Chapter 36
CHAPTER
THIRTY-SIX
CHRISTINE
The wrap party sprawls across a local tavern, skillfully scouted and booked by the production team. The space is just large enough for the crew, ushering us all into cozy proximity as we drink beer and wine from the open bar and shoot the shit.
There’s plenty to distract me as I wait for Mylo to arrive: receiving Lana’s musings about future projects, catching up with a camera grip I bonded with on the first Electra film, discussing the perfect souvenirs to bring back with Lisa.
When Mylo and Haley finally arrive, I’m leaning back against the bar, beer in hand. I glance up mid-sentence to wave to them, and then my brain ceases to function.
I didn’t really imagine anything specific when Haley said she and Mylo were doing some twin thing tonight, but I don’t know, I expected t-shirts and jeans.
Not Mylo draped in a charcoal silk slip dress, making my tongue jealous of the planes it skims, tracing his slender waist and those hips I want to sink my fingers into.
His hair, feathered to fall in his face, and subtle glam makeup are certainly not helping one iota. Fuck, I shouldn’t have picked up my third beer so soon.
I hardly notice Haley at his side, looking nearly identical. When her elbow gently brushes his, a growl rises in my chest, drowned out by the party’s loud chatter.
Lisa nudges me, startling me back into my skin. “It’s how you look at each other,” she says simply, and when I protest, she waves me off. “I didn’t say anything. Enjoy, ma chérie.”
Watching her saunter away distracts me enough that when I straighten again, Mylo’s scent and proximity hit me all at once.
He leans against the counter next to me. My eyes drop to where the silk flows over his chest, catching subtly on his nipples.
It’s as if he chose this outfit specifically to torture me.
And, knowing Mylo, he absolutely did.
“What do you think?” he asks lightly.
“I think I told you to stay out of trouble,” I purr, eyes dragging down over his hips and legs to a strappy kitten heel. God, even his feet are cute.
Mylo’s answer is just a smirk that shows he knows exactly how hot he is.
The appeal of a woman in a suit has long been appreciated; it’s a travesty that the same recognition isn’t given to the particular deliciousness of a boy in a dress.
I’m almost too distracted to notice how he eyes my ripped black jeans, white tee, and moto jacket. I may have decided to lean in after he drooled over me in leather.
“So, I heard it’s an open bar?” Mylo asks, like a challenge. I’d like to see him try to out-drink me—if he wasn’t stubborn enough to land himself in the hospital.
“What do you want?” I ask.
He scans the bar. “What do they have?”
“What do you want?” I repeat.
Mylo’s eyes narrow. “I want whatever white wine is already open, and failing that, a vodka soda. At the bartender’s convenience.”
I make a face. “You’re no fun.” I turn and raise a hand, beckoning the bartender. He finishes topping off a glass with soda, then comes right over.
Sometimes I do enjoy my celebrity.
“A glass of something red, local, and bold,” I command.
“Crack a new bottle. Something you’re not supposed to serve tonight.
” I slide a purplish bill across the counter, marked 50 and with some mustachioed man on it.
Kiwi dollars always feel like Monopoly money, and I spend them as freely.
“They’ll know exactly who to yell at when they see it on the bill, and it won’t be you. ” I wink.
The bartender grins and slides the cash into his pocket. “Anything else?”
I glance over at Mylo. “A Mai Tai.”
“Coming right up.”
I lean back against the bar, and Mylo just stares at me, incredulous.
“No complaints?” I tease. “Really? I thought for sure you’d have a comment.”
Mylo huffs, and it’s the cutest fucking thing. “I have too many comments. You can’t just order me a Mai Tai because of that stupid nickname—”
“Oh? No, the Mai Tai’s for me. I’m in the mood for something… citrus and sweet.”
Right on cue, a bright blush spreads across his cheeks, belying his glower. “I don’t even like red wine, so it’ll be a waste,” he mutters.
“You’ll like it. And even if you don’t, you’ll drink it.”
He props a hand on a silk-clad hip. “Oh, yeah? And why is that?”
“Because…” I lean closer. “It’s what I want to taste on your tongue later, when you beg me for relief.”
Honeyed florals blossom through Mylo’s scent as his blush deepens. “That’ll hardly be necessary.” His grumbles are more ritual than resistance at this point.
The bartender soon returns with our drinks—including the open bottle—and I thank him with a nod, handing Mylo’s glass of wine to him.
His gaze follows my drink as I lift it, and I slide my tongue around the cocktail straws to pull them to my mouth. As I take a deep drink, his pupils blow wide.
Mylo continues staring at my lips long enough to lose all plausible deniability.
“Go on,” I chide. “Try your wine. Tell me how much you loathe it.”
Mylo makes a childish face at me and takes a tentative sip.
His scent reveals his pleasure, leaning toward a note of lavender. I’ve always had a knack for scenting moods, even off betas. It’s been an asset and a half in this industry. But if a beta’s scent is like a sketchy radio feed, Mylo’s is 4kHD.
Mylo returns for a second, deeper drink, feigning ambivalence even as that lavender thread grows stronger.
If his veiled pleasure smells this good, what must his joy be like?
“It’s fine,” he reports. “Drinkable, I guess. Adequate.”
My mouth waters, eager to taste it—but not from his glass.
Soon.
“You’re in a good mood tonight,” I croon. “Anything else you’re finding… adequate?”
“Your company doesn’t make me currently want to vomit,” he says lightly.
I click my tongue. “Wow, high praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.” Mylo tries to look casual as he takes another deep drink from his wine, gaze drifting out over the party.
“You look good tonight. Really good.”
Surprise flickers across Mylo’s face, even as he refuses to look at me. I take the chance to stare openly, enjoying each little shade as his blush spreads again.
Nothing but two thin straps hold the slip dress on his shoulders: two little cords, so easy to cut and send the dress pooling at his feet… And then there’s the base of his neck, totally bare, inviting…
“Glad to hear you’re not blind,” Mylo finally says.
“Oooh, took you a while to come up with that one. Am I mistaken, or did you almost accept my compliment?”
“I have other people to talk to,” Mylo says, pushing off the bar. “Thanks for the drink.”
I lean down over his shoulder. “Stay.”
The hair on the back of his neck rises, gooseflesh prickling as a shudder rolls down his spine, every quiver visible through the thin silk.
If my tail were out, it’d be lashing eagerly behind me. God, he’s so fun to play with.
Mylo’s body tenses, and he glares at me as he returns to leaning against the bar.
“You can’t just do that whenever you want,” he growls.
“Do what?” My face is a picture of innocence.
Mylo glances around, judging who might be in earshot. “Alphas need to learn how to take ‘no’ for an answer.”
There’s a real bite in that one, and I love the sting. “Maybe… people like you… need to learn how to answer honestly.”
Mylo turns a look of pure, seething fury up at me. It would be intimidating—if he stood any higher than my breasts.
I chuckle, tone softening. “You’re welcome to go, if you really want to. I won’t stop you.”
Mylo’s ire becomes a pout. “You don’t even have the decency to be a proper asshole.”
“Ah, right, that’s what you hate most about me. I’m just too likeable.”
He scoffs. “You’re full of it, that’s for sure.”
“Mhm.” I wait, sipping my drink.
Mylo faces the party, refusing to look at me, but he doesn’t leave.
“What happened to all those other people you needed to talk to?”
“Look,” Mylo spits, whirling toward me. “Do you want me here or not?”
“Of course I want you here.” My brow furrows, and the words brim over with sincerity.
Mylo’s eyes narrow. “Let nobody say you didn’t earn your Oscar.”
I crack a smile. “Now that’s a real compliment.”
He huffs a sigh and clicks his tongue. “So it’s all just a game to you.”
I raise a brow. “That’s rich coming from you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“When was the last time you expressed a sincere emotion?”
“I sincerely hate you,” he quips, not missing a beat. “How’s that?”
I smile behind my cocktail. “Mhm. You hate me as much as that wine you’ve nearly finished.”
Mylo looks down in surprise, finding his glass almost empty. “Doesn’t mean I’d drink it again.”
“Sure,” I offer, with just enough alpha charm to pull his eyes to mine. “But it’s in your hand tonight.” I grab the bottle from the bar and top off Mylo’s glass. “So why not drink until it’s gone?”
His muscles tense, wary. “I’m not looking forward to getting the bill later.”
“No bill. No strings. Just…” I reach down and hook a finger under the stem of his glass, nudging it gently toward his lips. “…one night where you finally let yourself have fun.”
His trembling breath fogs the cool glass, eyes locked on mine.
“You did it, Mylo. You made it through the end of filming. Celebrate.”
Mylo’s lips part, and the ruby liquid tips into his mouth. He takes one deep swallow, then another.
A shiver runs up my spine: power, yes, but mostly life.
My finger stays lightly on the base of his glass, inviting but not commanding.
Mylo keeps drinking, throat bobbing. His pupils blow wide, and that lavender thread tells me exactly what he’s thinking.
Fuck, I want those lips around my cock.
Defiant and proud, Mylo sets down his empty glass and takes a deep breath.
An indulgent purr rumbles in my chest.
“What are you waiting for?” Mylo challenges. “You said ‘celebrate,’ didn’t you? C’mon.”
Then he grabs my hand and pulls me onto the dance floor.