“That’s no small feat to hail a cab quickly in San Francisco,” I say as we slide inside.
“It’s part of the guy code. All the cabbies in the world have this special alert to show up quickly when a guy really needs to be alone with his woman.”
I start to laugh, but my laughter is smothered by his lips on mine, and soon I’m grabbing at his shirt, and he’s cupping the back of my head, and we are a fevered picture of two people who can’t get enough of each other. Then the cab stops, Chris pays, and we’re at the door of a three-story brick office building that’s dark except for one light in the lobby.
“This isn’t where you shoot your show, right?” I ask as he fishes in his pocket for the keys. My hands toy with the waistband of his jeans.
He shakes his head. “No. The network’s over in the Dogpatch, near the other TV shows shot in town. This is just a tiny little studio for pick-ups, promos, quickies.” He winks at the last word as he unlocks the door and holds it open for me.
Using his cell phone for light, we walk quickly up a darkened stairwell, then Chris pushes open a heavy door that leads into a short hallway. He flicks on the light switch. At the end of the hall is a door with a white lacquered sign that reads Fish Out of Water Studios.
“Clever name,” I remark.
“Like a band name. Or wireless network name,” he replies as he opens that door and turns on the light. The space is split in two by a glass window. The studio itself is beyond the glass and it’s tiny – but even in the dark I can tell it has a green screen on one wall, a camera, and lights. We’re in the waiting area and there’s a desk with a desk calendar, a computer and pens, and the aforementioned couch.
But we don’t make it to the couch. Instead, I back up quickly against the wall and pull him close to me, my fingers tapping out a staccato rhythm on his belly. “We can’t go all the way,” I say.
“That’s fine.”
“I’m just not ready.”
“It’s okay. We don’t have to. Whatever you want to do is fine, but I just want you to know this. The real reason I agreed to do your contest wasn’t to promote my show. I couldn’t care less. I did it because I wanted to be in the running. I want to be the only one in the running. I want you.”
“You are. The only one,” I say, and I’m nearly breathless as he grazes my arm lazily with the tips of his fingers.
“Good. Because I’m not even thinking about the contest anymore.”
“You’re not?”
“Not in the least.”
“What are you thinking about?”
He looks me straight in the eyes, disarmingly, holding my gaze. “What I want to do to you now.”
I can feel the soft little hairs on my arms standing on end. “What do you want to do?”
He lays a hand on my bare leg. His hand is warm, his skin is soft, he feels good. “This.” His voice is strong. He’s not playing around. He’s just a man speaking his mind.
My back is to the wall, and he’s looking at me, and his hand is on my thigh, tracing the edge of my short, short skirt. He raises an eyebrow as his fingers cross over, slipping inside my skirt. It feels so good, I want to cry. I haven’t been touched in so long, I nearly forgot what it can do to a girl. My whole body feels alive, as if every part of me is reaching for him, longing for him.
“It feels so good,” I tell him.
“You feel so good. Don’t take this the wrong way. Don’t take this to mean I don’t like you, because I do. But I have totally wanted to get in your pants since the day I met you.”
“Yeah. I think I can take that the right way.”
He moves his hand higher, inching so close to my inner thighs, where I’m throbbing for him. There’s no other way to describe it. Because I am simply dying to be touched by him. He makes me feel so wanted, so desired, and so cared for, it’s intoxicating. I’m so turned on by him, pulsing with all these feelings that collide inside of me at once – the pure physical desire, but then the way my heart feels unfrozen with him, un-angry. The way it feels a crazy kind of joy that I could live off, that could feed me. His touch could too. His hands are strong and insistent, but gentle in their own way too as he traces the outside of my panties. I am racing right now, and my panties are damp, and he smiles a wicked little grin as he touches them for the first time.
“That’s f**king awesome,” he whispers in my ear. “I love how wet you are.”
“Well, the cat’s out of the bag, Chris. You turn me on something crazy.”
“Good. Because I’ve been thinking about doing this. I’ve thought about this when I’m in the shower,” he says, and I might as well rocket into another world of pleasure. He just told me he’s gotten off to me. I didn’t think it were possible to feel any more heat, but I am aflame.
“You think about me in the shower?”
“I have had many, many thoughts about you. I have touched you in so many ways already,” he says, his voice, low and dirty in my ear. The ache between my legs intensifies, and I am longing for him to touch me, to know what he’s done to me.
“Like how?”
“I’ve tasted you. I’ve touched you. I’ve been inside you, and now I want to feel you for real.”
I might swoon with desire, but there’s no time to do anything but gasp, as he slides his hand inside my panties, and an involuntary moan escapes me at the first touch. Oh my god. This is what it feels like without batteries. This is what it feels like with someone else’s hands. This is what it’s like when someone wants to touch you as much as you want to be touched.
“Chris,” I say in a low voice.
“Yes?”
“I’ve thought about you too. I’ve thought about you touching me.”
“You have?”
I nod. “Yes. Before our first Guitar Hero lesson. You made me come,” I say, and it’s a hushed and hot confession. The look in his eyes is one of lust and heat, and it’s about the sexiest a man has ever been.
“How? How did I do it?” His voice is rough, full of unchained desire.
“You went down on me,” I whisper.
He nearly growls at my admission. “And you tasted spectacular. Because I was making you come the night before too. By licking you, by going down on you and you were grabbing my face and pulling me closer,” he says in a husky voice. “God, I am dying to make you come right now.”