I wait for him to speak again, wait for him to move, to do something—anything—to start this game he’s devised, but he doesn’t. Instead, the silence stretches between us taut as an electric wire.
I’m nervous. It’s an odd feeling, because I don’t get nervous and haven’t for years. But this is different. Not frightening exactly, but still nerve-wracking. I want to put it down to everything that’s happened tonight—want to tell myself that I’m feeling this way because the bathtub incident has so unsettled me. But just because I’m brilliant at lying to others doesn’t mean I can lie to myself.
I’m nervous because I’m not in control…and, except for that brief encounter in my kitchen last night, I am always in control. It’s how I like it. How I’ve always liked it.
But that’s a lie, too, isn’t it? I can’t help thinking. Because I liked what happened on that kitchen table last night just fine. Liked the way he talked to me. Liked the way he touched me. Liked even more the orgasms that slammed through me like sledgehammers.
The memory of that pleasure creeps through me now, like syrup. Or like the poison I grew to know so intimately while filming Belladonna.
My heart beats fast.
My limbs shake.
My eyes blur.
And my head…my head blurs, too, goes light and just a little bit fuzzy.
I don’t know what to think about that, but then, that’s the whole point of this, isn’t it? Not to think, but to feel. The anticipation, the exhilaration, the arousal.
Just the thought has my nipples beading against the cool glass. Has my sex growing damp.
And still he doesn’t say anything. Still he doesn’t touch me.
Seconds tick by and the tension grows and grows and grows until the very air around us is saturated with the stuff.
I breathe it in—pull it into my lungs, my blood, my very cells—until there isn’t a part of me that isn’t shaking. Until there isn’t a single piece of me that isn’t threatening to come undone right here against this window, in full view of anyone who thinks to look up.
With that thought, the very last ounce of self-preservation I have kicks in. I can’t be here. I can’t do this. I start to turn, to say as much to Ian, when he asks, “Where do you go from here?”
His voice is low and liquid and enticing. So enticing. It wraps itself tight around me, holds me together as I start to shake apart. Holds me right where I am, hands and tits and thighs pressed against the ice-cold glass.
I’m so caught up in the sound of his voice and the sensations it sends coursing through me that for long seconds I don’t answer. Instead, I just stand there, absorbing it into my skin.
And then Ian is there, his hands sliding between my body and the glass. His fingers brushing over my aching nipples, once, twice a third time. I gasp, arch into his touch without ever making the conscious decision to do so, but that’s all there is. Just those few delicate strokes. Because now he’s unzipping my hoodie, peeling it off my shoulders and down my arms.
“I didn’t lie.” My voice sounds as broken as his does smooth.
“You didn’t answer, either. That counts as dishonesty in my book.”
“I was thinking.”
“Don’t think.” His hands coast down my back so lightly that I’m not sure if he’s touching me or if I’m imagining the whole thing. “Just answer.”
“I don’t…” I’m lost, confused, the fuzziness in my head getting more pronounced with every second he keeps me here.
“Come on, Veronica. This is an easy one.” He’s close now, so close that I can feel his warmth on my skin. His breath on the nape of my neck. “You’re about to open a movie that most believe will be both critically acclaimed and a solid contender at the box office. You’re in the middle of making a big-budget action flick that should rake in the dough. You’re the sexiest woman working in film today and one of the most talented.” He’s even closer now, his breath against my cheek, his chest centimeters from my back. It takes every ounce of willpower I have to stay where I am, pressed against the cold window instead of melting into his warmth as he continues. “So after you’ve conquered the critics and the action movie fans, what. Comes. Next?”
“Producing.” The word comes of its own volition, as do the ones that come after. “I’ve spent the last year putting together an independent production company. When I wrap on this movie, Blue Willow will start filming our first project.”
“What’s the project?” he asks as he steps away from me.
Immediately, I miss the heat of him. I turn my head to track his progress across the room, watch as he flips off one of the lights next to the bed.
“It’s based on a women’s fiction novel I read last year, about a woman whose daughter jumps off the roof of her boarding school. Or so she’s being told.”
“Who wrote the screenplay?” He walks around to the other side of the bed as he waits for my answer. “Who’s your director?”