He pressed harder against me, rocking into me, his movements telling me he liked the way I touched him. Then he dropped his hands from my face, and seconds later, they’d found their way up my shirt, and under my bra.
He broke the kiss momentarily. “When you grope me like that, I hope you understand that it leaves me no choice but to feel your breasts,” he said, and maybe it was the scientist in me, but I loved that he didn’t say boobs or tits or girls or jugs or anything a thousand times worse or cringe-worthy. They were breasts, plain and simple. But then there was nothing plain or simple about how he touched them, kneading in slow motion with an appreciative groan.
“Damn, I love your breasts,” he said. He pushed up my shirt to my neck and buried his head between them, kissing one, then the other, lavishing a delicious amount of attention on each as he took turns with his mouth, lips, tongue, and hands, like he would never deprive one breast of attention for the other. What a gentleman, treating them both with lusty reverence. I let go of my hold on his firm ass to grab the back of his head and keep him buried against my chest. Everything he did to me felt so incredibly good, as if fireworks were having a fiesta inside my body. I wanted to do everything with him right now, but I also wanted to do precisely what we were doing. Devouring each other, and yet holding back, too.
Soon, he lifted his head, and his hair was messy and his eyes were hazy.
“You look really hot right now,” I whispered.
“You look really hot all the time.”
I ran the tip of my index finger lightly across the scrape on his forehead. “Your cut is fading,” I said, then pressed my lips gently to the mark on his skin. “I wanted to do that the day I met you,” I whispered.
“I wanted that, too.”
We kissed more, and it was the kind of kiss that marked the other side of the mad frenzy. It was the winding down, the after kiss, the I-can’t-stop-kissing-you-even-as-I-adjust-your-shirt-and-you-snap-your-bra-and-we-both-start-to-say-goodbye-to-the-other.
“I know what to enter you as in my phone,” he said, taking out his mobile, tapping something in the screen, then showing it to me.
“Claire Tinsley,” I read with a smile. “So you know this celebrity dog trainer?”
“I do. And I’m quite fond of her. But wait. Is she a friend of the bride or groom?”
I flashed him a smile. “Neither. She happens to know a private detective.”
“What a helpful private eye,” he added.
“He’s very helpful. And very handsome. He’s criminally handsome.”
He raised an eyebrow. “And she’s dangerously pretty, and I can’t wait to see her tomorrow.”
Weather: 70 degrees, Sunny
Early the next morning, I printed copies of the photographic evidence, then saved all the files on my hard drive and my online backup. With that done, it was time for my morning ritual of Hollywood brain exercises. I clicked over to my favorite entertainment news site and read a piece about who might be playing the Gretchen Lindstrom role in the remake of We’ll Always Have Paris. I scoffed at all the suggestions of too-young starlets. It was an affront that the classic movie—a true example of silver screen perfection—was being redone at all. But yet, I had to be conversant in the parlor talk of who should play the landmark role of the female lead. I jumped over to a story about The Weekenders, noting that Avery Brock—philandering toad, I mouthed as I read—was doing one more rewrite. That script must have been a hell of a train wreck for him to make changes this close to shooting.
I stared at the photos I’d shot one more time. The guy was a cheating scum and I hoped the real lesson learned would be to stop messing around. But then again, if people like Brock cleaned up their acts I might not have a job. We were all bottom feeders, needing each other in our sycophantic, symbiotic way.
I made a living off scum like him. His toad-like ways made my job possible.
My phone beeped, and a smile lit through me when I saw a note from HBG.
Just in case you were wondering, I’m glad it’s tomorrow right now.
I quickly replied: Me, too.
But then, a sliver of worry touched down in my belly. I didn’t know what I was doing with William, or why I was risking getting closer to him. I knew the dangers, I knew the stakes. The more time I spent with him, the more control I relinquished, like it was slipping through my fingers. If I kept letting go, would I spiral into a zone I’d clawed my way out of?
Maybe I could resist him romantically, I told myself. Maybe I could spend time with him planning for the wedding without liking him more and more.