to the edge of the bed, sinking to the floor, my mouth watering at the rising scent of her. Spreading her, I close my mouth around her clit, sucking, eating her like sun-ripened fruit. A peach, the flesh slick and sweet and wet, juices dripping down my chin. I’m a pauper at a feast, so lost in pleasure, I almost forget it’s hers, too, until her sobs and whimpers float over my head.
I draw deep breaths, struggling to subdue my most primitive instincts. I know Dr. Okafor gave the greenlight for us to do this, but she probably doesn’t expect me to fuck like a wild boar after only two weeks of celibacy. If I were to hurt Neevah . . . I can’t even contemplate that transgression. I’d never forgive myself.
I stand and crawl onto the bed, gently turning her to her side. Leaving her left leg on the bed, I straddle it and bring her other leg up to my chest, resting it on my shoulder. She watches me, her eyes curious, excited.
“We’ve never done it this way,” she says.
“Is it okay? Are you sure us doing this is okay?”
“I won’t break, Canon.” She frowns. “It feels like I’m losing everything. Don’t take this from me, too.”
I will make this good for her, for us both, but this position leaves her completely receiving and exerting no effort except to come. I enter in one quick thrust, and we both gasp at the fit—a large fist in a tight glove. I take up a rhythm, slowly building, delving deeper. She’s spread for me, one leg on the bed, the other on my shoulder. With one fingertip, I caress her clit, never letting up the pumping pace.
“Jesus,” she gasps, eyes wide and fixed on the ceiling like a stargazer. Our bodies move in sensual unison—a hypnotic rhythm that we can’t break, but that only builds. With one small hand, she cups her breast and thumbs the nipple until it peaks. I wrestle with the beast inside who laughs at my restraint, a pitiful thing weakening every second I’m inside her. I grip her leg to me, turning my head to kiss her calf, biting into the sleek muscle. She tilts her head back, her eyes shutting tightly, the orgasm shuddering through her. Ecstasy seizes my muscles, rolling through my legs and the taut muscles of my shoulders. I drop my head back, my voice exploding in the room like full-throated thunder. She skitters her hand over the sheet until she finds mine, joining our fingers and meeting my gaze in the dying storm.
“Tell me again,” she whispers.
I don’t have to ask what she means. She wants the same words I want to hear.
“I love you.”
A contented smile lights her eyes, christens her lips. “And I love you back.”
