The Pretending Plot Read online

  “Will we?” I asked, moving in closer to her. “Will we get what we want?”

  “Yes, of course. And then you can go, like you want to.”

  “What if I don’t want to?” We were so close now, I could almost see the waves of emotion radiating from her tense, tight body.

  “What do you want then, Reeve? What could you possibly want?”

  “What if I want you?”

  She closed her eyes briefly, and I wished I knew what she was thinking. I wished I had the secret code to her heart, like I had to her body. “You don’t though,” she said in a resigned voice. “You don’t want me.”

  “I do,” I said roughly, gripping her arm. Then I loosened my hold on her, but still held her close. She was shaking the tiniest bit, and I worried that I’d scared her. “Sutton,” I said, lowering my voice, “you make me crazy, and I want you. I totally want you. So much. In every way. Every real way.”

  I dropped a hand to her waist, and felt her move toward my touch.

  “You do?”

  I nodded. “I do.”

  “For real?” she asked, and her voice wavered.

  I wanted to hold her and reassure her, so I placed a hand gently on her cheek and looked in her eyes. “Those kisses? They were not fake. I promise. And this? Right now,” I said, stopping to brush my lips against hers, so softly, so gently, I heard her gasp. “Not an act, either.”

  “Reeve,” she said. “I’m not pretending with you. I’m not pretending at all.”

  “Neither am I.” I ran my hands along her sides, over the fabric of her dress, feeling the heat from her body. “And this, right now? This is real. When I turn you around and lift up your dress, when I slide into you—that won’t be an act. But I’ll only do it if you say yes to me, Sutton.”

  She looked up at me, and she was soft and vulnerable. She was the Sutton who liked books, the Sutton who let herself be saved, the Sutton who wanted to know who I really was. She was the woman I’d loved getting to know better this crazy, topsy-turvy week.

  “We can’t do it here,” she whispered.

  There it was. An entrée. “I spotted a guest bedroom right by the cellar. Unoccupied.”

  “Oh God,” she gasped as if astonished she was agreeing.

  Good. All I wanted was exactly what I said at the table—I wanted her yes.

  We left the cellar, ducked into the pristine bedroom, shut and locked the door.

  Then she turned around, placed her hands against the wall. I hiked her skirt up to her hips and slid a hand between her legs, rewarded with my favorite thing in the world—how ready she was for me. Her panties were damp, and as I touched the cotton panel between her legs, I could feel the wetness all the way through. I reached inside my wallet, took out a condom, opened it, and put the wrapper back into my pocket. I unzipped the pants she’d bought for me, lowered my boxer briefs, and rolled on the condom. Like her, I was more than ready. I was aching to be inside her. Deftly, I drew her panties down to her knees, and angled her hips up slightly. She arched back, an invitation. I slid two fingers across her and she breathed out hard at my touch. Her body was trembling—she wanted this so much. She wanted me so much. As I glided my fingers against her, I knew exactly how ready she was for me. God, she needed it, she needed me so badly right now, just as much as I needed her. I stroked her more, grinning as she gasped and leaned her head back. She was so turned on, and that made me even harder.

  I pushed against her wetness, groaning as I began to enter her. She was silky and soft and tight, and soon I filled her up, pausing to savor the absolute fantastic feeling of being inside her. Inside this woman I wanted, a woman I adored.

  “Does this feel good?” I asked in a soft voice.

  “It’s incredible. I love it.”

  I rocked into her. “How much do you love it?”

  “I’m so turned on,” she murmured.

  “More than you’ve ever been before?” I asked as I slid almost all the way out, making her moan.

  “I’ve never wanted anyone this much.”

  I stayed like that, teasing her, knowing how risky it was to be playing like this at someone’s house. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care one bit about what they thought.

  “Are you sure?” I asked, rocking an inch into her, but no more. She shivered and tried to push back onto me. But I held tight to her hips.

  “Yes, God yes.”

  “Say please, then, Sutton. Say please.”

  She trembled in my arms, glanced behind me, her eyes blazing with desire. “Please.”

  I thrust deep into her, and she said my name in a hot whisper.

  I drove into her, feeling her tighten around me. With one hand holding her hip, I moved my other hand around to the front, touching her where she needed it most. She grabbed my wrist instantly, adjusting the rhythm of my hand.

  Her ownership of her pleasure sent a fresh wave of lust crashing over me. “You like that?”

  “Yes,” she said, in a raspy voice.

  “Should I stop, then?” I teased her.

  “No,” she said, her voice worried. “Please don’t stop.”

  “Are you sure?” I asked as I moved in and out of her.

  “I’m begging you. I’m begging you not to stop.”

  “Just this once, then.” I kept up the motions, rocking into her glorious wetness and touching her, my body pressed against her, feeling as if I were surrounding her, with pleasure, with sensations, with the purity of the absolute and perfect chemistry that existed between the two of us. I loved that she couldn’t control this, that she didn’t want to turn it off, that cool and calm Sutton was far out of her reach. She was hot and wild Sutton. She was needy Sutton. She was burning, fiery Sutton whose body cried out for me to bring her to the wildest and fiercest of places—to that far edge of want.

  With one final thrust, and one slide of my fingers, she gasped, shuddered, and came so hard on me that I could literally feel the intensity of her orgasm spread throughout her body, and that was all it took for me to finish off too.

  22

  Sutton

  Reeve and I decided we should go back one at a time, using a stop at the loo for an excuse for taking so long. I went first, quietly opening the door and slipping out of the bedroom, straightening my skirt as I turned—

  And found Janelle sitting at one of the barstools at the lounge, kicking the foot of her crossed leg and still managing to look uptight.

  Or maybe that was because I shrieked in surprise.

  Reeve came charging out of the bedroom to my rescue. I gave him a horrified look to make sure he was entirely dressed and zipped—and he was. Not that we fooled Janelle, obviously.

  “Heavens, it took you long enough,” she said.

  In spite of everything on the line, I couldn’t control my expression or the way my posture became straight enough to rival hers. “I beg your pardon?”

  Janelle raised a brow. “To get the wine, dear. What else would I mean?”

  “I . . .” How on earth did one broach the subject? What could I possibly say? I’m sorry, and I hope this won’t affect our working relationship, but were you spying on my fiancé and me having sex just now?

  Not bloody likely.

  “Only you’ve not actually brought out any wine,” Janelle pointed out.

  I looked from my hands to Reeve’s as if a bottle might materialize, but none did.

  “I suppose I’ll just get it myself.” She uncrossed her legs to get down from the stool and Reeve said, “No, wait! I’ll get it.”

  He went into the cellar and Janelle came over to me and whispered like we were girls at a slumber party, “You were right. I did not mean to get the bottle of wine.”

  I was sure all the blood drained from my face. “You didn’t?”

  “I mean that the chemistry between you is incendiary, and you can’t keep your hands off each other. I have been giving the pair of you every opportunity to get together.”

  Oh my God, what was I going to
do? Could I work for this woman knowing I had sex in her penthouse during her dinner party? Could I work with her thinking she might have watched us? Or at least engineered it in her own way?

  All right, Sutton. You just have to do what you would do in any other situation. Cut to the chase.

  “Janelle . . .” I cleared my throat then womaned up to handle this before Reeve came out. “Did you . . .?”

  That was as far as I got.

  “Oh dear God, no. I have quite enough sexual power plays to deal with vis-à-vis my husband. I had just hoped that you would seal the deal with Reeve—if you take my meaning, and I think you do—before you sign the contract with Pinkerton.”

  “Because it’s . . . contingent on my being engaged?”

  “Not at all, because once it’s a binding agreement I have no more leverage over Johnathan, and he doesn’t approve of my little matchmaking games.”

  I hadn’t heard Reeve come out of the cellar, but I saw her gaze flick his way. She usually smiled—sort of—when she saw him, but this time her lips tightened into the frown version of her singular expression. “You are adorable together, so much so that I didn’t even care that you, Sutton, outright lied about being engaged. I came to your office to tell you I knew, but then I met Reeve and, well, frankly the only thing I was interested in watching was how you were going to try to pull this off.

  “It’s been wildly entertaining, my dears, but tonight Johnathan will offer you the contract, Sutton. And as for you, you handsome young thing,” Janelle said to Reeve, closing the distance and walking her fingers up his arm without actually touching him. “If Johnathan knows what’s good for him—and he does, because I will tell him—you will have an audition.” Now the finger waggled. “No guarantees . . .” She gave him a wink that could be seen from the space station. “But I have been very impressed with your acting and could easily see you in Escorted Lives.”

  I had never seen Reeve so elated. So emotional. He ordered another round of drinks at Dahlia’s, the bar where we’d gone to celebrate. I always had a hunch I’d win the job casting the production, but it was a bigger gamble that he’d win a role. Our bargain was only that he get a chance to audition. I couldn’t guarantee him a part even if it weren’t against my ethics. But Janelle was married to the money, so she could. Janelle hadn’t specified which part, but it was what a hungry actor wanted more than anything—an opportunity.

  Reeve had been down on his luck, and now he was on top of the world, glowing like a little boy on Christmas morning. I’d seen that look on many handsome young men, and enjoyed being the one to put it there with good news.

  “We pulled it off, Sutton! We pulled it off, babe.” He pumped a fist in victory, then laughed giddily. “And not to say I told you so, but I had a feeling that woman was up to something. Matchmaking in her own way and a bit of a peeping tom. Isn’t that crazy?”

  “Totally.” I smiled. Janelle was an odd one, but every woman was entitled to her own kink.

  Reeve grabbed me and kissed me hard on the mouth, and I gave in for a moment to the feel of him. When he ended the kiss, he pounded his fist on the bar and shouted, “Best night of my life.”

  It was a very good night for me too. That was true. But yet, he hadn’t said anything more about the two of us. I’d admitted in the wine closet that I wasn’t pretending, that I had real feelings for him. Wouldn’t now be the perfect moment for us to figure out what was next? Would we spend more time together? But as the night wore on, Reeve never mentioned where we would go from here.

  He was still in his celebratory mood, happy and toasting everyone and everything. Except for us.

  It was a different side of him. I’d call him anything but grumpy, but this outright joy was lovely to watch, and it should be contagious. It was so unequivocally genuine. But that was the problem. He was unquestionably not acting, and my certainty about that made me uncertain about . . . everything else.

  Suddenly, I had a horrible headache and had to go home.

  Alone with my dog, I wrote to my friend.

  * * *

  Sutton: Have you ever gotten what you wanted and been kind of a selfish malcontent about it because it’s a cherry short of a perfect sundae?

  * * *

  McKenna: Oh, honey. I live in California. That’s a Tuesday for people here.

  * * *

  Sutton: Well, I’m unhappy about feeling unhappy.

  * * *

  McKenna: Spill. Because my shovel is still yours if you need it.

  * * *

  Sutton: Remember I said I’d fallen in like with Reeve? Well . . . tonight I sort of fell into sex with Reeve.

  * * *

  McKenna: I’m not even going to ask how that can happen. I want to know what you’re going to do about it.

  * * *

  Sutton: Nothing.

  * * *

  McKenna: WHERE IS SUTTON? PUT HER BACK ON THE PHONE.

  * * *

  Sutton: No, really. Reeve kept his eye on the prize, and he’s thrilled just to have an audition, and I think I just let what I wanted to see fill in gaps of what was there. And then all the emotion, and we just—what I said.

  * * *

  McKenna: Sutton. My sweet cinnamon roll. No one is that good an actor. He could be the clone of Laurence Freaking Olivier, but you are a professional. It’s your job to tell how well actors can act.

  * * *

  Sutton: That doesn’t mean anything if I didn’t pay attention. If I got caught up in how I felt, and the one thing I DO know is real, which is that we have massive chemistry.

  But desire isn’t the same thing as . . . more than like.

  * * *

  McKenna: Desire isn’t the same thing as falling in like for some people. But it is for you. You like Reeve, and the only way you’ll find out if he sees something worth going for is if you talk to him.

  * * *

  Sutton: Why do I love you so much for telling me things I don’t want to hear?

  23

  Reeve

  I didn’t understand why Sutton wasn’t happy. Ecstatic, even. She got the gig she wanted, and we were both open about liking each other, right? Also, we had mind-blowing sex. Life should be good.

  So why wasn’t she returning my calls or texts? Why was I at Jill’s apartment playing Scrabble when I wanted to be with Sutton?

  I stared at my letter tiles, not really seeing them. It was Sunday afternoon, two days after the most epic sex and most epic night of my life, and I was playing Scrabble with Jill and her roommate Kat, three people with social lives as scrambled as the letter tiles in the box lid.

  Scrabble was a favor for Jill, who had the audition of her life coming up and couldn’t relax. I didn’t even like the game, but I understood that kind of anxiety, so Scrabble it was.

  “Jihad!” Kat declared as she placed four tiles around an “h.”

  Groaning loudly, Jill flopped back on to the couch as Kat counted up her points. “That’s a triple letter for J and a double word score, so add it up, babies. Add. It. Up. That is 64 points for moi. Plus, an excellent and not overused word.”

  “There are no extra points for quality of the word, just the letters,” Jill said, sitting back up and stretching. “What I do need, though, is a quality coffee. Let’s go down to the bodega.”

  Kat made a face. “I thought you said quality coffee. If I’m leaving the house, then I insist we go someplace with macchiatos.”

  “Works for me.” She climbed to her feet. “You good with that plan, Reeve?”

  I was staring into space again—it had happened a lot this weekend—but shook my head and got to my feet too. “Thanks, but no. I need to get going.”

  Jill looked like she would say something—call out how I hadn’t even bothered to come up with a good lie, or maybe just ask me—again—how I was doing. But Kat nudged her toward the door.

  “Let’s all be off, then,” she said in a jaunty voice. I supposed a sixty-four-point word entitles a person to be ja
unty.

  We went separate ways, Jill and Kat toward the coffee shop, and me in whatever direction they weren’t going. My idle path took me to the Lucky Spot, and I ducked inside. I hadn’t realized when I turned down coffee it was because I’d really wanted something stronger. But if I’d had, I might have helped myself to whatever alcohol was in the Chelsea apartment and this was better. Among other things, Spencer was behind the bar.

  “So,” I said, sliding onto a barstool. “Think the Yankees have a shot next year?”

  Spencer put a highball glass on the bar and gestured to the liquor shelves. “What’ll it be? Alcohol is a more reliable social lubricant than talking about sports. You don’t have to pick a side to be on.”

  “Yeah, you don’t have to pick a team to root for, and you can switch whenever you want.” I asked for what I wanted, Spencer poured it, and pushed the glass in front of me.

  He went to work wiping down the bar. “You going to talk about what’s actually wrong, or do we wait until the alcohol kicks in?”

  “So, you’re not even going to pretend I’m here just for the booze?”

  “You’re in a bar on a Sunday afternoon. So is it work trouble, car trouble, or romantic trouble?”

  I sighed. “The last one.”

  “Ah,” Spencer said. “So, you didn’t come here just to look at my pretty face.” He made a bring it on motion. “Spill.”

  I kept it simple as I sipped my drink, never mentioning Sutton by name. “She’s hot and cold, and I don’t know why. But I think it’s because she doesn’t know or doesn’t believe I’m really into her. It’s this weird thing with actors. It’s like, sometimes the people you go out with never really trust you because they always think you’re acting.”