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The problem was, Betty looked more clumsy than drunk, and she was stiff as a board, doing an awkward, not-so-sexy jig around me in the chair.
“Okay, okay!” whisper-yelled Trish. She walked up to the edge of the stage and crooked her finger toward Betty.
She heaved an irritated sigh and met Trish downstage.
“So, maybe you could try using the scarf.”
“The scarf?” Betty had both hands on her curvy hips, drawing my eyes there.
“Yeah, Paul’s scarf. You come in with it around your neck and when you strip your coat, you shimmy around. Go around the chair once, then fall into his lap, singing the song. Let’s try that. Less dancing, more touchy-feely with Paul.”
I gulped hard, preparing myself.
The fact that Betty needed guidance on how to play out this part of the scene had only pissed her off even more.
When she spun around to go back to start the scene again, she glared at me. “I don’t want to hear it, Broussard.”
“I didn’t say a word.”
“I can hear your thoughts,” she snapped.
Oh, she definitely couldnothear my thoughts. If she had, she’d have slapped me ten times already. Biting my lip so I wouldn’t laugh, I cleared my throat and tried to focus so I wouldn’t break her concentration. I was entirely on board for more touchy-feely with my character.
“You just worry about maintaining yourstuffed shirtpersonality as Paul. Shouldn’t be too difficult.”
I chuckled, knowing she was being prickly because she was so uptight about her failure at playing up the sexy side of Corie Bratter.
“Okay, let’s go again!” called Peter. “Action!”
Betty had her back to me. She was wearing those same tight-ass jeans she wore last Friday night when I found her hanging off her roof.
I admit, my brain went in two directions when I first saw her on Friday. One, pure panic mode. She could’ve hurt herself if she fell. She wasn’t very tall, and that drop would’ve damaged her ankle at the very least. The thought had flooded me with anxiety and, for some reason, anger. I didn’t want to think about what would’ve happened if I hadn’t dropped by last Friday night.
The second thing that ran through my mind—and had been doing so on loop all weekend—was that her ass looked fucking fantastic in those jeans.
And here she was, wearing them again, along with a fitted red V-neck that kept riding up to reveal a sliver of pale skin on her stomach when she moved. Was she torturing me on purpose?
She pulled her hair out of the messy bun on top of her head and shook out all that gorgeous red hair. Then she picked up the scarf hanging on the back of the sofa and started the scene, singing “Shama, shama.”
This time, I wasn’t laughing. There was a seductive tilt to her head, her fiery hair cascading over one shoulder. She moved her upper body and hips in tandem, that red shirt riding higher and higher, showing me the clear indentation of her waist and a wide swathe of creamy soft skin.
Hoping like hell she didn’t notice how hard my dick was when she sat on my lap, I shifted as she wrapped the scarf around my neck and shimmied in front of me. My hands were on autopilot, reaching out to span her waist, fingers barely slipping under her shirt as she plopped her ass down on my thigh.
Her eyes widened, but she kept singing and playing the flirty wife, wrapping her arms around my neck. Then—fuck me—she pressed her breasts to my chest, leaning to the side, so she wasn’t blocking me from the audience, which was only Peter and Trish tonight.
At least, that was vaguely noted by my sizzling brain. The rest of my body was highly attentive and focused on how fucking amazing she felt in my arms. Her petite, curvy body would fit me so good if she straddled me—naked. My mind completely fizzled out, conjuring every hot, carnal way I could possess this woman on my lap, my hands tightening on the bare skin of her waist.
“Bennett,” she whispered in my ear.
Her warm breath and soft voice sent a shiver down my body that jolted my dick to full attention. As if he wasn’t on full alert already.
“Hmm,” I managed.
“Your next lines.”
Fuck.I’d completely forgotten where I was, my libido making me mindless.
No, it was her. This wild vixen sitting in my lap, giving me a knowing smile. She knew exactly what she was doing.
