Grace …

I grabbed handful of duvet and bit down.

“Good girl,” he whispered with a satisfied grin and went to work.

And it was spectacular.

Chapter 16

Warmth spread through my tummy as tightness began to build. I hissed as I felt a flickering, an insistent fluttering, and then a warm wet tongue sweetly lapping at me. I leaned into it, feeling the intensity as it ran through me.

Mmmmm.

I woke with a start, breathing heavily, and in the middle of a moan. I clutched the sheets to me, covering my na**dness. I could still feel the pangs of my dream orgasm beating through me. It had been so real. It felt so real. I was still completely aroused.

“Thank, God, you’re up. I was worried that I was losing my touch,” I heard my Brit say. I looked around the room, searching for him, until I felt a poke on my leg.

I looked down, and I saw Jack between my legs.

This would now be known as the Hamiltonian Wake-Up-Call.

His tongue was poised just over me, ready to deliver another kind of kiss that killed.

“Oh, God. I wasn’t dreaming that?” I exclaimed, ni**les on point.

“Huh uh,” he whispered, pointing his tongue and placing it against me. I leaned up on my elbows and watched him. Amazing. The sight of him, spreading me with his magic fingers and pressing his tongue against me, was the best way I had ever been woken up.

I moaned.

Then he moaned against me, the vibration of his lips making me shiver.

He buried his face in my sex, making my toes curl and my back arch. He furiously pressed his tongue into me, bringing me to a quick peak. I clutched my thighs around him, digging my heels into his shoulders, rocking back onto the bed. Before I was finished, I pulled his face away.

“Come here.” I growled, and after kissing my Hamilton Brand, he obeyed. I kissed him feverishly, the taste of me all over him. He was still gloriously na**d from the night before … and gloriously hard. I grasped him firmly while his h*ps bucked into mine. My name slipped from his lips as I whispered in his ear.

“Touch me again,” I said, guiding his hand back to me. We stroked each other, and I was stil so sensitive from just moments ago that it did not take much.

“Oh, God, Jack! That’s so good!” I cried, never taking my gaze off his, even though my eyes wanted to roll back in my head.

He growled as he watched me come again, a devilish grin on his face. I pushed him back and knelt next to him on the bed. He kept one hand between my legs, and I dedicated both of my hands to him, watching his beautiful face.

He was moaning, my name continuing to fall from his mouth. He was rock hard, and I imagined how he would feel inside me.

He was close, and I pressed my face to his. His head was thrown back on the pillows with that look that I’d come to love all over his face. It was a thing of beauty. His eyes were fiercely shut, jaw tense, brow furrowed, mouth slightly open, moaning my name. As much as it killed me to do it, I removed his hand from me. I wanted this to be about him.

“Open your eyes, Jack,” I said quietly. “I need to see you.” His lids opened and the look of wonder in his eyes stunned me silent. I felt him tense as he came for me, and I grasped his face with my left hand, sweeping open kisses across his cheek as I watched him.

His eyes never left mine. I felt him shudder and I slowed my hand, gently taking him back down.

“Jesus, Grace.” He moaned, finally shutting his eyes, pulling my forehead down to meet his own. His breath was sweet as he continued to shudder. I wrapped my arms around him and wrapped my body around him as well. I brought him down to my breast and cuddled him to me, holding him tightly as the last few waves ran through his body.

I loved that I could make him feel like this.

“So, this meeting, is it a callback?” he asked over the roar of the water. I stepped out from underneath the shower head, pointing it more directly on both of us.

“Kind of, I auditioned for them last week and rather than a traditional callback, I’m going straight through to producers,” I answered, sweeping my hair out of my face. “Shampoo, please,” I directed. He turned around in the shower stall, giving me a peek at his cute little buns. I couldn’t resist a little squeeze.

He flexed them for me, making me giggle.

“Fuck, you have like four different shampoos. Which one do you want?” he asked, puzzled. “And why do you have so many?”

“I need them for different days. Some days you need a clarifying shampoo, some days you need a color boost … today we will go with the deep conditioning, please,” I said, pointing at the chosen shampoo.

“Huh, I usually just collect all the free ones from hotels and use whatever I have on hand.”

“Maybe that’s why you feel the need to wear that damn ball cap all the time,” I teased.

“Don’t hate the cap,” he said, pouring the shampoo in his hand.

“Spin ‘round,” he said, indicating that I should face away from him. I did, and I felt him begin to wash my hair.

Well, wasn’t he too cute?

“So, producers. That’s great, Sheridan. What time are you meeting them?” he asked as he continued to lather. He seemed to be having great fun making swoops and swirls with my hair and all the bubbles, and I think I caught what looked like a pompadour in the reflection of the glass door. He had used almost two palms full. I wasn’t surprised at all the lather.

“Holly said at 2:00 p.m. What do you have going on today?”

“I have more reshoots tonight, probably pretty late,” he said. “OK, rinse.” He guided me under the spray.

I felt him gently work all the lather out of my hair, being careful not to get any in my eyes. He really was sweet. I returned the favor, lavishing attention on his scalp, since he was a fiend for it. Of course, he was so much taller than I was, in order to reach his head I had to stand on tiptoe in front of him. He made sure I was steady, though, keeping my br**sts firmly grasped in hand.

“What? I’m supporting you. I don’t want you to slip and fall,” he said, when I raised an eyebrow at him.

“Uh huh,” I answered, giving his head one final scratch. “OK, rinse.” He closed his eyes and stood under the water, while I grabbed my shower gel—brown-sugar and coconut scented—and proceeded to wash my body. By the time he opened his eyes again, my body was covered in fragrant bubbles and my hands were slipping and sliding around on my skin, something that was not lost on Mr. Hamilton.

“Crazy, what are you trying to do to me?” He sighed, leaning against the tiles.

“Settle, George. I’m just taking a shower. Here … try some of this.” I flipped him the bottle.

Maybe I arched my back just a little more than necessary when I swept my hands across my breasts.

“Grace … ” he warned, and I could see how I was affecting him. I giggled.

He examined the shower gel. “Coconuts! It’s coconuts!” he exclaimed.

“What’s coconuts?” I asked, turning my back to him to rinse my front.

“That’s what you smell like! You smell like coconuts and clean laundry,” he said proudly, as if he had cracked some code. He might just have been the cutest thing ever. I peered over my shoulder at him. He was grinning.

“I smell like clean laundry?”

“And coconuts—don’t forget the coconuts,” he said, reminding me.

“No, we really shouldn’t forget the coconuts,” I said, turning to face him and running my hands down his torso, and even lower. His eyes widened.

I didn’t forget the coconuts.

That afternoon I was speeding down Sepulveda, heading to my meeting.

Holly had told me I would probably sing again, so I kept the top up and was doing my vocal exercises in the car.

I was excited for this meeting. When I had original y been given the details of this new show, it intrigued me. It was a brand new musical, still in the workshop stages. They were continually rewriting the music and the lyrics, and as an actor, the chance to be the first to inhabit a role was intoxicating.

The female lead was in her thirties and an aging beauty queen. The entire show was based around her coming to terms with her age, no longer being the ingénue, and dealing with the aftereffects of a messy divorce. It was about a second life, redefining yourself all over again. It was sweet and funny, and the music I’d already heard was amazing.

This show was me. I was all over it. Now I just had to sell the director on it. I was new to show business, as far as they knew me. All I really had going for me was Holly, and she had to sell like hell to even get me the initial audition.

But once I was in the door, it had been all me. This was my first real test, my first real reentry into the industry, and I was taking full advantage.

I was ready. I was excited. And if I booked this job, I would be ecstatic.

When I arrived, I met with two of the New York producers, the director, and I was supposed to meet the writer, but he had just stepped out. As I chatted with them, the director asked how long I had known Holly.

“Oh gosh, we’ve known each other since college! We were roommates, and then we both moved out to L.A. within a few months of each other.

She’s great.”

“Yes, I’ve worked with her on several castings over the years. Holly’s fantastic.” He smiled and I smiled back, proud of my friend who was obviously so well respected within the industry.

“Ah, here’s our writer! Michael, we’d like you to meet—”

“Grace? Grace Sheridan?”

The voice was familiar. I turned around, an expectant smile on my face. He seemed to already know me. Then I saw him. Of course he knew me.

He had broken my heart thirteen years ago.

Dammit, Holly …

“Seriously, Holls, what the fuck? How could you send me in there blind like that?” I yelled, swerving in and out of traffic like a crazy person. People were honking at me, and I flicked off at least three of them at once.

“Grace, calm down. I had no idea it was the same Michael O’Connell. I mean, what are the odds?”

“What are the odds, indeed.” I grumbled, as I cut someone else off. “Shut up!” I yelled as the man flashed his lights at me, screaming obscenities.

“Wow, settle. Hang up the phone and come to the office. Tell me here, where you can’t hurt anyone.”

“Don’t bet on it,” I warned, yanking my Bluetooth out and stepping on the gas, almost causing another accident.

When I was in college, I had a huge crush on one of my best friends. He was in drama school with Holly and me. We were all great friends, but Michael O’Connell was my favorite.

He was incredibly talented. His talent was what drew me to him first. He was still the funniest guy I had ever met: quick witted, dry and an amazing sense of timing. Like a lot of comedic actors, he also had a sweet emo streak that, when cast in dramatic pieces, made us all weep.

He always seemed to be a little interested in me. It was especially evident when I would perform, particularly when I would sing. He would watch me, and I could see the “friend” face slip away, and it was just a guy watching a girl that he liked. But he would keep me at arms length otherwise, always eternally my “buddy.”

It was infuriating.

Then, at the end of junior year, he stunned us all with the news that he was going to be transferring to a fine arts college in Boston, starting in September.

All summer, I knew I had to put up or shut up. I attempted to get him alone constantly, but as we all hung out in a group so much, it was tough. He knew, whether consciously or not, how I felt about him, and he kept me away.

Not to brag, but no one said no to me back then. I dated our college quarterback, the president of the best fraternity on campus, and was briefly tied to a Physics professor. And this guy, this drama geek, was dodging me.

Fuck all that noise.

At a cast party in June, I got drunk and confronted him. Holly, Michael and I were in the kitchen, knee deep in crappy pot and Lynchburg Lemonades when I saw him looking at me, really looking at me—like I always caught him doing when I was on stage.

I didn’t think about what I was going to do, but without warning or much thought at all, I pushed him up against the pantry and kissed him, long and hard. I heard Holly say, “It’s about time” and walk out of the kitchen. His eyes were surprised, but then he got into it. He kissed me back, both of us dropping our drinks. I finally pulled back and told him in no uncertain terms that he was coming home with me that night. He agreed.

It had been amazing. We made love all night—and I hate the term “made love”—but that’s what it was. It was three years of love and lust spilling out, and the fact that we were such good friends made it even better. He told me he had been in love with me since freshman year.

I lay awake all night, planning. He couldn’t leave now … he said he was in love with me. And once I kissed him, I realized that I was in love with him, too. It went way beyond a crush. This was who I wanted. I couldn’t wait for the next morning.

As it turned out, I really could have waited. It was all kinds of awkward.

He wouldn’t even look at me. He was out of there as fast as he could put his pants on, and when he saw me later that day backstage, he couldn’t even look me in the eye.

We limped through the rest of that summer. I slowly walled up “All Things Michael O’Connell,” and when he left, I never saw him again. I heard about him from time to time through our alumni contacts. He’d become a writer, doing a lot of work off Broadway and then eventually receiving great success writing for both TV and film. That was all I cared to know. And now that motherfucker held my career in his hands.