The consummate pro at the mic, Bellamy comes across as edgy but fair—which makes it nearly impossible to get a read on whether she thinks my livelihood is utter garbage or if I’ve changed her mind.
“The pleasure was all mine,” I say, and I hope the result will be pleasurable too, when she airs the piece.
She takes off her headphones and turns off her mic. I do the same.
“Better than having your teeth pulled?” she asks.
“I can’t say. I’ve never had a cavity. But I suspect, yes.”
She shoots me a saucy stare. “You show-off with your perfect dental health.”
I laugh, flashing her my pearly-white grin. “It’s all part of the . . . spark.”
Her expression softens. “You make some good points about spark.”
I’d like to make all the points.
And yup, there goes the brain. My thoughts are most decidedly back on sex now. But hey, the interview is over, so the sex brain is allowed to step up to the plate.
“Some sparks are undeniable,” I say in a low voice as I push out of the chair.
As she stands, she reaches for her bag from the floor. “Can’t disagree,” she murmurs as she slings it on her shoulder when a thunk hits my ears.
My eyes snap to the noise. Her phone must have slipped out of the pocket and hit the floor. I bend, reaching for it at as she does. We’re both kneeling, inches from each other.
Our eyes lock. Her gaze is stripped bare. That gamesmanship is gone from her face. “Such a shame you wouldn’t give me your number when we met,” I whisper.
A vein in her neck pulses, and it’s so fucking sexy. “What would you have done with it?”
“You know what I would have done, Bellamy.”
She shakes her head. “I have no idea,” she says, a little smoky.
“Called you that night,” I say.
“You wouldn’t have texted me?”
“Texting’s for men who don’t know what they want.”
The air between us crackles and neither one of us moves. “What do you want, Easton?” Her question is full of delicious import. Full of possibilities.
“To do something about this chemistry,” I say roughly, making my meaning clear.
The silence expands between us as the temperature in the studio kicks up.
With a soft shudder, she whispers a command. “Do it.”
Enough said.
I lean into her right as she parts her lips. In a hot second, our mouths fuse together. Her soft lips slide over mine. I kiss her a little harder, savoring all the flavors of her kiss. The hint of cinnamon in her mouth, the honeysuckle from her lotion. Most of all, the pure sex appeal of Bellamy Hart as she melts into an afternoon kiss in my arms.
She wobbles a bit because we’re still kneeling. I drop a hand to her hip, holding her tight. “Thanks,” she whispers.
“Anytime,” I say, then return to her lips.
I graze my thumb along her jaw, then thread my fingers through her hair. A sexy gasp escapes her throat, and I want to linger in the decadence of this moment. The softness of her breath. The spike of my pulse. Every second of this kiss is like taking time to eat a delicious bar of chocolate, relishing every bite.
I don’t want to miss a single thing about this kiss. I want to experience all of it, from her tongue slipping inside my mouth to her hands on my knees.
But my favorite part comes when her palm slides up my thigh.
Oh yes, sweetheart. Travel anywhere you want. You can visit any place on the map of me.
Her hand roams up my leg, higher and higher, and we kiss deeper, our mouths turning urgent, frenzied. Sighs and moans sound between us. Breath rushes in and out.
A hot spark sizzles down my spine, and my cock thumps in my jeans.
Squeak.
The door groans open, a heavy push across the carpet.
We scramble apart. I jump to my feet and she does the same, both of us catching our breath. Moving away from the entry, I smooth a hand over my jeans.
Bellamy tucks her hair behind her ears as a man in horn-rimmed glasses steps into the studio. He sweeps his gaze over her, head to toe then back again, like he’s enjoying the view.
“Oh, hey there, Bell. So good to see you. Lucky me that you’re still here.” He sounds like he’s been waiting all day to catch a glimpse of her and doesn’t even look to see if anyone else is here.
“I was just leaving, David,” she says, her voice strained. There’s no returned warmth in her tone. Does she sound that way because he nearly caught us? Because he’s her producer? Or for some other reason? That last possibility nags at me as he stares at her, possession in his eyes.
She doesn’t look his way at all. She looks anyplace else.
“No need to rush out,” he says, missing or ignoring her discomfort. “We can hang together the rest of the afternoon, go over the script and stuff in my office. Order something for dinner if we need to work late. No hurry, Bell.” The man’s tone is way too suggestive, and his stare hits ogle territory and lingers before he bothers to look at anything else in the studio. Then, his grin vanishes in the blink of an eye. “Oh.”
His gray eyes laser in on my face like an inspection. What the hell? Is he checking to see if her whisker burn matches my stubble?
He jerks his focus back to Bellamy. “I didn’t realize you weren’t alone.”
“I’m . . . not.” She seems uncomfortable, but she’s holding herself carefully, like she doesn’t want to rock the boat.
“Hey, there. How are you doing?” I ask him, because one of us should be polite. Maybe that will remind him there is someone else in the room besides her.
The guy doesn’t answer me. “Do you want Vietnamese or maybe Italian tonight? Italian is your favorite, right? You pick and we can dive into your script as long as we need.”
She mumbles something that sounds like doesn’t matter.
“Well, with as pretty a shirt as that, let’s not risk the red sauce,” he says, adding a wink.
I’m certain of two things—this sleazeball thinks he can fuck her, and he makes Bellamy feel awful. When he’s around, a different side of her comes out. She mumbles and stares at her shoes, shifting away from the confident woman she is. I wish she weren’t bothered by him so much.
But there’s a thing I know too. If I can help her, I will. “Ms. Hart, if you’d like to continue our interview, I’m happy to stay for longer.” I try to catch her eye, hoping she gets my meaning.
I’ll be your out to escape this fucker if you need me to.
She shakes her head. “I’m good. Thank you.”
As much as I don’t want to, I leave. Because that’s what she wants.
18
Inappropriate
As I walk away from the studio, I replay that encounter. The first time, I simmer. But the next few times, I turn angrier.
I can’t fucking believe he’s doing that.
You don’t compliment the clothes of a female co-worker.
Not like that. With sex in your voice.
You don’t give her a nickname while you invite her to a late dinner in your fucking office.
And you don’t stare like that.
But just because I know these rules and live by them doesn’t mean I know what to do when I see them broken in front of me. More to the point, it doesn’t mean I know what Bellamy or any other woman would want me to do.