A few seconds pass.
Then a few more.
"Or…?" I hedge.
His brow lifts. "Or?"
We surge up from our seats, tugged together by an unstoppable force. Our bodies crash together with a reckless, hungry energy that drowns out everything else.
I waste no time in charging my hands into that gorgeously thick hair as he desperately grabs the sides of my face. A million sparks explode inside me as our lips meet. I barely have a chance to register the sensation before he invades my mouth with his dominant tongue, his hands wrapping around my waist, drawing me into the heat of his body in a possessive way I really like.
I'm lost in a swirl of pleasure as we kiss like savages, unable to process what's happening beyondI really fucking like this.
He's wearing a half-buttoned cotton onesie, so I drag one hand down the center of his smooth, sculpted chest. Funny how he gave me shit about having washboard abs when he's rocking a set himself. I slide my fingers inside the waistband.
He leans back, smirking, with a mischievous glint in his eye. "The good stuff's down a bit lower."
His words break the spell—or temporary insanity—reengage my brain, and fill me with the horrible, hollow feeling I had after my first and last one-night stand and what Riff did afterward.
"I—I'm sorry," I say, backing away.
A look of horror sweeps over him, draining the color from his cheeks. "No.I'msorry. Did I say something wrong?"
"No. It's not you." Tears start spilling, and I can't breathe. "I—I have to go," I say, managing to put one foot in front of the other as I make a jittery beeline for the door. I turn over my shoulder, let out a croaky "I'm sorry" one last time, then race down the hall to my bedroom.
5
Scooter
Cabot and I crouch down beside the trailer so close to each other we almost bump heads. Today's scheduled clinic scene got canned when we received a call that a cat was hiding out on a set at the studio we normally film at.
As usual, we've been paired together since our 'rivalry' is the main storyline this season. As much as I miss filming with the other guys, I'm enjoying spending time with Cabot and will take it any way I can. I just wish we had a second alone together to discuss what happened in my bedroom three weeks ago.
We went from hot and heavy to arctic cold so fast it made my head spin. I've been racking my brain, replaying every moment over in my head, searching for clues. What did I do or say to make him react the way he did? I have no idea, but that hasn't stopped me from being racked with guilt, figuring I must have donesomethingwrong, even if I don't know what exactly.
I've confided in Courtland, one of my closest friends back home, about it. He's a doctor, and after theorizing a number of possible explanations, he raised an 'out there' possibility that has stuck with me ever since he said it. Maybe Cabot has experienced some sort of sexual trauma in the past? During his work in Africa last year, Courtland met a number of people who’d lived through sexual trauma and abuse, and he said Cabot's reaction fits a certain profile.
I pray to god that's not the case, but thatcouldexplain the intensity of his reaction. We started getting physically intimate, and maybe something about that triggered a memory and caused him to back away so sharply?
I really hate not knowing, but it's not like I can come out and ask the guy. He wasn't meant to be in my room, and we'd both be in big trouble if production ever found out.
"You go ahead. You’re already dressed like you rolled in the dirt this morning," he says with a smirk, acting as if nothing had happened between us so convincingly that part of me wonders whether he came into my room that night at all. He hasn't given even the slightest sign since to acknowledge it.
"No, no. After you. Your knees are better because, you know…I'm old," I say, keeping up my side of this whole fucking stupid charade.
He leans back, gives me a once-over the camera will love, and slides his tongue along his pearly whites. "Explains the fashion choices. But fine. I'll go…Grandpa Burns."
We engage in a littlevillain vs. villainstare-off before he lowers to his stomach and slides under the trailer, inching forward on his elbows. The director yells "Cut and freeze" to keep us in place as he instructs a camera operator to crawl under the trailer with Cabot to get some shots from that viewpoint.
"When we start shooting again, ask him how he's going, okay?" Riff, my least favorite producer, who's on set today bothering everyone including the director, tells me.
"Sure," I reply flatly.
"And action!"
I glance under the trailer. The space is tight and dim, but Cabot keeps making his way forward, gently murmuring to the frightened kitten hiding deep in the shadows.
"How's it going in there?"
