“Aaagh! Your hands are freezing! There’ll be payback, mister!”
He laughed against my lips and I tugged at his belt as we reeled across the apartment, shedding clothes and sharing whispers—all the hot and dirty things we were going to do to each other.
I shuddered slightly as Ash pulled me under the chilly sheets, but then shuddered with pleasure as he warmed me in a wonderfully old fashioned way.
Ash was awake early the next day, throwing on his jeans and coat to run out and buy the early editions of the newspapers.
We’d expected bad news, but hoped for good.
Ash paced up and down the room as I found the entertainment section and scanned through the reviews.
I winced when I read the headline.
This Christmas turkey is one to avoid.
Ouch.
“Read it to me,” Ash asked quietly.
‘Broadway Revisited’ is the type of show that should have stayed a bad idea and never reached the stage. Mark Rumans made his career as a dancer in ‘Forty Second Street’ on Broadway but doesn’t seem to have had an original idea since. Rumor has it of backstage fights with respected choreographer Rosa Hart, who left the production a month ago.
The only bright spot is newcomers Sarah Lintort and Ash Novak. Their Argentine tango from ‘Evita’ was a masterclass in sexual tension, musicality and suppressed longing, as the toothsome twosome dueled their way through the only interesting moment of a long, dreary evening.
One star for Lintort and Novak, but otherwise one to avoid.
“He liked your tango,” I said lamely.
Ash nodded and walked into the kitchen.
He was leaning by the sink, staring out into the gray, overcast morning. Wrapping my arms around his waist, I rested my head on his back. I felt his warm hands cover mine and heard his heavy sigh.
“I’ll be out of a job by Christmas. I’m sorry.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for—you were wonderful—even that reviewer thought so. You’ll find another job, I know you will.”
He didn’t reply.
When he left for the theater that evening, my heart ached for him. It had been a difficult day and he hadn’t spoken much. I could see how hard it was to have to do it all over again, knowing that it wasn’t good, despite the small ray of sunshine the reviewer had shined on him.
Given our unusual circumstances and our original agreement that we’d divorce after two years, despite our ongoing sexual shenanigans, I had an odd sense of wanting to stand by my husband.
“Oh God! Don’t stop, Ash! Don’t stop!”
He thrust harder, less than a minute from his climax, although mine was much closer.
At first I thought the knocking was the headboard slamming against the wall. Ash had moved it away twice, but somehow the bed always crept back, and now there was a dent in the dry walling that Ash had promised to fix.
The day had started so well and my orgasm was beginning to fizz, hot tingles shooting up and down my pelvis. Then I heard it again.
“Ash!”
“Yes, my love!” he gasped, his teeth gritted, hips pistoning against me.
His thumb pressed down on my clit, and despite my distraction, an explosion rushed through me, urgent and relentless, lights exploding behind my eyes as my lids tightly squeezed shut.
Then I heard it for a third time.
Ash was fast approaching loss of control, his movements wilder, sloppier, that perfect rhythm more desperate.
“There’s someone . . . at the door!” I gasped.
Ash growled something that was probably very rude, but as it was in Slovenian, I couldn’t be sure.
KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!
“Mr. Novak! Mrs. Novak! This is Ralph Phillips with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service. Please open the door.”
“Oh, my God! Ash! Stop! We have to . . . have to . . .”
With another curse, Ash put his head down and headed for the home straight. It was good ole fucking, hard.
“This is Ralph Phillips with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service. I must insist that you open the door.”
Ash swore and pulled out suddenly, stomping toward the front door, his face stormy.
I watched his retreating back and delicious butt stalking away, stopping only to scoop up a towel—a small piece of material that did nothing to hide the fact that he was still hard.
I pulled on a robe and peeped into the living room. Ash’s chest was rising and falling rapidly, his face flushed as he flung open the door to the apartment.
A tall, thin man with round spectacles took a step back, as 170 pounds of angry Slovenian glowered at him.
“Ah, Mr. Alja? Novak?”
“What?”
“I wonder if we might talk to you and Mrs. Novak. I am Ralph Phillips with the U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Service and this is my colleague Moira Walsh.”
“We’re busy!” Ash snarled.
I saw the man glance down at Ash’s towel and his face turned red.
“Even so,” he said, obviously flustered, “I must insist.”
I thought Ash was about to slam the door in their faces, so I hurried out.