He arches a thick black eyebrow and smirks before indulging me.
‘I need to feel you in me. Now.’ My fingers reach for his backside, my nails nearly piercing the skin of his ass as I yank him on top of me.
‘Easy,’ he sniggers as I hear foil ripping. ‘Unless you want me to put a baby in there.
Is it crazy that I wouldn’t be entirely averse to it?
His thick cock nudging at my entrance saves me from answering. My legs part further for him, accepting inch after glorious inch.
‘Holy fuck, Nate.’
We’re chest to chest as he slams in and out of me. His hands fumbling, undoing my bra. When his mouth captures a nipple, it’s utter ecstasy.
‘So fucking perfect,’ he murmurs. The twin flames of his eyes burn through mine, searing my soul with something so much more than lust.
He sees me.
And I see him.
The world melts away. Nothing else matters.
‘Nate, I’m so fucking close.’ His thumb drops, circling as he thrusts into me.
‘I’m right behind you, sweetheart.’
I don’t want him behind me. I want him with me, every step of the way. And I’m not talking about this insanely addictive physical act that leaves our tangled limbs languid. I’m talking about life.
But what I want, and what I can have, are two very different things.
ChapterTwenty-Two
NATE
8th December
I’m counting down the days until this damn movie is over and simultaneously dreading it.
Today we’re filming inside the castle in one of the elaborate drawing rooms. Thick majestic drapes adorn single-glazed sash windows. A mountain of logs crackle and roar on an open fire as burnt orange flames lick the smoky wood. A six-foot department-store-worthy Christmas tree punctuates the corner, flanked by two huge burgundy leather wingback chairs.
In this scene, Sasha, AKA Olivia, finally agrees to go out with me. Obviously there’s a surprise visit from Santa, the promise of a Christmas miracle, and three hundred ounces of warm, gooey mature cheddar cheese, because it is a Hallmark movie.
Huge, hot lights have been positioned around us. It seems as though every spotlight in the world is honing in on me. Give me bungee jumping off a burning building any day. It’s way less intimidating than faking heart-shaped eyes at Hollywood princesses.
‘I need dreamy eyes, Nate. I need solid universal fantasy butter. I don’t care what you need to conjure up in your mind to deliver it - just do it,’ Max yells, slanting his eyes sideways towards Holly in a silent reminder of my living, breathing personal muse, before counting us down, ‘Five, four, three, two one.’
I launch into my lines, picturing Holly’s perfect porcelain face instead of Olivia’s St. Tropez spray tanned one.
Hallmark movies are supposed to be quick and easy.
This one is dragging like a donkey laden with a heavily pregnant Mary, Joseph, and all their worldly belongings.
I’m beginning to realise there’s nothing wrong with being a one-trick pony. Not a damn thing. At least everyone knows where they stand. Especially me. Because right now, I’m standing in yet another oat-coloured cashmere cardigan, and a fucking Santa hat, trying to muster a look that’s supposed to be heated and pleading.
I feel like pleading alright.
Pleading to get out of this damn outfit, and this entire stupid role.
Could I look any more ridiculous if I tried?
