Alice Clayton - The Redhead Plays Her Hand

“Don’t you think we should? I mean, what happens if—”

“No more talking tonight,” he muttered, his mouth crashing down onto mine.

His lips were sure and insistent, his tongue exploring my mouth with a need that was answered quickly by my own.

His hands pushed up my shift, searching, needing, finding my skin. I shivered at his touch, not just from the chill of the night but because his hands on me always caused the same effect. I needed him, always.

“I need . . . Christ, I just need,” he stammered between rough kisses on my lips, my cheeks, just under my ear.

“What, love, what do you need?” I asked, arching into him, holding him to me.

“Fuck, Grace, I need this.” He groaned, his hands strong and not at all gentle. I didn’t always need gentle. And he needed me.

Deft hands made short work of my nightie, and he bent his head to my breasts, dragging his warm tongue across me, making me pant, making me need him even more. I straddled him, legs parting on either side of his. He brought me closer, pressing my heat against his as he rocked upward, nudging me farther apart as I groaned shamelessly. His eyes were wild as he gazed up at me, biting down on that lower lip in a way designed to make every thought I ever had about sexing it up outside melt away. Neighbors? Who cared, this was the canyon. Canyon sex was the best.

I pushed up his shirt, hissing as I felt his warm skin along my own. Heat bloomed between us, wrapping us in our own little hot pocket of lust.

Strong hands and calloused fingers shoved open my thighs. He found me instantly, being well acquainted with the landscape. My own hands scrambled to unbutton his jeans, raising up on my knees. This brought my breasts within reach of his lips again, nipples hardening beneath the work of his glorious tongue. I found him, hard and wanting in my hands. I twisted this way and that, seeking friction, any friction I could get, pressing his hands hard into my soft skin.

“Fuck, Grace, I can’t wait,” he groaned, pulling me down on top of him, pushing inside me. I moaned loudly as he filled me, thick and wonderful. His mouth opened at my neck, teeth grazing and nibbling, then biting down hard as he pushed farther into me. I threw my head back, riding him, reveling in the strength he was using on me, his body owning my own, completely and totally. His thrusts were punctuated by his voice, delicious and dirty, raining down obscenities as he guided my hips into his, pushing and pulling me on top of him, impaling me with his body. I let his arms hold my weight, arching back. His hands imprinted into my skin, fingers grasping and leading me in his pace, fast and furious.

“Mmm, Jack,” I sighed, my eyes opening to take in the dark night, the stars above me twinkling, as the star below me thrust, low and deep.

I gasped as he pulled me up flush against him, my hands clasped behind his neck, his arms locked around me as I stared down into his eyes. His brow furrowed, and he was frantic, groaning as he drove on and on, not stopping, my cries echoing throughout the night as he ravaged me. He angled his hips suddenly, and then he was there, pressed perfectly against the spot, that spot that he alone knew and knew well enough to coax out something so intense.

What Jack Hamilton was capable of doing to my body could not be defined. I came apart in the Southern California night, strung out and unaware of anything in the universe other than the feeling of him inside me, exactly where he should be, his own body taut and tight as he groaned through his own little piece of pleasure. The star had exploded.

He clutched at me, shaking as I shattered, face nuzzled into my breasts as his breath came as heavy as he did.

“Love you, Grace. Love you . . . so much,” he sighed moments later, eyes sleepy and sex filled as he gazed up at me. I kissed him again and again, brushing my lips across his nose and eyelids, feeling the stubble of his new haircut rough against my mouth.

“Love you too, Jack,” I murmured as he gathered me closer still, unwilling to leave my body.

The canyon was finally quiet. I put my star to bed.

I woke up the next morning pleasantly sore and rolled away from the wall of man who made me so. He grabbed for my breasts in his sleep, finally searching out a pillow instead and settling back. I perched on my hip, watching him as the morning sun danced across his frame, highlighting the red in his slight beard. I ran my hand across his newly shorn hair, delighting in the feel of it against my palm as he leaned into me, even in his sleep.

I thought back to the night before, color flooding my cheeks as I remembered how out of control we both were on the dance floor. Usually the voice of reason when it came to public displays of affection, I’d thrown all caution—and very nearly my dress—into the wind last night. Steps away from where the paparazzi had been waiting, I’d let the most beautiful man into my knickers. I had to be more careful. But when his hands were on me, it was hard to remain in control. Still, the thought of all those Hollywood chippies surrounding us last night—all of whom had fast phone fingers and could have tweeted our soft-core porn shots around the world . . .

You’re in the right town if porn is what you’re into.

I shuddered again at the could-haves and the close calls and continued my survey of Jack’s sleeping self. I found those green eyes locked on me.

“What are you thinking about, Crazy?” he purred, his voice still thick with whiskey and sleep.

“When did you wake up?” I asked, curling into his side and relishing in his warmth.

“Just a minute or so ago. What are you working yourself over about so early in the morning?”

“Early? It’s almost noon, Jack.”

“I’m an actor. That’s early.” He grinned, pinching my bottom. “What’s got you so twisted up already?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re worrying. You’ve got frown lines on your forehead.”

“Remind me to tell you about things to never talk about with your older girlfriend.” I winked before he pushed me back against the pillows and nuzzled his way into my neck. I scratched at his head while he played absently with my breasts, sending the tiniest of shock waves down to the tips of my toes.

“Just thinking about last night. Kind of strange, huh?”

He hummed Jack’s Happy Sound into my skin. “You mean when you let me get into your knickers?”

“Which time?” I laughed as his hands became less absent and more determined.

“You were quite the bad girl, Gracie,” he whispered into my neck, hands beginning to dip lower and lower.

“Hey, handsy, don’t you think we need to talk about last night?” I asked, trying to distract him, which was never easy to do.

“About what?”

“Um, let’s see, we were almost attacked by photographers.” I laughed, lacing my fingers through his and bringing them safely above the covers.

He stilled. “What is there to talk about?”

“Listen, I know you’re more used to it than I am, but I still think it’s a bad idea for us to be photographed together. Holly says—”

“Oh bollocks what Holly says. It’s ridiculous that I can’t even go out dancing with my girlfriend without it becoming a major event.”

“Major event?” I asked as he rolled away.

He grabbed his phone from his nightstand and scrolled through. Finding what he wanted, he handed it to me, sitting up in bed.

I looked and drew in a breath.

TMZ. Pictures of us first from when we tried to leave together. I was mostly hidden behind him, but you could see the red hair.

Hearthrob Jack Hamilton seen at Bar the Door last night. Is this the elusive redhead? Later that same night, he was snapped leaving the same nightclub with frequent party boy Adam Kasen, a blonde, and a brunette. Way to go, Sexy Scientist Guy . . .