Chapter 9
MONIKA
The drive back is quiet except for the persistent buzzing of my phone. After the fifth notification in two minutes, I switch it to silent and shove it in my purse.
Griffin glances over as he navigates the dark coastal road. “You’ve been getting calls all day. Is Riva alright?”
“She’s fine. It’s my agent.” I lean my head against the window, watching the darkness fly by. “A director wants to meet about his next project, which is already getting Oscar buzz.”
“The Oscars?” His eyebrows shoot up. “That’s huge.”
“I guess.” I try to inject enthusiasm into my voice but fail miserably. “My agent thinks I’m insane for not jumping on a plane immediately.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“Because I’m taking a break from being ‘on’ all the time, performing, and pretending everything’s perfect when it’s not.”
“I’m sure he’ll wait, and you’ll be back soon enough.” His voice is carefully neutral. “Christmas is a week away.”
“Yeah.” The thought sits like lead in my stomach. Going back to LA, to the meetings and scrutiny and fake smiles. The only bright spot is having Riva visit for the New Year. “Back to real life.”
“What do you want, Monika?”
The question hangs between us as he pulls into his driveway. More and more, what I want is to stay here indefinitely, working on the house, eating terrible pasta, and arguing about tortilla chips. But that’s not real life, and the fantasy of normal ends in seven days.
I don’t answer as we get out of the truck, the sound of waves crashing against the rocks below filling the silence. I stop halfway to the door and tilt my head back, taking in the blanket of stars spread across the sky.
“Look at them.” The frigid air stings my cheeks, but I don’t want this night to end. “We don’t see stars like this in LA.”
“Beautiful,” Griffin agrees, but when I glance over, he’s looking at me.
The intensity in his eyes makes my pulse skip a beat. I move toward him until we’re close enough that I can see his breath in the cold air between us.
“Griffin—”
He cuts me off with a kiss that’s wild and demanding. His hands tangle in my hair, and I grab his jacket to ground myself, gasping when he nips at my bottom lip.
We stumble toward the house, unable to stop kissing long enough to walk properly. He fumbles with his keys while I press open-mouth kisses to his jaw, and we practically fall through the door when it finally opens.
Then he stops.
His hands frame my face, thumbs brushing my cheek as we both breathe hard. “Monika, I want you so much I can’t think straight. But this is your choice. I won’t pressure you or ask for more than you can give.”
Something in my chest cracks open at his words, just enough for him to slide past every one of my defenses. A secret part of me wants him to ask for more. To demand that I give him everything and give me an excuse to stay. But he doesn’t because we both know how this will end.
I glance at the couch where I’ve been sleeping for a week, then back at him. His dark gaze is patient, waiting for me to decide.
“I don’t want to think about next week,” I whisper. “I want this right now with you.”
I lean in and he kisses me again, gentler this time but no less urgent. He peels off my jacket and shucks out of his before leading me down the hall to his bedroom.
I’ve peeked into Griffin’s bedroom once or twice—or maybe every day—but this is the first time I’ve been inside the wholly masculine space.
The room isn’t large, and the bed fills most of it. It’s a bed built for a big man, with a solid pine frame and a thick duvet in a muted floral pattern.
“What are you thinking?” he asks as he watches me stare at the bed.
“I wouldn’t have expected flowers,” I say quietly, which is the most innocuous of the thoughts circling through my head. He chuckles, and the way he looks at me, I swear he knows everything going through my mind.
“I like pretty things,” he says, without a bit of self-consciousness. Then he adds, “You’re going to ruin me for regular pretty.”
Desire shoots along my spine. “Even stars fade,” I tell him.
“Not you. Not for me.” He reaches out to tug me closer. “Tell me you’re sure about this one more time.”
“I am.” And despite my nerves and uncertainty about so many things, it’s the truth.
We undress each other slowly, my body growing heavier and hotter with every inch of Griffin’s skin revealed to me.
I know his body is honed by the work he does—and maybe genetics. But the little glimpses of skin I’ve gotten over the past week, tantalizing as they were, did nothing to prepare me for this.
His chest. His shoulders. His arms. All that olive-colored skin. I press my palm to the tattoo of an eagle on his left pec and feel his heartbeat thunder under my touch.
“I like this,” I whisper.
“I like you,” he answers as he tugs my sweater over my head. “Jesus, you’re so beautiful,” he murmurs.
And as I’m coming to expect, the words hit different when Griffin speaks them. Because I know he’s talking about more than photogenic features or the part of me the public sees. This is about the part of me most people never get to see.
As he wraps another arm around my waist, guiding me toward the bed, he unclasps my bra with a practiced flick, pulls back the covers and sheets, and lays me back on a pillow that smells like laundry detergent and sea air. A combination I’ll always associate with him.
“I want to make this good for you, sweetheart,” he says, straightening and popping the top button of his jeans. “But I don’t know how long I can wait.”
“Then don’t.” I shimmy out of my jeans and panties, nerves sparking across my skin, only to be chased away by the heat in his eyes.
I’m embarrassed to admit that in recent years, sex has mostly become another kind of performance.
It wasn’t like that with Ian, Riva’s dad, but we were both so young, and I didn’t know any better.
Maybe it’s too many years on movie sets, always positioned just right for the camera.
I tend to get caught up in angles and the way things look, even in the bedroom.
But with Griffin? It’s hard to think about anything else, even my own name, as I watch him stroke himself—once, twice—his eyes half-lidded as they drink in every inch of me.
“So fucking beautiful,” he growls, like he has to force out the words. As if holding them back might ruin him.
He grabs a condom from the nightstand, then joins me, his weight pressing me to the mattress in the most delicious way. I spread my legs, expecting him to enter me—but instead he kisses my mouth, deep and slow, then begins to move lower.
His lips find one nipple and then the other as his work-roughened hands slide along my skin, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. Then he’s between my thighs, opening me.
“You don’t have to—”
“Oh, I do,” he answers, and licks me from my entrance up to my clit—slowly, like I’m his favorite flavor.
I gasp, my hands fisting in the cotton sheets.
“Do you like this?” he asks, his breath hot against me.
“Yes,” I whisper, breathless, not even trying to swallow back the groan of pleasure that bubbles up in my throat.
His tongue works its magic, and when he pushes a finger inside me, my hips arch off the bed. I know how to take care of myself, but I’m usually too aware of the performance aspect to really let go when I’m with a man.
Only Griffin doesn’t give me the option of staying in my head. He’s relentless in drawing every bit of pleasure from my body. And as I hit the peak and shatter, suddenly I’m not a star. I’m stardust, shimmering high in the air like I’m never going to crash back to earth.
And I don’t because in the next moment, he’s drives himself inside me, filling me until it’s hard to know where I end and he begins. We kiss again, and I taste myself on his mouth. It only makes me want him more.
My nails graze down his back, and I wrap my legs around his hips. Our movements fall into sync like we’ve done this before. Or like we were always meant to find each other.
“Monika,” he breathes against my mouth. “Come for me again, sweetheart.”
Maybe I have a reputation for being difficult on set, for resisting direction. But his soft command is one I have no trouble obeying.
I break apart a second time, and a few seconds later, his body stiffens above me. He groans out my name as he comes, then buries his face in the curve of my neck, kissing his way along my collarbone.
Afterward, he climbs off the bed and heads to the bathroom to take care of the condom. We didn’t turn on a light or close the curtain. The soft glow from the back deck light spills through the window, and I don’t bother pulling up the sheet, just rise onto my elbows as he re-enters the room.
What happens now, I wonder, then offer what I hope comes across as a casual smile. “I can go back to the—”
He flashes a smug smile. “I’m not letting you go now. You know that, right?”
Before my heart can gallop out of my chest at the promise I hear in those words, he continues, “Stay in here tonight.”
Tonight. Right. Because this is temporary. We aren’t real, no matter how much I secretly want it to be.
So I curl against him with his arm around my waist, listening to his heartbeat slow. And I let myself fall asleep without worrying about tomorrow.