Page 64 of Hot Nights in Morocco
You do. Repeatedly.
“Bend me over your bed like you promised.”
“Hmm tempting.”
“Fuck me anywhere you choose, any which way.”
“Yes,” he breathes, inching closer.
Holy shit. Holy hell. I think I’m going to combust.
“Heels on or off?” I croak.
“On. Always on. Just like you stipulated. I bet you didn’t getthatidea from one of your books.”
“I’m starting to think there might be life after literature, after all.”
“Do you, now?” That wicked gleam is mesmerizing, reflecting like hazard signs off the glow of Max’s fairy lights.
“Go back to the part where you say how hard you’re going to fuck me.”
“I’ll only be satisfied when you lose control, Charlie, screaming my name and fisting the sheets as you come.”
It’s my turn to take an involuntarily step closer.
“Careful.” The tone of his voice is a warning. “There’s a reporter standing ten meters away. If we continue like this, I’m going to take you right here, right now. To hell with public decency.”
For a split second, I contemplate smashing my caveat. It would be worth it to feel his hands on my body, satisfying my craving, putting all of my deepest, darkest fantasies into practice. Then the icy fingertips of my past send a ripple of fear up and down my spine. I can never let that happen.
He must never know.
Chapter Thirty-Five
It’s nearly midnight and I’ve lost Jake again. He disappeared upstairs to make another call, so I’ve been sitting by the edge of the pool, my feet dangling in the water, chatting with the makeup department instead. I know their gossip is about to turn scandalous because they’ve closed ranks to anyone not within our select semicircle of sun loungers.
Zoe Evans, Jake’s chief makeup artist, is dominating the conversation, as usual.
“This shoot’s been an absolute blast,” she declares loudly in her cut-glass English accent, while rummaging around in her Gucci holdall. “Where the fuck has my lipstick gone?”
“Yes, but only after Jake stopped being such a monster to everyone,” chips in one of her pink-haired minions. “Here, have mine.”
“Rachel says he’s had a lot on his mind.” I swish my feet to and fro, chopping shapes and relishing the sensation.
The water feels like liquid ice against my burning, frustrated skin. Jake has exactly five minutes, and then I’m dragging him away from his call. I don’t care if it loses him squillions.
“Oh, everyone knows aboutthat,” says Zoe patronizingly, leaning over the side of the pool to use her reflection as a mirror. “He wants to push some new studio wing through, but Wilson’s not having any of it. He’s still contesting Robert’s will.”
“Is this about the new art house division?”
She nods, handing the lipstick back to her colleague. “Sounds like World War Three just blew up over Hollywood. We’ve all heard Jake shouting down the phone about it. He held up shooting for two hours the other day because of some make-or-break meeting.”
“But Jake’s the studio head. Shouldn’t he be dictating this stuff?” I hate gossiping about him but I’m desperate for insights.
“Not that simple.” Zoe sits down next to me and plunges her ruby-red-tipped toes into the water. “God, that’s bliss. Wilson’s run Global for the Daltons for years. He’s not surrendering control without a fight. That’s a gorgeous dress, by the way,” she says, fingering the material.
“Thanks. It’s my friend’s. She stole it backstage from London Fashion Week.”
Was that what our trip to L.A. was all about?
