Page 62 of Marlowe Banks, Redesigned
“I meant what I said on Sunday.” She set her hands on his chest, unsure where else to put them. The placement was a bad choice. She was already dying to explore what lay beneath the thin jersey of his T-shirt. “I don’t want to mislead you.”
His brow furrowed above his tiger’s eyes, but only for a moment before softening.
“It gets easier,” he said. “Dealing with the public.”
“Easierisn’t the same aseasy.”
“Fair point.” He nudged her nose with his.
She scooted closer, stacking their knees, one of his, one of hers…
“What if I’d never be brave enough?” she asked.
“What if I’d never be smart enough, or interesting enough, or—?”
“What if I leave L.A.?”
He flinched at that. “Are you leaving?”
“Maybe. I don’t know yet, but I feel like I don’t belong here.”
His smile flickered into view. “You live in a horror movie set. People have probably been murdered in this apartment. Of course you feel like you don’t belong.”
She gave him a little shove. “It’s more than that.”
“I know.” He guided a few unruly strands of hair off her face. “We could list a hundred reasons I should head home right now. The press and the public. Unpredictable careers. The affair you might have with my imaginary butler. The peculiar odor radiating from every surface of this apartment.” His knee slid forward as histhigh rose between her legs, making her want to rub against him. “I have at least two reasons for staying.”
“And they are?” she eked out.
“I really want to touch you and I think you’re not totally against the idea.” Angus watched her, unmoving.
Marlowe blinked at him, breathless and addled. Her mind raced but in a hazy, pheromone-clouded way. She could step away from Angus on a dance floor. She could drive away from his house. But evicting him here? Now? Like this? While the hunger in his eyes shot fire through her bloodstream? Impossible. So she traced his lower lip with her thumb, as she’d done on set before their first kiss, only this time she had no lines to recite, no blocking to remember, no boundary to draw between performance and reality.
“You are annoyingly irresistible, Angus Gordon.”
His eyes narrowed as if he was chewing on her assessment.
“It’s not ‘the sexiest man alive,’ but I’ll take it.” His smile was still curling upward when she closed the distance and kissed him.
This was no chaste TV kiss. It was raw and messy and unrestrained. Tongues clashed. Teeth tugged at lips. Breath slipped out in short bursts, accompanied by unexpected little noises that saidyes, this, andmore. Hands slid around necks and down backs. They tangled in hair, gripped clothes, bared skin. His mouth roved over her neck. Hers explored his freckled ear, eliciting a low, rumbly moan before his lips found hers again. With a deft flick of his fingers, he popped open her top few buttons. Her chest heaved. Her hips shifted against him, circled, pushed, ground. Through his jeans, his erection pressed against her. The rush of knowing he wanted her the same way she wanted him drew a smile to her lips.
“What’s so funny?” Angus mumbled between kisses.
“Nothing.” Marlowe shook her head. “I just like you.”
“Good thing, or this would be really awkward right now.” He flashed her his dazzling grin. She pulled back far enough to look at him clearly, tracing his features with her fingertips while he toyed with the shoulder strap of her dress. His lips were swollen. His hair sprang in all directions. His lashes fluttered, back in their natural blond. She liked this version of him, flushed and disarrayed, a little less polished than what she saw on a screen. He was real and he was here, and at that moment, it was all that mattered. “I like your dress.” He popped open another button. “It’s cute, and I hope I don’t offend it by saying this, but is there any chance it has someplace else to be tonight?”
“Alternate plans can be arranged.”
“Flexibility is a highly underrated quality.” Eyes locked with hers, he hooked her dress strap with his index finger and slid it off her shoulder, following suit with her bra strap so both rested against her arm. After placing a row of soft, wet, deliriously drawn-out kisses on her collarbone, he studied the scalloped edges of her bra with both his eyes and his fingertips. Slowly, gently, he drew her bra cup down to bare her breast.
“They’re a lot smaller than Adelaide’s,” she said, bracing to be judged, a habit she hated but came by honestly.
“They’re perfect.” Circling her nipple with his thumb, his expression grew pensive the way it so often did when something fascinated him. Marlowe had never considered herself fascinating. She barely considered herself worth a passing glance. His attention felt good. His touch felt good, too. It echoed her steamy fantasy in his shower. As those thoughts resurfaced—and several others besides—she reached up and popped the hooks at the back of her bra, sliding the straps off from beneath her dress.
The second her bra dropped from her hand, he rolled her ontoher back. As her head hit the cushions, his tongue flicked across her breast, shooting a rush of sensation straight to the spot where she most wanted him to touch her. With that, the last of her insecurities fell away. No more fear of judgment. No more comparing herself to others. This was a moment for giving in to pure, unrestrained pleasure.
With the careful pressure of his lips, tongue, teeth, and fingers, he teased out one nipple and then the other. She writhed beneath him, knotting her fists in his hair, relishing every second while silently chantinglower, lower, lower. Reading her body if not her mind, he popped another button on her dress. Then another, dragging his lips across her skin, pausing to look, to linger, to enjoy. She arched against his trail of kisses, her anticipation building. It was maddening. It was wonderful. It was—
