Page 24 of Howl for Me
“Fuck, Cassidy…” he groans, voice slurred, breath shuddering between every word. “You smell so fucking good. Can’t stop thinking about it.”
The rhythm of his strokes quickens, filthy and desperate. I hear it in his breathing, in the way he pants like he’s chasing it, like he’s right on the edge and falling fast.
There’s a scrape of something sharp. Nails, maybe against tile.
A sound catches low in his throat, raw and strangled. He must have shifted. The growl that tears out of him isn’t human.
It rips through the air, feral and guttural, something deep in his chest; something not fully tamed.
“Oh..oh..ohhh fuck yes..” His voice pitches, broken and hoarse. “I’m cumming. Shit…I’m…I’m fucking…cumming…”
It crashes out of him like a wave, loud, throaty, drawn-out, and I don’t wait to hear the rest.
I bolt.
I drop the script on the coffee table and I shove the door open. My heart slams against my ribs, heat still radiating through my entire body, blood roaring in my ears.
He came. He came to the thought of me.
And I need to get as far from that house as possible before he realizes I heard every second.
Chapter Eleven
Johnny
I hate these things.
Too many bodies and too many fake-ass smiles with teeth too white. The music is pounding like a hammer to the skull. Hector said it’d be good for me to get out. “Remind people you're not just some brooding beast who fucks for a living. No one wants to work with you anymore because you’re so damn cold.”
The joke’s on him. That’s exactly what I am. I tuck myself into the darkest corner of the room, a whiskey glass sweating in my hand and I don’t even taste it. It Doesn’t matter, nothing hits right anymore. I used to enjoy this, the parties, the drinking, the hunt. A blur of skin and teeth, no strings.
Now?
All I smell is desperation. And it’s fucking loud. And she’s not here.
Cassidy.
Goddamn Cassidy.
It’s been five weeks since that night. Since she walked into my house, dropped the script on the table, and vanished like it was just another errand. Like she hadn’t heard me in the shower panting, groaning, moaning her name like a starved fucking animal. Fuck, I hope she didn’t hear me.
I didn’t see her. Didn’t hear the door. But I smelled her. The second I stepped out of the bathroom, I knew she’d been there. Her scent was everywhere; warm skin, adrenaline, that soft sweetness that drives me insane. It clung to the couch and hung in the hallway.
If she heard me, she never let on that she did. She showed up the next day with the same attitude like I’m her burden. She still doesn’t know that her scent betrays every snarky comment and eye roll she gives me. Every shoot, I tell myself to focus. I run the lines. I stay in character. I try not to let my eyes drift to her or breathe too deeply when she passes by. But it doesn’t make a difference.
She’s always there. In the room and in my head. And worse; under my fucking skin.
A woman approaches with legs for days, tits practically gift-wrapped in glitter. She’s laughing before she even gets to me.
“You’re Johnny, right?” Her voice is sticky and sweet. “I’ve seen your work.”
I grunt.
She runs her nails down my shoulder. “Wanna get out of here?”
I turn my head and catch her scent and—
Fuck.
