“Now?” she asked with a smirk. “Or then?”
He winced. “Now.” He definitely wanted to focus on the present. Their present.
“I have another engagement.”
“No,” he said. “You don’t. Hear me out, Holly.”
She nodded stiffly, her already rosy cheeks deepening to a bright scarlet, and sat on the other couch, as far away from him as possible.
“Can I get you a drink? Or I can call room service if you’re hungry.”
“No, thanks. I’m fine.” She took out her cell phone and glanced at the screen. “I can give you five minutes.”
Five minutes. Okay. He had this. He took a deep breath. “I walked out this afternoon because...” Because what? The air thinned when she was around? He couldn’t stop picturing her under him, panting? He wanted to pummel her ex-husband without even knowing the guy?
He stared at the place where her neck met her shoulder and tried like hell to think of something safe. Sunshine. Cotton candy. The box-office numbers from the last Savage picture.
“Is it the script?” she blurted. “I knew it. You don’t like the script.”
“That’s not it at all.” He got up and joined her on the other couch, breathing a sigh of relief when she didn’t shift away from him. “The script is brilliant. Moving and smart without being sappy. Not at all what I expected from a play dealing with domestic violence.”
She bristled and he knew he’d put his foot in his mouth. Again. “What did you expect? Some hackneyed, stereotypically pedantic melodrama?”
“To be honest, sweetheart, I don’t even know what half those words mean,” he joked, falling back on the dumb-jock routine he’d used in school to mask his learning disability. But he grew serious when he looked into her eyes, wide and stricken, filled with uncertainty.
He reached for her hand and was reminded of that night on the dock when their roles were reversed and he was the one unsure of his future, needing her encouragement. “But I do know a good script when I read one. And yours is good. Better than good.”
“If the script’s not the problem, then what is?” Damn, he could get lost in those deep green eyes.
“You’ve heard the expression ‘actions speak louder than words,’ right?”
“Of course, but I don’t see what that has to do with—”
“Good.” And in a move of either sheer genius or monumental stupidity, he leaned in and kissed her, long and hard.
* * *
IT WAS HAPPENING AGAIN. Nick Damone was kissing her. And just like before, she couldn’t resist it. Couldn’t resist him. His touch, like a magnet, drawing her blood to the surface of her skin. His taste, like caramel, with a hint of Scotch.
Resist? Hell. Who was she kidding? She was responding to him like a sex-starved nympho. And while she’d admit to being sex-starved, she wasn’t a nymphomaniac. Yet. But if Nick kept kissing her like that...and that...and, oh, yes, that...
Everything else vanished into the vortex of Nick’s warm, hungry mouth. There was no play. No Ethan waiting for her to report on her mission. No Noelle or the rest of her family waiting to pick her up after yet another failure.
Only Nick.
Or, more specifically, Nick’s mouth, hot and insistent.
She hissed and arched into him as he skimmed a hand up her rib cage to her breast, cupping it through her blouse and brushing the soft silk across her nipple with his thumb. His other hand wound its way through her hair, keeping her head at the perfect angle for his heated kiss. He licked and nibbled and sucked at her lips from corner to corner until she thought she’d pass out from pure pleasure.
“Nick,” she panted when he finally paused to breathe. “I don’t think...”
“That’s right, sweetheart.” He disentangled his hand from her hair and with one finger traced the delicate shell of her ear. “Don’t think.” He followed his finger with his tongue. “Just feel.”
She was feeling, all right. For the first time since—well, long before her divorce—she was wild for a man. This man. The way his breath sent a current down her ear. The pricks on her skin from the scruff of his beard, lighting a path down.
Down.
And the hand on her breast... Oh, Lord. She shuddered as he teased first one, then the other, through her blouse, until her already aching nipples puckered into tight little buds.
“God...Nick.” Her head fell back, giving him greater access to the line of her neck. He drew a hot, wet trail from the sensitive spot behind her ear to the hollow at the base of her throat.
“So soft,” he murmured against her skin, wrapping his arms around her. “So sweet.” He pulled her closer, stroking her back until she was pressed against him so intimately she could feel every hard, solid inch of him. Especially the hard, solid inches pushing on her girl parts and making them all warm and tingly.
Her hips responded, rocking back and forth. Her hands moved, too, restless and hungry. They slid under his shirt and explored the ripped landscape of his chest and abdomen that her eyes had feasted on when he’d opened the door. Hot, hard muscle scorched her palms as her fingers threaded their way through the perfect smattering of silky, fine hair.
“Whoa, girl.” He grabbed her hips, stilling her, and gave her another one of those lazy, movie-star smiles. “Keep that up and I’m going to come before either of us gets naked.”
Naked. That one word sent a wave of terror through Holly. No one outside of a hospital had seen her naked since that night. That awful night when she’d told Clark she was leaving him. In the blink of an eye he’d gone from a controlling, manipulative bastard to a physically abusive one. An image of her stomach laced with angry red scars flashed through her brain. If Nick saw them...
Holly shuddered and forced herself to push away from him, creating at least a little distance between them even though his rip-cord arms still held her close. She’d been a fool to let things get this far. They had to stop. Now. Before he saw her scars and started pressing for answers she wasn’t ready to give him.
“I’m sorry, Nick. I can’t... We can’t...”
She braced for the explosion, the anger, the name-calling and blame. That’s what she would have gotten from Clark. Instead, Nick loosened his hold and let her slide to the opposite end of the couch. With that little bit of distance, the pressure that had been building inside her like a fast-rising river released.
“Don’t be sorry.” His lips curved into a smile, and his eyes, still dark with passion, met hers. “I’m not. Horny as hell, yeah. But not sorry.”
“Thanks.” She shook her head, bemused. How could he stay so cool and calm on the surface? Weren’t his insides churning like hers? “I think.” She started to get up, feeling shaken. “I should go now.”
He stood and offered her his hand. “I’ll show you out.”
“My purse?” She scanned the room, her eyes finally landing on a slip of sliver poking out from under the sofa.
He bent, picked it up and walked her to the door. “Like I said earlier, it’s nice seeing you.” He handed her the purse with a cheeky grin. “Again.”
“Same here.” She squared her shoulders and opened the door, trying to regain some semblance of composure. Not easy with her outfit stuck to her flushed skin and her throat as dry as a Thanksgiving turkey. “Thanks for meeting with us. And don’t worry about the play. I’m sure we’ll find someone wonderful for the part.”
He