Page 61 of Hollywood

“Whoa, hold on.”

“Do you know why Ruby was so demanding tonight?” he carried on, too full of steam to stop now. I shook my head, unsure of where this was going. “She’s attached to you! I—I was attached to you, too.”

“Was?” I asked softly, chest tight.

“Am. Iamattached. But I was then too. And you just walked right out of my life.” He gave a short, bitter laugh. “More like ran.”

“I’m sorry, Hendrix. I wish I could take that back.”

He gave a jerky nod. “I believe you. I do. I don’t hold it against you. I know it’s partly my fault because I— But that’s not the point. This is about Ruby.”

I raised an eyebrow. “How is it about Ruby?”

“Because you can break my heart, but I won’t let you break hers.”

I flinched from the words. But it was the pain behind them that killed me. Pain that I’d inflicted.

“I’m sorry,” Hollywood said. “I’m not trying to be harsh. I just want to protect Ruby, because she’s already so attached.”

“I’m attached too,” I said quietly. “I’m not leaving, Hendrix. I worked my ass off to get back here because this is where I want to be. With Ruby, yes. But mainly withyou.”

I hooked a hand around the nape of his neck and leaned in. He put a hand to my chest, holding me back.

“What are you saying, Tex? I don’t want any more misunderstandings. Tell me what you want.”

“I want you.”

Hollywood curled his hand in my shirt, much as he had the last time he’d kissed me, and pulled me toward him.

I skimmed my lips over his, heart thumping faster. This was it. I was going to taste those sweet lips again. When Hollywood kissed me that day three months ago, it’d scared the shit out of me because my first instinct had been to kiss him back. It ignited a craving I hadn’t been willing to acknowledge. I’d pushed my attraction down deep, making half a dozen excuses for why I liked to look at him more than other men, why I liked to be near him, to brush my hand against his. That one kiss erased all of them, leaving only the truth.

I wanted this man—and that wasn’t who I was. Or so I’d thought. Over the next three months, I’d come to realize I was bisexual. Not just because Hollywood had kissed me. There were dozens of small signs, all carefully ignored throughout the years, until the neon pulse of desire for Hollywood highlighted them.

My hand squeezed the back of Hollywood’s neck, holding him tightly—almost too tightly—but he didn’t complain. He let me keep him where I wanted him.

I expected him to kiss me like he had before, but he waited patiently as I skimmed my lips over his with featherlight touches. I kissed the corner of his lips, then his stubbled jaw, needing a moment to really process.

Hollywood made a small, needy sound as my lips hit the hollow under his ear.

“You like that,” I murmured against his skin.

“Yes,” he breathed, a little shiver going through him as I applied my teeth. “But…”

I drew back to meet his eyes, hazy with lust. “Tell me.”

“I need my mouth on you, too.”

“Fuck.” That went straight to my dick. My head spun as blood rushed south, the vision of Hollywood on his knees sucking my cock too powerful to ignore.

“Let me kiss you?” he pleaded. “If—if that’s okay?”

His hesitation, even now, made my chest tighten with regret.

“Ah, darlin’, you can do anything you want with me. I’m yours.”

He grasped my face in his hands, surging forward, but stopped just short of our lips meeting. “You won’t freak out?”

“No.”