Chapter 11 #2
“There’s nothing about merchandise,” he notes when he’s done.
“Merchandise? I’m painting a wall. There’s not going to be a mascot.” I inch closer, trying to read upside down. I give up and shift next to him, peering over his shoulder.
“James will sell this work with the team’s name on it.”
“That’s his right.”
“And it’s yours to get compensated for it. Every time someone uses my face, my name, I get paid.”
“Every time?” I echo. That's staggering. “You can’t control when someone draws you. You didn’t know when I did.”
“You think I didn’t know you were watching me?”
“I was discreet.”
“Bullshit.” He grabs my thighs and drags me into his lap to straddle him. My hands grip his shoulders for balance. “You looked at me with those big, blue eyes—”
“I did not!” Indignation rises up, and I try without success to wrestle out of his grip. “What does that have to do with my contract?”
“Nothing. I want people to get what they deserve.”
“And I deserve more than what I’m making?” I’m treading carefully because I also respect his experience in this industry.
“Way fucking more.”
He tucks the phone in the waistband of my shorts.
I take a breath, trying to focus on his words and not his hands settling on my hips, the thumbs brushing absently right above my waistband.
“But I already signed the deal.”
“I’ll have my agent take a second look.”
I bite my lip. “You’d do that?”
“Of course.”
Now I’m staring at the subtle print of the couch behind his head because it’s easier to think when I’m not looking into his beautiful eyes.
“Why? What is it you want?”
“You,” he says roughly, and my heart flips. “Spent a good long time fighting it. Seems we both got hurt. So, figured I’d try something new.”
My throat is dry, my pulse hammering.
Clay is a man who’s used to taking what he wants without asking for it. Hearing him say the words makes me tremble.
I’m still drawn to him. I can’t get through the day without thinking of what he’s doing, who he’s with, without missing his grumpy presence or slow, grudging smile.
I want to give this thing between us another chance.
But I won’t throw myself at him again. I know better now.
“The picture was in Architectural Digest, but the place wasn’t yours,” I say.
“I loaned it to a friend for a week.”
“And it just happened to be when they were shooting AD,” I press.
He lifts a shoulder.
Dammit.
“Why do you believe in me?” I ask.
“I believe in you the same way I believe the sun’s gonna rise and the basketball season’s gonna start in October. You’re legit. Your talent, your heart, all of it. You’re the real deal, Pink.”
My ribs are already so stretched it’s impossible to take another breath.
God, these feelings are confusing while I’m straddling him in his apartment.
“So then why did you tell me we were over?” I ask quietly.
“I fucked up.” Clay frowns, looking uncomfortable. “Things were going so well that I freaked out.”
“That makes no sense.”
He sighs. “The last time I cared about someone, it went south fast. I looked like a fool, but more than that, it messed me up on the inside. When I get messed up, there’s nowhere to hide.”
The hope is back, the sneaky spark of possibility deep in my chest.
There’s music in the background, but the sound of my pulse pounding is louder. I feel his eyes on me, intent.
“I blocked every mention of you in my search engine so I didn’t have to see stories or pictures of you,” I blurt.
His touch skims up my ribs. “Seems fair.”
“I burned your jersey.”
“You…” He shakes his head, eyes closing for a moment. “Fuck it, I’ll get you another.”
“I still have the letter you dumped me with.”
“You’re a pyro, it seems, so put it to good use.”
I bite my cheek as laughter rises up. “The other night at the pub didn’t change anything, you know. Your monster dick didn’t rock my world.”
“Only because you haven’t felt it inside you yet.”
The tingling between my thighs intensifies.
“I’m not sure it would even fit.”
“You can take me. It’ll feel good when you do.”
I cock my head. “For you or me?”
“For both of us.” Clay twists a piece of my hair around his finger, and his gaze drops to my lips. “Promise I’ll go slow.”
I’m aware of how close we are, the places we’re touching.
I want him so badly I ache.
“I can’t jump back into this with you. I need time to listen to my heart. And it’s hard to hear it with you right here between my legs, making everything seem like a good idea. Okay?”
He nods slowly, his eyes dancing.
Even if we did start over, it would have to be something new.
Different.
The idea lights up the back of my brain.
I start to shift off him and my phone slips. I grab for it and look at the contract again.
New and different.
“That’s it!” I exclaim, pressing a hand against his chest. “I’m adding to the original concept. I could make the case that the changes aren't covered by the contract.”
His fingers dig into my bare thigh. “Then what?”
I blink at him. “Then I’ll ask for more.”
But my words sound weak even to my own ears. I can’t picture asking James for more money.
“Based on what?” he levels immediately.
When Clay’s fingers find the wide leg of my shorts and slide up the inside, I hiccup.
I should be stopping him. I know what happens when I let my guard down with Clay.
“Based on how much merchandise you sell in the Bear Cave every night, you’d make more than that in a week.”
Instead of looking satisfied, the lines on his forehead deepen. Wrong answer.
"Actually, probably more than that in a day,” I amend. I was always decent enough with numbers to calculate in my head. “And fans love new concepts.”
His eyes meet mine, and something in them makes me shiver. I'm getting bolder and more shameless with each breath, and it excites him.
I feel powerful, and it’s a strange and heady thing.
“How much did you make this year?” I toss.
He lifts a shoulder. “Forty mil. Give or take.”
I try not to faint at the outrageous number.
“Then I’m already winning,” I decide.
“How do you figure?” His voice is husky.
“Well.” I gesture to our relative positions. “You make forty million dollars… but I’m the one on top.”
I swear his grin lights me up everywhere.