It was true. The more he found out, the more fascinated he was. He felt like he could have sat there with her for hours, confessing his deepest fears and transgressions to her, discovering hers in return. It had been years since he had let himself open up to someone like this. It was exhilarating.
Maybe he just needed a therapist, he thought ruefully. Though it seemed like it might be some kind of ethical violation for a therapist to trigger exactly the same combination of vulnerability and arousal in him that Grey did.
“I’m not complaining.” She picked up her purse and pulled out a small tin box and a lighter. A whiff of cannabis hit him. She popped open the box to reveal five neat, prerolled joints.
“Should we take this celebration up a notch?”
He shook his head. “I’m good, thanks. But go ahead. I’ll stick with this,” he said, lifting the champagne bottle and taking a swig.
She brought the joint to her glossy lips and sparked it, inhaling deeply. “Suit yourself,” she said, exhaling. The strap of her dress had slipped off her shoulder, leaving it bare. Even though it didn’t reveal much of anything, there was something so oddly sensual about the whole picture that he had to force himself to drag his gaze away.
“Do you want to pick this time?” She passed him her phone and took another long, languorous hit. He scrolled down the list, considering his options.
“How about: ‘Alternate sharing something you consider a positive characteristic of your partner. Share a total of five items.’?”
She giggled, her voice husky from the smoke. “So, when you said you wanted to learn more about me, what you meant was, you want me to think of five ways to compliment you.”
“It says five total, not five each.”
“It’s uneven? Why would they do that? I hate that.” Her voice had begun to take on a slightly dreamy quality. She stubbed out the joint and slipped it back in the case. “You first.”
He considered it.
“I like that you’re tough. Scrappy.”
She burst out laughing. “Me? I was taken down by a cobblestone.”
“Not like that. I mean…you’ve been working since you were, what, ten?”
“Eight.”
He shook his head. “How’d you do it?”
“Do what?” She stretched across the lounge chair, languid and relaxed.
“End up so normal. Well adjusted.” He’d worked with a handful of child actors over the years, and they’d always kind of freaked him out. Now that he had his own kids to compare them to, they almost seemed like another species, or maybe some type of advanced automaton: dead-eyed, precocious, uncannily poised.
“I wasn’t very successful, that’s how. I mean, I worked a lot. But nobody knew who the fuck I was, thank god.”
“What kind of work were you getting?”
She closed her eyes and half shrugged. “My first job was on Broadway, actually. I was in a revival of Gypsy.”
“Never heard of it.”
“It’s an old musical, about this super pushy stage mom. I understudied the girls who played her daughters.”
“Is that what your mom is like?”
She opened her eyes again.
“No.”
He waited for her to elaborate, but she didn’t. She reached her hand out for the bottle. He passed it to her, a little surprised she wanted more, and she tilted her head back to drink deeply.
She wiped her mouth on her arm and passed it back to him.
“My turn. We gotta get through these faster or we’ll be out here all night.” She flopped her head toward him, her eyes heavy. “I like…I like that you go out of your way for people when they need you.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Two words: Belgian waffles. Your turn.”
“I like how much you speak your mind.”
“Only around you. You bring it out of me, for some reason.”
He bit back a smile. “Your turn.”
“I know, I know, I’m thinking.”
Her eyes took a long tour up and down his body, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. When they settled back on his, it was impossible to misinterpret: she was giving him fuck-me eyes.
“I like how…talented you are. I don’t think I thanked you enough for your help on my audition.” She was practically purring. He shifted in his seat, alarms blaring in his head. This was taking a dangerous turn.
“Thank you. I mean, you’re welcome.” He cleared his throat. “You’re very funny. Okay, that’s five.”
He stood up abruptly. “I think that’s enough for me tonight, I’m exhausted.”
She batted her eyes at him. “Aren’t you going to carry me?”
Ethan was trapped. He’d be an asshole to refuse her. On the other hand, the last thing he needed was to get up close and personal with her when she suddenly seemed hellbent on seducing him. He forced himself to take an honest inventory of his self-control: if he took her in his arms right now, would he be able to walk away once he laid her down on the bed?
“I’ll see you inside,” he said gruffly, turning away.
* * *
—
IT HAD BEEN too long since Grey had been stoned. Long enough to forget a crucial detail: being cross-faded always made her devastatingly, world-destroyingly horny. And that was without being primed by weeks of excruciating sexual tension first.
She wasn’t deterred by Ethan’s initial refusal. She’d known it wouldn’t be that easy. She felt like a heat-seeking missile, programmed for a single purpose. Never mind that following that comparison to its natural end would mean mutually assured destruction.
She carefully prepared herself for bed, stripping down to a clingy T-shirt and lacy underwear just cheeky enough to give her plausible deniability. She could hear Ethan watching TV in the living room. She tousled her hair, turned off the lights, and slid open the dividing door.
The lights were out on his side, too, the only illumination the flickering colors of the television. Ethan, beer in hand, looked over at her when he saw the door open. She wished she could have taken a picture of his face when he registered what she was wearing (or, more specifically, what she wasn’t wearing).
She leaned against the doorframe. “How’d that couch treat you last night?”
His eyes were heavy-lidded, his voice even and careful.
“Fine. Thinking about actually folding it out this time.”
“Plenty of room in here.”
The silence crackled between them.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“I’ll behave. I promise.” She kept her tone light, teasing. His response was instantaneous.
“But I wouldn’t.” His voice cracked slightly, the barely restrained force behind it sending a thrill through her lower belly.
“So what?” She began to slink toward him, her bad ankle hardly twinging when she put her weight on it. Every part of her brain, including the pain receptors, apparently, was united by a common goal: Operation Ethan.
“What are you doing, Grey?” His voice was hoarse now, barely above a whisper.
She stopped short of touching him, her bare shins millimeters from grazing his jeans. She looked down at him, taking in the tension vibrating through his body, the way his face was rigid and pained, eyes glued to her face, as if he didn’t trust what would happen if his gaze strayed any lower. Slowly, she joined him on the couch, placing one knee, then the other, on either side of his hips, straddling him.
She paused, body suspended over his, waiting to see if he would stop her. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, his eyes still boring into hers. She slowly lowered herself onto his lap, his eyes closing and breath escaping in a hiss once she was flush against him. The friction of denim against her skin was almost as exquisite as the pressure of the hard length of him between her thighs.
She nuzzled her face into his neck. “I’m not done celebrating.”
His breath was ragged, shallow. “This is a bad idea.”
She sat back up so they were face-to-face.
“Why? Don’t you want me?” She skimmed her fingers over her breasts, her torso, her nipples already straining for attention through the thin fabric.
His eyes followed the path of her fingers, transfixed.
“You have no idea how much I want you,” he breathed.