“I’m very glad to hear it,” he says as he passes me a soda. “I guessed on Diet Coke.”
“You guessed right.”
“And butter on the popcorn.”
“Hell, yes,” I say. After growing up with my mother and exactly one cup of air popped corn with absolutely nothing on it only once every two months, I’m happy to drown my greasy movie popcorn with a fake butter-like substance. The more the better.
There are only about fifty people in the theater, and with a house this size, that means that we are very much by ourselves when Damien steers me toward one of the back rows in the center section. “Long way from the screen,” I say.
“I like my privacy,” he retorts.
“Your celebrity status becoming a burden?” I tease.
“On the contrary. I just assumed you’d want to be away from gawkers when I touch you.”
“Oh.” I swallow. “How exactly do you intend to touch me?”
“That depends,” he says.
“On what?”
“On whether you’d rather watch the movie or come for me.”
His words make me whimper, and I hear his soft chuckle as the houselights start to dim. “Good answer, Ms. Fairchild,” he says, and I squirm a little in my seat, already turned on. Already wet.
And, yes, already nervous about what’s to come.
He starts simply enough. His hand on mine. His fingertip lightly brushing over the back of my hand. Stroking and teasing. Then trailing lightly up and down my forearm.
I’ve never thought of an arm as particularly sensual—god knows no other man has set my body on fire by caressing such a utilitarian body part—but right now I’m actually having to bite my lip to keep my mouth closed so that I don’t moan and whimper in the middle of this theater.
Stark, damn him, knows exactly the effect he’s having on me, and since we have four hours together in this theater, he’s taking it slowly. Torturously, wonderfully, deliciously slowly.
So slow, in fact, that he’s only reached my shoulder by the time the gang’s reached Vermont. And when he starts to slide his hand down—when he slips his fingers down the V-neck of the light sweater I’m wearing and then under the lace of my bra—he’s moving so slowly and building so much of that damned anticipation, that I almost come simply from the touch of his finger on my nipple.
“Good girl,” he says, and as he speaks, he takes my hand and places it in his lap. He’s hard as steel, and this evidence of how turned on he is makes me even wetter, and I squirm a little, wanting satisfaction. Because I’m close now. So damn close, and it’s very clear that he is going to drag this out.
He slides his hand free of my shirt, then strokes me over the rough linen of my skirt. Once again, he moves excruciatingly slowly as he tugs the skirt up. This time, however, I’m not getting more and more turned on with each subtle shift of his hand. On the contrary, I’m getting more and more tense. Because his fingers are brushing my knee. Then the inside of my thigh. Then creeping higher. And higher. And getting closer and closer to my secrets.
Secrets nobody knows. Just Ollie. Just Jamie.
And not Stark—I don’t want a man like Damien Stark to know how weak I am. I don’t want him to see me like that.
But he’s right there, and he’s going to feel the hard, raised scar tissue. He’s going to know. He’s going to—
I lurch to my feet, yanking my skirt down as I do and spilling the popcorn in the process. “I’m sorry,” I say. “This is a mistake. I have to go.”
I don’t wait for him to reply, I just turn and rush toward the lobby, and then on out into the light without even slowing.
It’s not until I reach the stars of the Hollywood Walk of Fame that I slow down, then bend over and press my hands to my knees and take big, deep gulps of air.
I’m hunched like that when I feel his hand on the small of my back. I close my eyes, expecting him to demand an explanation. Expecting him to tell me I’m not worth the trouble.
Expecting him to just leave so that I can go back to my calm and quiet routine with Ollie.
Instead, he says, “Walk with me.”
“I—what?” I straighten and look at him, confused.
“It’s too pretty a day to be cooped up in a theater. Let’s walk.” He extends his hand, and then just holds it out for me as I hesitate, unsure what to do. I know what I should do. I should run from him. He’s dangerous.
And yet I can’t make myself go.
Finally, I take his hand, then watch as slowly—ever so slowly—his smile reaches his eyes. “Come on,” he says, as he starts walking down Hollywood Boulevard.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe an interrogation. Maybe small talk. But we walk in easy silence for a few blocks until he tugs me to a stop in front of a thrift store. “I once found a first edition Ray Bradbury here,” he says. “Owner had no idea what he had.”
“You like science fiction?”
“I do,” he says, and those simple words seem to convey a lifelong passion.
I’m not sure what to say, so I let my eyes drift back toward the window, and that’s when I see it. I gasp and squeal and point with an “Oh my god! It’s my Looney Tunes lunchbox!”
“Lunchbox?”
“I’ve wanted that particular one since I was seven,” I explain. “See? The Road Runner is on the front. Bugs Bunny’s on the back. And there are Wile E. Coyotes on each of the sides. But I never got it. I asked every birthday and every Christmas, and I never got it.”