Chapter Seven

Chapter Seven

I have to give Simon credit for not pushing me.

“I don’t want to talk about it now,” I’d said. “I know it will help you keep me safe—I really do. And I’ll tell you tomorrow after the conference. I’m only on deck in the morning. We can leave by lunch, and I’ll tell you everything. I just need…” I’d sucked in a lungful of air and tried to keep the tears at bay. “I’ve never talked about it since—well, in a really long time. And I try not to think about it. I just need a little time. Please? Please can I have a little time?”

For a moment, I thought he was going to say no. To tell me that he had to know. That it was the only way he could do his job. But he didn’t say that. Instead, he’d nodded, then said, “It’s okay. I’ve got your back.”

I’ve got your back.

That was over two hours ago, and I’m still holding his words close as I’m tucked up in the guest bedroom. Because the truth is, I can’t remember the last time it felt like anyone truly had my back. My agent, maybe. But that’s her job. Other than that? Well, I’ve been pretty much flying solo for years.

I think of Carolyn, my childhood bestie, and squeeze my eyes shut. I hate this. The memories that stupid reporter is dredging up. The note that’s probably just bullshit but gets me in the gut. Fear and anger and betrayal.

And secrets. Always secrets.

I’m surprised that I genuinely want to tell Simon tomorrow. I’ve held on to these secrets too long, and I don’t know how to let go. But knowing that Simon will catch me…that feels pretty damn nice.

I don’t realize that I’ve gotten out of bed. I’m tired—mentally and physically exhausted—but my body has other plans, and before I realize it, I’m in my robe and at the door. I hesitate, then push it open, walking the short distance from my guest room to the master bedroom at the end of the hall. I’m hoping the door is open a crack—I can’t tell in the dim lighting—because then it’s like permission to go inside.

But it’s not. It’s closed tight, though I don’t know if it’s locked or not.

I want to turn the knob and find out, but that’s going too far. I hesitate, letting the thought settle. With any other man, I wouldn’t even pause. I’d just turn the knob, go inside, and get into his bed. I know what I want, after all, and I’m more than comfortable taking charge.

I close my hand around the knob, telling myself I should do just that. I’m naked beneath the robe, and I close my eyes, feeling my body respond to the thought of finding him there. Of letting the robe fall off my shoulders. Of sliding under the covers with him, my hand closing around his cock as my lips find his.

Of taking what I want, just like I always have, then snuggling up close and telling him my secrets.

I have a reputation for seducing my co-stars, after all, so I know I can do this. I can make him hot. Make him hard. And it doesn’t have to mean anything.

I never go after a co-star who’s involved, because I don’t believe in fucking up someone else’s relationship. But there’s an intimacy in working together on a film, and being intimate in bed just helps that relationship. That trust.

Which is what I tell them, but it’s bullshit.

The truth is I like being in control. I like knowing that I’m the one taking the lead. I’m the one doing the seducing. Because if that’s the case, then I’m not the one getting hurt.

Except that’s not what I want now. Not with Simon. I don’t want to be the one pushing and taking and claiming. I want to be the one who surrenders.

That word comes back to me. What he’d said at my house. That one simple word that had pissed me off even as much as it had turned me on, even though he hadn’t been talking about sex at all.

Obey.

I shiver, my nipples tightening, my whole body suddenly aware. I close my hand on the knob again, but I don’t turn. I can’t—I won’t—be the one who pushes. Not with him. Not the first time.

I fullyintend to head back to my own room, but somehow I don’t end up there. Instead, I go to the back door, then look out at the dark night, illuminated only by the dim glow from a partial moon.

I don’t even realize I’ve opened the door until I’m outside, the air warm around me. I sigh, then step off the patio so that my bare feet are in the thick, trimmed grass. I lean back against the post and close my eyes, the grass beneath me and the sky above me, and Simon in the house looking over me.

I feel safe. Taken care of. And that’s not a feeling I’m used to.

I want him.

I want him, but I need to stop. He’s my bodyguard. He’s here to protect me. But he doesn’t want me. I’m not even sure he likes me, though we’ve at least reached a détente.

So I need to stop thinking like that because I don’t need the frustration, and I need to just get the fuck over it.

I’m about to push away from the post and head back inside to bed when I feel a hand on my shoulder. I start to cry out, but another hand closes over my mouth, and in that instant, I know just how badly I screwed up. I’d been safe in his house, but out here—out under the sky—I’m a target, and I—

“You shouldn’t be out here.”

My entire body goes limp with relief, and I draw in a breath as he removes his hand from my mouth.

“I know. I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.” I tense, readying myself for the verbal lashing as he tells me what an idiot I was.

But that’s not what he says. Instead, he says, “Why didn’t you come in?”

“What—”

“I heard you outside my room,” he says. “I could practically feel your desire. But you walked away.”

I want to tell him he’s wrong. That he’s too damn arrogant for his own good.

Except he’s not wrong at all, and right then, I can barely form words, much less think clearly.

He’s still behind me, my head against the post. He trails his hands down my arms, then stops near my waist. Before I even realize his hands have moved, he’s holding the sash. “Your call, sweetheart,” he whispers, his voice soft near my ear. I should say no. I should tell him this is unprofessional and we can’t go there.

I should tell him I don’t want him at all.

Instead, I say, “Yes. Oh, yes, please.”

I hear his low, sensual growl as he opens the robe, then I whimper as his hands stroke my skin, his fingers slipping lower until he’s stroking the juncture between my sex and my thigh, and I’m going crazy, desperate to feel him against my clit. Desperate for his fingers—his cock—to be deep inside me.

Then his hands are gone, and he’s standing in front of me. “Simon,” I beg. “Please.”

He moves closer, then opens the robe more so that my breasts are completely exposed. His gaze roams over me, slow and easy, as if he’s assessing where to touch me. How to make me melt. And I want to. Dear God, I want to melt.

“Touch yourself,” he says.

My eyes go wide. “What?”

“Your fingers. Your breasts. Your pussy.”

I shiver from the heat in his words. “Simon…”

“Either obey me or say no, and we stop right now. Those are your only choices.”

I bite my lip, but I also close my eyes as I slip my fingers between my legs, then gasp when I brush my clit, and my whole body sparks.

“Oh, baby,” he says, his hands going to my hips. “Keep your eyes closed.”

“Okay.”

“Excuse me?”

I fight a smile, remembering the way he’d ordered me to obey him. And the way it had turned me on even as it pissed me off.

Right now, it only turned me on. “Yes, sir.”

“Better,” he says, his tongue teasing my navel. “Put your hands on your breasts. Play with your nipples. And spread your legs for me.”

I do, more turned on than I’ve ever been. Never once have I let a man take so much control, and it’s everything I can do not to cry out as his hands slide around to cup my ass and his tongue teases my clit. I lean back, surrendering. Ready to let him do anything and everything. Willing to let him completely own me.

As if he can read my thoughts, he says, “I spent some time reading about you. About how you fuck your co-stars. How you seduce them. Is it true?”

“Mostly, yes.”

“Why?”

“I like being in control,” I admit.

“Who’s in control now?”

“You are.” My voice is little more than a breath.

“And do you like it?”

“God, yes.”

“Should I stop? Should I surrender to you?”

I reach out and grab his hair, my voice almost panicky as I say, “No. Please, Simon, no.”

“And the alcohol? The drugs? There are stories about you getting drunk and passing out in a hot tub. That’s dangerous stuff.” His fingers thrust deep inside me, and I groan, arching back as I grind against his hand. “A hell of a lot more dangerous than I am.”

“It’s not true,” I say, barely managing to get the words out.

“Don’t lie to me. Never lie to me.”

“I’m not. It never happened. I—I’m careful, and I don’t do drugs. We’d been filming, and I was exhausted. I fell asleep in the hot tub, but that was all. And someone posted a picture, and the rumor got started.”

“And you let it go.”

“Yes,” I whisper, my hips moving. I want more. I want the explosion. I want him.

“You’re not as wild as you like people to think. You’re playing the game. You’ve played it your whole life.”

“Yes.”

“You don’t get to play it with me.”

There’s an edge to his voice, and I open my eyes. He’s looking up at me, and it’s more than just desire I see there. “So this isn’t a game?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer. Instead, he bends forward, his tongue teasing my clit as his fingers find my G-spot. I writhe against him, that pressure building. My nipples going tight, my body going tense as the explosion comes closer and closer and closer until—

He pulls away, and I hear myself whimper.

He stands, then kisses me, his hand cupping my sex. “Goodnight, Frannie,” he whispers, and his use of my nickname again after I’d snapped at him has me melting even more.

His lips brush my ear. “And no finishing yourself off.” He pulls back to meet my eyes. “Obey,” he says, then heads back inside, leaving me hot and needy and desperately wanting him.