Page 46 of My Lucky Star
“Really?”
His voice turned raspy as his gaze roamed out the window. “I lived it, with her. It was my version of our love story. I didn’t want the scripted version. I didn’t care. I never really cared about the lines they gave us. I learned them, I repeated them, but in my head, the words were meaningless. Doing a scene with Burcu, I could only think of her.” He turned to me, and his eyes dipped down to my cleavage, dark and unfocused. “What I wanted to do to her. How I wanted to touch her and make her feel.”
I’d entered a full-body blush, nipples so hard they were now the only points of my body touching the front of my loose outfit, like two little army-green tents. “There are online fan groups obsessing over every facet of that storyline and articles analyzing your performance in it. You won an award for your acting! And you’re telling me you just rattled out lines and looked at her horny?” My blush intensified as I revealed my rather obsessive internet search history.
Cem took a slow drink, smiling at me like he knew something I didn’t. That infuriating smile. “What do you want me to tell you? When someone looks like you... I mean her... well, either of you... staring is the only appropriate response.”
His eyes kept heating my skin. My brain resisted his statement, but my body decided the only appropriate response was a full-on arousal, the kind that zeroed straight between my thighs, pulsing like a high voltage device on standby. Current running through, ready to explode. What did that make me? A bomb? A coffee maker? Either way, I was in trouble.
I pressed my clammy palms against my hot legs, drawing a deep breath. Cem’s eyes followed my rising and falling chest. I looked down and noticed why. Sitting down, the straps of the jumpsuit had become loose, dropping the neckline dangerously low. I maneuvered my arms behind my back and yanked at the bra-style straps that held the fabric up over my still hard nipples. I may have made them a little too tight.
Cem placed his glass back on the table. “Aria?”
“What?” My voice came out husky.
“I don’t want to be your friend. It’s not enough.”
What do you want from me?I screamed inside my head.
“What do you want?” I asked out loud, in a fairly neutral tone, picking up my giant wine glass to hide behind. I was certain he could see my reaction to him, plainly displayed across my face and chest.
“Honestly?”
“I’ll probably regret this, but yes.” I took a sip of wine, my insides wobbly.
Cem leaned in, lowering his voice so I could barely hear it. “You sure about the honesty? There’s a lot I want.”
My muscles tensed. “Let’s break it down. What do you want right now?”
His voice was a rumbling whisper. “I want to make you come.”
I nearly inhaled my Pinot Noir. “You can’t say stuff like that!”
To my absolute relief, the food arrived. Kerim’s smile was filled with hope and suddenly I remembered what we were here for.
“Let’s take the photo now!” I urged Cem as soon as we were alone again.
With the photo done, there’d be no reason to prolong the agony of this evening, as much as the resident masochist in me seemed to enjoy it.
He nodded and picked up his phone, framing me with my steaming plate of something red and creamy. “Don’t you need to be in the photo, too?” I asked.
“Shh. Look at the camera and think of how much you want me. Maybe tone it down a little so Instagram doesn’t censor it.”
I rolled my eyes, despite my hot cheeks. “You’re extremely presumptuous.” But he'd placed the thought in my head, the thought of his hands on my body, and it circled my poor brain like an ear-wormy jingle. My cheeks burned and lips parted. Then the ridiculousness of the situation hit me, a smile broke through, and he took my picture.
“Absolutely fucking perfect,” he muttered, typing for a moment, then slipping his phone away. “Let’s eat.”
The food was so tasty I wanted to keep eating long after there was no room left in my stomach. Kerim came to ask how we liked it, and we both praised his cooking to high heavens, speaking a medley of English and Turkish.
“It’s called the sultan’s favorite,” Kerim explained. “My version of it.”
“Why is this not on your regular menu?” I asked.
“I don’t know...” Kerim shrugged, then launched into a Turkish explanation he directed at Cem.
“Apparently, New Zealanders don’t really want anything beyond kebab,” Cem translated. “Brutes.”
He showed Kerim the photo of me he’d posted. The big fat tears I wanted to shed over his food appeared in the restaurant owner’s eyes and they hugged. I didn’t understand a word, apart from the Turkish ‘thank you’, but I watched in a daze. How could one Instagram post of me with a plate of food elicit such a response?
