CHAPTER ELEVEN
SYLVIA SPENT half her Saturday recording and editing new videos for her channel, and she finally published the two that were supposed to have gone out in the last few weeks. She had stopped putting anything out there when she'd woken up to thousands of notifications in her inbox a day after the photos of her and Greg had been posted all over the Internet—and all over the world, it seemed. She'd frozen at the numbers. There seemed to be a never-ending influx of new subscribers, new comments, and new messages on every social media account she had linked to the vlog channel.
She hadn't touched any of it for weeks, but today, with Greg spending the entire day at the rehearsals, she decided to stop avoiding and actually act like a grown-up she was supposed to be.
After handling the videos, she went on to tackle the inbox and social media. She started with the comments under various videos—and there seemed to be new comments under every one of them. Some of them were nice and actually on topic. There had been a few people who shared her Broadway love, and she made a note of a few of their vlogs to check out later on.
But a lot of people didn't care about her content at all. Sylvia's stomach clenched harder at every comment about how she looked, how she talked, how she wasn't good enough for Greg Abrams… How she wasn't anything special at all. A comment about her being an actor groupie had hundreds of likes, and she found herself blinking back tears. And that wasn't even the worst thing they called her.
Sylvia had been on and around the Internet communities long enough to have seen her fair share of haters and trolls, but, aside from a few random comments here and there, they were never directed at her. She had never been famous enough to acquire attention like that.
She disabled the notifications about new comments and logged off. After closing her laptop, she sat there for a while, staring at her wall where a framed poster from Les Miserables' twenty-fifth anniversary show was hanging next to the one from Hamilton.
She closed her eyes, wishing Greg was here.
She knew it was stupid and dangerous to feel like this. Their time together could end at any point, after all. It would end, sooner or later, no matter what. She should be preparing herself for that, she just…didn't know how.
***
Hours later, Greg fell asleep with his head in her lap as they watched a movie, and Sylvia kept absentmindedly running her fingers through his hair. She'd figured out how the story was going to end about halfway through, so only part of her was paying attention to the screen.
The other part was circling back to the same questions, over and over.
What happens if he stays? What happens if he goes?
If he stays, will we continue seeing each other? Does he want to? Do I want to, even with all the mess it has brought me?
She only had one clear answer, and it was a definite yes to that last question. She wanted him in her life for as long as she could have him. But what did Greg want? He enjoyed the sex—that, at least, was clear—but was that it? Were they supposed to stop seeing each other when the deal was up? Or maybe keep sleeping with each other, no strings attached, until it was time for Greg to go back to L.A.? Or maybe—
"You're thinking too hard," Greg mumbled, his voice muffled as his face was pressed against her skin.
Sylvia paused her caress, and he grumbled in protest before rolling onto his back to look up at her.
"Sorry I fell asleep," he said. "I must have been more tired than I thought."
"The rehearsals are kicking your butt?" She ran a hand through his hair again. She still had no idea what role Greg was going to play, and she tried not to take it as a bad sign. He'd explained things to her. She was fine.
"A bit, yeah." He caught her other hand in his own and rested them over his stomach as his thumb caressed her fingers. "But I think it's mostly the stress of waiting. I want the wait to be over already so I know where I stand." He drummed his fingers over his chest, right above their joined hands. "Everything should right itself then."
What does "right" mean for us? she wanted to ask, but she sucked her lower lip in to keep quiet.
"Can I do something to help?" she asked instead. She didn't mean anything sexual, but when his gaze dropped to her lips and his hand tightened its grip over hers, Sylvia could feel the stir of heat in her body.
"I think we can find a relaxation technique we could both enjoy very much." His lazy grin made her stomach flip, and she tightened her fingers in his hair, pulling without thinking.
Greg let out a bit-off moan, so she did it again. Next thing Sylvia knew, he was off the couch and reaching out a hand to help pull her up. She chuckled but didn't have to be asked twice. She stood up and let him lead her to the bedroom.
As he walked in front of her, she admired his body once again. The lines of his back muscles were visible through a tight T-shirt and the black jeans were doing amazing things for his ass. Everything about him called to her, inside and out.
At this rate, she was going to end up ruined for other men after this.
When they got to the bedroom, Greg reached for the bottom of her blouse and lifted it, nudging her to raise her arms so that he could pull it all the way off. Then he ran his fingers over the edges of her bra, making her shiver. Sylvia tried to reach out and touch him, as well, but he brought her hands back down.
"Let me," he whispered, leaning in to kiss a line down her neck and along her collarbone until he came up to the strap of her bra. He pushed it off slowly with one finger, then moved to the other side of her body and did the same thing before finally unhooking the bra. He caught it before it fell onto the ground and tossed it onto the armchair where it joined her blouse.
When he ran his hands low on her stomach and over the edge of her jeans, she had a fleeting thought that he was drawing lines on her body only to cross them later on. For some reason, she found it hot beyond belief. It seemed like asking permission and then conquering when she didn't protest, and that made her want to give him more than this if he ever asked. Made her want to give him something he was probably never going to ask for—her heart.
Too late, she thought when he tugged her jeans and panties off of her. Too late, when he guided her to lie in the middle of the bed. Too late, when he covered her body with his, fully dressed, and then kissed, and kissed, and kissed her all over, until she was writhing under him, with her hands clasping the sheets as she came with his tongue inside her.
Worth it, she thought later on, when he was fucking her slowly, making her moan and swallowing the sounds she made as he kissed her until she came again, her body tightening around him and pulling him with her over the edge.
Worth it.