sixteen
Warmth spread through my tummy as tightness began to build. I hissed as I felt a flickering, an insistent fluttering, and then a warm wet tongue sweetly lapping at me. I leaned into it, feeling the intensity as it ran through me.
Mmmmm.
I woke with a start, breathing heavily and in the middle of a moan. I clutched the sheets to me, covering my nakedness. I could still feel the pangs of my dream orgasm beating through me. It had been so real. It felt so real. I was still completely aroused.
“Thank God you’re awake. I was worried that I was losing my touch,” my Brit said.
I looked down, and I saw Jack between my legs.
This would now be known as the Hamiltonian Wake-up Call.
His tongue was poised just over me, ready to deliver another kind of kiss that killed.
“Oh, God. I wasn’t dreaming that?” I exclaimed, nipples on point.
“Huh-uh,” he whispered, pointing his tongue and placing it against me. I leaned up on my elbows and watched him. Amazing. The sight of him, spreading me with his magic fingers and pressing his tongue against me, was the best thing I had ever woken up to.
I moaned.
Then he moaned against me, the vibration of his lips making me shiver.
He buried his face in my sex, making my toes curl and my back arch. He furiously pressed his tongue into me, bringing me to a quick peak. I clutched my thighs around him, digging my heels into his shoulders, rocking back onto the bed. Before I was finished, I pulled his face away.
“Come here,” I growled, and after kissing my Hamilton Brand, he obeyed. I kissed him feverishly, the taste of me all over him.
He was still gloriously naked from the night before, and gloriously hard. I grasped him firmly while his hips bucked into mine, and my name slipped from his lips as I whispered in his ear.
“Touch me again,” I said, guiding his hand back to me. We stroked each other, and I was still so sensitive from just moments ago that it didn’t take much.
“Oh, God, Jack! That’s so good!” I cried, never taking my gaze off his, even though my eyes wanted to roll back in my head.
He growled as he watched me come again, a devilish grin on his face. I pushed him back and knelt next to him on the bed. He kept one hand between my legs, and I dedicated both of my hands to him, watching his beautiful face. He was rock hard, moaning my name, and I imagined how he would feel inside me.
He was close, and I pressed my face to his. His head was thrown back on the pillows with that look that I’d come to love on his face. It was a thing of beauty. His eyes were fiercely shut, jaw tense, brow furrowed, mouth slightly open, moaning my name. As much as it killed me to do it, I removed his hand from me. I wanted this to be about him.
“Open your eyes, Jack,” I said quietly. “I need to see you.”
His lids opened and the look of wonder in his eyes stunned me silent. I felt him tense as he came, and I cupped his face with my left hand, sweeping open kisses across his cheek as I watched him.
His eyes never left mine. I felt him shudder and I slowed my hand, gently taking him back down.
“Jesus, Grace,” he moaned, finally shutting his eyes, pulling my forehead down to meet his own. His breath was sweet as he continued to shudder.
I wrapped my arms around him and wrapped my body around him as well. I brought him down to my breast and cuddled him to me, holding him tightly as the last few waves ran through his body.
I loved that I could make him feel like this.
“So, this meeting, is it a callback?” he asked over the sound of the water. I stepped out from underneath the showerhead, pointing it more directly on both of us.
“Kind of. I auditioned for them last week, and rather than a traditional callback, I’m going straight through to producers,” I answered, sweeping my hair out of my face. “Shampoo, please,” I said. He turned around in the shower stall, giving me a peek at his cute buns. I couldn’t resist a little squeeze. He flexed them for me, making me giggle.
“Fuck, you have like four different shampoos. Which one do you want?” he asked, puzzled. “And why do you have so many?”
“I need them for different days. Some days you need a clarifying shampoo, some days you need a color boost . . . today we’ll go with the deep conditioning, please.” I pointed at the chosen shampoo.
“Huh, I usually just collect all the free ones from hotels and use whatever I have on hand.”
“Maybe that’s why you feel the need to wear that damn ball cap all the time,” I said teasingly.
“Don’t hate the cap,” he stated firmly, pouring the shampoo in his hand. “Spin ’round,” he said, indicating that I should face away from him. I did, and I felt him begin to wash my hair.
Well, wasn’t he too cute?
“So, producers. That’s great, Sheridan. What time are you meeting them?” he asked as he continued to lather. He seemed to be having great fun making swoops and swirls with my hair and all the bubbles, and I caught what looked like a pompadour in the reflection of the glass door. He had used almost two palms full of shampoo so I wasn’t surprised at all the lather.
“Holly said at two P.M. What do you have going on today?”
“I have more reshoots tonight, probably pretty late. Okay, rinse,” he said, guiding me under the spray.
I felt him gently rinse all the lather out of my hair, being careful not to get any in my eyes. He really was sweet.
I returned the favor, lavishing attention on his scalp since he was a fiend for it. Since he was so much taller than I was I had to stand on tiptoe, but he made sure I was steady, keeping my breasts firmly in hand.
When I raised an eyebrow at him he said, “What? I’m supporting you. I don’t want you to slip and fall.”
“Uh-huh,” I answered, giving his head one final scratch. “Okay, rinse.”
He closed his eyes and stood under the water, while I grabbed my shower gel—brown-sugar and coconut—and proceeded to wash my body. By the time he opened his eyes again, my body was covered in fragrant bubbles and my hands were slipping and sliding around on my skin, something that was not lost on Mr. Hamilton.
“Crazy, what are you trying to do to me?” He sighed, leaning against the tiles.
“Settle, George. I’m just taking a shower. Here . . . try some of this.” I flipped him the bottle.
Maybe I arched my back just a little more than necessary when I swept my hands across my breasts.
“Grace . . .” He was warning me, and I could see how I was affecting him. I giggled. He examined the shower gel. “Coconuts! It’s coconuts!” he exclaimed.
“What’s coconuts?” I asked, turning my back to him to rinse my front.
“That’s what you smell like! You smell like coconuts and clean laundry,” he said proudly, as if he had cracked some code.
He might just have been the cutest thing ever. I peered over my shoulder at him. He was grinning.
“I smell like clean laundry?”
“And coconuts—don’t forget the coconuts.”
“No—we really shouldn’t forget the coconuts,” I said, turning to face him and running my hands down his torso, and even lower. His eyes widened.
I didn’t forget the coconuts.
That afternoon as I sped down Sepulveda to my meeting, I did my vocal exercises in the car. This was a brand-new musical, still in the workshop stages. They were continually rewriting the music and the lyrics, and as an actor, the chance to be the first to inhabit a role was intoxicating.
The female lead was in her thirties and a former beauty queen. The show was based around her coming to terms with her age, no longer being the ingénue, and dealing with the aftereffects of a messy divorce. It was about a second life, defining yourself all over again. It was sweet and funny, and the music I’d already heard was amazing.
This show was me. I was all over it. Now I just had to sell the director on it. I was new to show business, as far as they knew. All I really had going for me was Holly, and she’d had to sell like hell to get me the initial audition. But once I was in the door, it had been all me.
This was my first real test, my first real reentry into the industry, and I was ready. I was excited. And if I booked this job, I would be ecstatic.
When I arrived, I met with two of the New York producers and the director. I was also supposed to meet the writer, but he had just stepped out. As I chatted with them, the director asked how long I’d known Holly.
“Oh gosh, we’ve known each other since college! We were roommates, and then we both moved out to L.A. within a few months of each other. She’s great.”
“Yes, I’ve worked with her on several castings over the years. Holly’s fantastic.” He smiled and I smiled back, proud that she was so well respected within the industry.
“Ah, here’s our writer! Michael, we’d like you to meet—”
“Grace? Grace Sheridan?”
The voice was familiar and he seemed to already know me. I turned around, an expectant smile on my face.
Then I saw him. Of course he knew me.
He had broken my heart thirteen years ago.
“Seriously, Holls, what the fuck! How could you send me in there blind like that?” I yelled, swerving in and out of traffic like a crazy person. People were honking at me, and I flipped off at least three of them at once.
“Grace, calm down. I had no idea it was the same Michael O’Connell. I mean, what are the odds?”
“What are the odds, indeed,” I grumbled as I cut someone else off. “Shut up!” I yelled as the man flashed his lights at me, screaming obscenities.
“Wow, settle, Grace. Hang up the phone and come to the office. Tell me here, where you can’t hurt anyone.”
“Don’t bet on it,” I said, yanking my Bluetooth out and stepping on the gas.
When I was in college, I had a huge crush on one of my best friends. He was in drama school with Holly and me. A big group of us were all great friends, but Michael O’Connell was my favorite.
He was incredibly talented, which first drew me to him. He was the funniest guy I’d ever met: quick-witted, dry, and with an amazing sense of timing. Like a lot of comedic actors, he also had a sweet emo streak that, in dramatic pieces, made us all weep.
He always seemed to be a little interested in me. It was especially evident when I performed, particularly when I sang. As he watched me I could see the “friend” face slip away, and he became a guy watching a girl that he liked. But he always kept me at arm’s length, eternally my “buddy.”
It was infuriating.
At the end of junior year, he stunned us all with the news that he was transferring to a fine arts college in Boston the next September.
All summer, I knew I had to put up or shut up. I attempted to get him alone constantly, but since we all hung out in a group so much, it was tough. Consciously or not, he knew how I felt about him and he kept me away.
Not to brag, but no one said no to me back then. I dated our college quarterback, dated the president of the best fraternity on campus, and was briefly tied to a physics professor. Yet this guy, this drama geek, was dodging me. Fuck all that noise!
At a cast party in June, I got drunk and confronted him. Holly, Michael, and I were in the kitchen, knee-deep in crappy pot and Lynchburg Lemonades, when I saw him looking at me. Really looking at me, like I always caught him doing when I was onstage.
I didn’t think about what I was going to do but just pushed him up against the pantry and kissed him, long and hard. I heard Holly say, “It’s about time,” and walk out of the kitchen. His eyes were surprised, but then he got into it. He kissed me back, both of us dropping our drinks. I finally pulled back and told him in no uncertain terms that he was coming home with me that night. He agreed.
It was amazing. We made love all night—and I usually hate the term “made love,” but that’s what it was. It was three years of love and lust spilling out, and the fact that we were such good friends made it even better. He told me he’d been in love with me since freshman year.
I lay awake all night, planning. He couldn’t leave now; he’d said he was in love with me. And once I kissed him, I realized that I was in love with him, too. It went way beyond a crush. This was who I wanted. I couldn’t wait for the next morning.
But as it turned out, it was all kinds of awkward. He wouldn’t even look at me. He was out of there as fast as he could put his pants on, and when he saw me later that day backstage, he still wouldn’t look me in the eye.
We limped through the rest of that summer. I slowly walled up all things Michael O’Connell, and when he left, I never saw him again. I heard about him from time to time through our alumni contacts. He’d become a writer, doing a lot of work off-Broadway and eventually achieving great success writing for TV and film.
And now that motherfucker held my career in his hands.
Goddamn the luck.
I tore through Holly’s outer office, pointing Sara back into her chair when she tried to get up. I was seething mad. It didn’t matter that I had nailed, and I mean freaking nailed, my audition. All my anger, all my angst, all the hurt that I hadn’t known was still in there was channeled into my performance, and I’d only been slightly pleased when I saw Michael’s reaction. He was stunned.
I was just mad.
I slammed into Holly’s office, where she was on the phone. Her eyes went wide when she saw me. “Tom? I am going to have to call you back. Yes, love to Suri. Yes, okay, bye.” She hung up the phone. We stared at each other like we were in a Mexican standoff.
Cue the tumbleweeds.
“Are you kidding me?” I said quietly.
“All right now, listen. I didn’t know that he—”
“Are you kidding me?” I repeated, my voice beginning to rise.
“Look, Grace. Settle down,” she responded, her pitch mimicking my own.
“Are. You. Kidding. Me?” I yelled. I sank into a chair, hysterical sobs breaking over me like a tsunami. All the crap from behind my Michael wall finally came out, all over her office floor.
She let me cry, handing me tissues, knowing I needed to wade through it. When my sobs began to sound pathetic rather than anguished, she began to talk.
“First, Grace, I had no idea he was the same guy. It’s a common name. Second, I had no idea that you were still so upset over him. I thought you had let all that go. Third—”
I interrupted her. “I didn’t know I was still so upset. But seeing him—”
“Third . . . you got the part,” she said quietly.
There was silence as I digested what she’d just said.
“What?” I asked, unsure that I’d really heard her right.
She nodded. “You heard me.”
Holy shit.
“What?” I asked again, a smile beginning to break through.
“You got the part,” she said, a little louder.
“Say it again,” I said, really smiling now.
“You got the motherfucking part!” she screamed.
“Holy shit!” we both screamed together.
Sara came running. We were jumping up and down, screaming, and I still had tears on my face. She backed out again quickly.
I got the part! I got the lead in a musical! I got the lead in a musical that was being workshopped on Broadway!
On Broadway!
In New York!
In . . . New York.
But what about J—
I pushed it away and felt the happiness.
When Holly and I looked at a calendar, we were stunned to realize that I’d have to leave for New York in ten days.
Ten days.
We began to plan. First, I was pulled out of the showcase. We called my scene partner and explained, and being a true professional, he was happy about my new job and wished me luck. Holly knew another actor who could step in for me. No problem.
Second, I needed a place to live. Holly called a New York agent she knew well who worked a lot with stage actors and was assured that they could find me something temporary near the theater. Until then, I’d stay at a hotel.
Third, I had a house that I hadn’t even moved into yet. Most of my things were in storage and the rest were at Holly’s. The contractors were almost finished, and Chad had given me a move-in date of early next week. I’d move in just in time to move back out again.
Most of the new furniture had already been ordered and was due to begin arriving tomorrow. Chad agreed to sign for all deliveries, and I’d worry about placing the furniture later, as long as they were set in the right rooms.
Finally, I had to tell the Brit.
It wasn’t as if we’d known each other that long, and while yes, we seemed to be getting along famously, there had been no declarations. We hadn’t defined anything because there was nothing to define. We were at the very early stages of whatever this was, and there really was nothing more to say.
Sure, it’s indefinable. You can’t stop thinking about him for ten minutes. Even five minutes.
It was true. He had gotten inside the walls and wasn’t budging. Whether or not this was too early, this was going to suck.
After dinner that night Holly went out with a client, and I had the house to myself. Jack was working on his reshoots, and I had missed a call from him earlier. His voice mail was sweet. I might have listened to it three times.
“Hey, Crazy. I have no idea what time I’m going to get out of here, probably pretty late. Lane, back off . . . no, you don’t know her . . . oh, piss off, will you? Sorry about that. Do you want me to come by tonight? It could be after two. Let me know. I don’t want to wake you. Is it crazy that I want to see you, though? Ah, Nuts Girl . . . right then. Speak to you later . . . it’s me, George, by the way.” Click.
“It’s me, George, by the way” . . . funny.
I did want to see him, no matter what time it was. Now that I knew I had ten days, I was desperate to see him as much as possible.
I found myself being drawn to my laptop. I still hadn’t Googled the Brit, and it was time.
I started with images . . . nice. He really was so pretty. A lot of the expressions in his pictures were somewhat weird, but he also had a lot with that signature smirk, that Johnny Bite-Down face that I found impossible to resist. And why would I, really?
Then I moved on to the fan sites. There were a lot. Then I YouTubed his ass. I watched his interviews, I saw his paparazzi shots, and I saw the videos fans had made about him. I even watched interviews from when he was in His Better Half, the small independent film he’d shot before being cast in Time.
As I watched, I became more and more sad. He was so freaking great. He was exactly the same way in real life as he was in all those interviews. He was so adorable with the press. I could tell he was really nervous but very honest.
I’d had no idea he had such a fan base. I’d had no idea these magazine stories were as popular as they were. He’d had a respectable career up until then, but now that he’d been cast as Super-Sexy Scientist Guy? He was about to be huge.
What the hell was he doing with me? Was he with me? Did I want him to be with me?
Of course you do.
Ah, and here was Jack out on the town. Mostly he was photographed with other scruffy hipster guys, all with ball caps as well. Did I miss the memo about ball caps? Then a few pictures with a brunette . . . wait a minute, there were more than a few with this brunette, and on separate occasions.
I found one with a caption.
“Newly cast Time hunk Jack Hamilton and actress Marcia Williams, still refusing to acknowledge their relationship.” Huh. Curious. Well, it’s not as if he didn’t have a past before me. I mentally pushed this tidbit away and resumed my cyberstalking.
When I finally closed the computer, it was late. I showered quickly, in case Jack did come over, and put on the T-shirt he’d left behind. It was huge on me. Then I slipped under the covers and watched The Golden Girls, sending him a quick text before succumbing to sleep.
Hey, George, by the way. Yes. Definitely come over.
I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, I was being cradled to a warm chest and kissed.
“Hmm? What?” I asked stupidly, opening my eyes.
“Shhhh, go back to sleep, Grace. It’s just me,” my Brit said.
I smiled sleepily. “Hey.”
“Hey yourself,” he whispered, pulling me into his nook. His hands slipped under my shirt and slowly ran up and down my back, soothing me back to sleep.
“How did your reshoots—?”
“We can talk in the morning. Go back to sleep,” he said, shushing me.
This time I listened. I drank in his scent, my own personal s’more, and drifted back to sleep.
The last thing I heard him say was my name, whispered with contentment.
Three seventeen A.M.
A phone was vibrating on the nightstand. It was on Jack’s side and he rolled toward me in his sleep, away from the offensive sound .
“Ugh,” I mumbled, crawling over him to turn it off. I was lying across his chest, trying to reach the phone, and in his sleep his hands came up to my breasts and he muttered, “Fantastic.”
I smiled through my own sleepy haze. I grabbed his phone and punched random buttons to turn it off. The room fell blessedly silent.
Yawning, I started to put it back on his nightstand.
His nightstand?
I was putting it back on the nightstand when I saw that he’d gotten a text. Angel Grace and Devil Grace fought for 1.7 seconds . . . guess who won?
I opened the text, sent from “M.”
Hey, where did you go? You disappeared. I didn’t get a chance to say good-bye from Marcia