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Then she proceeded to blow his damn mind—again—with that wide, talented mouth of hers before riding them both to another orgasm.
After that, he had no words left. None. She’d taken them all, just as she’d taken him.
And by God, he wasn’t complaining. Not even a little.
The chiming alarm on his cell woke him, and he stretched with a quiet groan, enjoying the brush of cool hotel sheets against
his skin and the lingering ache in his well-used muscles after a long, hot night.
Shit, he hadn’t felt this relaxed in years. Maybe ever.
Maria had wrung him dry. And after he’d made her come the fourth time, she’d seemed pretty damn exhausted too, her long, generous
thighs quivering, those gorgeous brown eyes heavy-lidded. But they’d both slept, and he still had an hour or two before he
needed to get ready for his audition, so he’d be more than delighted for her to wring him out again.
Already grinning in anticipation, he rolled onto his back and looked to the other side of the bed, where he found—
Nothing. No one.
He sat up abruptly, the easy laxness of his body gone in a split second.
The door to the bathroom stood open, and the space was dark and empty.
Her purse was gone from the nightstand.
Her clothing, once strewn across the thick carpet, had disappeared too.
If it weren’t for the two used condoms in the bedside trash can and the smell of sex in the sheets, he’d have wondered whether
he’d dreamed the past twelve hours.
Throwing off the bedcovers, he lurched to his feet and prowled around the room, hunting for the inevitable pad of hotel stationery
inside the top desk drawer.
It was blank.
Another minute of searching, and he knew. There was no number scrawled on a sticky note. Not even a quick goodbye on the back
of a receipt.
She’d left without a word, and fuck knew he remembered what that felt like. Four years might have passed since Anne had left him exactly the same way, but some memories didn’t fade over
time.
The irony was bitter as lemon pith. He could barely remember the sound of his mother’s voice most days, but he could re-create
the exact moment he’d realized his fiancée was gone for good, down to the unlaced sneaker on his right foot and the dust motes
dancing in the sunlight as his world collapsed around him.
He should have known Maria would leave too. Goddammit, he should have known .
In the sauna, they’d been too busy making out to swap personal information, and that was partially on him. But in the hotel
lobby, when he’d handed over his driver’s license so she could text a friend with his full name for safety’s sake, she hadn’t
bothered to share her own surname. And when he’d attempted to talk with her after the first time they fucked, she’d kept her
answers frustratingly brief and vague.
He’d blamed that on his own lack of social skills.
In retrospect, though, she’d deliberately withheld any identifying information.
And after their second bout of sex, he hadn’t been able to gather his thoughts sufficiently for further conversation.
Which—again, in retrospect—she’d clearly counted on.
He’d wanted to fuck her again this morning. Wanted to learn more about her, because even after such limited contact, he could
tell she wasn’t just spectacularly confident and sexy as hell, but also sharp-witted and funny. He’d hoped to find out over
a room-service breakfast together how long she planned to stay in LA and whether she might move to the area.
Instinctively, he’d liked her. Connected with her to a foolish degree, even knowing next to nothing about her.
So, yeah. Maybe it was stupid to feel used after a blazing-hot night of no-strings sex with an irresistible stranger, but
he did. Used, discarded, and angry.
It didn’t matter. They’d had a good time together, and she was gone. He’d never see her again. Now he needed to calm the hell
down and channel all that turbulent emotion into his performance later that morning.
In his entire acting career, he’d never had an audition this important for a project this high-profile. The role of Cyprian
on Gods of the Gates —a show that was already a worldwide hit, even though the first season hadn’t finished airing yet—could transform him from
a character actor into something else. Something more.
A leading man.
Best of all, the role was meaty. Cyprian’s story encompassed survival and grief, anger and fear and lust, as well as a reluctant,
burgeoning romantic connection with Cassia, a shield-maiden and the sole other Viking who’d survived being shipwrecked by
Neptune.
Why the showrunners had decided to move the story from ancient Rome to medieval Europe but kept all the Roman gods and goddesses, he couldn’t say, and he didn’t care. Muddled mythology be damned: As Cyprian, he could—for once—be a love interest and a goddamn hero .
But only if he performed to the satisfaction of the casting director and showrunners, as well as the other execs and creatives
who’d be evaluating him today, and only if he had good chemistry with the actors they were considering for the role of Cassia.
He was one of maybe two or three men still in contention to play Cyprian. In this final audition, he’d have to prove himself
and outshine his competition.
And he would. Because, in the end, Maria and her decision to leave him behind without a second glance didn’t matter. Not as
much as his career.
If he ever saw her again—and he wouldn’t—he’d thank her for reminding him of that.
Apparently the casting director had a certain physical type in mind for Cyprian. Peter and the other two men were all white,
all tall, all burly dudes with some extra heft to them, and they were all sitting in the same chilly, impersonal waiting area
outside a conference room full of decision-makers.
One woman had already arrived for her audition too, and she was almost as tall as the men. Like the potential Cyprians, she
was white and built along generous lines, and her long, light brown hair, glowing skin, and a crooked, charming smile made
her undeniably pretty. No doubt he’d be performing with her shortly to determine whether they had sufficient chemistry, along
with any other women in the final running for the character of Cassia.
As they waited to be called into the conference room, all four of them checked their phones and tried not to fidget. And once his cell indicated two minutes before the hour and no one else had arrived, Peter figured the showrunners had already decided on the pretty brunette for Cassia.
Then, precisely on the hour and not a second beforehand, the door to the waiting room swung open again, and—
Shit. Shit.
There she was, all tits, ass, belly, and long legs. She strode confidently toward the nearest empty seat, wearing some sort
of expensive-looking patterned blouse, skinny jeans, and polished boots with low heels, her shoulder-length hair rippling
with waves and shining under the fluorescent lights.
Maria Whoever-the-Fuck.
The woman who’d fled from their hotel bed without a single word.
She sat gracefully, deposited her purse in her lap, and glanced around in bright-eyed curiosity, smiling.
Until she saw him, anyway.
Then that easy smile died, and her brow puckered for a moment. Finally, she nodded at him as if they were friendly acquaintances
who hadn’t seen each other for a few weeks.
“Peter,” she murmured, and tried with limited success to resuscitate the once-cheerful curve of her lips. “Good to see you
again.”
Last night, he’d found her slight accent charming. Sexy, even.
Now it grated. So did everything else about her.
And unless he was mistaken, he was going to have to act alongside her soon. Luckily, Cyprian and Cassia did nothing but argue
in their early scenes together.
That worked for him.
In response to her greeting, he simply looked at her, expressionless. She met his eyes without flinching, and held his gaze
until the door to the conference room opened and the casting director poked her head out.
“Peter and Maria, please join us,” she said, fuck it all.
Apparently he wouldn’t have any time to reconcile himself to this clusterfuck. So he rose to his feet, offered the casting
director a respectful dip of the chin, and walked through the doorway without glancing back at Maria.
The conference room was large and filled with various people, some he recognized and others he didn’t. The showrunners he
spotted right away, as well as a director with whom he’d worked previously. Then he and Maria were ushered toward the front
of the room and given an excerpt from a script, and he immediately dismissed everything but the role. Nothing existed but
the dialogue, the expressions, the gestures. The emotions he was meant to display and evoke.
If he could, he’d dismiss Maria too, but in this task, she was his partner.
Though not a particularly accomplished one, as he soon discovered.
She delivered her lines well. He’d give her that. But her expressions and gestures were too exaggerated for television or
film, especially in a show like Gods of the Gates , where the cameras would pull in tight and let the audience read every subtle shift on her mobile face, every twitch of her
fingers or infinitesimal tilt of her head.
After a minute or two, Ron Acheson, one of the showrunners, interrupted her in the middle of a key bit of dialogue to give
feedback, and he didn’t mince words.
“This is your first time auditioning for a television show. Is that correct, Ms. Ivarsson?” Ron asked, slouching back in his
cushioned chair and steepling his fingers.
Maria didn’t hesitate before answering. “Yes.”
“Then let me offer some advice. This isn’t a dusty stage in a small Stockholm theater, and you’re not playing for the yahoos in the last row.” He glanced toward his fellow showrunner, R.J. Nullman, and rolled his eyes. “Take it down a dozen notches, will you?”
When it came to television and film, to Hollywood and its power players, she was an amateur. And thank fuck she clearly wouldn’t
be chosen for the role of Cassia, because he wasn’t wasting his best—and possibly his final—real shot at professional respect
and success on someone who didn’t know what the hell she was doing. Not when the actors playing Cyprian and Cassia would be
performing together, one-on-one, without other cast members and on an isolated set, potentially for years. Not when his gut
churned acid at the mere sight of her.
Maria didn’t argue with Ron, but she also didn’t appear embarrassed or cowed by his criticism. Her chin tipped high, she waited
calmly for further guidance.
“Fantastic work, Peter. Continue everything you’re doing.” In theory, R.J. was complimenting Peter, but he was staring at
Maria. Twisting the knife a bit, maybe to see how sensitive she was. How she’d react. “Let’s start again from the top.”
Peter had to give her credit. She didn’t flinch at R.J.’s jab, and in their second go-round, he could tell within moments
that she’d adjusted her performance in accordance with Ron’s direction. In fact, she adjusted so well that Peter abruptly
fell into the scene with her.
“I told you to save Erik,” she cried, angry and broken at the loss of her Viking lover to the roiling ocean. “I told you. I told you I could swim, and he couldn’t .”
He kept his face stony, only the merest hint of his mingled grief and relief evident in his expression. “You were tiring, and you were nearer to me than he was. I had a choice. I made it. Now we’ll both live with it.”
When he held her tear-glazed eyes just a moment too long, the audience would realize, even if Cassia didn’t: Cyprian had secretly
wanted her. And if there was a chance she’d drown, he couldn’t leave her. Not even if that meant dooming his closest friend,
the man she loved. Not even if that meant hating himself for what he’d done.
She shoved his chest, hard enough that he rocked backward. “May all the gods damn you, Cyprian. And even if they forgive you,
I vow to you: I never will.”
He dismissed her with a sneer. “So be it.”
Her snarl of heartbroken rage in response was perfect. Just loud enough, just obvious enough. Maria was no longer playing
to the cheap seats.
Still, this take was probably a flash in the pan. Most likely she was a moderately talented theater actor not meant for either
film or television, one who’d briefly gotten lucky and given the best performance of her life at a crucial moment.
She was a fighter punching above her weight, and that would become evident soon enough. Any minute now.
But by the time she and Peter finished their scene, then did a cold read of another script excerpt, Ron’s smirk had entirely
disappeared, and R.J. had turned to the casting director for what appeared to be a whispered, extremely intense conversation.
Various execs looked thoughtful, and a few were even smiling.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise, not after their pleasurable but ill-fated night together, but somehow it still stunned
Peter: He and Maria had undeniable chemistry. Worse: After her disastrous start to the audition, she’d recovered. More than
recovered. At least for this one morning, this one audience, she’d shone .
Before the showrunners finally dismissed them back to the waiting room, R.J. complimented both of them on their performances, then urged them to clear their schedules for the rest of the day and have their agents or managers on call.
The decision-makers in the room still needed to put two alternative Cyprians and another Cassia through their paces, of course,
and maybe those other actors would slay their auditions. Maybe their performances would demonstrate such towering chemistry
and acting ability, Maria and/or Peter would find themselves shunted aside.
That said, the showrunners weren’t exactly being subtle.
“I think it would behoove both of you to have your teams waiting in the wings,” Ron told Maria with a wink even Peter considered
smarmy. “Just in case.”
That was the moment Peter realized.
Even if he landed the role of a lifetime today, he might still have a serious problem. One he had no idea how to solve.
And her name was Maria.