Close Up Read online

  Her pain, her vulnerability, her insecurities had shown through her eyes, had bled right over into the photographs.

  And it had transformed that silver bikini and honey photo—as we’d been ordered to undertake by the male magazine, neither of us having the clout or funds to turn down such a big job—from just sexy and superficial into something more.

  More because it wasn’t just teenage boys who’d love it (though they definitely had). More because it was also appreciated by housewives and feminists.

  Because it wasn’t just sex.

  It was more.

  Just like she was.

  Sighing, I set the bag on Eden’s kitchen table and began unpacking the contents. She might not think she was worth more than just sex, but I knew differently. She deserved to be seen for all those things that were present in the photo—vulnerable, but strong; insecure, but pushing through; sexy, but because she was finding it for herself.

  Eden was all of those things.

  So, I wasn’t giving up on her.

  Nope. She’d opened the door. Perhaps it was just barely ajar, but I was going to shove my foot into that gap, and I was going to keep nudging it open, until that sliver was pushed wide.

  I was in.

  I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Soft footsteps down the hall told me that she was approaching, but I pretended not to hear, just continued unpacking the food, opening the containers, setting the silverware on napkins next to them.

  Only then did I turn and smile at her. “Hey, sweetheart.”

  Green eyes went wide, lush pink lips parted. “I— You . . . sh-should—”

  I plunked my ass into the seat and started eating the omelet I’d ordered.

  Silence.

  “Come and eat,” I said around a mouthful of eggs, bacon, and cheese. “Before it gets cold.”

  My gaze flicked up, saw she hadn’t moved.

  Stubborn.

  I forced my lips not to curve up then reached for her food. “Oh? Not hungry? I’ll just have to eat this French toast—”

  She crossed the room quickly, tugging the takeout box from my hands and glaring at me. “Mine,” she muttered and lifted it up, inhaling deeply and releasing a soft moan that had my cock twitching.

  I’d heard that moan plenty the night before.

  Her eyes shot to mine. “Damon—”

  “Sit,” I ordered. “Eat.”

  It was almost comical, watching the debate on her face, her desire to put distance between us, to shove me away, warring with her need for sugar-covered carbs.

  Thankfully, after knowing her for so long, I understood her weaknesses.

  And sugar was one.

  Breakfast foods were the other—in particular order, French toast, waffles with strawberries and cream, and blueberry pancakes. The rest were good, but carbs were where it was at—and I was quoting her directly here.

  Eventually, she sat . . . in the chair the absolute furthest away from me.

  No matter.

  I stood, grabbed my food, and brought it to the one next to hers, half-surprised when she didn’t stand and move in turn, spurring us into a leapfrog of chairs and takeout containers.

  I was game.

  She was more mature.

  She just sighed softly, picked up her fork, and started eating.

  Another moan, another cock twitch. And really, my cock shouldn’t be capable of twitching. It should be completely out of commission after the previous eighteen hours. I’d come four times, trying to make the most of my time, trying to orgasm the fear and distance out of Eden.

  Based on our little dance right now, I hadn’t succeeded.

  Though, I did take a little comfort in the fact that she was uncomfortable. Probably made me a dick, but discomfort was at least an emotion.

  It wasn’t cutting me off or shutting me out completely.

  That little sliver was still open.

  I could still keep pressing forward.

  “Here,” I murmured, picking up a container of syrup and opening it for her when she seemed to be looking around for one.

  Eden froze then reached out and took it from me, careful to keep our fingers from brushing.

  No matter. That was something, too.

  Not distant. Not unaffected.

  I waited until she had a bite of her breakfast an inch from her lips before asking, “So, was I that bad of a fuck?”

  She inhaled rapidly, sucking in a puff of powdered sugar then immediately began coughing. Fuck. Reaching over, I patted her back. The wrong thing to do in this situation—the patting, and in fairness, probably the words, too. I’d been trying to shock her. On the other hand, I wasn’t trying to kill her.

  “Arms up,” I said, taking the fork from her hand and setting it in the container, helping her lift them overhead. My sister, Cindy, who was an EMT, had taught me that trick, and it worked by allowing a bit more air into the lungs, though it wouldn’t do anything if Eden was actually choking.

  Thankfully, in this case, it was just a short burst of coughing.

  Then she was able to suck in a deep breath and reach for her napkin.

  She wiped her lips, slowed her breathing. I popped up, searched her cabinets until I’d found a glass and filled it with water, then brought it back to her.

  “Thanks,” she croaked, taking it and guzzling down a long sip.

  I smiled and it was chagrined. “Sorry for nearly killing you.”

  Green eyes flicked to mine, narrowed.

  “Not sorry for last night though.”

  Alarm swept across her face. “Dam—”

  “Carbs,” I interrupted. “Eat them.”

  She glanced from the food to me. “I—”

  “Sugar and syrup and carby deliciousness,” I coaxed.

  A sigh, but she picked up her fork and started shoveling food into her mouth. I abandoned my omelet and started in on the potatoes before getting up and pouring myself a glass of water. Then I sat down next to Eden and watched her polish off an almost obscenely large amount of French toast without skipping a beat.

  She kept her eyes down and pounded that food like a soldier hurrying through chow time. Efficient, quick, impressive.

  But then again, Eden did love her carbs.

  And probably also loved avoiding just this kind of interaction that I’d engineered. Tough. She was going to have to deal with me. I could match her in stubbornness and she liked me, I knew it—

  You’re delusional, bro.

  Why was it that every time I had an inner thought that wasn’t positive, it came in the sound of my sister’s voice?

  Probably because Colleen was . . . persistent.

  Well, fine. I didn’t have much choice if Eden really did kick me out, but I did have an opportunity in front of me, one that could prove to her we were good together. People weren’t friends for six years without building trust and a rapport, and people certainly didn’t have as much chemistry between the sheets as we’d had without exploring it more than once.

  Well, more than one night anyway.

  Plus, I liked Eden. She was beautiful, of course, but she was also smart and witty, had a generous heart, and was kind.

  Those characteristics didn’t tend to hang around for long in Hollywood.

  But success hadn’t changed her.

  “So, did you get the final script?”

  Eden and I had been having weekly calls since the picture had hit all those years before. I’d called to check on her, made sure she was fine, and then we’d kept in touch, talking or FaceTiming every Thursday night at eight P.M., Pacific time.

  Those calls meant that I knew she had a full year of shooting and promotion in front of her.

  A rom-com called Her Point of View, followed by an action flick named Born Free, then later that fall a few weeks shooting a small part Pierce Daniels had given her in his latest superhero film, and then promotion for several projects from last year slotted in between.

  These weeks in L.A. were her last
free ones for a while.

  And she was going to spend most of it learning lines, prepping for time away, and relaxing before being pulled in a million different directions.

  Being the lead in the rom-com and action film meant that a lot of pressure would be resting on her shoulders and her ability to draw in an audience. I knew that she was worried about it, along with worried about being prepared for Her Point of View when she’d received word that some scenes had been reworked.

  Her eyes drifted to mine and stayed.

  I smiled. “Think of it like our weekly call. I want to catch up with you.”

  Softness invading her expression, a smile curling the edges of her lips. “I do like having a standing appointment to complain about everything in my life.”

  “You hardly complain,” I began.

  “The wrong kind of chocolate in my dressing room?” she asked, lips twitching. “My male costar getting handsy?”

  Red flared behind my eyes, and I almost wished she hadn’t brought that particular memory up. I’d given her a little advice on pressure points and how to execute a knee to the groin.

  She relaxed and laughed. “Your face.” Her hand covered mine, fingertips slightly sticky from the powdered sugar, and I couldn’t help but remember the moment I’d first fallen for her . . . approximately two seconds after dripping that honey down her porcelain skin.

  Pervert? Yes, I was.

  But also, appreciative of a woman who could dive into something without hesitation? Yes, that, too, and I wasn’t dumb enough to not realize that was way more valuable than external beauty.

  “I was fine,” she said. “It took one accidental knee to get him to keep his distance, and then your recommendation of an Intimacy Coordinator in my contract moving forward was brilliant.”

  I flipped my palm, laced our fingers together. “I’m glad I could help.”

  She studied me. “You still want to murder the bastard though, don’t you?”

  “Yup.”

  A squeeze of our hands before she pulled away and picked her fork up again. “Thanks for breakfast,” she murmured.

  “I—”

  She leaned forward, robe gaping and affording me a glimpse of creamy skin and untethered breasts.

  My cock twitched again.

  Hell, that was a lie.

  It went rock-hard, especially when she bent further and scooped up a drip of syrup from the edge of the box, bringing it to her mouth and sucking it off.

  Fuck.

  The anger edging my vision from the memories of that asshole putting his hands on Eden faded and was replaced with heat. It burned through me, made me impulsive, loosened my tongue and—

  “I’d buy you breakfast every day if it meant watching you lick that powdered sugar off your lips.”

  She froze, pointer finger sucked partway into her mouth.

  All I could think was how much I wanted my cock there instead.

  Four

  Eden

  I was locked in place, the molten chocolate of Damon’s eyes locked on mine.

  God, he was pretty.

  And funny and amazing and sexy and—

  My pussy clenched.

  I wanted him again. Despite my rules, despite my stupidity in acting on the attraction between us in the first place.

  I’d . . . been weak.

  But I’d been emotional, touched by the love I’d witnessed between Pierce and Artie when they’d held their newborn baby, wishful that I might find someone who could love me that way, but also knowing that it was impossible.

  To be loved as deeply as that, I would have to open myself up.

  And . . . I couldn’t.

  I’d done that once, thrown all caution to the wind, loved wholly and deeply and with every fiber of my being, and it hadn’t meant anything in the end. Not one fucking thing, aside from the fact that it had nearly broken me.

  So no, I couldn’t do that again.

  Hence the one-time rule.

  But—

  I slowly slid my finger from between my lips and set my hands in my lap.

  “Damon,” I whispered.

  God, how I liked him. God, how I wanted him.

  His eyes dipped down, and my gaze followed it, saw that my robe had opened, revealing a good amount of cleavage. I was a bit more well endowed when compared to model standards and tended to carry my extra weight there.

  Damon hadn’t seemed to mind last night.

  Heat at the memory, arrowing through my stomach, pebbling my nipples, and making me ache. Why hadn’t I just put on clothes? I should have gotten completely dressed, not left skin visible and been naked under the robe—

  It wouldn’t have mattered.

  I could be wearing a full suit of armor and I’d still want him.

  That hadn’t changed over six years, over thousands of miles. The moment I heard his voice, saw his face, smelled his scent, I went wet.

  His eyes came back up, still hot, still taking my breath away.

  He reached toward me and I stifled a shiver in anticipation, already primed to feel those roughened fingertips trailing down my skin. But instead of brushing my chest, instead of reaching beneath my robe to cup one of my breasts, he lightly tugged the material closed.

  I’d buy you breakfast every day if it meant watching you lick that powdered sugar off your lips.

  The words, the heat, the not assuming I’d simply fall in his lap just because he’d said something that had made my pussy wet . . . all contributed to making me do what I did next.

  Which was dropping my fork.

  “Ed—”

  I pushed back my chair.

  “—en—”

  I straddled his lap.

  He gaped up at me.

  I dropped my mouth to his.

  Nothing, but only for a heartbeat, and then he was moving, arms banding around my waist, lips moving against mine, tongue thrusting home as he took control of the kiss. There wasn’t any tentativeness or time wasted trying to learn each other’s preferences. We’d done that all last night.

  This was diving straight into the deep end, tongues tangling, my teeth nipping on his bottom lip and loving the way it made him growl, him lacing his fingers in my hair and gripping tightly enough to just sting the slightest . . . exactly how I liked it.

  He stood and kicked back his chair, my legs still wrapped around his hips, my body all but a barnacle as I clung to him.

  I thought he’d stride down the hall, dump me on the bed.

  Instead, he leaned forward and set me on the table, tugging my arms and legs free from his body and then opening the robe and spreading me like I was his favorite meal.

  Distantly, I heard the boxes and silverware hit the floor, the glug of a glass overturning and water dripping from the table and onto the tile. But that was very distantly because I’d propped myself up on my elbows and was much more focused on Damon.

  On his scalding gaze.

  On the fact that he’d dropped to his knees.

  On him bending forward and his mouth pressing to my pussy.

  Even knowing it was coming, I still gasped at the first touch of his tongue. Then my elbows gave way and I slumped back onto the table. He wasn’t slow or gentle or coaxing.

  He demanded.

  And I was happy to oblige.

  My hands dropped to my sides, nails trying and failing to find purchase on the wood as he worked me with his tongue. Long, slow strokes were interspersed with short, quick flicks against my clit. He sucked at my labia, used a finger to press inside. In seconds, my nerves were firing, heat and moisture and desire spiraling up and out of control. He used the flat of his tongue then the tip, alternating the movements, twisting that pleasure higher and higher as he slid his finger in and out, in and out.

  Haze filled my vision, my hips bucked, my spine arched against the table. My orgasm was there, so fucking close that I could almost reach out and touch it and—

  “Damon!” I shouted, fingers gripping his head and almost te
aring at his hair as I tugged him back.

  He stopped, leaned away, chest heaving, face severe, eyes burning.

  “Inside me,” I gasped, tugging him up. He was already on his feet by the time I finished the request, knocking my hands away effortlessly, fingers reaching for the button of his jeans.

  “Eden?” he asked, pausing there, hands trembling.

  I sat up, undid the button, tugged down the zipper.

  He pushed them down. “Baby?”

  I nodded.

  One stroke filled me.

  I didn’t think about protection. I should have, but I didn’t.

  Instead, I just felt. His hard cock inside me, the table beneath me, the pleasure spiraling in my stomach, making my head spine. The way he looked at me and how it made my heart skip a beat, the way his hand found my hip, fingers opening and closing as though I were making him slowly lose control.

  And maybe I was.

  Because he’d definitely done the same to me.

  My hips met his stroke for stroke, my fingers clenched his forearms, my pussy squeezed the hard intrusion of his cock.

  Over and over, higher and higher. Until . . .

  Thank fuck.

  I catapulted over the edge.

  One stroke. Another. And Damon’s forehead dropped to my shoulder as he came with a long, deep groan.

  I closed my eyes.

  Pleasure had deadened my limbs, made my mind fuzzy. But not for long. Pretty soon reality began to creep back in, fear licking at my fingertips, eating away at the lovely after effects.

  Fuck.

  I’d never be able to eat at this table again.

  In for a penny.

  I didn’t protest when Damon lifted me from the table and carried me down the hall and into the bathroom. Nor did I protest when he turned on the shower, stripped his clothes and my robe away, then put us both under the hot spray.

  I didn’t protest as he washed my body, nor as he dried me off afterward and brushed my hair.

  I didn’t protest when he tucked me under the covers and then went back into the hall.

  I just listened to his footsteps enter the kitchen, listened as he cleaned up the mess we’d made there.

  I should have helped.

  I didn’t.

  Instead, I just lay there, trying to figure out how to fix this.