Not that April couldn’t do without him when he was filming elsewhere. He’d been lonely so many years before meeting her, though. Too many to easily accept months spent apart, especially if alternatives were available.
When he’d first tentatively broached the idea of coproducing and starring in a new version of the Aeneid alongside Carah as Dido and Summer as Lavinia, April had laughed and laughed until she’d literally collapsed onto their bed and cried with yet more laughter.
“You—” After wiping her face, she’d tried again. “You realize this is basically one big fix-it fic in response to Gods of the Gates, right?”
Well, he hadn’t thought about it that way, but . . .
“Kind of?” He’d winced. “I guess?”
“God, you are the cutest,” April had informed him, and then she’d pulled him down onto the bed on top of her, and the conversation had abruptly ended.
The memory of that evening was more than pleasant. It was downright motivational.
Accordingly, he rearranged his body slightly on the couch, angling himself toward April. She was still watching him, rather than ducking behind her laptop screen and tapping on her keyboard, and he took full advantage of his opportunity.
One hand still behind his head, he trailed the other down the center of his bare chest, stopping just above the waist of his low-slung jeans.
Her breath audibly caught, and he grinned at her, slow and hot.
Then a phone dinged. “Yours or mine?” he asked.
She glanced across the table. “Mine. My mom.”
It went to voicemail, as her mother’s calls often did.
Only now, after two years, was JoAnn able to conduct occasional conversations without a single reference to weight loss or exercise. As soon as those subjects arose, April promptly hung up, but the older woman never seemed to learn.
Nevertheless, April continued giving her mother chance after chance to change.
“In the end, it’s not really about me,” she’d explained after yet another truncated conversation. “It’s about her own fears. I’m not sure she even realizes she’s doing it.”
But April didn’t always have the energy or inclination to discover whether JoAnn could abide by her boundaries for the length of a phone call, and on those days she’d let her cell ring itself into silence.
Marcus wished she’d just block JoAnn once and for all, but it wasn’t his decision.
At least they didn’t visit in person anymore. Not after that first disastrous lunch, where JoAnn had kept nervously pointing out low-calorie menu options to her daughter.
Under the table, he’d taken April’s hand in his. She’d clenched it tight enough to hurt.
Then she’d let go, stood, slung her purse over her shoulder, and walked out of the restaurant without another word.
The older woman had started crying at the table, small and curled in on herself, and he’d wanted to feel sorrier for her than he did. But he’d witnessed April’s brittle rage and grief after that disastrous birthday visit, seen her naked and shaking and suddenly, uncharacteristically unsure he’d still want her under bright lights, and no.
No, he wasn’t any more forgiving toward JoAnn than April was toward his own parents.
“JoAnn,” he’d said before following April out the door. “Please do better than this. If you don’t, you’ll find yourself without a daughter, no matter how much she loves you.”
That night, April had huddled in his arms under an enormous mound of blankets, cold in a way he’d experienced only once before.
“I’m not doing that again,” she’d whispered against his neck, eventually.
He’d laid his cheek on the top of her head. “You don’t have to.”
Fortunately, despite the interruption of her mother’s phone call, she didn’t appear cold now. Not in any sense. Everywhere her eyes lingered on his seductively posed body, heat flushed along his skin and burned a path straight to his hardening cock.
“My goodness, Grandmother.” Her voice a low purr, she pushed back her chair and eyed the growing bulge in his jeans. “What a big—”
A phone dinged. Again.
Closing his eyes, he pinched his forehead.
“Yours or mine?” “Yours. Let me see who it is.” There was a moment of silence. “Shit. Marcus, I think—” Footsteps, and then his phone landed on his belly. “I think you should look at the message.”
Reluctantly, he opened his eyes and checked his screen, stroking her hip with his free hand and hoping she wouldn’t cool off during the interruption. Other than their Innocent Driller and Lustful Geologist role play, the Little Red Riding Hood game was his favorite, bar none.
Once he saw who’d sent the message, he sat up so fast, April jumped.
“E. Wade wrote me.” Agape, he stared at his phone. “Why did E. Wade write me?”
She rolled her eyes. “There’s at least one obvious way to find out, Caster-Hyphen-Rupp.”
Activating the text-to-speech function on his cell, he set the phone on the coffee table and turned up the speaker’s volume.
Hello, Marcus, the author had written. Please forgive the intrusion, but I heard your adaptation of Virgil’s Aeneid is coming out soon, and I wanted to congratulate you. Your portrayal of Aeneas was one of the few highlights of that damnable show, and I’m eager to see what you can do with the character given minimally competent scripts.
April was beaming down at him, pride shining in her soft brown eyes, and he took her hand and pulled her onto his lap. Cuddled close, she listened to the rest of the message in his arms, softness against muscle, heat to heat.
If you ever decide to write your own scripts, a bit of advice to keep in mind: As we’re both aware—all too aware—some scriptwriters believe death and misery and stagnation are more clever, more meaningful, and more authentic to reality than love and happiness and change. But life isn’t all misery, and finding a path through hard, hard lives to joy is tough, clever, meaningful work. Yours sincerely, E. Wade.
He opened his mouth, but didn’t have time to say anything before the message continued.
P.S. I like your fics, but they need more sex. Just FYI.
P.P.S. If you want tips on those scenes, both your fiancée and Alex Woodroe possess quite a talent for them.
Aghast, he met April’s wide-eyed gaze. “E. Wade knows I write Gates fanfic.”
“E. Wade thinks I have a talent for explicit fucking,” April countered. “Please put that on my gravestone.”
Ah. A timely reminder of the game-in-progress Wade’s message had almost derailed.
Ducking his head, he trailed his mouth up the curve of her neck. “You do have a talent for explicit fucking. I can say that for a fact.”
She laughed. Then, when he nipped her earlobe and licked the sting away, she shivered.
Urging her down onto the sofa, he tugged off her lounge pants and panties and spread her pale, round thighs. He stroked down those thighs, then slowly back up, watching every inch of flesh pass beneath his hands.
Her voice was choked. “My goodness, Grandma, what big”—as he knelt close, gaze hot on his fingers toying between her legs, her breath caught in a whimper—“eyes you have.”
He looked up and met her own eyes. This time, as always, he gave the phrase all the emphasis it deserved, meaning every word. “All the better to see you with, my dear.”