Reel: A Forbidden Hollywood Romance

I thought I’d learned my lesson.

I promised myself and Evan I wouldn’t get involved with one of the actresses again. Yet here I am at the door of Neevah’s rented cottage under the pretense of cobbler. Light pours over her on the porch while she retrieves the keys from her purse, illuminating every reason I should follow her inside. When she opens the door and walks through, I hesitate, standing on the porch. Here’s my chance to stop this. What are the odds of not fucking Neevah Saint if I go in?

Little to none.

It’s not just the threshold of her house I’m crossing. It’s the threshold of folly.

She turns back when she realizes I’m still outside, and the sight of her does something to me that used to feel foreign, but I’ve become accustomed to the effect. She takes my breath away. Not just the way her features are arranged into prettiness, or the dick-hardening slim-thick curves. When she looks at me I feel like she sees me, and I’m not sure anyone ever really has.

Why her?

My curiosity rages as strong as my lust. This is the threshold to why—to answers. To satisfaction for the hunger the very sight of her arouses in me.

“Did you change your mind?” Disappointment sifts into her expression. “It won’t take long to heat up, and I have ice cream.”

There’s something about the most fascinating woman I’ve ever met feeling like she has to put ice cream on top to convince me that destroys the last of my resistance. It’s just cobbler, right? I have enough willpower to eat dessert and get out of here without anything happening.

Don’t I?

I’m Canon Holt, renowned for my discipline and self-control.

And yet when she bends over and slides the cobbler into the oven, I’m like a horny teenager straining for a glimpse of her ass.

She straightens and tugs at the dress hugging her body. “Mind if I change? I just want to get comfortable.”

“Sure.” I settle onto the couch and try the only thing that’s ever worked in my quest to resist Neevah. I don’t look at her at all.

“You want coffee?”

I stare at my hands linked between my knees. “Nah. I won’t be able to sleep tonight.”

“K. I’ll be right back.”

She disappears down the short, arched hallway, her heels clicking on the flagstones. The Spanish-style cottage the studio is putting her up in boasts high ceilings and oversized picture windows. Even unlit, the dormant fireplace lends the room warmth and coziness. I assume both bedrooms, hers and Takira’s, are down that hall. My mind wants to wander there, to her changing clothes, baring her skin inch by satiny inch. I’ve seen her nearly naked. We filmed a sex scene between Dessi and Tilda, but it was as calculated and choreographed as one of Lucia’s dance numbers. Neevah wore a body stocking and everything was plotted, all the places she would touch and be touched mapped out and rehearsed. In front of ten people, they were repositioned several times to get the shots we wanted. There was an intimacy coach on set. It was a clinical thing.

It wouldn’t be that way with us.

We would run wild through fire. I’d be mindless, my hands everywhere and our clothes flung to far corners. I’d trap her against a wall with my body and beg her to bite me, to break the skin.

“That’s better,” Neevah says, coming back into the room wearing a T-shirt that says Ew, David and a cotton skirt. She has dancer’s legs, the muscles graceful and rippling under richly hued skin. Her feet are bare and toenails painted white.

“Schitt’s Creek?” I ask, nodding to her shirt, hoping to distract myself from all the nasty shit running rampant through my thoughts about her legs wrapped around my waist or me licking the arch of her foot.

“Yes, Takira and I binge it in my trailer between scenes.” She walks into the kitchen and opens the oven. “There’s a lot less waiting in theater than in movies.”

“Very true. How has the adjustment been?”

“You tell me,” she says with a smile over one shoulder. “You’re the director.”

Don’t remind me.

“I think you’ve done a great job.” I smirk and lean deeper into the soft cushions. “Or you would have heard about it by now.”

“Oh, I know. I was gesturing too much in the beginning and playing it too big, like I was onstage, not for a camera.”

“The first day”—I grin, baring my amusement—“you were yelling at the camera.”

She sends me a glare and walks into the living room with two bowls loaded with steaming cobbler.

“I’ll never forget Kenneth’s note.” She hands one of the bowls to me and sits down at the other end of the couch. “Canon says to tell you we’re right here.”

“That was the last time you yelled at me, though.”

“Ya think?” She scoops up some of the dessert, chasing the ice cream around the bowl with her spoon. “I hope this is half as good as my mama’s.”

The first bite nearly crosses my eyes. “This is delicious. If your mama’s is any better, I might marry her.”

“She might have you.”

I’ve heard about her sister and mother, but nothing about her father. “So is your dad still around?”

“No.” Her smile withers and she lowers her eyes to the bowl in her hands. “He died. Heart attack.”

“I’m sorry.”

She lifts and drops one shoulder, her eyes sober when they meet mine. “It actually made us closer—me, Mama and Terry. That’s why it hurt so much when Terry . . . when she did what she did.”

She stands abruptly, her bowl still mostly full, and cuts down the emotion growing in her eyes. “Guess I didn’t want dessert as much as I thought I did. I’m done.”

“Hey.” I take her wrist gently and pull her to stand between my knees, looking up, searching her face for lingering hurt. “You okay?”

She nods, glancing down her arm to where I clasp her wrist loosely. By the time she looks back, the hurt, the sadness is gone. They’ve left behind a smoldering ember, an answer to the burning question ablaze in me. I should get out of here now. I’ve managed to keep the promise to myself. I’m ahead in this game and should cut my losses.

But do I?

Am I that smart?

Am I that strong?

Hell, no.

When she leans closer, aligning our faces, I don’t pull back or push her away. Our noses touch and panting breaths wrestle between our lips. We’re inches from the inevitable, and she’s the only one who could stop us now. Desire clouds the clear brown, long-lashed eyes that bore into mine.

“I want to kiss you,” she whispers over my lips. “Is that okay?”

I swallow deeply, wrestling with my own longings. If I say no, she’ll step away. She’ll go into the kitchen. I’ll leave and return to my empty house. To my empty bed. To a life that, aside from the stories I tell, the movies I make, is pretty empty, too.

“It’s not the best idea,” I say, my voice low, raspy, nearly unrecognizable.

She carefully climbs onto the couch, over my knees. The short skirt rides up as she spreads her thighs to bracket mine.

“What would be a good idea?” she asks, so close now her lips skim the words over my mouth.

I take a deep breath that brushes my chest against the generous curves of her breasts, the contact robbing my brain of thoughts for a second. “I’m your boss, Neevah.”

“What does that have to do with it?” She pulls back, concern knitting her thick, sleek brows. “You think I’ll say you made me do it? I would never do that, Canon. If you think this is some kind of trap . . .”

She starts sliding off, but I can’t let her do that. I don’t want her to do that. Every inch separating us is excruciating. I hold her in place and draw her close again, my hands palming the tight, slim line of her back, rolling from her shoulder blades past the delicate cage of her ribs to the dramatic indent from waist to hip.

“I’ve dreamt of you touching me,” she says, her breath scented with apples and spice and want. “Don’t stop.”

“Neevah—”

“Don’t. Stop.” She sets the bowls on the couch to our left and right, freeing her hands to reach back up and caress my nape, run her fingers over the coarse waves of hair I’ve let grow while we’ve been shooting. “I want to touch you, too.”

She scrapes the neat crescents of her nails over my ears. I shudder, and she pauses smiling, repeating the simple caress. Her fingers wander to my jaw, scraping through the bristly beginnings of my beard.

“You are so beautiful,” she says, leaning forward to rub her cheek against mine.

“I’m not.” I keep my hands at her waist because if I touch her ass, it’s over. My dick is already impossibly stiff, pressing into the warm cove between her legs where she straddles me.

“You know at first I didn’t think so either.” She pulls back, the heat in her eyes tempered with a dangerous tenderness. “But then I saw you smile, and I could never think of you as anything but beautiful again.”

And as much as I want more, there’s a part of me that relishes just this. The eager discovering of first touches and near-kisses. We’ll never have these again for the first time, and I’ve had enough things that weren’t special to savor this thing that is.

“And as soon as I saw you onstage—”

“You saw your Dessi?” She lowers her lashes and toys with the buttons on my shirt.

“I saw a star, yes, but also the most generous performer I’d ever encountered. You gave the audience everything, and I wondered, is that for real? Does she hold nothing back?”

“Do you want to know?” She scoots an inch closer, her skirt rising higher and revealing the edge of her black panties. “If I would give you everything?”

She skates the tip of one finger over the bow of my lip, and I grit my teeth, gripping the last shreds of control with slippery palms. Her curious caress moves to my bottom lip, brushing back and forth until, on a pant, my mouth opens. Wasting no time, she grips my chin, leaning in, licking into me, searching, finding my tongue and drawing it into her mouth, sucking gently, softly. My control snaps like ropes holding back a beast, and it sets my hands free. I clutch the roundness of her ass, urging her even deeper into me until the place where I’m hardest touches the place where she is most soft and vulnerable and wet.

I groan into the kiss, pushing up, urging her hips into a deep wave over me. We build a rolling rhythm that collides our bodies over and over again, kindling for a fire. My hands slip under the T-shirt and find her skin, velvet and sleek stretched over her back. I hesitate at the clasp of her bra, not sure I should. Never breaking the contact of our kiss, she reaches behind and undoes the clasp herself. The freed weight of her breasts spills against my chest, and I push my tongue deeper into her mouth, so deep her breath catches like it might be too much. Like I might be too much, and I want that because she is too much for me to take in all at once. The vastness of her spirit and the urgency of her passion. I taste this night in the sweet recesses of her mouth, the dessert and the daring.

She breaks our kiss to tug the shirt over her head and ease her arms from the loops of her bra. My mouth waters at the sight of the dark nipples tipping her breasts like crown jewels.

“Touch me.” There’s begging in her voice I can’t resist. I brush my thumb over her, watching her breast peak and tighten. She draws a sharp breath. “Taste.”

I will.

My lips part, poised to accept the intimate invitation.

My phone rings, splitting the quiet.

Her eyes widen, find mine. I would ignore the call, but it’s Evan’s ringtone.

Shit.

Worst timing everrrrrr.

Not only did he ruin my vibe, but he reminded me of all the reasons this shouldn’t happen—yet.

“I need to get this. It’s Evan.”

“Oh.” She nods, grabbing the shirt and slipping it over her nakedness. “Alright.”

She moves off me, glancing down at my dick tenting my jeans. She licks her lips and all I can imagine is that kiss-swollen mouth wrapped around my cock, and Evan can go to hell. Unthinking, I palm her hip and draw her back to me.

The ring comes again.

Dammit, Evan.

I pull the phone from my pocket and ease off the couch. She stands there a moment as if waiting for me to change my mind. If I don’t walk away, I will, so I go to the fireplace and turn my back on her, resting my elbows on the mantel.

“What’s up?” I ask Evan.

“Uh, happy Thanksgiving to you, too. You still want to come over? Drink and dream some? My dad gave me these Cuban cigars at dinner today. My dude. I got one with your name on it. You on your way?”

Behind me, spoons clank in the bowls as Neevah walks to the kitchen, rinses the dishes and slots them into the dishwasher. I look over my shoulder to find her turned away, hands gripping the edge of the sink, slim shoulders lifting and falling with deep breaths. She appears as discomposed as I feel, but she’s younger, not just in years, but in experience. This is her first movie, and she gets into a relationship with the director? It’s not wise. It could be a repeat mistake for me, yes, but one I could easily weather. There are passes I get because I’m a man, because I have power she doesn’t. Because I tell stories that make people money. She doesn’t have that track record yet. She has no idea that we could crush each other. That beyond this door and this feeling, her career, her whole life, could be jeopardized by what we do tonight.

But I know, and I won’t let her risk it.

“Yeah, I’m on my way,” I tell Evan, pulling the car keys from my pocket.

“Cool. By the pool. I’ll light the fire pit and you can tell me all about your lonely turkey dinner.”

“Bet.” I let out a brief laugh and disconnect.

Neevah turns around, leaning against the sink, braless, her nipples still hard and round and high through the thin cotton T-shirt.

“You’re leaving?”

I walk to the kitchen slowly, giving myself time to overcome the violent objections of my dick. When I reach the arched doorway, I stop. If I touch her, this blows up again, and I’m bending her over that sink, shoving that skirt up and pushing her panties to the side. I don’t want our first time to be like that.

And I make a decision. There will be a first time for us, but not tonight.

“Yeah, I’m gonna go,” I tell her, my voice still scratched and rough.

“Did I do something wrong?” She looks down, twists her fingers at her waist. “I’m embarrassed. I didn’t mean to make you feel—”

“You didn’t make me feel anything I wasn’t already feeling.” I walk forward, risking everything to reassure her. I lift her chin and make her meet my eyes. “It wasn’t anything I didn’t already want. That I still want.”

“Then don’t go.” She reaches up, wrapping her hand around my forearm. “We can—”

“This is dangerous, Neevah, for me, yes, but even more for you. We should wait.”

“But I don’t . . .” She ventures a glance up at me. “Wait? For how long?”

“Until the film wraps.”

I cup the tender curve of her cheek and jaw, searching her eyes for caution or hesitation. There is none. That openness that draws me to her is on full display, her desire unmasked.

“This is your first movie. Do you want everyone thinking you got the role because you were sleeping with the director?”

“I don’t care what people think.”

“You will. I’ve been in this business a long time. It’s vicious. The rumors, scandal. Lots of truly talented people ruined their careers with bad personal decisions.”

“You are not a bad decision, Canon.”

“Maybe not, but I’m one you should wait to make.” I bend to kiss her, giving my hands permission to slide down her arms, over her sides, and to her waist. She strains up on tiptoe, eating into our kiss, her lips soft and warm and eager. Neevah’s sweetness hides a devouring kind of passion. When we happen, she will burn me inside out, and I can’t wait.

But I will.

With my lips still clinging to hers, I force myself to step back. Not risking one more word or allowing one more touch, I leave.