Dirty Secrets Read online

  But it doesn’t. Our personalities may contrast, but Connor is exactly what I need. He’s the salt to my pepper, the light to my dark, the calm to my storm.

  The only thing that’s got me a little on edge is that I have no clue whether he feels the same way about me as I do about him. Okay, so there are some clues. Like the fact that he’s here, surrounded by crazed comic fans in the middle of autograph alley, the last place on earth he’d choose to be voluntarily.

  For all I know, that could be his way of thanking me for last night’s blow job. It doesn’t necessarily mean he’s ready for any kind of commitment. He’s still fresh off his break up with Giselle. Then there’s his parent’s train wreck of a marriage. There’s no way that hasn’t messed him up. Maybe he’s sworn off serious relationships altogether.

  But that doesn’t seem like the Connor I’ve been living and sleeping with. The one who gives me foot rubs and leaves little notes for me everywhere and lets me pick the movie for our Netflix and chill nights.

  Although that last one’s probably not such a hardship. The guy seems to enjoy chick flicks as much as I do.

  When the line of autograph seekers finally thins out, he chucks his empty water bottle into a recycling bin and makes his way over to me.

  “Hey,” he says, his eyes flashing as they drift down to my chest then back to meet mine. “Nice outfit.”

  My heart does somersaults in my rib cage. I can’t help it when he looks at me like that. He’s got the whole Tyra Banks smizing thing down pat, even though I’d bet my grandmother’s false teeth he’s never seen an episode of America’s Next Top Model. Chick flicks: yes. Reality TV: no, unless it’s some sort of educational program, like the stuff they show on Nat Geo or the History Channel.

  “You, too.” I take in his crisp white polo and neatly pressed khakis. “Who are you supposed to be? Jake from State Farm?”

  “His shirt is red.” His tone is mildly accusing, but any bite is undercut by the smizing. “No one told me I was supposed to dress up.”

  “Not everyone’s in costume. I didn’t think that would be your scene.”

  He bends down, bracing his hands on the table, and lowers his voice. “It’s not. I’m just messing with you.”

  I raise myself up slightly and lean in so we’re almost nose to nose. Not quite kissing, but close enough that I can feel the heat of his breath on my cheek. “I know.”

  “Is this guy bothering you?” Steve, one of the volunteers assigned to our table, asks from over my shoulder.

  Way not to read the room, buddy.

  I lower myself back into my chair and give the clueless volunteer a reassuring smile.

  “No, he’s not. This is my boyfriend, Connor.” Boyfriend. My heart flip-flops again. “Is it okay if he waits back here with me while I sign these last few autographs?”

  Steve shrugs. “Fine by me. As long as he’s not in the way.”

  He ushers Connor into the booth, and I make some quick introductions to my cast mates and the production assistant who’s been shepherding us around all day. Steve rustles up a stool from somewhere, and Connor sits quietly in the back of the booth playing a game on his phone until I’m done signing.

  “Ready to head out?” I ask, stooping to drag the duffel bag with my street clothes out from under the table. So much for the glamorous life of an almost famous actress.

  He hops off the stool and stuffs his phone in his back pocket. “Would you hate me if I said I’ve been ready since I got here?”

  “No. Because you stayed anyway. For me.”

  I go up on tiptoe to give him a quick kiss, earning me a dirty look from Steve. I’m not sure what his problem is. Probably has tickets to one of the big after parties, and our PDA is holding him up.

  Sorry, not sorry Steverino. I’m not apologizing for kissing the man I’m 99.9 percent certain I love.

  “Yeah, I stayed for you.” Connor tugs on a stray curl that has escaped from my ponytail. “And for the five-dollar water.”

  I playfully smack his hand away and hoist my duffel bag onto my shoulder. “I have to change. Then we can go.”

  “Damn.” He snakes his arms around me and pulls me close so he can whisper low and sexy in my ear. “I was hoping they’d let you keep the costume for the night.”

  Steve’s really glaring at us now, but he’ll have to wait. It won’t kill him.

  I reach up and pat Connor’s cheek. “Dirty boy.”

  “Are you complaining?” he asks, a teasing smile lifting the corners of his mouth.

  “Hell, no. But this thing costs like three times my salary. There’s no way production is letting it out of their sight. That’s why he’s here.”

  I gesture to the PA, who taps his watch. Time to quit fooling around. Steve is one thing. I don’t want to piss off the people signing my paychecks.

  I sigh and wriggle out of Connor’s embrace. With my fellow actors, I follow the PA to a suite that’s been reserved for us to use as a changing room. When I’m back in my civilian clothes and my costume is safe with the PA, I meet Connor back at the booth, and we make our way out of the Javits Center and into a cab.

  “Where are you going, my friends” the cabbie asks in a lilting Jamaican accent as I slide into the back seat.

  Connor shoots me a questioning look as he slides in next to me and closes the door. “Do you want to get some dinner? I could try to get us a table at Rezdôra?”

  I shake my head and give the cabbie Connor’s address. Our address. The last place I want to be tonight is one of Manhattan’s most popular, most crowded restaurants. “Can we order take-out? I’m fried. If I have to talk to one more person today, I going to lose my shit. Except for you, of course.”

  “Of course.” He whips out his phone and opens GrubHub. “Thai?”

  “Perfect.”

  I don’t even have to tell him what to order. He knows. Chicken satay and drunken noodles for me. Fried tofu and vegetarian pad Thai for him.

  The delivery guy gets there just as our cab is pulling up to the curb. Connor pays the cabbie, I grab the food and tip the delivery guy, and we head upstairs, greeting Ernie at the doorman’s desk on our way through the lobby to the elevator.

  Connor takes the food from me as soon as we’re inside the apartment. “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you take a hot shower and relax while I set the table and pour us some Riesling?”

  I drop my duffle bag by the door, wait for him to set the food down on the kitchen island, then make my move, backing him up against the marble counter top and undoing a button on his polo shirt so I can press a palm to his skin just below his breastbone. “Sure you don’t want to join me? Thai food is great reheated in the microwave.”

  His eyes narrow, his lips hovering millimeters from mine. For a hot second, I think he’s going to kiss me. Then his hands span my hips, and he lifts me up like a china doll and sets me aside.

  “We’ll have plenty of time for that later.” He rains little love bites down my neck, his fingers massaging my waist through my shirt. “Let me pamper you first.”

  Is this guy for real? A hot shower, Thai food, and Riesling, with a little—who am I kidding, a lot of—sex thrown in as an after-dinner treat? He’s seriously too good to be true. I take some of the skin on my forearm between my thumb and index finger and squeeze.

  He raises his head. “What are you doing?”

  “Pinching myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.”

  “No dream, babe. This is your new reality. Or it can be, if you let it.”

  I want to press him further, ask for details. Is he talking about what I think—hope—he’s talking about? Does he want to make our living arrangement permanent? Or does he have something even more official in mind?

  But my brain has apparently gone AWOL. It’s wandering down a path strewn with images of happily-ever-after. Before I can re
el it in and formulate an intelligent, grammatically correct follow-up question, his hands move up to my shoulders and he turns me around so I’m facing the opposite direction, toward the bedrooms.

  “Go.” He swats my ass, nudging me down the hall. “Do whatever it is women do when they spend hours in the bathroom. The food and I will be waiting.”

  I shoot him a grateful glance over my shoulder. “Can I use your shower?”

  The master bath has this amazing rain shower with a million different settings, including a rain curtain, head and body sprays, colored lights, and a fragrance mist. It’s like bathing in a tropical paradise, without the water bugs and poisonous snakes. Heaven in twenty square feet.

  Connor grins, showing off that dimple that always turns my girly parts to goo. “Mi shower es su shower.”

  “Gracias.”

  I take his advice and spend an extra long time under the warm, relaxing spray, washing away the stress and strain of being “on” all day. Then I wrap myself in my favorite silky, kimono-style robe, give myself a hydrating face mask, and blow dry my hair until it’s only slightly damp and slightly more manageable.

  When I finally feel human again, I pad barefoot into the kitchen, stopping on the way to pet Mirri and Ajani, who have apparently been fed and are making their way to Connor’s bed for yet another cat nap. He’s standing in front of the open refrigerator, pulling out a chilled bottle of Riesling.

  Two place settings are laid out next to each other on the island, with cloth napkins, real plates, and silverware that’s not plastic. He’s got the forks and knives mixed up—forks go on the left, knives on the right—but the scented candles burning around the room give it a soft, romantic feel and more than make up for the lapse in etiquette.

  The overall effect is imperfectly perfect. Just like the man responsible for it.

  He closes the refrigerator door and turns, bottle in hand. When he sees me, his eyes darken and he lets out a low whistle. “I think I might like this outfit even better than the last one.”

  “My ‘Hang On Let Me Overthink This’ T-shirt and ratty jeans?” I tease, knowing full well he’s not talking about the clothes I wore home from the convention.

  “No, the black and green catsuit. Although if I’m honest, I wanted to fuck you in the T-shirt and jeans, too.”

  “It’s not a catsuit, it’s body armor. And you couldn’t have wanted me that much if turned down my shower invitation.”

  “Like I said.” His voice lowers to a sexy purr. “Later. Delayed gratification heightens the pleasure.”

  His words send a shiver through me. “Is that a threat or a promise?”

  “Can’t it be both?”

  He motions for me to sit and pours us each a glass of wine. Then he joins me, opening up the containers of Thai food and passing the satay and drunken noodles my way.

  “You know what I love about vegetarians?” I ask as I pick up a skewer of chicken and dip it into the peanut sauce. “No asking to switch meals. And no sharing.”

  He laughs and spears a piece of tofu with his fork. “I hope that’s not the only thing you like about me.”

  “It’s one of your many good qualities.” I take a bite of chicken and dunk the skewer back into the peanut sauce. Double dipping. Another perk of dating a vegetarian. “But right now, it’s the most important one.”

  He seems to accept that explanation. We eat and drink and talk like usual. This isn’t the first meal we’ve eaten together. It’s not even the second or the third. We’ve shared plenty of meals in our two months as roommates-turned-lovers.

  But there’s something different about this one. And it’s not the food, or the wine, or the place settings that would have Emily Post rolling over in her grave. It’s not even the candles, which, admittedly, are a new touch.

  But they aren’t what’s making tonight feel special. Important. Like we’re on the verge of something monumental. The air between us sizzles with more than sexual attraction. It takes me a minute to figure out what it is.

  Possibilities. For him. For me. For us. For the future.

  It’s scary and exciting and more than a little bit nerve wracking. We’re playing a game of chicken, each waiting for the other to make the first move.

  Dinner ends in a stalemate, neither one of us brave enough to take that first step. I collect our plates, intending to load them into the dishwasher. Connor pries them from my hands and puts them in the sink.

  “Leave it. We’ll deal with the cleanup—”

  “Let me guess.” I lean against the counter next to him, watching his strong, slender fingers as he polishes off his wine and adds our glasses to the pile of dirty dishes. “Later?”

  “Right.” His arm comes around me, hand resting, fingers splayed, on my ass. “Later.”

  He leads me to his bedroom—ours, really, since I’ve been spending most of my nights there—but instead of taking my clothes off or stripping himself, he shoos the cats onto the floor and reclines on the bed, pulling me down to lay next to him. He props himself up on one elbow and reaches his free hand out to trace a path from my temple to my cheek. “Have I told you how amazing you were today? That whole room fell in love with you.”

  How about you? I want to scream. Did you fall in love with me?

  Instead, I sling a leg across his hips, bringing my naughty bits dangerously close to his junk. Not surprisingly, it’s already half hard, just like I’m already damp. We seem to have that effect on each other.

  I pull his shirt from his waistband and slide my hand underneath so I can feel his heartbeat. Its rapid, excited thumping matches mine. “You were the amazing one. I know it couldn’t have been much fun, standing around watching me sign my name thousands of times. Being forced to make small talk with strangers all day.”

  “I confess to wanting to punch out a guy dressed as the Mad Hatter.” He chuckles, the sound reverberating beneath my palm. “But other than that, everyone was pretty cool.”

  “Well, I’m glad you didn’t get your ass thrown in jail. It meant a lot to me that you were there.”

  His eyes are heavy-lidded, his breathing erratic, his voice husky. “Where else would I be?”

  “To be honest, I wasn’t sure you’d come. I remember how miserable you’d get when your dad made you go to signings and stuff with him.”

  “One, you didn’t make me do anything.” Connor swipes a stray curl out of my face and tucks it behind my ear “And two, you’re way prettier than my dad. Nicer, too. The way you took the time to talk to everyone what wanted your autograph—my dad never does that. Unless it’s an attractive woman under thirty, with or without a wedding ring.”

  My robe falls open a bit—or maybe his wandering fingers have something to do with it—and he cups my breast, rolling my nipple between his thumb and forefinger. It’s a slow, calculated seduction, and it’s making it harder and harder for me to concentrate.

  “Does that mean you’ll go to another event with me?” I manage to ask. Now it’s my voice that’s breathy and husky. “Because the Soho Independent Film Festival is coming up in a few weeks, and I’m scheduled to present one of the awards.”

  “Do I get to break out my tux?” He moves against me, gliding his cock up and down between my legs, hitting every nerve from my clit to my asshole. “Because I look awesome in formal wear.”

  “I know,” I moan, practically floating off the bed when he ducks his head to suck my nipple into his mouth. “I saw you at the fundraiser, remember? And you can wear a tux if you want, but you don’t have to.”

  “Count me in.” He loosens the tie on my robe so it opens completely, exposing my bare breasts and neatly trimmed pussy to his hungry gaze. “All the way.”

  Then he strips his clothes off and we make long, slow love well into the night, communicating with our bodies what we can’t quite say with words.

  CHAPTER SEVENTE
EN

  Connor

  “MISS LAWSON, OVER HERE!”

  “Brie, look this way!”

  “Who designed the dress you’re wearing, Brie?”

  “Miss Lawson, who’s your escort tonight?”

  The questions and camera flashes come fast and furious as we inch our way down the red carpet. I thought being on book tour with my father was wild, but this is like that on steroids. I stick my hands in the pockets of my tux pants, trying to look cool, but inside I’m freaking out. All those eyes on us. It’s unnerving.

  Not Brie. She’s poised and confident and so damn beautiful in the purple sequined Valentino gown she and Ainsley picked out together, smiling and waving, stopping every so often to speak to a reporter from E! News or TMZ or Entertainment Tonight.

  She snakes her arm through mine and drags me over to one of them, a baby-faced reporter with a bowl haircut and a microphone.

  “Don’t worry.” She gives my bicep a reassuring squeeze. “I’ve known Doug since college. He’s one of the good ones.”

  “He doesn’t look old enough to shave, much less go to college,” I mutter.

  “Graduated top of my class at Pace,” Doug says, wrapping Brie in a one-armed hug. “Right, Brie?”

  “And yet here you are, one step above muckraking. What happened to winning a Pulitzer?”

  “Guy’s gotta start somewhere. I’m working my way up from the arts and entertainment beat.” Doug turns his watchful reporter’s gaze to me, sizing me up like I’m his next victim. Or his competition. “Who’s your friend?”

  “This is Connor Dow.” Her grip on my bicep tightens, and she smiles up at me, telegraphing our relationship status and making my heart lurch. “My date.”

  “Date?” Doug puts hand to his heart and staggers back like he’s been wounded. “Does this mean I’m out of the running?”

  She smacks his shoulder with her purple sequined clutch, another new purchase courtesy of her shopping spree with Ainsley. “As if you were ever in the running.”

  “Well, it’s nice to meet the lucky man who gets to be on your arm.” Doug sticks out his hand for me to shake. When I take it, he pulls me in and lowers his voice to a conspiratorial whisper.