My thighs tighten and tremble as blinding white light builds behind my eyelids for the second time in minutes. My vision tunnels. The world melts away.
I am having sex with Nate Jackson.
The man I’ve fantasised about for years.
But no fantasy could ever trump the real thing. Because he isn’t a movie star. He’s a fucking god.
Rough hands palm my breasts as he devours my mouth with an insatiable hunger. When his thumb circles my clit again, my orgasm engulfs me, and I come even harder than the first time.
Hard enough to send him catapulting over the edge and into oblivion with me.
ChapterNine
NATE
22nd November
Early morning light casts shadows across the varnished wooden floor of an unfamiliar bedroom. A thick ivory rug punctuates the centre of the room, mirrored wardrobes line the far wall, capturing an image of myself the media would pay a mountain of money for.
Next to me, Holly’s glossy chestnut hair fans out across the pillow, one arm slung over her head, the other snaked around my middle. Her lower half is tucked beneath the luxury Italian bedsheets, while the other half is on display for my own personal pleasure.
What a night.
It’s better than any movie script. From the crazy meet-cute, to the insane and instantaneous chemistry, and the forced proximity of sharing this house for the night.
I’d forgotten what it was like to be with a real woman. One who isn’t terrified to be herself. A woman who isn’t so concerned with their own outer packaging that she can’t just let go and enjoy what we were put on this planet to do.
Celeste and I hadn’t been intimate in months, even before she was boning Spike Hancock. We blamed our crazy schedules, but the truth is, if I’d have felt a fraction of the attraction for Celeste as I felt for Holly last night, I couldn’t have let it go days, let alone months, without being inside her.
When Celeste and I did get round to having sex, it had to be with the lights off, because God forbid I might spot a millimetre of cellulite that couldn’t be concealed with an airbrush. And she’d hop out the bed the second it was over to take a shower and bandage her body in some sort of seaweed wrap.
Hello, I have four sisters. I’m aware women have to do more than wash and spray on deodorant, but it would have been nice if every now and again that could have been thrown to the wayside in favour of a bit of actual intimacy.
Like the strangely addictive postcoital snuggling that occurred here last night.
Fuck, if the world got even a whiff of the shit flooding through my mind right now, perhaps my upcoming romance role wouldn’t be quite so shocking.
Holly wriggles closer in her sleep, pressing her chest into my side. She’s so small next to me. I inhale her hair. It smells like freshly squeezed limes, and they’re my new favourite scent.
Will she be weird with me when she wakes up?
The movie star thing can be a little overwhelming.
If the press get a sniff that I’m in the country, I’ll be hunted like the last fox of the season. If they get any idea that mere hours after breaking up with Celeste, I’m holed up playing house with some…
Shit, I don’t even know what Holly does for a living.
Or her last name.
Or where she’s from.
Or what she’s running from.
Why do I feel like I know her, when in reality, I know nothing about her?
Well, apart from the swell of her breasts and the feel of her clenched…
I digress.
