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  Her lips feel soft and firm all at once, and they react as perfectly to mine as the rest of her body did on the dance floor.

  How does she do that?

  I want to ask, want to discuss this weird synchronicity with her, but all I can think about right now is her mouth. One of my hands threads through the hair at her nape to hold her head in place, so I can discover everything there is to know about her lips, about her teeth. About how it feels when I suck her top lip, how she reacts when I slide my tongue between. When I push it in farther between her softly parting lips to find hers, she gasps and makes a little throaty sound.

  Turns out we can have a very interesting conversation without saying a damn thing.

  I can’t figure out what to do with my other hand to keep myself from using it to explore. I’ve never wanted to feel what was under a girl’s skirt so badly in my life, but I also want to be here in this moment. This isn’t a time to move fast, to rush things like I normally do.

  I want to be present, not just rush headlong toward the escape I find between a woman’s thighs. The problem, of course, is that presently I can’t forget that I’m making out with Natalia fucking Lowen, and it’s putting a serious damper on my ability to hold back.

  So I put my hand across her throat, lightly, just so I have a place to put it. With my palm flat against the tender skin, I can feel her heartbeat underneath my fingers, feel how it speeds up and races as our kissing grows more intense.

  It’s her fault, I swear, when our hands start roaming. I was controlling myself, however tenuously.

  Now her fingers are tangled in my hair, and her chest keeps pressing into mine, her back arching, and I can feel the tight buds of her nipples against my torso, even through the material of my T-shirt. I want to feel them, even though I’m so mesmerized by her lips, by her mouth. God, I could write a whole song about her mouth. I could have the whole thing composed tonight if I just stayed here kissing, nothing but kissing her.

  But those breasts, arching into me . . .

  Before I know it, I’m using my hand at her neck to push her backwards until she meets the wall. And then when she does, it’s like a trigger, like a gate opening, it’s like she’s finally unleashed and her hands are available to wander everywhere. She brings them down my torso, her palms flat against my chest, painting long sweeps up and down the front of my pecs. Even with clothes on, it’s obscenely erotic.

  Now I can’t resist touching her back. With one hand still flat at the spot where her collarbone meets the base of her throat, I move the other to her hip, then shift it up until it hits the silky skin of her midriff. The shock of electricity shoots straight to my groin as I come in contact with the pure heat of her skin. She is burning up hot. She’s on fire, and I want to add to it, want to spark her further, want to turn her into a blazing inferno with my own desire.

  With her back anchored against the wall, she pushes her hips against me, and my dick aligns with her perfectly. She gasps when she feels my hard length at her center. In those heels, she’s exactly where I want her to be. She must be tall without them already, because I’m six feet. I bet she was taller than her ex. Garner Lee might be one of the most sought-after stars in Hollywood, but I’d tower over him.

  Thinking about her with another man makes my dick even harder, makes me wonder even more—what would Natalia Lowen be like in bed? How hot would this look without clothing between us? I push harder against her with my pelvis, grinding my dick into her, trying to relieve an ache that goes deeper than physical.

  My hand slides up farther to cup her breast, and I’m rewarded with a moan that I swallow with my kiss. Her breast fits perfectly in the palm of my hand, and my suspicion that she wasn’t wearing a bra is confirmed. It’s a perfect tear-drop shape, and exactly the right size to fill my hand, and now I can’t stop thinking about how her nipple would react between my teeth if I were tugging and pulling at it with my mouth instead of my thumb and forefinger.

  The material of her shirt is so flimsy, and yet it’s a suit of armor between me and what I want.

  I’m craving the sight of her naked beneath me, letting me explore all of her the way that I’m exploring the recesses of her mouth. I want to know how she likes to be touched, if she’s shy or wanton when she’s exposed to me, how it looks when she forgets to be in control and surrenders to the pleasure I could give her.

  More than anything I just don’t want this to end. I want to keep kissing her, touching her, rubbing against her.

  I feel like I’m thirteen again, losing my virginity, learning what it feels like to touch a woman in all the right places. Learning how different her body feels, soft where mine is hard, so responsive to me. No, I never want this to end. I want to forget the real world exists with its paparazzi and managers, and live in this fantasy where all that matters is the next spot my mouth lands.

  Her fingers rake down my chest, long nails scratching the skin underneath my shirt. It sends shivers down my spine and through my cock. Makes my balls feel like they’re about ready to fall off. I grind into her and she moans again as her hips meet mine. Soon we’re dry humping in the back of this hallway, grinding and thrusting, kissing and touching.

  My balls start to pull up. I feel on the verge of orgasm, just from this. Just from feeling this girl up—over her clothes, even.

  She’s a goddess. She’s an angel. She’s liquid inspiration, and I want to drink every last drop of her.

  I’m so enraptured with her, so into her orbit, that I don’t notice the drunk girl who’s stumbling down the hall until she’s bumped into us.

  “Oops . . .” she says, her voice slurred.

  Immediately Natalia and I break apart. As though we’d been caught skipping class by the principal.

  “You aren’t a bathroom!” the bleary-eyed, inebriated woman accuses us, then turns herself around and heads back in the right direction.

  I look back at Natalia. Her lips are bee-stung and swollen, her face red from my five o’clock shadow. It’s so hot to see the marks I’ve left on her pristine face with my passion. It’s my fantasy come to life.

  But we do live in the real world. With all that entails. And for me, making out with America’s Sweetheart is a dream. For her, it’s a diversion. And even though I know it’s impossible, a little voice inside me wonders if just one encounter could inspire a song, what could one night bring?

  And this is my chance to find out.

  I open my mouth to break the rules, to invite her home, anywhere at all as long as it’s private.

  But before I can say anything, she shakes her head as if coming out of a daze, and speaks first. “I have to go,” she says. Then she’s brushing past me and heading down the hall away from me.

  “Natalia,” I call after her, but she either doesn’t hear or she ignores me.

  And since I was thirteen years old, since I’ve been sexually active and famous, I have not once chased after a girl, and I don’t now, either.

  But it’s the first time I wish that maybe I would.

  Chapter Three

  Oh my god

  Natalia

  I made out with Nick Ryder.

  It’s all I can think about the next morning. I made out with Nick Ryder.

  My lips are swollen, and I’m still aroused, even as I’m getting dressed in my yoga pants and sweatshirt to drive to grab a coffee. Nick fucking Ryder.

  Who knew someone so young could kiss like that? Even the memory of it sends a jolt straight down to my core. The surprise I’d felt at his expertise was only matched by my surprise at my own daring. I haven’t kissed like that since I was a teenager back in high school.

  Actually, I haven’t kissed like that, ever.

  Especially not in a public place. Especially not with someone thirteen years younger than me.

  I’d said I needed to prove I was over Garner, and boy, had I. In the most unexpected way. I don’t really make a habit of kissing people I’m not dating, not since the whole Tanner James thing w
ent down ten years ago.

  In some ways, it was much hotter than a one-night stand, the way I walked away still on fire. But my God, if that girl hadn’t stumbled into us, I could have ended up truly embarrassing myself. I’d completely forgotten we were in a club, was totally ready to strip down and find out if his mouth would feel just as good on my breasts, on my stomach, on my . . .

  I shake my head to knock the sexy thoughts out. I don’t need to walk into the coffee shop with a wet spot on my pants.

  Well, it had made for a fun night, anyway. And a fun fantasy to play with every once in a while—or maybe every night alone with my vibrator—but that’s it. Good times.

  Nick fucking Ryder.

  No sooner have I pulled out of my driveway than my phone rings. It’s Hadley, so I answer through the Bluetooth system hooked up in my car.

  “How are you feeling this morning?” she asks, sounding like death warmed over.

  “Okay,” I say, honestly. Better than okay, really. I’ve got an afterglow that just won’t quit, and I am ready to get back home and relive my adventure again. But I never admitted to her what happened in the hallway, so I don’t really want to explain why I feel so good. It’s my dirty little secret.

  “I had enough water and some Advil before I went to sleep, and I think that staved off the hangover,” I tell her.

  “Good. You’re doing better than me.” I can hear her yawn. “Ow, my head. I haven’t even gotten out of bed yet.”

  “Well then I won’t invite you to come join me for coffee.” I look at my dashboard clock. It’s eight forty-five. “You think I should call Rowan?”

  Hadley tries not to laugh. “She won’t be awake until at least noon.” And we both know she’ll have a hangover. Rowan had been carried out of the club last night by a cute bouncer. I got the impression he might be in her bed right now, too, judging from his reaction as she wiggled her ass in his face when she was over his shoulder. And bless her, those shots of our exit would be the ones on the celeb blogs today, not me and my kiss-swollen mouth.

  “Besides, why I was really calling,” Hadley says, “was so you could tell me what was happening when you took that bathroom break for so long.”

  Hadley never misses anything.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I had to pee.” I weave through the streets, heading toward Franklin.

  “You were gone for a long time. At least twenty minutes,” she says.

  “There was a line, and I had to redo my makeup.”

  “And yet you came back with your makeup more messed up than when you went in. That doesn’t happen when you wait in a long line. Or when you reapply.”

  I drum my fingers on the steering wheel. I’m out of excuses. “That doesn’t prove anything.”

  “And then . . .” she pauses dramatically before playing her trump card. “Nick Ryder came out of the hallway about ten seconds after you did. With what appeared to be your lipgloss still smeared on his face.”

  Well, dammit.

  “I don’t know what happened,” I confess. I might be a good actress, but I crack under real-life pressure. Particularly when it comes from someone who knows me as well as Hadley does. I pull my sunglasses down out of the holder and put them on. I don’t even need them right now; I just feel like I need to hide behind a layer of protection, since apparently I can’t hide from her.

  “Just tell me!”

  “Do you think everyone knows?” I say, suddenly worried that my indiscretion had been more indiscreet than I’d thought. After all, Hadley was hardly the only person in that club who could have put two and two together if they’d noticed me and then Nick emerge from the hall, both wearing the same shade of Butterfly Pink gloss by Stories Cosmetics.

  “Meh, who knows. Tell me, though, because I am dying for details right now. Or maybe just actually dying. Have pity on your poor hungover friend.”

  I consider for a minute. Nothing actually happened beyond the really, really amazing make-out session. And she basically already knew. I probably would have told her eventually anyway, after I’d exhausted the fun of keeping it to myself. Besides, she knows me well enough not to judge me based on my untoward behavior last night.

  I sigh and spill. “We made out. That’s all.”

  “Like made out-made out? Or is that a euphemism for something?” Her voice has a grin in it now, and I find myself wearing one too. I still cannot believe I made out with the hottest guy in music, in a bathroom hallway, no less.

  “No euphemism. Just kissing.” Again, I’m reminded of Nick’s firm lips against mine, the way that he pressed me against the wall with his hand. He was so dominant, so alpha, so man. I’m not used to that. My normal type of boyfriend is sweet, vanilla bordering on boring in bed. I had no idea being manhandled could feel so . . . delicious.

  “It was like—really good kissing.” Words would hardly do it justice. How do you describe the feeling of being completely and utterly wasted on the feel of someone else’s lips?

  “Oh my God! Did you go to his place after we dropped you off? Are you leaving his house now? Can he hear me?” Her voice raises a full octave and several decibels, so it’s very possible most of Hollywood has heard her.

  I laugh and shake my head even though Hadley can’t see me. “Absolutely not! What do you take me for? Just the making out. Which was inappropriate enough. He’s thirteen years younger than me.”

  “Are you sure? That would make him twenty-three. But I could have sworn he was twenty-four . . .” I can hear the tapping of her long nails on her laptop as she Googles.

  Unnecessary, because I know the answer. “He’s definitely twenty-three. His birthday isn’t until October nineteenth.” It’s only early April now, so it isn’t even close.

  “Hah! I knew it! You looked him up!”

  Dammit again, I’m busted. I did look him up. But just to remind myself that he was off limits. It was hard to remember that, after everything that had transpired in our dark corner. And maybe I did pull out my Rabbit while I navigated from his Wikipedia entry to an image search, where I found some shirtless pictures with his jeans riding low on his hips, pictures that showcased his truly glorious body. But there’s a difference between fantasy and reality, as every actor knows. And it doesn’t matter how hard you try to blur it for a role—or one hot night—things still are the way they are.

  “So I looked him up, so what? It was a good night. I had a great time. Thank you and thanks to Rowan for making me go out. I’m fully rebounded now, and I need my coffee. Will I see you next week for girls’ night?”

  “Unless you have a date with Nick Ryder,” she singsongs teasingly.

  “Oh my God, bye!” I hang up on her just as I arrive in front of my favorite coffee shop. Maybe I didn’t get lucky last night, but I’ve sure lucked out this morning because there’s a parking spot right in front. I signal and pull in before anyone else notices this prime real estate.

  I like this place because it’s a regular spot for celebrities in the Hollywood Hills area, so the staff is nonchalant. They take my order and treat me like everybody else, asking for my name even though I’m positive everyone there knows it. Most days I can run in and out without getting flagged down by any selfie-seeking customers. I get my regular order of iced coffee and a coconut yogurt to go, and I’m already looking at my phone on my way back out the door so I almost don’t see him.

  But then I practically bump into the body in my path and when I look up, Oh my God—Nick Ryder is outside my coffee shop.

  “Um, hi,” I giggle, because I don’t even know what to do or say. Why the hell did I leave my house without makeup on? And in a sweatshirt and yoga pants, of all things.

  And what the heck is Nick Ryder doing at my coffee shop?

  “Hi,” he says, doing a double-take when he realizes it’s me. He looks fabulous, of course, because why wouldn’t he when I look so scrubby? He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt and a hoodie, and his face doesn’t look like he’s tired, or like h
e stayed up late to drink too much and tear up the dance floor.

  Or like he spent last night making out with somebody more than a decade older than him.

  “It’s crazy seeing you here,” I say. I giggle again at the sheer ridiculousness of this. “Do you come here often?” What am I doing? What am I saying? It’s like I just learned how to talk to people of the opposite sex. How have I ever gotten a date?

  Not that I’m trying to date Nick.

  “Occasionally. You?” He sticks his hands in his pockets and he’s so relaxed, so sexy, and I just can’t stand all that swagger on such a handsome guy that I am not allowed to touch. It’s unfair for anyone to look so effortlessly edible before nine a.m.

  “It’s my favorite shop. Come here all the time.” I take a couple steps backwards, trying to shift toward my car. “I probably should—”

  “Don’t you think it’s probably more than a coincidence?” He takes a step toward me, and I take one back, willing myself not to respond to the rumble of his deep voice and the magnetism of his body. “That we’d see each other again so soon. Kind of like fate, almost.”

  Oh my God, Oh my God, he’s flirting with me. What do I do? He’s so hot, I can’t even look at him. But then I do, and I have total church-giggles over this, and I have to escape before I make an even bigger fool out of myself. Someone is bound to notice that I am losing my cool, and they’ll draw conclusions that aren’t even true.

  It was just kissing!

  “It’s really weird, I have to admit.” I dance back some more, then glance behind me to make sure I’m not going to back into the street and get run over and make this even worse. “And really awkward.” I brush some hair back that’s come loose from the messy bun at the base of my neck.

  He shrugs, seeming to disagree. And it’s true that I’m the only one who seems to be awkward right now. “I don’t know about that. Doesn’t have to be awkward. Could just be convenient. Since I never got your phone number.”

  If I didn’t think he was flirting before, I know he definitely is now. I don’t want to say no to him, but I have to say no to him. He cannot have my number. Can’t have anything more than a memory of a scorching-hot make-out in the back of a club. What we did was not for a sunlit day. It was for a dark corner. And yet, I still can’t seem to actually say the word no. So instead I say, “Why do you need my phone number?”