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Lucy slapped the counter. “You didn’t even read the script!” she roared in shock. “How’d you do that?!”
“My job is to memorize lines, Luce,” I laughed. “Shall we keep going?” Never would I have thought this would have been fun, but I could tell Lucy was getting into it. I was happy to oblige.
Taking a moment, she centered her thoughts. “Ok, so Brandon is asking Peyton to stay behind because he doesn’t want her to get killed,” she recapped quickly. Her finger ran down the page until she found her place again.“That’s cute, but I’m going.”
I leveled her with a stare across the counter.“Peyton, no. I can’t have you added to the hostage roster. If he sees you with me, he’ll kill you.”I used a hell of a lot of conviction in my voice.
Lucy read the scene description:“Peyton walks to the kitchen, presses a button and a secret drawer opens, revealing a stashed handgun. She grabs it confidently, slams a magazine in the handle and tucks it in her waistband. Brandon raises his brows, impressed. ‘Not if I kill him first.’” Her delivery was on point.
I stood from the bar and walked over to her.“I’d have a better chance arguing with the wall, wouldn’t I?”
Lucy winked because it was in the script.“You’re catching on.”
“Brandon places his hands on Peyton’s hips…like this,” I demonstrated.“You follow our lead, ok? If things get dicey, I’m going to have Gavin get you out.”
I could feel the heat radiating through the denim at her sides.
“She takes a fistful of Brandon’s shirt,” Lucy narrated,“You never put up this much of a fight in the bedroom.”The fabric at my chest became a tight ball in her hand. Lucy was a quick study.
My hands slid lower, spanning her backside. I pulled her against me.“Your life has never been on the line in there,”I validated in a whisper.
Like Peyton, Lucy toyed with the collar of my shirt with her free hand.“You sure about that…?”she replied coyly. She glanced at the script on the counter, learning the next line.
I lowered my face to hers.“I can’t lose you.”
She hovered her lips over mine.“And you won’t—”
In the script, Brandon didn’t cut Peyton off. But right now, I wasn’t Brandon. I was Jake and I no longer cared about following lines anymore, nor pretending to be someone I wasn’t.
What I cared about was Lucy. And being myself for once.
Chapter 22
Lucy
Chicago
Jake’s kisses startedslow and gentle, fueled by a fire that burned slow and steady—the most dangerous kind. Heat radiated across my skin and the more his mouth slid against mine, the more exposed I became. I was vulnerable. Left out in the open until the warmth betrayed me, morphing into a thermal burn.
And I wastherefor it.
Jake placed me on the bar effortlessly, nestling himself between my legs. His hands roamed the bare skin of my thighs, as leisurely as his kisses came.
My palms rested against his chest, solid as a block of steel. It was both tantalizing and disconcerting that someone could be built like a brick wall.
“Come here,” he rasped, pulling me closer to the edge. Wrapping my legs around his waist, he lifted me with one arm. His other hand found the crook of my neck, circling, trailing and teasing the sensitive skin. Could he feel the fire that lurked just beneath the surface of my sensitive flesh?
“You have the softest skin,” he doted. “I could touch you all over, every minute of every day and never grow tired of it.”
I smiled. “Lucky for you, I have much more that has yet to be touched. In fact, I’m practically covered in it!” I teased.
“Is that right?” His guilelessness was endearing. And also false.
Picking me up, Jake walked us into the bedroom where he sat on the edge of the bed. Straddling him, I snuggled into his lap. He inhaled sharply, his hands settling against the curve of my hips.
For a second, neither of us made a move. For the moment it was enough to simply be intimate in a way that didn’t involve sex. But, judging by the hardness at my core, we wouldn’t stay that way for long.
Ever so gently, Jake traced the contours of my bare shoulders, down my arms, dipping in the crook of each elbow, before finding the knobby bones of my wrists. From there, he’d go back up, reversing the path. It must have been easy for him to recall the exact trail; his touch practically seared my skin, leaving behind a white-hot track.
