Chapter 14 #2
I mirrored the motion, suddenly self-conscious. Philippe had refreshed my rinse twice since we’d started shooting, making my strawberry-blond curls pop more than usual.
“And maybe the most obvious one.” He was standing so close, I could feel his body heat curling off him like steam.
“What’s that?” I asked, feeling dazed, lost in his fog of pheromones. This tequila is hitting me faster than I thought. I took another small sip.
He smiled again, that same quiet amusement playing on his face. “Your name is Scarlett.”
“Oh.” I was a dope. I knocked back what was left of the tequila. “Important question,” I said once the burn of the liquor had faded from my windpipe, and he raised his eyebrows. “Did you remember your rubber ball?”
He barked a laugh, then freed it from his pants pocket and held it up. “Guilty. And I was doing push-ups before you got here,” he admitted.
“Sounds like you’re ready, then.” I let out a heavy breath, shifting my feet. I wondered if the buzz in the air was from the tension between us or the booze.
He tipped my chin up. “Remember our pact: We only do what we’re comfortable with. But you should know I’m comfortable with lap dances.”
I snorted, his teasing helping to ease my nerves.
He nodded, like his mission was accomplished. “Remember, it’s just us out there.” He took my hand and squeezed it.
And the funny thing was, he was right. The second we got to set, he became Holden and I became Melody—a lovestruck girl flushed with independence and passion and the heady recklessness of young love, eager to surrender herself completely to the man she adored.
(And if my feelings for Ryder were bleeding into my performance, well, we’d just consider that Method acting.)
To put us at ease, Nate had closed the set, which meant that only the most essential crewmembers would be present to witness filming: a couple of cameramen, Nate and his director of photography, plus Helena to ensure we were comfortable.
Since we’d be picking up where we left off the day before, when Holden and Melody had been caught in the rainstorm, production basically had to hose us down before we could resume shooting.
Once the hair team had strategically soaked and styled my strands (“We’re going for tastefully mussed, not a mess”) and misted our faces and arms, Nate had us take our places outside the barn, where we’d burst in for the first shot.
As soon as Nate yelled “Action!” Ryder grabbed my hand and we took off at a run, my waterlogged, disintegrating heels in hand, bare feet squishing into the soggy earth.
We threw open the door, shaking off the rain, and Ryder crossed to a trunk that held a brown blanket, which he pulled out and wrapped around my shoulders.
He rubbed my upper arms, then tenderly swept the wet hair from my eyes—and just as we’d rehearsed, I stared up at him while he gazed down at me, letting the charged moment linger in the air, drawing out the tension.
His shirt clung to his chest, the fabric molded to every muscle, beads of water sluicing down the ridges between them. His hair dripped into his eyes, and I reached up to brush it away, then let my hand slide down his face, tracing the angle of his jaw.
At the first press of his lips, I nearly cried out in pleasure.
What actually escaped was a whimper, a sob of sweet relief.
Finally. His mouth was soft but insistent, his grip firm, his skin hot to the touch.
I felt his body respond to my reaction, my noises spurring him on, and his hand came up to curl around the back of my neck, holding me against him with quiet possession.
I let the blanket slip off my shoulders and fall to the ground, puddling at my feet.
Ryder’s hands cradled my face and threaded into my wet hair, and I grabbed the scruff at his nape, gathering it in my fist and dragging him closer.
He started slowly, testing me with soft bites and teasing nips, like he was learning my taste, savoring my flavor.
But what began as timid and tender quickly became hungry and handsy, our mouths colliding in a frenzy of need.
His teeth grazed mine, our bodies flush and frantic, hands greedy and unrestrained, and it wasn’t long before Ryder’s fingers found the buttons on my dress.
We’d discussed the “sexiest” way to peel off each other’s clothing, which was the main reason the costume team had fought so hard for the button-front dress.
One by one, Holden would unfasten them, tantalizingly slowly, while Melody watched, trembling, breath catching on every popped button—but there was no stopping us now, no slowing us down.
There was only urgency, desperation, fumbling hands and flying buttons, seams torn open in the heat of the moment.
I dimly registered the camera moving in my periphery, and I realized belatedly that somewhere along the way my desire for Ryder had swallowed my nerves whole.
The set, the crew, the cameras—they’d all disappeared, and nothing existed beyond his hands, his mouth, the way he was looking at me.
I lost track of everything but him—right up until Nate yelled “Cut.”
Reality rushed back in like cold air, the world slamming back into focus, like I’d been yanked out of a pleasant dream. I blinked, disoriented, as the moment dissolved around me, my lips still tingling from his touch, my breaths coming short and shallow. I tried not to look as shaken as I felt.
I pressed a hand to my mouth and turned away. I was winded and panting, so wild-eyed with lust that I knew Ryder would read it all over my face. I’d gotten carried away. No—we both had.
Nate emerged from behind the camera, practically vibrating with excitement.
“Guys, that was incredible. Seriously brilliant, the passion came through loud and clear. Honestly, I’m torn now—I didn’t think a frantic pace would feel as emotionally resonant, but you may have changed my mind.
” He clapped his hands once, beaming. “Let’s try it again, but slower this time, so I’ll have options. But really fantastic work.”
Helena checked in with us as we got our hair and makeup touched up, assuring us that everything looked natural and romantic. I almost laughed out loud. I bet it did look natural.
With each subsequent take, Ryder kissed me a different way.
Slowly, with an aching gentleness. Urgently, like he couldn’t wait another second.
Playfully, with a teasing nibble that unraveled me.
Reverently, like I was something precious.
With every brush of his mouth against mine, it grew harder for me to keep a lid on my feelings, to separate fantasy from reality.
I could feel myself slipping, falling deeper, my emotional armor beginning to crack.
He seemed to steal another sliver of my soul with each press of his lips, like he was collecting pieces of me one kiss at a time—and I was powerless to stop him.
For the next shot we moved to the hayloft, where we’d be bedding down in a nest of straw.
And while we were strategically covered with the blanket, the angles and simulated movements left little to the imagination.
The flimsy modesty garments were the only barrier between us, and when I laid back in the makeshift bed and Ryder positioned himself above me, the length and weight of his nearly naked body stretched over mine, I thought I might combust. I was straddling a powder keg, and he held a lit match.
Once we were arranged the way they wanted—the blanket draped over Ryder’s hips, leaving his back exposed, one arm braced beside my head while the other carefully concealed my breasts—Nate called “Action!”
Ryder began kissing me again, slow and deep.
His caresses were long and languid, his tongue tangling with mine, and I felt my soul start to splinter.
There was minimal dialogue in the scene, some sweet nothings and promises of forever that Ryder breathed into my neck, rasped against my ear.
I tried to stay in character, to channel Melody instead of the version of myself that desperately wanted to be somewhere else with him, alone, where he could slip inside me and make this real.
Eventually he pulled back and stared deeply into my eyes, saying nothing as he slowly rocked against me, and that’s when it all began to feel like too much.
Tears pricked at my eyes, the intensity of the situation starting to overwhelm me, a tide of emotion threatening to pull me under.
He must have felt the shift, my vulnerability registering in his eyes, because he slowed up, his fingers finding mine beneath the blanket, lacing together and squeezing tight.
His eyes said, Stay with me, but honestly, I wasn’t sure I could.
No sooner had Nate yelled “Cut!” than Ryder was lifting the blanket, repositioning it to cover my exposed breasts.
“Thanks,” I murmured, dazed and unsteady. The realization settled quietly in my bones: Even now, when I could barely think straight, he was looking out for me. The simple gesture cracked something open in my chest.
“Are you okay?” he asked quietly, so only I could hear.
I licked my lips, looked off to the side—anything to avoid his probing gaze. A tear leaked out, slid sideways down my cheek. “Just give me a minute,” I whispered, fighting for composure.
His features were etched with concern. “Do you need Helena?”
I squeezed my eyes shut, a thin, watery chuckle escaping. “No.” I wiped my face, and when I finally looked back at him, I met his eyes and held them. “No, Ryder. I don’t need Helena.” The message was clear: I need you.
He stared at me for several long, ticking seconds, his chest rising and falling. I watched as awareness dawned like sunlight behind his gaze, his eyes glowing a radiant gold. “I see now.”