Page 94 of Reckless Hearts
“Ah, thanks,” I say, pulling the lanyard over my head. “That’s very useful.”
Marcus flashes a smile at me before heading back onto set.
As I sit on the chair Erica conjures up, I’m getting more sideways glances than a puffin would in a penguin colony.
Everyone’s clearly wondering how this rumpled, jet-lagged specimen of a human fits into Marcus Johnson’s glamorous orbit.
I rake a hand through my hair. I feel like I should apologize to the hair and makeup team for existing in their perfectly styled vicinity. I half expect them to descend on me with emergency combs and concealer at any moment.
But as the director calls action, my self-consciousness fades as I watch Marcus transform before my eyes.
He delivers his lines with such raw emotion, arguing with his co-star about the harsh realities of nineteenth-century Icelandic life, and I swear I can almost feel the biting wind and smell the smoke of the peat fires.
It’s like he’s opened a portal to another time, and I’m being sucked in.
When the scene ends, I realize I’ve been perched on the edge of my seat, completely engrossed. I’ve seen Marcus in movies before, but watching him work in person is something else entirely. Pride swells inside me, tinged with a hint of awe.
Marcus exchanges a few words with his co-star and director before coming over to me.
“You were incredible,” I say.
He gives me an almost embarrassed smile. “Thanks. You want to see my trailer now?”
“I’m sure my mother warned me about guys who offered to show me their ‘trailers,’” I say as I stand from my chair.
Marcus leads me to his trailer, which is less cozy mobile home and more luxury apartment that happens to have wheels.
Now we’re alone, I’m hyperaware of every inch between us. Should I touch him? Hug him again? Start a formal handshake?
I mean, I’m sure he didn’t invite me here for a casual catch-up.
I’ve never wished more fervently for a manual onProper Etiquette for Reuniting with Your Long Distance Hollywood Star…or something.
In the enclosed space, I’m suddenly acutely aware of how long it’s been since I’ve gotten up close and personal with soap and water.
“I really need to have a shower,” I say.
Marcus’s eyes heat. “How about I join you in there?”
My heart begins to thud, and I try for a nonchalant shrug. “It’s your shower. If you want to shower at the same time I am, who am I to disagree?”
He huffs a laugh as he follows me into the bathroom, which looks like someone took a high-end spa and shrunk it down.
I shuck off my clothes while Marcus leans against the door, watching me. The weight of his gaze is like a physical touch. I’m self-conscious of every imperfection I’m exposing—the softness of my stomach from too many late nights in the lab and not enough time at the gym, the farmer’s tan from fieldwork at Mangawhai Beach. But the way Marcus is looking at me… I don’t think anyone has ever looked at me like that before.
I slide into the shower, immediately enveloped by the warm water. It’s definitely an upgrade from my temperamental shower back home, which alternates between arctic blast and scalding inferno.
“I thought you were joining me,” I say.
Steam billows around me, turning the bathroom into a fantasy realm. Through the increasingly foggy glass, Marcus undressing becomes a hazy, dreamlike striptease.
As Marcus joins me, I’m struck by the absurd thought that this must be what it feels like to share a shower with a work of art. He’s a masterpiece of human anatomy, all harmonious curves and angles. My brain short-circuits at the sight of so much perfect…Marcus.
My cock, unlike my brain, definitely hasn’t short-circuited. It’s been half-hard since Marcus watched me undress and now goes to full mast, throbbing in anticipation.
Marcus gently strokes a hand down my side, his fingertips creating sparks wherever they land. I close my eyes, focusing on the sensations as his fingers skim my skin.
He traces the slight softness of my stomach, the jut of my hipbones, the curve of my lower back, like he’s conducting a tactile survey.
