Chapter Five
Sutton lay wide awake in bed, ashamed. The Artful Dodger was burrowed deep under the covers, curled up at her feet where he slept every night. She stared at the red numbers—3:01 a.m.—reflected on her ceiling from her digital clock. She berated herself quietly. Why had she let things go so far? How out-of-control stupid was she to let Reeve get her off in the theater? My god, she was a professional and a business woman. Fine, she might be known for her taste in man candy, but still. That was about her eye for talent. Not about some sex-crazed insatiable need to be touched at all costs. What would be next? Would she start diddling herself on the subway? Rubbing one out in the ladies room at her office? She flipped onto her stomach, embarrassed at the thoughts. Sutton loved sex, and she loved men, but she also cherished control. She was much more apt to make the first move, to be the first one to unzip the guy’s pants, to take him in her mouth, to bring him to orgasm, than the other way around.
She loved the smell of a man, she loved stubble, she loved that they have stubble, that they can grow it and that they can shave it, she loved how kissing a man was a perfect mix of soft and hard, she loved the smell of soap on a guy’s neck, the cut of a firm belly, the feeling of strong arms. But she also loved taking charge, setting the mood, being the first to go below the belt.
Because once she let someone touch her and bring her to that rapturous place of blissful release, she was hooked. She fell quickly, and Reeve was so very fall-able. He tied her in knots. He was beautiful and dreamy-looking, with those soulful eyes that looked as if they’d seen the world even though he was only twenty-four and had probably merely seen New York City and Ohio. And his hands, the way he touched her was as if she’d given him the secret code to her body, the right numbers and the proper combination, and he’d unlocked them. But there was more. She felt her heart lunge toward him when he’d saved her back in her office, and then again in the theater with his easy chatter and confident charm. Before he’d even touched her arm, or kissed her jaw, or slid a hand inside her panties. He’d stepped in and handled the Pinkertons. He’d said the right things and he’d said them with ease, as if they truly were boyfriend-girlfriend. That was the problem. Sutton had very nearly started to believe the fake relationship that she’d engineered.
She could see herself with him, dating him, going out to dinner and a movie, each of them playing casting director-in-hindsight, offering opinions on who would really have been best for each part in each flick they saw. Other times, they’d walk her dog in the evenings, picking up a bottle of wine on the way home, enjoying it on her couch as they talked and touched each other all night long, waking up together in the morning.
But that wasn’t their reality, so why would he have made her come after Janelle left? There was no need to keep up the show when no one was watching. So why? Sutton noodled on possibilities then landed on one. He was probably a Method actor. He was playing the part, staying in the role even when off-stage. She was acting too, she reminded herself. She was totally in character as well. Besides, she’d never fall for an actor, so everything was fine. She reached down in the covers and gently scooped up her sleeping dog, tucking him tightly in her arms.
The hot water beat down hard on Reeve’s body. But it did nothing to turn off his thoughts. Sutton was confusing the hell out of him. After the play, she was her usual sparkly, sassy, playful self. But not once did she say anything about what went down in the box seats. Not that he wanted a blue ribbon pinned on his chest, or a gold star in his homework book for being a good boy. But a soft whisper in his ear would have been nice. An acknowledgement that he’d turned her inside out. But she acted as if nothing had happened, and so he’d followed her lead, and they’d chatted about the play, then other plays, then books. She quizzed him endlessly on why he liked Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas so much and he soon ran out of answers. He just liked it, okay? It was the first time he’d felt flustered and put-on-the-spot. With Janelle, it was easy to make shit up. With Sutton, he felt as if he were being grilled, and he didn’t know why. Then she hailed a cab, opened the door, and sent him on his way with a quick kiss on the cheek. She leaned into the taxi driver’s window and gave the dude a twenty and waved a too-cheery goodbye.
What the hell was that?
She was treating him like a guy treats a girl he doesn’t want to see again. Thanks, here’s a cab, now get out of my face.
He didn’t like that. He didn’t want the brush-off. He wanted to be seen again, called again, texted again. He wanted a second date with her, dammit.
Except it wasn’t a real date.
But even with her hot-and-cold routine, he couldn’t stop thinking of the way she wriggled in that chair, how she’d spread her legs without a second thought, how she’d done everything to stifle the scream of his name when he brought her to release. God, he wanted to do that to her again. She was so receptive, so willing, so damn eager to be touched. He loved the way she responded to him, the way she became a different Sutton when he touched her. That’s what he thought of, as he pressed one palm against the tiles, leaning into the hot stream, his other hand bringing him all the way back to her, her legs, her smell, her taste, the way he imagined she’d moan and writhe and shout when they were all alone in a bedroom somewhere.
He wanted that wild abandon of Sutton Brenner underneath him in real life, but the mere image was enough for now to finish himself off.