Famous (A Famous novel) Page 18

  “I’m always afraid I’m going to wind up on TMZ the next day. Or not even that. Sometimes they take a picture of you while you’re sleeping—especially the not-famous ones. They might not even be planning to do anything with it. Maybe it’s merely a trophy of sorts. But you have to demand their phones before you leave.” She blew out a bitter breath. “I got that piece of advice from a female rock legend who shall remain nameless. And I only had to do that once—find a picture of me half-naked on this guy’s phone. He seemed like a nice guy, but… Yeah, so, that was my one and only post-fame casual hookup with a civilian.”

  Evan blinked rapidly. It was almost impossible to just sit there and listen to this.

  “So you restrict yourself to other famous people because you both have something to lose,” she went on, her speech picking up speed. “There’s an unspoken pact. Everyone has careers to protect. But then…” Her voice caught, and she swallowed hard.

  “Then what?” he prompted, probably too gruffly, but he needed to know.

  She made a resigned, almost self-deprecating face. “I end up with a broken heart. The press thinks I’m all calculating. Like I’m using men for material for songs. But I swear to God, every single time, I think it’s going to be different.”

  “And it never is,” he said.

  “That’s right,” she answered, though he hadn’t meant it as a question. “When I look back, I can see clearly that most of them were using me.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I don’t mean this to sound conceited, but I’m more famous than most other celebrities.”

  “That’s not conceit. That’s the truth.”

  “So, yeah, even if there was genuine affection there, I think most of my exes were using me, too, at least partially, to bring attention to their movies or their records. Like, most of them would try to get photographed by the paparazzi when we were together.” She pinched the bridge of her nose like she was in pain. “But mind you, these great insights are always after the fact. At the time, I go all in, and because I’m stupid, I fall for these guys. And then when the inevitable heartbreak gets served up, I get gun-shy and all closed up for a while. Until it happens again.”

  He suddenly knew what to do with the robotic arm, the one that had gone from not feeling like his to feeling like it belonged to the Incredible Hulk. He would give it to her. It was hers. So he slid his palm across the table, right into her space, so there could be no mistaking the invitation. He stopped short of actually grabbing her hand, because he didn’t want to be another entitled jerk taking shit from her. “You’re not stupid,” he said softly.

  She rested her hand over the top of his, which he took to be enough of a green light for him to flip his own hand and squeeze hers. She smiled—a little bitterly—and said, “Yeah, so, it’s hard to find people to have sex with, is the point. And we’re parting ways after the show tomorrow.” She bit her lower lip, her smile turning a little embarrassed. “And there seems to be um…” She waved her free hand back and forth in the space between them.

  “A wild, unquenchable attraction between us?” he asked. He was teasing, but it was the truth. Trying to ignore it after the barbeque was what had make things so weird between them recently. It was a relief to have it out in the open.

  She laughed again. He loved seeing her laugh. He loved making her laugh. “Yeah,” she said. “But also trust. I trust you. I trust you unreservedly.” Her expression turned quizzical. “I’m not sure that’s ever happened. Even…before.”

  It was like a lance to his chest, and also, to be honest, to his dick. He’d never have thought that the concept of trust could be so lust-inducing, but here he was, holding Emmy’s hand over uneaten Caesar salads and feeling like the fucking king of the world.

  “I’m not gonna get all starry-eyed on you, I promise,” she said. “I wouldn’t be going into this like I usually do, with my expectations ratcheted way up. I know we can’t be together, not really. That’s sort of the point. We’re parting ways tomorrow anyway…and, well…here we are now with some time to kill.” She giggled at that last bit.

  God. If she didn’t stop with this strangely paradoxically innocent come-on, things were going to be over before they even began.

  And they were going to begin, because honestly, what man could resist her proposal? Her argument was airtight. They would probably never see each other again since she wasn’t coming back to Iowa with him. They’d pulled off their crazy caper. Emerson Quinn had lived in his house for a good chunk of the summer, and no one had found out. By the end of the day tomorrow, the threat of being caught up again in the whirlwind of fame would be gone. He’d be back to his quiet, normal life.

  And, more urgently, he wanted her so very, very badly. His body practically vibrated with it. A man could only stand so much pent-up desire, and he had wanted her since she’d shown up on his doorstep a month and a half ago. Hell, he’d wanted her since she was a too-young-for-him bridesmaid seven years ago.

  And now there was absolutely no logical reason to say no. She’d methodically torn down every barrier that stood in the way of him finally, finally getting what he wanted, what he’d thought he could never have, what it felt like he’d spent his whole life resisting.

  But he also wanted to do this for her. He wanted her to feel safe. He wanted to give her pleasure that was truly no-strings attached, because he was pretty sure no one ever had.

  He squeezed her hand even tighter as he looked at his watch. “We have an hour till Jace gets here.”

  She took that for the assent that it was, and pressed her lips together like she was trying not to grin. “An hour is a long time.”

  He licked his lips. “An hour is not a very long time for what I plan to do to you.”

  Her mouth fell open, but he merely shrugged. It was the simple truth.

  “Do you have any condoms?” he asked.

  Her gaze whipped up to meet his. “Shit. No! Do you?”

  He shook his head and looked at his watch, mentally calculating how long it would take him to go down to the hotel gift shop to buy some.

  “I have an IUD, though,” she said. “And I got tested before the Summer of No Men. So if you’re clean…” She trailed off half hopefully, half seductively.

  This negotiation should have been awkward, but it wasn’t. It was like now that they had established their mutual attraction and their intent to act on it, the details had lost their power to embarrass. “It’s been a bit of a dry spell for me,” he said. “I haven’t wanted to get entangled with anyone in Dane. Half the town is connected to the college, and—”

  “You never know when you’re going to run into a nineteen-year-old who isn’t being totally upfront about her age?” she teased.

  “Ding, ding, ding.” He pointed at her. “Yeah, so when I go to conferences in other cities, which is maybe twice a year, I usually hook up with someone on Tinder. I’ve always—”

  She held up her hand. “You don’t have to give me your entire sexual history.”

  “I disagree.” He spoke sharply, causing her eyes to widen, but it was because he felt strongly about the matter. “I think if you’re going to have sex with someone, Emmy, they most decidedly do owe you their sexual history.” She blushed. He had shocked her. “I always used condoms. I didn’t with my last girlfriend, the one I told you about, in Florida, who bailed when my dad’s trial started. She was on the pill. I was tested at my last physical, which was six months ago, and there hasn’t been anyone since.”

  She took a deep, shaky breath. “Why was that little speech so hot?”

  He laughed. “Regardless, I will happily go downstairs for condoms.” In fact, despite the fact there was virtually no risk, that was the responsible thing to do. He stood. Or tried to. She didn’t release his hand as he tried to raise himself, which left him sort of awkwardly slouching while she remained sitting at the table.

  “I trust you,” she whispered. “That’s the whole point here, isn’t it? I trust you
.” She spoke with amazement in her voice, and damn, it went straight to his ego. And possibly other places.

  He was still holding her hand, so he tugged on it, bringing her to her feet. He hitched his head toward the connecting door. “Shall we retire to your room? In case Jace is early?”

  “Definitely my room.” She glanced at his phone on the table and added, “And set an alarm or something.” He did as she asked, then led her across the room and held the door for her, instructing himself not to lunge at her when they were on the other side. He didn’t want to do anything to puncture the trust she had in him.

  She lunged at him.

  Threw herself into his arms, full-out leaping off the floor.

  And he laughed and caught her, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

  Because it was.

  She wrapped her legs around his waist, put her nose to his, and said, “You must work out,” a joking reference to the other time she’d awkwardly said that.

  “Yeah,” he rasped, letting his mouth move over hers as he spoke. “Especially this summer. I’ve had a lot of shit to sublimate.”

  “Oh, yeah?” she said, tipping her head back, a clear invitation for him to pay some attention to her neck.

  So he pressed some open-mouthed kisses against the smooth skin there before saying, “Yeah, this ridiculously hot woman showed up on my doorstep, and she’s been in my house all summer.”

  “Mmmm,” Emmy said. “Tell me more.”

  He took a couple steps toward the bed, and she tightened her legs around his waist.

  “She walks around all day wearing these tiny little shorts—that is, when she’s not wearing muumuus with funny sayings on them—and she has legs that go on forever. It’s hard not to look at them and imagine what they’d feel like wrapped around you.”

  She moaned, and he took it as encouragement to continue, as well as to take a few more steps toward the bed. He was tempted to add something about how she made everything easier, working and eating dinner and…being in the world, but he was pretty sure that wasn’t the vibe that was called for here, so he would stick with his laundry list of lust. “And she has these perfect little tits. I’m pretty sure she doesn’t wear a bra, and even though it’s been hot as hell, her nipples seem like they’re always at attention.”

  “She sounds like a little tease,” Emmy choked out.

  He continued their slow march to the bed. “That’s the thing,” he said, moving his hands down from where they were clasped around her back so he could grab her ass. “I don’t think it’s intentional. I don’t think she knows how sexy she is.”

  Emmy gasped, and he continued his verbal assault.

  “I’m sure, for instance, that she has no idea how much I want to taste one of those cheeky little nipples.” He rubbed his face against the skin of her collarbones, probably too roughly because he hadn’t shaved this morning, so he was sporting two days’ worth of stubble. “Because I have a feeling they would taste like cherries or something fucking ridiculous like that.”

  “Cherries?” She was panting and laughing at the same time, and the combination shouldn’t have been so potent, but it made his dick even harder. “That’s a pretty tall order.”

  His shins hit the edge of the bed, and he lifted his head to meet her gaze. He grinned and shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe strawberries?”

  She stared back at him with an insolent expression. “So why don’t you find out, then?”

  He paused for a moment, their eyes locked as he instructed himself to savor this moment, this point at which he stood on the brink, about to devour her. She felt like…his muse. An astonishing thought he shoved away for later examination as he dropped her on the bed. She squirmed and laughed uproariously, and he lifted her tank top, exposing both her breasts. He pinned her hands down and straddled her. He didn’t put all his weight on her, but he did let her feel what she did to him. It was the same strange impulse as the other night in the garden. He’d been almost angry then, wanting her to know how much she tormented him. The impulse to show her was still there, but the anger was gone. He cocked his head and contemplated her beautiful breasts. They were small and pert and perfect, handfuls of white flesh topped by pink nubs that did really call to mind berries. To tease her—God, he loved teasing her—he said, “Hmmm…raspberries? Loganberries?” But then he thought seriously for a moment about them. What color paint would he use? Permanent Rose? No, not on its own. Maybe mixed with a little Cadmium Red Medium, though.

  “Loganberries?” she echoed. “Do you even know what loganberries taste like?”

  “Yes,” he said, composing his face into a parody of seriousness. “I may be hopelessly ill-informed when it comes to pop culture, but I’m one of the world’s foremost experts on berries.” She burst out laughing. “You probably didn’t know that because I don’t like to brag,” he added, marveling that such silliness could ensue yet not even remotely be a boner-killer.

  Still, it was time to get this show on the road, to do more than look at her like she was sitting for a goddamned painting.

  So he made good on her invitation/threat, set his glasses on the nightstand, and lowered his mouth to one of her nipples. He didn’t waste any time teasing, simply took the whole thing into his mouth.

  “Oh!” she cried out, and he circled his tongue over the sharp little nub, trying to make her do it again.

  She did, and it went straight to his dick.

  Then she tried to push him off. She was laughing, so he held her down, pulling back just enough to check that she didn’t really want to escape, and satisfied that she didn’t, said, “Hmmm, maybe not loganberries, but lingonberries.”

  “Like at Ikea?” She grinned. “Take your shirt off.”

  He obeyed, relishing the little intake of breath that resulted. “I think so,” he said, going back to the berry question. “But I am going to need more data.” He sat up and leaned back against the headboard of the bed, then swung her onto his lap so she was straddling him. “Unnnh,” he groaned when they made contact. He pulled her tank top the rest of the way off, grabbed the cheeks of her ass to anchor her, and lowered his mouth to her other breast.

  God. He had been teasing. She didn’t really taste like berries, but she tasted So. Damned. Good. She was tarter than a berry, almost salty, and as he was level with her neck, the scent of her surrounded him.

  “Jesus, Emmy,” he said as she started grinding on him. “I want to taste you everywhere.”

  “I don’t think we have time for that,” she said. “Alas.” Panting, she lifted herself off his lap. He was about to object but shut his mouth when he saw that she was taking off her shorts. She must have pulled off her underwear with them too, or else she wasn’t wearing any—Christ. She had a small patch of blond hair but was otherwise bare.

  “Emmy,” he growled. He let his eyes roam up and down, taking in the whole sight of her. She was lean and graceful and… “Gorgeous,” he whispered, hurrying to shed his own shorts.

  “Oh,” she said, and he followed her gaze to his dick. “It’s big,” she whispered.

  He laughed. It was big—not porn star huge, but he’d assembled enough commentary from women to know that he was larger than average. “We don’t have to—”

  “Hell, yes, we do,” she said, interrupting his attempt to reassure her.

  He grinned. Honestly, never before had he had a sexual experience so infused with joy, with laughter.

  “Pronto pup,” she said, and his mind struggled to grasp why she was suddenly invoking a corn dog, the iconic state fair food they’d indulged in hours ago.

  “No, wait.” She giggled. “Maybe corn on the cob?” He felt his brow furrow, and she said, “I’m trying to figure out what you’ll taste like.”

  Aww, hell. He let his head fall back against the headboard at the same time that he said, “Get over here, Emmy.”

  But then the goddamned phone beeped.

  “What is that?” she wailed, just as she was about
to climb onto his lap.

  “Fuck,” he ground out, grabbing the phone to silence it. “It’s eight thirty. I set an alarm for eight thirty and another for eight forty-five, which I figured was as late as we could go.” They were going to have to speed things up, and the injustice of it practically gutted him. “So what do you want to do?” he asked.

  “I wanna taste you,” she said, sliding down the bed.

  It took all he had to stop her. “And I want that too, but seriously, we only have fifteen minutes, if we want to make sure we don’t get caught. We have to prioritize here.”

  She burst out laughing. “We have to prioritize?”

  He grinned. “Yeah. Triage sex. So tell me what you want, most of all.”

  She turned a little pink, and when she spoke, her voice was soft. “I’m not good at talking about this stuff.”

  He took her hand and pulled her back onto his lap. She buried her face in his chest. “About what stuff? About sex? Because it seems like you’ve been doing a fine job so far.” He tipped her chin up. “So tell me. Because I want what you want.”

  She took a deep breath and said, “Then I want you to fuck me—fast and hard.”

  He had them flipped in an instant. “Good choice,” he growled, spreading her thighs and drawing his fingers experimentally across her folds. She was wet. She moaned. “Do you like that?” he asked, and she nodded vigorously. “Tell me what you like about it,” he exhorted her. If she was usually shy talking about sex, he wanted to be the man who made her shameless. And if they only had this one time together, he wanted her to remember it.

  “I like the pressure,” she said. “Of your fingers.”

  He increased the pressure, and she drew in a sharp breath. “What do you like about the pressure?” he prompted her, taking a long, slow breath to try to beat back the familiar tension growing in his lower back.

  “I like how your fingers are hard against where I’m soft.”

  “Yeah?” he said, putting his mouth back on one of her nipples.

  “I like how they tease me, like they’re a preview of this.”