Lovegame(32)

Instead of waiting around outside the soundstage for her to finish, I make my way onto the lot, where the actors’ trailers are set up. Veronica’s name is on the one closest to the soundstage door—perks of being the lead—and I very deliberately walk toward it.

I half expect a security guard to stop me, but the only one I can see is at the other end of the set and he doesn’t seem at all concerned about my presence. I’m not sure if it’s because of the very prominent press pass I’ve got on my hip or if it’s because I look like I belong. Either way, I make my way to her trailer with no problems.

I figure she’s filming, so the quick knock I give on the door is cursory at best before I’m trying the knob. It turns easily, and maybe I should wait outside—okay, I should definitely wait outside—but at this point, the element of surprise is all I’ve got. I’m totally going to take advantage of it.

Except as I pull open the door, I’m the one who’s surprised. Because Veronica is standing on the other side, dressed in nothing but a short, red silk robe that shows off miles of show-stopping leg. Her hair is in a ponytail, her face devoid of makeup. Somehow, she’s even more beautiful.

Maybe it’s because there’s nothing to detract from her incredible bone structure.

Maybe it’s because that dark blood red is definitely her color.

Or maybe it’s because, despite the lack of artifice—of armor—she looks anything but vulnerable.

“What are you doing here?” she spits at me, color high and eyes narrowed dangerously.

“What do you think I’m doing here?” I counter as I gently ease her backward and push my way inside.

“Are we back to this? Answering a question with a question?”

“You tell me. It’s your modus operandi, after all.” I advance a few more steps, expecting her to back up a little. But she doesn’t retreat. Of course she doesn’t. Instead, she holds her ground, looking me straight in the eye until I’m forced to either stop or run her down.

I choose to stop, but not until I’m so close that a deep breath on either of our parts would have her nipples brushing against my chest. Just the thought turns me on.

And I’m not the only one. I watch, silently, as her skin flushes. As her pupils dilate. As her breathing becomes more and more rapid.

She doesn’t say anything, and neither do I. We’re locked in a battle of wills, one that can only have one winner. This time, I’m determined that it’s going to be me. And so we stare at each other for long seconds, the tension growing thicker and thicker with each moment that passes.

She leans back a little. I lean forward the same amount.

She bats her impossibly long eyelashes. I cock a brow.

She strokes a finger down the collar of my shirt. I slide a finger along her full lower lip.

And still neither of us speaks. Still the tension ratchets up another notch as we stare each other down.

There’s a part of me that wants to say to hell with it and just pull her into my arms, a part of me that wants to promise her I won’t write anything she doesn’t want me to write or say anything she doesn’t want me to say. But that won’t get through to her—she’s used to men she can walk all over, men she can bend to her will. If I give in now, I’m just one more.

So I wait, holding her gaze. Refusing to look way. Refusing to back down.

It takes a little while, but she breaks first. “Look, I’m sorry if—”

“No, you’re not.” I narrow my eyes warningly. “Try again.”

“Excuse me?” With those two words, the imperious queen is out in full force and I would be lying if I said I wasn’t glad to see her.

“You can tell me a lot of things right now that I would believe. You could tell me that you don’t want to talk to me. You could tell me that you’re going to call security if I don’t get the f*ck out of your trailer. Hell, you could even tell me that you don’t want to want me. But to say that you’re sorry? I don’t believe for one second that you’re sorry—not about what happened between us and not about anything that happened after. So. Try again.”

“You need to leave.” She puts a hand on my chest, pushes firmly against me.

“Maybe I do.” I wrap my hand around her wrist, then twist so that I’m holding her fist against the small of her back. “But I think we both know that’s not going to happen.”

She gasps, wiggles against my hold. But that only brings her body into closer contact with mine and lets me feel just how hard her nipples are right now.

They’re really f*cking hard.

I bring my free hand between us, flick my thumbnail across one hard little bud. She gasps and arches into it, so I do it again. And again. Then I squeeze her nipple between my fingers until she cries out, whether in pleasure or pain, I’m not sure. Both, I think, as I do it a second time and watch her pupils dilate until her eyes are nearly all black.

“Ian.” She gasps out my name, her free hand coming up to curl around my wrist. But I’m not having it—I’m in control here and the sooner she figures that out, the better off we’ll both be.

There’s a part of me that’s standing back and watching this whole thing, that’s wondering what the f*ck I’m doing. I’m not this guy. I don’t play games with women. I don’t push at them and try to make them uncomfortable. I don’t try to control them. I sure as hell don’t get locked in a battle of wills with them.