Pretending He's Mine (6 page)

This man—this young, delicious man—was saving the day. She looked up at Reeve, he was easily a good six inches taller, and she felt a rush of affection for him, a surge of gratitude. Impulsively, she stretched to give him a quick kiss on the cheek. He looked at her, and shot a quick smile. She thought she might have even seen him blush.

He gestured to the seats, letting the ladies sit first. He sat between them, with Frederick by Janelle’s side. Then Sutton felt Reeve’s warm hand and glanced down to see him loop his long, strong fingers through hers and squeeze. It was tender and comforting, and it was exactly what she needed. As if he’d sensed the way she’d forgotten her lines earlier. She leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. That was odd. Sutton was never the cuddly type, except when it came to her darling dog.

Soon, the lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and the play began. Sutton sat up straight and focused on the stage, but Reeve kept his fingers linked through hers. As the characters argued about who’d forgotten to do the laundry on time, Reeve began stroking the inside of her palm with his thumb. Light, fluid lines. From her wrist to the edge of her fingers.

It was soft, and it was sweet, and most of all, it was caring. She closed her eyes, giving into the way his touch felt. It was a caress, it was a promise. He drew soft little zig zags across her palm, lazy lines that told stories of the two of them, of the things they’d done, the times they’d had, the love they’d shared. Or so it felt as he crept casually past her barriers, his touch making her believe in the fiction of them. Soon, his fingers were tracing the inside of her wrist, then the soft skin on her arm, and then, as all the words spoken from on stage became a distant faraway sound to her, he moved closer, planting a tender, soft kiss on her jawline.

♦ ♦ ♦

As Reeve pressed his lips on Sutton, he couldn’t help but notice Janelle sneaking peeks at them, all while her husband focused on the stage as if it pained him to look anyplace else. Why was she watching them now? To appraise their relationship or for some other reason? Well, Reeve wasn’t going to let a high-strung lady like her win. He and Sutton were winning this game, they were landing the gig, and he was going to do whatever it took to make sure there was no question they were together. Of course, he didn’t mind kissing Sutton. He didn’t mind touching her. He was a guy, and she was hot, and that was that. Do the math. Two plus two equals…Wait…Reeve heard a slight swishing of clothes behind them, and Frederick glanced quickly over his shoulder. The cute little usher from earlier had just walked behind them.

Janelle gave her husband a sharp stare that Reeve was sure translated into “Don’t you dare.”

Frederick muttered something under his breath that sounded a lot like “…help me out now and then…”

Reeve chuckled silently. He’d heard the rumors about Frederick’s multiple faux pas. But had Janelle cut him off?

Frederick sneezed, then coughed, then cleared his throat in rapid succession. As someone who’d been trained to do those three things on cue—sometimes, an actor had to sneeze, cough, or clear his throat—Reeve could tell Frederick was faking it. The man rose, muttered an embarrassed “excuse me” and exited the box.

Janelle whipped her head around and watched her husband disappear down the hallway. She narrowed her eyes, and her expression said she might start breathing fire.

What was up between the two of them?

But Reeve needed to focus on his role, and he was playing it to the hilt. So he layered another kiss below Sutton’s earlobe, hearing the breathiest little whisper escape her throat. There was nothing fake about that sound, and Reeve forgot about the Pinkertons and their strange habits, as he found himself drawn back to Sutton’s neck, brushing her with another kiss.

As Sutton moved the slightest bit closer, Janelle grabbed her purse and leaned over to whisper in a forced, happy voice that barely hid the anger beneath, “Looking forward to Friday night.”

Then she was gone.

Sutton opened her eyes. “What was that about? They both left?” she asked in a low voice.

He shrugged. “Guess they didn’t care for the play,” he said, but he suspected Janelle was making sure Frederick wasn’t chasing a hot young usher into a broom closet for a quickie.

“I suppose not.”

Sutton looked at the stage, as if she were enrapt in the acting, and Reeve could have gone back to watching the play. But he’d lost track of whatever the characters were up in arms about, and he didn’t really care in the first place. He was much more interested in this woman beside him, in the way she seemed to respond to his touch. He hadn’t expected it, but he sure as hell liked the way she seemed to want his hands on her, from the kiss in the dressing room, to now here in the theater.

As far as he could tell, there was no reason for him to stop touching Sutton. They were both having a good time, and there was nothing wrong with that.

He brushed a long strand of her hair from her ear. She shivered, and he loved the way the littlest thing elicited a reaction from her. He bet she was a tiger in bed, clawing and moaning, and screaming his name. Damn, he was even more aroused now, picturing the way she must make love, with a sort of fearless abandon. “Do you like the play?”

She swallowed and nodded once. “Very much so.”

He glanced back at the entrance to the box seats. The Pinkertons seemed long gone, there weren’t any other ushers nearby, and the closest patrons were in the next box over, a low wall between them. So he went for it. He placed one hand on her opposite cheek and shifted her face toward him, then moved his other hand to her thigh. She looked at him, and even in the dark of the theater, he could read those blue eyes, he could tell they were trying so hard to resist, but yet not wanting to resist in the least. Hell, he didn’t either. He moved his thumb along her cheek, tracing a line to her lips. Then over her lower lip, and she nipped playfully at the pad of his thumb. He smiled in the dark, as he outlined her mouth, then moved down to her neck, as if he were imprinting the feel of her throat, the heat from her skin, the way her body seemed to pulse toward him with every touch. She practically radiated the words kiss me and so he took the liberty to do just that. It was the barest of kisses, the kind that signals the beginning of something.

As he savored the cherry taste of her mouth, he played with the top of her stockings, slipping a finger along the band that held them in place. Sutton seemed to like him there. She opened her legs the smallest amount, an invitation to explore. He splayed his hand across the top of her thigh, being careful to make sure her dress covered his hand. She bit down on her lip as he inched higher. Another cue. Another sign. He moved closer, sliding his fingers to her panties and pressing against her. There. Between her legs. Where she was already damp beyond words. You couldn’t fake that kind of arousal.

“Can I touch you?” he whispered.

“Please do,” she said, and Reeve knew she was aching too, burning with the need to be touched, to feel some kind of release. He slipped his hand into her underwear, and she groaned under her breath, leaning her head back in the chair. As he stroked her, he imagined her spread out across the chair, arms thrown back, neck long and inviting, legs wide open as he tasted her. God, he wanted to bury his mouth between her thighs, to smell her, inhale her, run a tongue across all that wetness. He wanted to breathe her in, and kiss her deeply. She was a feast of a woman; the slightest touch seemed to turn her on, as if she was ready to go at any moment, a live wire, just needing the combustion to set her off.

“I totally want my tongue between your legs right now,” he whispered in a low and husky voice that belied his own reckless thirst for her.

“I want that too,” she managed to say as he stroked her, his fingers moving up and down all that glorious wetness. She was trying so hard to be still, to be quiet, as she moved her hips in the smallest of ways, not enough for others to see, but enough for Reeve to know how much she wanted him. He pressed a palm against her, and she let a little moan escape. Then she clasped her hand over her mouth to muffle her noises as he worked her. She was rocking back against his hand, and she was so soft and silky wet, and her little breaths were coming faster, and she spread her legs another inch or so, and damn, this woman was all fire and heat. He was going to make her come in a Broadway theater, and he knew in this instant that she was so deep in the throes of passion that she didn’t care anymore if anyone saw or anyone heard. She was so far gone into the crest of the orgasm he was about to give her. He wanted to slam into her, to enter her and feel that wetness wrap around him. But for now, he was thrilled to feel her arch against his hand, once, twice, three times. She inhaled sharply, and took several quick deep breaths as she came in his hand.

Gently, carefully, he moved her hand from her mouth, and kissed her, just as softly and just as tenderly as he’d had when he started. Then the curtain fell and it was time for intermission.

Sutton lay wide awake in bed, ashamed. The Artful Dodger was burrowed deep under the covers, curled up at her feet where he slept every night. She stared at the red numbers—3:01 a.m.—reflected on her ceiling from her digital clock. She berated herself quietly. Why had she let things go so far? How out-of-control stupid was she to let Reeve get her off in the theater? My god, she was a professional and a business woman. Fine, she might be known for her taste in man candy, but still. That was about her eye for talent. Not about some sex-crazed insatiable need to be touched at all costs. What would be next? Would she start diddling herself on the subway? Rubbing one out in the ladies room at her office? She flipped onto her stomach, embarrassed at the thoughts. Sutton loved sex, and she loved men, but she also cherished control. She was much more apt to make the first move, to be the first one to unzip the guy’s pants, to take him in her mouth, to bring him to orgasm, than the other way around.

She loved the smell of a man, she loved stubble, she loved that they have stubble, that they can grow it and that they can shave it, she loved how kissing a man was a perfect mix of soft and hard, she loved the smell of soap on a guy’s neck, the cut of a firm belly, the feeling of strong arms. But she also loved taking charge, setting the mood, being the first to go below the belt.

Because once she let someone touch her and bring her to that rapturous place of blissful release, she was hooked. She fell quickly, and Reeve was so very fall-able. He tied her in knots. He was beautiful and dreamy-looking, with those soulful eyes that looked as if they’d seen the world even though he was only twenty-four and had probably merely seen New York City and Ohio. And his hands, the way he touched her was as if she’d given him the secret code to her body, the right numbers and the proper combination, and he’d unlocked them. But there was more. She felt her heart lunge toward him when he’d saved her back in her office, and then again in the theater with his easy chatter and confident charm. Before he’d even touched her arm, or kissed her jaw, or slid a hand inside her panties. He’d stepped in and handled the Pinkertons. He’d said the right things and he’d said them with ease, as if they truly were boyfriend-girlfriend. That was the problem. Sutton had very nearly started to believe the fake relationship that she’d engineered.

She could see herself with him, dating him, going out to dinner and a movie, each of them playing casting director-in-hindsight, offering opinions on who would really have been best for each part in each flick they saw. Other times, they’d walk her dog in the evenings, picking up a bottle of wine on the way home, enjoying it on her couch as they talked and touched each other all night long, waking up together in the morning.

But that wasn’t their reality, so why would he have made her come after Janelle left? There was no need to keep up the show when no one was watching. So why? Sutton noodled on possibilities then landed on one. He was probably a Method actor. He was playing the part, staying in the role even when off-stage. She was acting too, she reminded herself. She was totally in character as well. Besides, she’d never fall for an actor, so everything was fine. She reached down in the covers and gently scooped up her sleeping dog, tucking him tightly in her arms.

♦ ♦ ♦

The hot water beat down hard on Reeve’s body. But it did nothing to turn off his thoughts. Sutton was confusing the hell out of him. After the play, she was her usual sparkly, sassy, playful self. But not once did she say anything about what went down in the box seats. Not that he wanted a blue ribbon pinned on his chest, or a gold star in his homework book for being a good boy. But a soft whisper in his ear would have been nice. An acknowledgement that he’d turned her inside out. But she acted as if nothing had happened, and so he’d followed her lead, and they’d chatted about the play, then other plays, then books. She quizzed him endlessly on why he liked Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas so much and he soon ran out of answers. He just liked it, okay? It was the first time he’d felt flustered and put-on-the-spot. With Janelle, it was easy to make shit up. With Sutton, he felt as if he were being grilled, and he didn’t know why. Then she hailed a cab, opened the door, and sent him on his way with a quick kiss on the cheek. She leaned into the taxi driver’s window and gave the dude a twenty and waved a too-cheery goodbye.

What the hell was that?

She was treating him like a guy treats a girl he doesn’t want to see again. Thanks, here’s a cab, now get out of my face.

He didn’t like that. He didn’t want the brush-off. He wanted to be seen again, called again, texted again. He wanted a second date with her, dammit.

Except it wasn’t a real date.

But even with her hot-and-cold routine, he couldn’t stop thinking of the way she wriggled in that chair, how she’d spread her legs without a second thought, how she’d done everything to stifle the scream of his name when he brought her to release. God, he wanted to do that to her again. She was so receptive, so willing, so damn eager to be touched. He loved the way she responded to him, the way she became a different Sutton when he touched her. That’s what he thought of, as he pressed one palm against the tiles, leaning into the hot stream, his other hand bringing him all the way back to her, her legs, her smell, her taste, the way he imagined she’d moan and writhe and shout when they were all alone in a bedroom somewhere.