Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67429 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
I narrow my eyes as it starts dawning on me. “Tell me something, Ford. Who are all those execs staying at the Four Seasons?”
“My employees.”
“Aha.” I’m still digesting all of this.
He’s the boss. I look at the emblems of some blockbuster movies on the back of the director and producer’s chairs. “You produced those?” I point at the action-packed thrillers.
“My blockbusters help finance my documentaries.” He gives me an arrogant, proud, lopsided smile that for some reason makes my nipples bead.
Okay. So … you learn something new every day, right? Like the guy you’re crushing on is some hotshot movie/documentary/film mogul. What the… fudge?
“From the top,” Ian announces.
The cameraman moves from side to side as the camera rails swing him up and down and front to back.
As interviews and shots of garbage in its multiple forms appear, I see Ian hanging back, taping with his phone. I walk around the set and twirl and practice my moves for any future auditions. I’ve been doing this for a while before I realize he’s got his camera trained on me.
“Mr. Ford,” I warn him with a glare.
He doesn’t stop filming, just gives me one of his sardonic smiles from behind the phone.
I cover my face. Ian crooks a finger. I drop my hands at my sides with a sigh and walk forward and look at him in the camera eye, licking my lips seductively. He stops filming and lowers his phone, tsks, but smiles as he shakes his head. “Are you hungry?”
“Starved.”
He reaches into a cooler in the back of a crew van and hands me lunch in a paper bag.
I groan. If I thought he’d take me out of here to eat somewhere, I was wrong. It’s going to be a long day.
* * *
It’s evening, and I’ve eaten three chicken sandwiches, and watched Ian in action, and practiced all my moves, and learned a lot about garbage. I curl up on the passenger seat of Ian’s Mercedes SUV as we head to his townhome.
He drives with one hand on the wheel, the window partly down, letting in the cool air. After finding a parking spot only two homes away from his brownstone, he helps me out, and I’m sleepy and tired, but I don’t want to go home just yet. I enjoy being with him too much, and I crave his touch like oxygen.
He walks me in, and I almost melt when I see a brand-new couch waiting in the living room. A Cloud.
I smile up at him in surprise, and when he winks, my smile fades as my heart begins to pulse madly with yearning, and I admit, “I had a good time today.”
“I enjoyed you being there.” We head to the couch, his gaze running over me. “I could hardly take my eyes off you.”
“’Cause I’m the only lunatic who starts dancing with no music.”
“I’m the lunatic who can’t get enough of it.” His smile changes to a frown as he rethinks his words. “No. Not a lunatic. I feel saner than I ever have in my life.”
We stare at each other.
“This feels right.”
I nod, our eyes holding. The moment is suddenly too intimate for me to stand. “You mean your couch. Feels right.”
He dips his head slightly, a smile ruffling his lips. We both know we don’t mean the couch.
His expression turns serious, his eyes burning with smoldering intensity as he rubs his thumb across my lower lip.
“I’ve been hungering for this.”
“Me too.” I let my tongue come out, to lick his thumb.
He likes it, smiles. My insides melt under the force of that smile.
I’m not sure this casual dating thing is working for me. I think of him all the time, and not just for this—although this seems to be the only outlet I have for these feelings inside me.
I reach out, craving his touch, and the need to touch him is too much. I urge his shirt up the waistband of his slacks; then I push the fabric up his chest and Ian pulls it over his head with a tug. The movement messes up his hair, and it ends up tousled and gorgeous as he stands before me in nothing but his slacks.
“Here. Give me this,” he says, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger and tipping my face back to take from my lips what he hungers for. I don’t know what it is he hungers for—my taste or my lips or my lust or the way I respond to him without hesitation. Maybe he hungers to simply drive me wild. But I give him everything because I hunger for all of that from him, too.
The way he tastes me like I’m a perfect morsel. The way he kisses me like he’s burning up with passion and I’m the cause. The way he holds my face so that there’s no escaping his kiss or his passion.