Me: Are you interested in a quickie break while you read? Are you still home?
Him: Almost done. Still home.
I’m reading his reply when a new one comes in:
And interested.
Turning to mush with just those two words, I take a cab ride to the Upper East Side, pull out the key from its hiding place (which he showed me before I left), and walk inside.
He’s barking into the phone at the far end of the living area. His living area looks kick-ass with all his brand-new furniture. He’s tieless, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, his top two buttons unbuttoned, his hair a little rumpled, a drink in his hand.
He turns and spots me. “Right. As soon as possible,” he barks into the phone and hangs up.
My stomach tumbles as I wonder if he was talking to his lawyer. About his divorce. I want to ask him, but at the same time, I don’t want to get in a funk before my audition.
“I can’t stay long—I have an audition in less than two hours,” I say as I approach. I take his drink and set it aside.
His brows fly upward in surprise, and a wicked, wicked smile starts curving his lips as I reach out to grab the collar of his shirt. He reaches out to grab me by the hip and pulls me to his body—his hard wall of a body—and the delicious, shockingly big bulge pressing up against the zipper of his slacks. I groan at the feel of him and rub my fingers up his chest, wanting to feel him.
“An audition?” he asks, in interest.
Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip as I smile, I incline my head in a small gesture of confirmation.
He smiles down at me.
A smile that tightens my sex muscles and my tummy.
“I’ve got to head back to work myself. I’ll drive you.”
He looks incredible. My hands are shaking, and I’m biting my lip as I run my hands up his chest. He eyes my little outfit with interest, tugging my blouse loose from the waistband of my khakis and easing his hand beneath it. He runs his fingertips up my skin as I press myself closer to him, doing the same and running my fingertips under his shirt too.
“Why are you smiling like that?” I frown when he keeps smiling down at me.
“I’m happy to see you. Is that wrong?”
“No.” Heat frissons through me over the look in his eyes. “It’s good.”
“You’re good, and this”—he sets a kiss on my lips, slow and thorough—“is better,” he adds as he cups my ass in his hands and boosts me up.
I twine my legs and arms around him, delighted when he sets me up on the bar top, pulls off my shoes, and starts unbuttoning me. “I don’t like it when you keep your clothes on. I like looking at you too much. I don’t want anything between you and me—especially when we fuck.”
“You have a dirty mouth.” I don’t sound chiding, really, because I kind of like it and I’m actually nibbling on it quite happily right now.
“It’s only dirty when it’s not busy doing other, more pleasurable things. Like sucking your gorgeous tits.” He removes my bra and proceeds to suckle my tits, and I clench my legs around him and pull him closer.
“What other things can this wonderful mouth do?” I whisper as I duck my head and cup his jaw, and when he stops twirling his tongue around my nipple—leaving it red, and hard, and sensitive—he kisses me on the mouth in the way that makes all my thoughts scatter. “It can go down on you. I warn you, though, if I like your taste, I’m going to go on for hours.”
I already know he likes my taste. And that he can go on for hours… and hours… and hours.
My breath hitches, my heart drumming in excitement in ways it drums only when I’m near him. He starts sliding down, and I panic when I remember my audition. Fisting my hands in his hair, I pull him back up. “I don’t have hours, you yummy man. I only have minutes to spare for you.”
“Then let’s make the most of them, shall we?” He grabs my slacks and unbuttons them, pulling them off with a yank. My panties follow. And if I thought I was going to miss out from feeling his mouth between my thighs—oh my God! Oh my God.
Groaning, my head arches back. Because Ian just buried. Buried. His fucking mouth. Between my thighs. And oh! Does he know how to work it. Twirl his tongue. Use it to suck. Lick. Taste. Fuck. My sex in ways I’ve never been fucked before.
I start to swivel my hips, back and forth. I’ve always loved when guys went down on me, but some seem to prefer to only fuck. I suppose they want their dick getting all the action. But this man? Oh my goodness. He tastes me as if he’s been waiting to taste me for a lifetime. As if I’m his favorite flavor. His favorite texture. His favorite scent. His favorite pleasure.
* * *
“If I don’t get this interview, it’s your fault for loosening me up too much,” I tell him as he drives me to 43rd and 8th for my audition.
“Sex is good for the nerves.”
“Sex is good before a nap, Ian. Not before an audition.”
“Are you forgetting who did all the work?”
“It’s hard work trying not to come too quickly when you’re going down on me.” I flush, and he stares darkly at me. Hungry.
I purse my lips and try to shake off the tugs in my stomach.
“Here, yummy motherfucker.” I pull him across the car to kiss him and thank him for bringing me. “Have fun filming garbage.”
“I will. I get off on it.”
I cackle and step out of the car, walking away, swishing my hips because I want to give him a little wood to remember me by.
A woman who was entering the building pauses and looks directly at me before shifting her gaze to the car, where Ian sits staring back at us.
“Do you know Ian?”
I hear her voice but I’m distracted. It’s a part I’m excited about, a story of a girl finding herself. And there are three leads, which means better odds of landing a part. “Yes,” I say, pulling myself from my thoughts and focusing on the woman in front of me.
“Interesting.”
“How do you know him?” I ask her.
“We’ve crossed paths. What is he to you?”
I feel possessive. I bristle. “My boyfriend.” I walk past her and open the door, thinking I’ve had the last word when I hear, “Really?”
“He seems to think so.” I turn back, give her a smile, and walk forward to get ready.
“Cordelia,” someone calls her. “A call for you. It’s your husband.”
“Oh really. He doesn’t have time to answer my calls? Well, now I don’t have time to answer his.”
* * *
The thing about auditions is you’re just not competing with others. You’re competing with yourself. It doesn’t matter what you have for breakfast and if it bloated you, or that you may be catching a bug. You need to be the best version of yourself because these people don’t want to settle, and they see a lot. They know when you’re settling and giving them a half-assed performance. I don’t want to be half-assed or perform scared as if I’m going to break my ankle again. I plan to do it all the way. As if the guy watching me is my Dirty Workaholic and my life depends on him choosing me.
Hmm. Why does that thought make my stomach flip?
Anyway. Back to business. There are forty-eight of us.
And we’re all bloodthirsty for the part.
Dancers can smell fear from a mile away, and so can the directors.
Him: Almost done. Still home.
I’m reading his reply when a new one comes in:
And interested.
Turning to mush with just those two words, I take a cab ride to the Upper East Side, pull out the key from its hiding place (which he showed me before I left), and walk inside.
He’s barking into the phone at the far end of the living area. His living area looks kick-ass with all his brand-new furniture. He’s tieless, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows, his top two buttons unbuttoned, his hair a little rumpled, a drink in his hand.
He turns and spots me. “Right. As soon as possible,” he barks into the phone and hangs up.
My stomach tumbles as I wonder if he was talking to his lawyer. About his divorce. I want to ask him, but at the same time, I don’t want to get in a funk before my audition.
“I can’t stay long—I have an audition in less than two hours,” I say as I approach. I take his drink and set it aside.
His brows fly upward in surprise, and a wicked, wicked smile starts curving his lips as I reach out to grab the collar of his shirt. He reaches out to grab me by the hip and pulls me to his body—his hard wall of a body—and the delicious, shockingly big bulge pressing up against the zipper of his slacks. I groan at the feel of him and rub my fingers up his chest, wanting to feel him.
“An audition?” he asks, in interest.
Sinking my teeth into my bottom lip as I smile, I incline my head in a small gesture of confirmation.
He smiles down at me.
A smile that tightens my sex muscles and my tummy.
“I’ve got to head back to work myself. I’ll drive you.”
He looks incredible. My hands are shaking, and I’m biting my lip as I run my hands up his chest. He eyes my little outfit with interest, tugging my blouse loose from the waistband of my khakis and easing his hand beneath it. He runs his fingertips up my skin as I press myself closer to him, doing the same and running my fingertips under his shirt too.
“Why are you smiling like that?” I frown when he keeps smiling down at me.
“I’m happy to see you. Is that wrong?”
“No.” Heat frissons through me over the look in his eyes. “It’s good.”
“You’re good, and this”—he sets a kiss on my lips, slow and thorough—“is better,” he adds as he cups my ass in his hands and boosts me up.
I twine my legs and arms around him, delighted when he sets me up on the bar top, pulls off my shoes, and starts unbuttoning me. “I don’t like it when you keep your clothes on. I like looking at you too much. I don’t want anything between you and me—especially when we fuck.”
“You have a dirty mouth.” I don’t sound chiding, really, because I kind of like it and I’m actually nibbling on it quite happily right now.
“It’s only dirty when it’s not busy doing other, more pleasurable things. Like sucking your gorgeous tits.” He removes my bra and proceeds to suckle my tits, and I clench my legs around him and pull him closer.
“What other things can this wonderful mouth do?” I whisper as I duck my head and cup his jaw, and when he stops twirling his tongue around my nipple—leaving it red, and hard, and sensitive—he kisses me on the mouth in the way that makes all my thoughts scatter. “It can go down on you. I warn you, though, if I like your taste, I’m going to go on for hours.”
I already know he likes my taste. And that he can go on for hours… and hours… and hours.
My breath hitches, my heart drumming in excitement in ways it drums only when I’m near him. He starts sliding down, and I panic when I remember my audition. Fisting my hands in his hair, I pull him back up. “I don’t have hours, you yummy man. I only have minutes to spare for you.”
“Then let’s make the most of them, shall we?” He grabs my slacks and unbuttons them, pulling them off with a yank. My panties follow. And if I thought I was going to miss out from feeling his mouth between my thighs—oh my God! Oh my God.
Groaning, my head arches back. Because Ian just buried. Buried. His fucking mouth. Between my thighs. And oh! Does he know how to work it. Twirl his tongue. Use it to suck. Lick. Taste. Fuck. My sex in ways I’ve never been fucked before.
I start to swivel my hips, back and forth. I’ve always loved when guys went down on me, but some seem to prefer to only fuck. I suppose they want their dick getting all the action. But this man? Oh my goodness. He tastes me as if he’s been waiting to taste me for a lifetime. As if I’m his favorite flavor. His favorite texture. His favorite scent. His favorite pleasure.
* * *
“If I don’t get this interview, it’s your fault for loosening me up too much,” I tell him as he drives me to 43rd and 8th for my audition.
“Sex is good for the nerves.”
“Sex is good before a nap, Ian. Not before an audition.”
“Are you forgetting who did all the work?”
“It’s hard work trying not to come too quickly when you’re going down on me.” I flush, and he stares darkly at me. Hungry.
I purse my lips and try to shake off the tugs in my stomach.
“Here, yummy motherfucker.” I pull him across the car to kiss him and thank him for bringing me. “Have fun filming garbage.”
“I will. I get off on it.”
I cackle and step out of the car, walking away, swishing my hips because I want to give him a little wood to remember me by.
A woman who was entering the building pauses and looks directly at me before shifting her gaze to the car, where Ian sits staring back at us.
“Do you know Ian?”
I hear her voice but I’m distracted. It’s a part I’m excited about, a story of a girl finding herself. And there are three leads, which means better odds of landing a part. “Yes,” I say, pulling myself from my thoughts and focusing on the woman in front of me.
“Interesting.”
“How do you know him?” I ask her.
“We’ve crossed paths. What is he to you?”
I feel possessive. I bristle. “My boyfriend.” I walk past her and open the door, thinking I’ve had the last word when I hear, “Really?”
“He seems to think so.” I turn back, give her a smile, and walk forward to get ready.
“Cordelia,” someone calls her. “A call for you. It’s your husband.”
“Oh really. He doesn’t have time to answer my calls? Well, now I don’t have time to answer his.”
* * *
The thing about auditions is you’re just not competing with others. You’re competing with yourself. It doesn’t matter what you have for breakfast and if it bloated you, or that you may be catching a bug. You need to be the best version of yourself because these people don’t want to settle, and they see a lot. They know when you’re settling and giving them a half-assed performance. I don’t want to be half-assed or perform scared as if I’m going to break my ankle again. I plan to do it all the way. As if the guy watching me is my Dirty Workaholic and my life depends on him choosing me.
Hmm. Why does that thought make my stomach flip?
Anyway. Back to business. There are forty-eight of us.
And we’re all bloodthirsty for the part.
Dancers can smell fear from a mile away, and so can the directors.
