Say It Sexy (23 page)

"Harder!" she pleaded, moans like barbs tearing into her lusty gasps. The water splashed around us, lapping at the slippery white walls as I gladly increased my speed and upped my force.

"Does that feel good, baby?" I asked huskily.

"Yeah. Yes! Garrick!" she exclaimed.

I had to wonder if it was me that made her this horny, or if she had been planning a private self-love session in the shower before I came barging in. God, the thought of that only made her hotter. It certainly made my chest swell with pride to see Gwen unravel this way too, willingly placing herself at my mercy—letting me make her mine.

Snaking my free arm under her, I pumped in to the hilt. She mewled and writhed beneath me, the two of us baking in the heat created between our wanting, insatiable bodies. Sounds escalating and continuously tightening around my cock, I knew I couldn't hold back any longer. She squeezed the meat of my back, legs stubbornly encasing my hips.

With one last fierce thrust, I came, practically seeing stars as the subsequent orgasm shot through me like Artemis's arrow. Seconds later, I felt her forced over the cusp of her own peak. I kept my arm tightly wrapped around her while she plunged headlong into bliss. Chests heaving, we met eyes. She seemed uncertain, packed full of emotions she either didn't want to, or didn't know how to express. We kissed.

After a moment, Gwen swallowed hard and turned her attention to the drenched tile floor at the base of the bath. “Oops,” she mumbled apologetically.

"Well. I think I see what the bathtub is for now," I rasped out, the corner of my lip kinking up in a crooked smirk.

Like magic, she threw her head back and laughed.

* * *

After disposing of the rubber, cleaning up with a playful shower, and a quick mop-up of the shallow pool that had become her bathroom floor, Gwen and I tossed all the wet towels into a pile and poured our naked selves into her bed. She lay against my side in the crook of my arm. The silence between us hung peaceful, and somehow more romantic than any words I could string together.

"So," I said, absently caressing the silky skin of her arm.

"So," she echoed in a sing-song voice while her fingers danced across my chest, tracing meaningless patterns.

“Remember those times you used to bicker with me about stupid stuff and pretend you didn’t want me?”

“I didn’t want you,” she defended.

“Don’t lie,” I joked. “You did too.”

“Maybe a little,” she grumbled.

I snickered and squeezed her. She wriggled nearer. "I'm no expert or anything, but I think our bathtub mission was a success."

She giggled, snuggling in even closer to me. "Agreed. I don't believe we could have done that down in the Jacuzzi."

"Not without potential heat stroke and some awestruck onlookers, probably not. Talk about a spectacle though!" Chuckling, I gave her another, softer squeeze. "Speaking of onlookers."

With her slender, dark eyebrows knitting together, she raised her head off my chest to look up at me. I took a deep breath. "It’s just that…next weekend is Valentine’s Day. And I was wondering… Are you feeling any different about us? About what we could be?"

"We've already talked about this, Garrick," she warned softly as she sank back down, though her body seemed tenser and less accessible than a moment ago.

"I know, baby," I assured her. "But... you can't deny that there is something here. What if the show keeps getting bigger? The more publicity we draw, the harder it will be to keep our feelings under wraps. Wouldn’t it be easier to be in a known relationship? We have something special between us. I know you feel it too. So what if we get to hold hands in public? So what if we sit closer to each other sometimes or, heck, even get spotted together at a romantic restaurant on Valentine’s Day? Would the world outside of you and me knowing that we do have something special really be so bad?"

She clenched her jaw and I watched the muscles bulge. "If said world did not include my father, probably not."

"I'm not scared of him, Gwen."

"Well, you should be," she candidly informed. "As big and bad as Rachel is, my father and his connections are better, and his reach is wider. You know those old movies where the villain in the bowler hat swears 'If I don't get my way, you'll never work in this town again'? Yeah. Dad is the modern day version of that."

"Look, I get that with my reputation, your dad wouldn’t approve of me, but you’re an adult. He’s got to trust your judgment and I’ll do everything in my power to prove I’m worth giving a chance.”

"It's not that simple," she sighed. "The image you've built around your name is pretty set in stone. I know you did it as a barrier to shield yourself against past and future pain, but he'll never understand that. No matter how much I want to be with you, Gar, to date in public and share my feelings about you outside of this hotel room, I just... I don't think it's possible."

A frown formed on my face and deepened as I mulled this over. "So, what you're saying is... you do feel something for me?"

"Oh, hush." She snorted out a laugh, giving my chest a light slap. "You're worse than a tweenage boy."

"What if I promised to alter my image? What if I started showing the world who I truly am, instead of what I want them to think I enjoy being? Would you reconsider?"

"I don't know," she admitted softly. I could hear sorrow encroaching in her voice. “I want to keep exploring what we have, but I guess… I’m afraid.”

“I’m here,” I reminded her. “And you’re a strong, badass woman. Why would you be afraid?”

“I’ll think about it.”

Giving her a squeeze, I suggested, "What if I make adventures in the bath a daily thing?"

The symphonic sound of her giggles filled the air.

I wanted to ask her about Valentine’s Day again. Ask if I should make reservations someplace nice. I hadn’t wanted to spend Valentine’s Day with anyone in two years. But I figured I’d pushed her enough.

Craning my neck down, I pressed a kiss against the part of her hair. "I'm going to figure this out, baby," I swore. "Somehow, I'll make dear old dad see that he can trust me with his greatest treasure."

She mumbled something that I didn't catch. When I asked her to repeat herself, she dismissed me with a 'never mind, it's nothing' and kissed my throat. "I'm not so sure you know what you're up against."

After a thoughtful pause, I said, "Well… he can't be anywhere near as ominous as the bathtub."

She laughed.

Gwen

The next Friday, we were filming Episode Five on site at the University of New Mexico, surrounded by a bustle of activity. Despite the chaos running rampant in my head, I tried to stay focused, but it was difficult. All I could think about was my conversation with Garrick the previous Saturday. What was he thinking with all that talk about trying to win my father over? The man wasn't a Hallmark Dad…

Still, hope started building inside me like a tower of children's blocks. I told myself that surely my father would understand my desire to pursue romantic relationships, and that he would just have to accept it. I was a grown, capable woman.

Yes, I’d made a mistake with Randall, but what about all my other achievements? Hadn’t I done enough by now to earn his trust even when I had stumbled?

But then I’d start thinking about the promises I’d made him. How I’d been keeping things from him. Even if I started slowly broaching the subject of
The Maze Boy
differently, he’d immediately accuse me of lying. Lying spoke ill of my character. He would grill me about how long this had been going on, and forbid me from letting it continue. When I fought back, he’d explode. When he exploded, I’d cave. It was the cycle I was accustomed to, and the thought of Garrick seeing me that way…

Suppressing a shudder, I returned to leafing through my script, though the lines merely blurred together into a tangled jumble of unimportant symbols thrown onto the paper.

"Hey," Erica greeted, dropping her hand on my shoulder.

Startled, I squealed and lost my grip on the script. She caught it before it hit the ground, and I was grateful I had remembered to staple it that morning.

"Whoa," she laughed, straightening out the stack and replacing it in my hands with a light tap. "You okay? Seem a bit flustered."

"Yeah. I think so. I don't know."

"It's Garrick, isn't it?"

"Keep your voice down," I reminded her with a
trying-to-be reprimanding
smirk. Failing miserably, I averted my eyes and grinned.

"It’s not like your dad has spies around here,” she stated, snickering. “I mean, he could but I know most of these people, extras included, from UNM’s film school. You really need to update me about what's going on," she instructed, leveling me with an accusing leer. "I know I've been AWOL. Book Two is killing me. And the vultures at my back aren't making it any easier.”

“Shall we go bowling for buzzards later?” I teased.

Erica blinked, fixing me in a look of surprise. “Did you just quote
The Lion King
? It’s like I don’t even know you anymore,” she joked.

I chuckled and dropped my eyes to my script. We had just finished page ten, and Lyle was about to call cut for the day. Thank God, because I was famished. Lyle’s voice came over the intercom, constantly questioning someone beside him about the data compiled. He announced the names of the actors needed for the last few corrections. I was not among them.

“Are you going to the cast party tonight?” Erica asked, jotting notes down on the same copy of
Straightlaced
she had been toting around for the last few weeks.

Already having enough on my plate to fret over, I shrugged my shoulder. ‘I’m really not sure.”

“Not sure?” she echoed with conviction. “If you don’t go, it’s going to be me, the guys, and a bunch of extras who only came to see the guys. I need you there so I’ll have someone to talk to.”

“You’re excellent at making conversation with anyone.”

Expression slipping into a scowl, Erica huffed. “But I’d rather talk to you.”

Rolling my eyes fondly, I flipped to page eleven.

“Hey, Gwen,” Erica asked from over my shoulder. “What does your father look like?”

I chuckled. “Are you interested in my dad, Erica? I didn’t think you were the type to go for body builders.”

She took a breath. “Out of curiosity, how would you describe him?”

I shrugged. “A little over six feet. Broad shoulders, muscular build. Cloudy blue eyes, white hair. He usually shaves his face, but sometimes he lets it grow into the beginnings of a beard.”

“Uh-huh. Does he always dress in suits?”

My eyes slid to her. “Yeah. Why?”

A strange shade of pale green, Erica lifted her hand, gesturing toward the trailer lot with her pointed finger. I spun around, slipping out of my chair, and froze, stunned at the sight approaching. I realized that Erica’s questions had not come out of the blue at all.

“Dad,” I managed to stutter, throat going dry.

My father came strutting toward us. I floundered in my confusion. He wasn’t supposed to be here. Like a pop quiz in high school, he had come to examine my habits, and ascertain how well I was following his study schedule. Internally shrieking, I prayed that I was dreaming.

Quickly scrambling to get reacquainted with my old persona and find ways to prove that I was following all of his rules, I assumed the brightest smile I could and crossed to him. He opened his arms and I met him with a hug.

“Hello, dear,” he greeted with his sweetest grin. Lifting his hand, he touched the collar of my denim jacket. “I see you’re wearing your birthday coat. It still looks lovely on you.”

“Yes,” I instantly agreed. “I hardly take it off! What are you doing here?” I asked. “What a surprise!”

He chuckled, hands shifting to clutch my shoulders, and pulled back to look me in the eye. “Do I need an excuse to visit my daughter?”

I laughed. “No, not at all! When did you get in?”

“An hour ago,” he answered. Transitioning to talking out of the corner of his lips, as though being secretive, his eyes darted to the left. In spite of the innumerable eyes fixated on us, he continued. “And I have to say Gwendolyn, is I’m very impressed with the airport.”

I laughed nervously. “They call it the Sunport. Albuquerque is kind of a smaller town masquerading as a big city. It’s truly wonderful once you get to know it.” Realizing that Erica, like a lighthouse in my fog, stood a reach away, I turned to her, hoping she could somehow hear my inaudible shrieks of terror. “Dad, this is Erica Ellis, author of
Straightlaced
. Erica, this is my father, Richard Vickers.”

Bless her and all her aplomb, Erica donned a sunny grin and stretched out her hand.

“Rich, please.” My father took it with a deliberate shake. “Pleasure, Ms. Ellis.”

“Likewise, Rich,” she greeted.

Just then, the shrill bell signaling the end of the day rang out through the air. I exhaled a silent breath of relief. Everyone would be busy with striking the sets and piling into cars. That gave me the opportunity to divert my father’s attention from the rest of the cast, namely Garrick. I knew I couldn’t let my father anywhere near him. They couldn’t meet. Garrick was the only gray area in my dutiful, perfect daughter world.