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I scoffed, then said low, “You proud of yourself?”
Her brow rose in innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“The hell you don’t.”
She blinked sweetly again as if she had no idea, then burst out laughing. She leaned back to stand up. Having minds of their own, my hands tightened on her. They wanted to hold on forever and keep exploring.
If only.
“The scene isn’t over.”
Her laughter died at the low rumble of my voice and the warning in it.
“Do you need a line?” Trisha shouted, obviously to me, since I was still frozen and staring. So was Betty.
“No, I got it.” I fell back into my character of Paul, scowling and put out that my drunk wife had so much fun at my expense.
I picked up my script again since I didn’t have all of the lines yet in this Act. Then we finished the scene, stopping before the final part where I crawled on the roof and Betty comes after me. The rooftop of the set wasn’t finished.
“That was perfect!” shouted Peter.
“Looks good, guys,” said Trish, glancing at her watch.
“Do you guys mind if we run through Act One before we go?” I asked, my gaze on Betty.
Her eyes rounded as if she sensed I had an ulterior motive.
“Of course, we don’t mind,” Peter responded cheerfully. “Trish will call lines if you need them.”
“I think I’ve got these lines,” I told Peter, putting my script. “I’m going to try without the script.”
Plus, I wanted my hands free toactthis scene out to the best of my ability.
“Terrific! Let’s get going from the moment Paul comes home.”
I noted Betty’s quizzical frown as I sauntered across stage to make my entrance. She knew something was up. I didn’t have anything devious planned. Not really.
She’d agreed to the cheek-to-cheek stage kissing, and we’d done one rehearsal where I’d been more standoffish in these scenes. I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. Still didn’t. But her teasing—and she knew full well how hard she’d made me—could go both ways.
I entered the scene, carrying a briefcase, pretending to be exhausted by the flight up the stairwell as always, and she threw her arms around my neck to greet me. Rather than let her cling to me without any reaction, I wrapped my free arm around her waist and pulled her tight against me.
Damn, did she feel good.
Her breathy gasp in my ear made my whole body go hard, imagining that sound if we were alone in the dark. Then she pushed out of my arms and went through the motions of the scene, helping me get comfortable and flitting around the apartment, telling me about her day.
When she got to the part where she sat on my lap, and we were supposed to do our stage kissing, I kept to our bargain. But this time, I scooped my hand under her fall of silky hair and wrapped her nape, giving her a firm squeeze while I scraped my jaw—a little scruffy at the end of the day—along hers till my breath coasted against her ear. I didn’t kiss, lick, or bite like I so desperately fucking wanted to, but I let my lips graze the delicate shell.
Her responding shiver and tightening of her nails in my shoulders where she held onto me told me I wasn’t alone in this attraction. No matter how hard she seemed to be fighting it.
She quickly stood and separated us to go through the scene, shooting me a glare over her shoulder as she flounced over to the kitchen area.
“Stop, stop,” called Peter. “I’m not sure if I want you crossing behind him like that. It puts more of your back to the audience.”
“Well, she can’t walk backwards,” added Trish. “We decided we wanted more domestic interaction in this part, so she has to retrieve the drinks from the kitchen.”
“I think we should add a bar on the sidewall and have her go over there and fix the drinks.”
“I don’t know,” said Trish.
