Finding Mr. Right Now (17 page)

She stifled the sounds she wanted to make, trying to keep quiet in the stillness of the night, holding him hard by the shoulders. He moved his thumb across the sensitive skin, circling, rubbing, and she found she couldn’t stifle everything. Her back arched, her hips thrusting up against him.

“Easy,” he whispered. “Easy, sweetheart.”

“No,” she murmured. “Not easy. Not by a long shot. Don’t you dare take it easy.”

One long finger moved inside her, stretching, filling, setting off a new series of mini-explosions. His thumb still moved across her clit, and she pressed hard against him, pushing up beneath his hand. Her muscles began to tremble, the feeling surging from her core, inflaming, driving her up again.

“Wait,” he breathed against her ear. “Wait for me.”

“Hurry then,” she gasped. “Come with me.”

His hands left her and she moaned in protest. She could hear unzipping, then foil tearing, then the feel of his cock against her folds as he sheathed himself. He took hold of her hips, steadying her as he entered, probing slightly, letting her muscles adjust to him, and then plunging to the hilt.

Briefly, she wished that she could have seen him in the light. He felt thick, heavy, larger than she might have guessed. It stretched her wide, but not painfully. There was nothing remotely painful about it. She brought her knees up on either side, moving her hips to deepen the thrust, and then he touched something deep inside her that seemed to set off a series of explosions along her spine, liquefying her bones, turning her muscles to mush. She moaned once low in her throat, trying to keep from crying out. Then she grasped hold of his shoulders to anchor herself, suddenly feeling she might float away, weightless, boneless. His breath rasped against her cheek as he moved back and forth, and she found herself rising to meet him, her hips slapping against his.

His hands slid to her buttocks, his fingers digging in. She felt the pressure building again deep inside, carrying her up in a wave, up, up, up… She threw back her head, trying to strangle her cry, and then his mouth covered hers, drinking the sound, his moan matching hers. He moved convulsively against her, plunging deep, groaning again, against her ear this time as he finished.

For a moment they lay still, holding each other close, her forehead resting against his shoulder, her heels locked against the small of his back. “Holy shit,” he whispered. “That was…holy shit.” He took another deep breath, pressing his face against her hair. “Are you all right?”

She nodded, her mind suddenly a complete blank. She had no idea what to say after an experience like that.
Was it good for you
suddenly seemed like a supremely dumb question.

Paul’s lips whispered across her forehead. “Don’t go all silent on me, Monica. I need to know what you’re thinking here.”

She blew out a quick breath. “Um…whoa?”

He chuckled against her hair. “Okay, that pretty much sums it up I guess.” He leaned back against the side of the couch, shifting his weight, pulling her up against his body again. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to squash you.”

“You didn’t.” She ran her fingertips along his cheek, staring at his face in the shadows, the angles and hollows made stark in the dim light.

“Talk to me,” he said softly.

“I don’t…” She shook her head. “What do you want me to say?”

“How you feel, what you think.”

She narrowed her eyes. “Are you usually this talkative after sex?”

He frowned slightly, his brows drawing together. “Not that I recall, no. I just…I like to hear your voice.” He brought her hand to his mouth, pressing his lips against her fingers. “Particularly now. I can’t really see you here, so I need to hear you.”

Her lips curved into a smile, almost against her will. “I feel lovely, considering that I should be freezing and squashed and I’m not. And I think that was insane.”

His brows came together. “Insane good or insane crazy?”

The smile widened. “Both.”

He laughed softly. “But memorable, right?”

“Very memorable. And very insane.”

He stroked a hand along her side, his fingers drifting across her breast. “I don’t suppose there’s any way we could just stay out here all night.” He sounded halfway serious.

Monica sighed, leaning back against the couch again. “No, there is absolutely no way we could do that. As soon as the sun came up we’d be busted.”

One dark eyebrow arched up. “And I guess that would be a bad thing?”

“That would be a bad thing,” she said flatly. “Trust me.” Considering she’d just had sex with one of Ronnie’s official bachelors that would be a very bad thing. It would probably mean one less associate producer and one less writer.

“Oh well.” He sighed. “There’s always Elkhorn Run.”

“Where you’ll be living in the Bachelor House, and I’ll probably be doubled up in a motel room with someone in the crew.” She hadn’t really felt unhappy about that before. She definitely did now. “The logistics could be very tricky.”

“The Bachelor House?” He stared at her in the darkness. “What the hell is the Bachelor House?”

“It’s the equivalent of the Bachelorette House in
Finding Miss Right
. You know, the mansion where all the girls live together so they can be filmed being bitchy to each other.” She leaned her head back so that she could see his face more clearly. “Glenn’s putting all the guys together too.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“Nope.” She grinned. “You get to live with five other guys. Of course, you already know two of them, Brendan and Billy Joe.”

“Well, crap,” he muttered. “Not what I was expecting exactly.”

“No.” She ran her fingers across his cheek. “I’m sorry. This night may be all there can be for us.” The ache around her heart was back but she told herself to ignore it.

He caught her hand, bringing her fingers to his mouth again. “The hell it is. I’m telling you now. One way or another, you and I are going to be together at Elkhorn Run, even if I have to rent a room on my own somewhere.” He ran his tongue across her fingertips.

A quick jolt like an electric shock moved down from her stomach. “We can try, but they’ll be filming you most of the time. You may not have any chance.” Unless they got very, very lucky. Which she suddenly hoped they would.

He shook his head. “They won’t be filming me
all
of the time. And there will be a chance, lady. There will definitely be a chance.”

“Okay.” Her lips quirked up in spite of herself.

His eyebrow arched again. “Okay, you’ll come with me, or okay you’ll wait and see?”

“Okay…” She paused. Somewhere back toward the drive she heard the sound of crunching gravel. “Someone’s coming.”

“Shit.” He wrapped his arms around her, pulling her close. “Just be quiet.”

She heard voices now, a woman and a man. A very familiar woman. “It’s Ronnie,” she whispered.

“Shhhh.” He pressed his lips against her cheek.

The sound of feet climbing the front steps echoed down the length of the veranda. Monica couldn’t exactly make out what Ronnie and her escort were saying, but it sounded like Brendan. After a few moments, footsteps sounded on the stairs again. If it was Brendan, he was probably heading back to his B and B.

She lay still in Paul’s arms for a little longer, unsure whether Ronnie had gone inside or not.

After another moment, footsteps clicked down the veranda, heading in their direction. Monica’s heart promptly jumped to her throat. Paul tightened his hold, his lips next to her ear.

“It’s okay, just hang tough,” he whispered.

The footsteps stopped on the other side of the windows. Monica lay as still as she could. She felt an attack of hysterical giggles building in her chest.

“Monica?” Ronnie called softly. “I’m going to bed now. I’ll leave the light in the bathroom on so you can see. Good night.”

Her footsteps headed back down the veranda toward the front door again. They heard the sound of the door opening, then the gentle shush as it swung shut.

Monica fought to keep from whooping with laughter. The couch was already creaking dangerously from their combined snickering.

“Do you think…” Paul gasped. “Do you think maybe she suspects?”

Monica took a deep breath to relieve the pain of smothering her giggles. “Gee, ya think?” She sat up, pulling back from him slightly. “I probably need to go in now.”

He touched her cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers. “If you say so.”

“I do.” She pulled her shirt back down. The bra would just have to stay unfastened for now. “Thanks for a lovely evening.”

Paul began to laugh in earnest now, flopping onto his back, his hands on his stomach. “Oh God,” he muttered. “Sure. Any time. In fact, count on it, lady. Any time at all.”

He was still lying there, staring up at the sky, when she slipped back into the Praeger House and headed for her bedroom.

Chapter Twelve

Paul wasn’t exactly sure how he managed to wake up by seven the next morning. Maybe it was because he hadn’t really slept that much anyway. Thoughts of Monica and the veranda and the wicker couch and what the hell he was going to do about all of it pushed their way into his dream space.

As he walked downtown to find coffee and maybe a doughnut, he caught sight of a familiar figure—gray hair, beard, blue baseball cap, disreputable tennis shoes. Dick was heading into a small café down the street that had a scattering of umbrella tables on a deck outside. Paul tucked his cell phone in his jacket pocket and headed for the front door.

He followed Dick inside, grabbed a cup of coffee and a Danish, then stepped outside again to find a seat at one of the umbrella tables. After another five minutes or so, Dick emerged from the café, a white Styrofoam box in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

“Richard Sonnenfeld?” Paul pitched his voice so that Dick could hear him above the buzz of conversation.

Dick paused to look at him, then shrugged. “Yeah. So what?”

“I really liked
Stormy Wednesday
.” Paul took a sip of his coffee. Fortunately, it wasn’t scalding.
“
Glad to see it made the last AFI Best 100 Films list.”

Dick shrugged again. “Is that supposed to make me feel all warm and fuzzy? ‘Gee, you know my work—you must be a great guy’.”

Paul shook his head. “Not really. I don’t think ‘warm and fuzzy’ suits you. And I learned a long time ago you could like somebody’s work and still think they were a prime asshole. So…I like your work, Dick.”

Sonnenfeld threw his head back and laughed. “Not bad, kid. Nice wind-up. Good delivery of the punch line. Still doesn’t make us buddies.”

“Not one of my ambitions, Dick.” He tore off a bite of Danish.

Sonnenfeld sat down at the other side of the table, placing the Styrofoam container in front of him. “You still pissed about the girl, Miss Right or whatever the hell her name is? Because I made her cry?”

“Ah hell, anybody can make Ronnie cry.” Paul sipped his coffee again. “Take her to see
Bambi
, you’ll have buckets of tears. Take her to see
Toy Story 3
, and you might need smelling salts. She’s a crier, but she’s a lot stronger than she looks. She can take care of herself.”

Sonnenfeld’s ice blue eyes were surprisingly sharp. “The other one, then. The associate producer.”

Paul’s jaw firmed. “Monica doesn’t bounce back as easily. Picking on her is a lot nastier.”

Dick opened the Styrofoam, pulling out a plastic fork. “Hell, she’s a producer. It’s not like she’s never going to get kicked.”

“Yeah, and if she’d known you were a legendary former producer yourself, she’d probably figure you had some kind of professional bone to pick.” He tore off another bite. “But you let her think you were John Q. Public, man of the people, and that made her think you knew what you were talking about instead of just jerking her around for the fun of it.”

Sonnenfeld shrugged. “Maybe I am John Q. Public. As far as you know, I could be. I live in small town America, after all.” His eyes took on that same nasty sparkle they’d had the night before.

Paul leaned back in his chair for a moment. “First of all, I’d argue that Salt Box isn’t exactly Small Town America. And second, you’re no typical citizen. You’re in the business, for God’s sake, or you used to be. You know as well as I do most shows are a series of compromises, and some shows are pitched at a level that’s a lot lower than the average
New Yorker
reader. That doesn’t make them evil.”

“Evil’s in the eye of the beholder, kid, at least as far as TV’s concerned.” Sonnenfeld took a bite of scrambled eggs from his Styrofoam. “Some shows are evil from beginning to end. And some of them are just dumb. My guess is yours falls into the latter category. But that doesn’t make what you’re doing right.”

Paul narrowed his eyes. “So you’re on a crusade for honest, straight-forward television?”

Sonnenfeld gave him a dry smile. “No such thing, kid. Most of it’s crap, no matter what you do. Still, there’s a lot of crap in films today too.”