Page 60 of Let’s Make a Scene

I have no idea how it will look on-screen. It feels utterly mad that it’s going to be on-screen at all, because the moment Jack’s mouth touched mine, I knew I wasn’t acting, and worst of all… I think he did too.

With a growl, I push my duvet away and swing my legs out of bed. The clock beside me says 1:25 a.m. in big red numbers. If I don’t get to sleep soon, I’m going to be totally useless tomorrow, and I cannot possibly have a repeat performance of today. My best bet is to go and hunt out some chamomile tea, and hope that it quiets my noisy brain.

Unsurprisingly, the whole, giant house is shrouded in darkness, and I stumble along the corridor and down the stairs as carefully as possible. When I reach the kitchen door, however, there’s already a narrow strip of light underneath it.

My fingers hesitate on the handle. With a curious sense of certainty, I know exactly who I will find in there. I could turn around, go back to bed, but I don’t. Instead I push the door open.

Jack is leaning back against the long kitchen counter, a glass of water at his side. He’s wearing a pair of soft plaid pajama bottoms and a worn gray T-shirt. His hair is mussed, like he’s been running his hands through it, like he couldn’t sleep either.

At the sight of me, his head snaps up, and there’s a look in his eyes that I can’t quite decipher. He stands up straight, every line of his body radiating tension.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, and his voice is hoarse.

I push the door gently closed behind me. “I couldn’t sleep,” I say, warily. “I came to get a cup of tea.”

I don’t understand the mood between us: it’s dark and snarled, a tangled web of unspoken things.

“Are you feeling better?” he asks stiffly.

“I’m fine.”

I take a step toward the kettle. Toward him. He doesn’t move.

“I hate this,” he says, his voice low, vicious.

I don’t need to ask what he means; I understand all too well. I take another step.

God, I want him. I want him so badly it’s painful, and I don’t want to want him.

“I hate this too,” I whisper.

Time stops. We stand, frozen, for half a heartbeat, then Jack comes violently away from the counter, and I leap at him. We crash into each other, his mouth coming down on mine, hot and relentless, and I curl my hands in his hair, pulling it hard enough that he gives a low moan against my lips.

I want to bite and scratch and claw at him. I want to tear him apart. I’m so feverish and so angry and his fingers on my skin feel so good. His hands move to my ass, and he lifts me, my legs wrapping around his waist as he pushes me back against the fridge door, a shock of cold metal pressed against my back. Jack rocks his hips and the sensation has more helpless noises escaping my mouth. He kisses my jaw, my neck, clamps his teeth lightly around my earlobe, and I wriggle against him, the friction right there where I want it.

Jack groans. “Just once,” he rasps. “Just one time to get it out of our systems.”

“Yes,” I pant, almost beyond thought. “Once. Now.”

My mouth finds his again, and I bite down on his bottom lip. His hand cups my breast over my thin pajama top, and when his thumb brushes across my nipple, I whimper. I’ve never felt like this before. I didn’t know I could feel like this.

He relaxes his hold on me for a moment, so that I slide down until my feet are back on solid ground. Our bodies are pasted together. He holds me there, caged against the fridge, and when he looks at me, I see my own wildness reflected back in his eyes. Before he can kiss me again, I grasp the bottom of his T-shirt, tugging it up in silent demand, and he’s happy to follow my lead, leaning back so that we can dispose of it, and his T-shirt is quickly followed by my own top. I run my fingers over the lean muscles of his chest, down his stomach, which ripples under my touch.

He bites out a curse, bends down, and flicks his tongue over my nipple.

The world goes fuzzy. I swear I can taste colors.

As his lips travel over my chest and throat, the sandpaper feeling of his jaw a delicious roughness against my skin, his fingers drop to my waist, dipping below the band of my pajama shorts. When he touches me, I think I’m going to come apart there and then.

“Oh my god, Cynthie,” he says, the words strangled. “You’re so wet.”

He slides one finger inside me. Two. I ride his hand, delirious. He crooks his fingers and I see stars. His mouth punishes mine in a hard, frantic kiss while he swallows all the needy little moans that slip from my lips, drinking them down like they taste delicious.

Past reason, I reach for his trousers, tugging them off. When I take him in my hand, he hisses. His eyes are pure, feral animal. There’s more kissing, more touching and it’s not gentle or tender; it’s increasingly desperate. We clash like we’re fighting, like we can’t get enough of each other.

Then, we’re on the floor, and he’s underneath me, gloriously naked, and my fingers wrap around his wrists, hard, pinning him to the ground as I straddle him, leaning down to sink my teeth into his shoulder.

Jack makes a sound like a snarl and rolls us so that I’m underneath him. He yanks my shorts off with such violence that I wonder if he’s ripped them clean in half. Not that I’d care either way, because now he’s here against me and there’s nothing between us, nothing at all.