“It’s a long story. One I’d rather save for another time. Right now, I can think of better things I could be doing with my mouth.”
“Really?” My pulse rockets into hyperdrive. “Like what?”
“Come here and I’ll show you.” He crooks a finger, beckoning me over to him.
I stand and cross to him on legs that are shaky again, but this time with anticipation instead of shock. He pulls me into his lap and wraps his arms around me. I let my hands wander, reacquainting myself with his chest, his arms, his shoulders, his back.
God, how I missed this. The strong, solid feel of him. He’s my anchor, keeping me steady. And I’ll be his wings, making sure he remembers to push his boundaries and go outside his comfort zone once in a while.
He lowers his head to kiss me but stops with his lips a fraction of an inch from mine. “Last chance to change your mind and save your career.”
“First, our relationship is not a threat to my career. You’ve seen Miriam in action. She’ll make sure that never happens. And second, my career comes second to my man. Always.”
I thread my fingers through the hair at the nape of his neck, loving the feel of the thick, silky strands. Another thing I don’t have to miss any more. “What about you? Are you sure you can handle the press? Believe it or not, there are reporters even worse than Irene. And don’t get me started on the paparazzi.”
“If you’re trying to scare me off, it’s not going to work. I’m in for the long haul. One hundred and ten percent.”
“Then we’re doing this.”
“You bet your ass we’re doing this.” He kisses one corner of my mouth, then the other. “And a lot more. This is only the beginning. Now shut up so I can kiss you right, Blabby.”
He does before I can object to the nickname. And then any objections are forgotten as he coaxes my lips apart with his tongue and we play tonsil hockey like we’re teenagers under the bleachers after the big game.
A few minutes or a lifetime later—I tend to lose track of time when Connor’s got his tongue in my mouth and his hands under my shirt—my cell phone chimes from somewhere deep in my bag across the room. I reluctantly drag my lips from his. “Crap. That must be Tom.”
“Tom?”
He raises a jealous eyebrow. It’s cute, but totally unnecessary. Connor is the only guy I’ve wanted since that day I showed up at his apartment unannounced and he opened the door in those teeny tiny gym shorts.
“Down, boy. Tom is my costar. And he’s happily married with two adorable kids he FaceTimes every night. He’s probably giving me grief for being late to my own party.”
“What party?”
“It’s my last day on set, and they’re having a wrap party for me at the studio cafe.”
He eases me off his already rock-hard erection. “As much as I hate to say this, you’d better give me some space so I can get Little Connor under control, or we’ll miss your celebration altogether.”
“We?” I ask, skipping over the fact that he calls his dick “Little Connor.” That’s a subject for another day. “There might be some local press there. If you’d rather skip it, you can wait for me back at the hotel. I can give you my room key.”
“I told you, I’m in this one hundred and ten percent. That means wrap parties, red carpets, and anywhere else you want me at your side.”
He stands up, taking me with him, and sets me on my feet. Then he kisses me, fiercely and fervently, like he’s a thirsty man in a desert taking his first drink of water in days, and gives me a playful swat on the backside. “Now go get yourself ready so you can show me off at this shindig.”
And that’s exactly what I do. Because Connor might still have a lot to learn about show business.
But when he’s right, he’s right.
