Playing With Her Heart (20 page)

Then I stand up
straight, open the door, and head back into the hall. It’s
empty—everyone must be gathered on the stage now. I hold my head up
high, my spine straight, and remind myself that everything is fine.

There’s a hand on my
waist. Gripping me. I spin around, and Davis is staring hard at me.
He pulls me into a dressing room and shuts the door behind me. It’s
empty, but the exposed bulbs are bright and glaring on one of the
mirrors. Makeup and brushes are littered across the counter.

He backs me up against
the closed door, caging me in, his arms on either side of me as he
presses his hands against the door. My pulse speeds up.

“You were out with
him weren’t you?”

I narrow my eyes.
“Yes,” I say indignantly. “What difference does it make to
you?”

“Were you on a date?”

“Why should I tell
you?”

“Did he take you out?
Did he romance you? Did he kiss you?” he asks, and his face is
tortured as he asks the last question. He breathes out hard, almost
feral. I don’t answer him. He doesn’t deserve an answer.

But he wants one badly.
His eyes are blazing at me, and his hands are shaking. He’s so mad
he’s shaking. His voice is low and measured as he bites out the
next words. “Did. He. Kiss. You?”

Anger rises up in me
like a thick plume. I don’t like being talked to this way. “Why
should I tell you? You don’t take me out. You don’t call me. You
don’t even text me,” I say as if that proves all my points.

He scoffs. “I should
send you texts with smiley faces? That would change things?”

“No,” I spit back.
“But you’re acting like you own me. And you don’t. You don’t
own me just because you want to fuck me.”

He heaves a rough sigh
and looks away, his lips pressed tight together as if he’s trying
to collect himself. He looks back at me, almost forcing himself to
calm down. “I can’t stand the thought of him kissing you. I can’t
stand the thought of his hands on you. I can’t stand the thought of
anyone’s hands on you.” He brings a hand to my shoulder blade,
traces my collarbone with his knuckles. “Except mine,” he says in
a rough voice, as he trails his fingers down to my waist then wraps
them around my hip. He bends his head to my ear, and whispers
harshly. “I can still taste you.”

His words make me
lightheaded, and my knees nearly buckle. I feel like my world has
been twisted inside out, and I’ve lost all sense of direction. I
can’t find my way through anymore. “Why are you doing this to
me?” I ask him in a strained voice.

“What am I doing to
you, Jill? Tell me. Tell me what I’m doing to you.”

“Acting like this.”

“How am I acting?”
His question is half-curious, half-demanding. As if he can’t go on
until he knows the answer.

He’s still inches
away from me. His eyes are so dark they’re nearly black now, but
they don’t let me go. Won’t let me go. And he’s so near to me
that I can smell his anger, his heat. I can smell how much he wants
me too. His shirt collar is open, unbuttoned once, exposing a patch
of skin below his throat. I could press my lips to him, taste him,
run the tip of my tongue over him. See how he reacts to me.

“Like a jealous
lover,” I answer, and I don’t bother to mask my anger either.

He pushes a hand
through his hair then lets go, his fingers now touching my face.
Gently. Tracing the outline of my cheek. Then my jaw. Then across my
lips. I wish it didn’t feel so good.

“Maybe I am,” he
whispers. “Maybe that’s how I feel about you.”

I clench my teeth,
place a hand on his chest, ready to push him away. “But don’t you
get it? You don’t have the right to be. All we do is find each
other in the dark. In hallways. In dressing rooms. In stairwells.
You’re not allowed to be jealous about what I do.” Then I pause
for effect and add bitterly, “You don’t even date actresses.
You’ve told me that. You said that to me. Hell, even Shelby knows
that.” I hold out my hands wide as if to say
so there
.

He grabs my hands,
laces his fingers through mine, and brings our clasped hands to his
chest. I look down at our linked fingers, surprised to see him make
such an intimate gesture in such an angry moment. This isn’t what I
thought would come next. Then he squeezes my fingers, as if he’s
pleading for me to understand him. “Do you want to know the reason
why?”

“Yes,” I say,
letting go of all my anger. Because beneath my frustration, the
simple truth is I desperately want him to tell me. I think I know the
answer. But I want to hear it from him, not from gossip. I want to
know him. I want him to trust me. I want him to know I can be that
person.

“Because I was
wrecked the last time I did,” he says, and his face softens as he
admits that, and I can tell how hard it is for him to say. Instinct
takes over, and I tighten my hold on his hands, letting him know I’m
listening. “And I don’t want to feel like a fucking mess again.
Not if I can help it. Not if I can stop it. But I can’t get you out
of my mind, Jill, and I haven’t been able to for a long, long time.
And I don’t want anyone else touching you but I don’t want anyone
else going out with you either, whether it’s to bowling or even to
mini golf,” he says with a borderline sneer, as if mini golf is the
worst idea in the world.

“Hey, what’s wrong
with mini golf?” I tease, breaking the intensity of the moment.

“Nothing. If you go
with me,” he says, and the anger is gone now. “And I don’t want
you having dinner with anyone else either. So you’re going to make
me break all my rules of self-preservation right now.” Then his
expression changes and he looks so vulnerable for the first time.
“Have dinner with me, please.” His voice rises the slightest bit
as he lets down his guard for me.

For me.

It guts me, his
honesty. The way he’s taking a chance. How it changes everything if
I go out with him.

“So you want to date
an actress after all?” I say with a curve in my lips so he knows
where I’m going. I already know my answer, but I can’t resist
flirting with him.

“Yes. You,” he
says, and now the nerves have vacated, and he’s back to all
confidence and control. “I want to send a car for you, and I want
you to wear a dress, and I want you to know I’ll be imagining how
you look sliding into the car and being driven over. And I want you
to be thinking about me on the way, and counting down the seconds til
you walk into the restaurant. Because I’ll be there already. I’ll
be at the bar, waiting to watch you walk in. And I’ll know you’re
there because all the heads will turn around to look at you. Then
I’ll do the same. And I’ll be the one you’re coming to be with.
You’ll walk over to me, and they’ll all want to know what that
guy has because the most beautiful, breathtaking woman is walking
over to him. To be with him,” he stops for a beat, and I let the
words wash over me, the way he’s making me melt for him as he lays
his heart on the line. “Say yes, Jill. Say yes to me.”

I have goose bumps over
every inch of my skin. The soft little hairs on my arms stand on end,
and I am breathless. I can’t say anything to him but yes. I want
the same thing he wants.

More.

“You know my answer,
Davis,” I say.

“Say yes,” he
implores me one more time.

“Yes.”

He relaxes into me, as
if all the tension is now seeping out of his body with my one-word
answer.

“But now I want you
to say yes to something,” I say, and I finger the collar of his
crisp, white shirt.

He raises an eyebrow,
inviting me to say more.

“I want to unbutton
your shirt. I want to feel your chest against my hands.”

“We have to get back
out there though,” he says, but I’m already making quick work of
the first button. He breathes out, and I can tell that he’s giving
in to me, that he can’t
not
give in to me right now. “But
Shannon can handle it,” he says, answering for himself. Then the
words trail off like vapor as I undo each button, spreading apart the
fabric, and revealing his chest to me for the first time.

I’ve felt him through
his shirt plenty of times. I’ve outlined his muscles with my hands.
But there’s always been a barrier. Now there’s none as I reach
his waist, and he helps me by untucking his shirt from the waistband
of his dark gray pants. There. Now he’s mine to look at, and he’s
so gorgeous it makes my heart hurt.

Then it stops hurting
as a warm flush spreads through me because I’m going to that place
again. To that place I go only with him, where the heat between us
takes over, and cocoons us. He closes his eyes, letting himself savor
my touch as I run my index finger down the line of his chest, through
the slightest bit of hair, down to his flat abs, stopping at that
delicious V even though I don’t want to stop. His skin is smooth,
and he’s so toned, and he clearly takes care of his body because
he’s carved and cut and I want to bend down and trail my tongue
across his flat belly and all the way up his chest. I want to kiss
him everywhere. I want to touch him everywhere. I want to know his
body.

He lets out a low growl
as I explore his chest, then my hands have a mind of their own and I
push his shirt down to his elbows, feeling his strong, toned arms.
Every inch of him I’ve seen is beautiful, and I want so deeply to
know what all of him looks like.

But I respect his
boundaries. I understand that this is all he’ll allow, so I pull
his shirt back up, then button my way down. He tucks it into his
pants and I adjust the collar, smoothing it out.

Then I cup his cheeks
in my hands. He inhales sharply, but doesn’t close his eyes,
doesn’t look away.

“Davis,” I say
softly. “You have to know you’re beautiful too.”

“Thank you,” he
says, leaning into my palm on his face.

“I want you to kiss
me now. I want you to kiss me slowly. Kiss me like I’m the woman
you’re breaking all your rules for.” I tilt my chin and bring my
lips to his, and he kisses me, a soft, tender kiss that I never want
to end.

But soon it does.

Only, instead of
leaving the dressing room, he leans over to lock the door.

I raise an eyebrow.

“This will only take
a few minutes,” he says with a glint in his eye. “Besides, I need
to make up to you properly.”

“You do?”

“I need to show you
how contrite I am for behaving like a jealous ass,” he says, then
places his hand on my shoulders and gently turns me around so I’m
facing the door. He runs his hand down my back, sending shivers
through my whole body, as a delicious pull begins in my belly. He
pushes up my sweater, unhooks my bra, and loops his hands around to
cup my breasts.

I gasp and close my
eyes as he palms my breasts, teasing my nipples with his fingers
until they harden into peaks.

“Is this how you say
you’re sorry?” I say, as my breathing grows shallow.

“No.” He brings his
mouth to my upper back, and trails hot kisses down my spine. I
whimper as he licks his way down my back, then as his quick hands
undo my jeans. He pushes them down to my knees, and does the same
with my pink panties. I move with him, letting him touch me, kiss me,
taste my body like I’m his canvas and he’s painting me with his
tongue. I press my palms into the door and he hooks his strong
fingers around my hips and tugs me so I bend my back, nearly
flattening it. My behind is in the air. I want to turn around and
watch, but I also love this feeling of letting go, of surrendering to
his touch as he kneels and presses his thumbs against my cheeks,
spreading me open. He moves closer, blowing warm breath between my
legs, making me ache for his tongue.

“This is how I say
I’m sorry.”

I gasp as he kisses my
throbbing center, tasting how wet I am for him, enjoying how my body
responds instantly to his touch. My breathing quickens as he flicks
his tongue against my clit, swirling and licking and sucking me,
until soon I’m panting and moaning as quietly as I possibly can so
no one can hear, though I am desperate, absolutely desperate, for the
release he’s about to bring me. He grips me firmly with his strong
hands on my hips, and strokes me with his tongue, relentlessly
working my clit until I shatter, and even then he pulls me closer,
his lips needing me, his tongue still savoring me, drinking me in as
if he can’t get enough of me as I come again in his mouth.

I don’t move for a
few minutes as the sensations wash over me, the aftereffects of two
powerful orgasms lingering in my body.

Soon, he pulls up my
pink lacy underwear, then my jeans, and I turn around. I’m sure I’m
a light-headed, woozy mess as I snap my bra and adjust my sweater.

“I suppose you’re
forgiven,” I say, and he grins wickedly.

“Good. And I suppose
I’d better head out first seeing as you look like you’ve just
come hard.” Then he pauses, raking his eyes over every inch of me.
“And twice.”

He brushes his lips
against my forehead and leaves.

Five minutes later
after a quick bathroom visit, I join the cast and crew on stage. I
can’t help but wonder if anyone else is looking at us and knowing
that our hands have been on each other, that our lips have meshed
together, that we’ve done so much more.

Or if we’re both
fantastic at make believe, because even as I practice the numbers on
the call sheet, I’m thinking of my closet and the dresses I have,
and the one I want to wear to dinner with my director, because I know
he’ll find a way to have his hands underneath my clothes.

And that’s more than
fine with me.

Jill

There is no question in
my mind that this is
the
dress. With its sleeveless scoop
neck, plunging back V-line, and a hand-beaded bodice with intricate
crystals woven throughout, it is sheer perfection.