Chapter 43
CHAPTER 43
I ’m not sure I’ll ever get used to this sight.
Taylor is in my room. On my bed.
The face I longed for and loathed in equal measure is studying the watercolor birthday cards I have strung up above my bed. Rose has painted one every year since high school, her skills somehow growing worse over time.
One of his hands is on my thigh, and every so often, it slips down to play with my fingers. I don’t know how he felt when he saw me tangled in his sheets, but if his heart stuttered half as much as mine is doing now, I don’t know how he made it through the night. His hair is sticking up at odd angles, mussed from my inability to keep my hands to myself.
“I think I like that one best.” He points at a particularly heinous card where Rose painted a poodle tipping a fedora. “Didn’t realize you were a dog person.”
I snort. “I’m not.”
“Liar,” Taylor says, pushing his computer off his lap so he can pull me into it. I throw my arms around his neck, scooting my own laptop out of our way. He leans in, resting his head against my chest. I breathe in the smell of his shampoo, not minding the slightest bit that his hair is tickling my nose.
When he sits up, leaning in for a kiss feels like the most natural thing in the world. Taylor brushes his thumb over my cheek, letting me set the pace. And the pace I want is bruising. I push open his lips with my tongue, claiming him with a low groan. I don’t know what it is about kissing Taylor, but his every ministration goes straight to my core. No, sorry, I know exactly why. He licks the seam of my mouth before sucking on my bottom lip, and I’m transported to last night. When he showed me with great enthusiasm just how good he is with his tongue.
I lean back, pulling him down with me. Taylor growls in approval, already trailing his hands down the length of my body. My legs twitch when he grazes my inner thigh through my pajama pants.
Taylor chuckles. “Easy there.” His hands leave me to move our laptops on top of my bedside table. One more nudge and I would have knocked both clean off the bed.
I grumble a bit, kind of wishing I had. At least then his hands would still be on me. But Taylor’s distracted, eyes boring a hole in his darkened computer screen.
“Worrying about the deadline?” I voice the question we’ve spent all night tiptoeing around.
He runs a hand down his face. “I have nothing to turn in.”
“Yes, you do. You just gave me your finished screenplay.”
His smile is lopsided. “Yeah, but we don’t have enough time to workshop it. I should’ve finished it sooner, given you an actual chance to read it through.”
I chew on my bottom lip. I should have started on his screenplay last night. Instead, I fell into bed the moment I got home, replaying our date over and over again until sleep claimed me. It was a selfish thing to do. I hadn’t thought once about how anxious Taylor must be, but the look on his face spells it out.
“Your spec script was excellent,” I say, softly. “I know your screenplay will be, too. I’ll get started on my notes tonight. You’ll have plenty of time to edit it before you have to turn it into the Havens.”
“I know it doesn’t even matter what I hand in—you’ve earned the trip fair and square, Ayla. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. But it would’ve been nice to give them something good enough to compete with you anyway.”
I cut him a look. “You are good enough. And you know I’m being honest because I hate admitting it.”
“I’m good,” Taylor agrees. And then he grins. “But you’re great. That’s why I asked for your help in the first place. Even if it almost killed me to do so.”
I roll my eyes. “If it makes you feel any better, I actually don’t have anything to turn in.”
“What about the thriller from a couple months ago?”
My brows shoot up. “How do you even know about that?”
“You left it out on your desk. I stayed up all night reading it.” He scowls. “I can’t believe Adoria wouldn’t give it a chance.”
I blink, taken aback. “What?”
“Or the dramedy you submitted last year? The Havens haven’t read that one, either. And it has that really great twist, remember?”
I remember…but I can’t believe he does. “How… why did you read my screenplays?”
“Because they were good,” he says, simply. “I learned a lot from them. That, and keeping your enemies close was my personal mantra this past year. See what you do to me? I’ve become completely irrational.”
Maybe so. But the thought of him pouring over my words fills me with the warmth I’ve been missing all day.
“I can’t turn in either of those,” I finally say. “If Adoria didn’t want to read them then, she isn’t going to give them a chance now. And I haven’t written anything in months she might actually be interested in.”
“What about that new project? Don’t deny it—I’ve seen you working on something these last few weeks.”
I press my lips together. The last document I opened for the Havens consists of a single shitty sentence I haven’t even tried to edit. If he’s seen me typing, it’s for the story the Havens will never let me tell.
“You’re a damn good writer, Ayla. The way you capture people…I haven’t read a single one-dimensional character in all of your work. You have a gift for making stories feel real. Like you can jump through the page and land in an entirely new world.”
Taylor’s smiling at me, sounding so sincere my heart feels like it’s stuck in a vice. These are the words I’ve always wanted to hear—the validation I’m doing what I’m meant to do. But for the first time, I’m not convinced I am. I can’t accept his praise, not when I’m no longer sure it’s true.
“You have a weird look on your face.”
I meet his eyes, trying to steel my expression.
“You know, you don’t have to worry about my feelings, right? You won this trip fair and square. I’m happy you’re the one who gets to go.”
“The Havens could still choose you,” I murmur. In fact, I’m sure they will.
He shakes his head. “A deal’s a deal. You held up your side of the bargain. Even if by some miracle the Havens choose my script, I’m still going to forfeit.” He grins at me, genuinely thinking these are the words I want to hear.
“Taylor…” I shake my head. “Screw our deal, if the Havens choose you, I want you to go.”
He runs his thumb over the curve of my cheek before pulling me into a sweet kiss.
“I never actually thought I’d compete against you,” he murmurs. “You’re in a league of your own, Montes. But I had the time of my life trying.”
“I wish we could do the trip together,” I think aloud. “We both deserve it.”
Taylor’s arms tighten around me. “Can you imagine it? Sneaking into each other’s rooms? Spending all day at the beach…”
“And all night?”
Taylor’s grin turns mischievous. “Let’s just say I’d keep you very occupied. And very satisfied.”
“Oh, is that so?”
“You know I’m good for my word.”
His voice is gravelly, so low it blocks out the whisper of my misgivings. Right now, I don’t want to think about what will happen at the end of the week. I just want Taylor.
It doesn’t take much to get him hard. He grips my hips, setting the pace. I grind against his length, desperate to silence every doubt in my head. He hits the bundle of nerves between my thighs and my thoughts scatter. All I see is his warm eyes and soft grin as he lowers me onto the bed. My panties are off in one swift tug. He lets me keep on my lacy black slip, its thin straps already falling off my shoulders.
I cross my legs over his back, rolling us over so I can sit astride him. When I lower my kisses to his stomach, slowly inching down his body, he catches me by the wrist.
“Wrong way.”
My brows arch as he tugs me up. Hands wrapped around my waist, he guides me until I’m hovering over his mouth.
“Sit, baby.”
My eyes roll back in my head when he sinks his tongue inside me. His teeth scrape gently over my clit before he begins to suck, making me shudder in place. He reaches up, twisting my nipples between his fingers while he licks me. I’m so stupidly wet that my juices dribble down his chin, slipping along my thighs.
I come with his name on my lips, his hands gripping my ass. When he pulls me onto his chest, I realize my nightgown has fallen to my waist. I kick it off, making Taylor chuckle as I try to sink as close to him as humanly possible.
“Can I make up for last night?”
I look up at him, confused. “What do you mean?”
He wets his lips. “My, uh, performance left something to be desired.”
I smother a smile, thinking back to the look on his face after he came. “You more than made up for it.”
“You like it rough,” he says, voice going low. “You like being told what to do.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You do.” His smirk is lethal. “Now be a good girl and open your legs.”
He moves over me, slipping a hand between my knees. He looks pleased when I inch them wider. And that one look has me parting my thighs completely. When Taylor sinks into me, he’s sure, deliberate. He slides in without resistance, my slickness making him groan.
“You’re doing a very good job, Ayla. If only you were this accommodating at work.”
I narrow my eyes, but the way I clench around him undoubtedly proves I’m not half as mad as I should be. “Careful, Hedlund.”
He draws back, thrusting so deep I let out a gasp. He starts a new rhythm, stoking my desire each time he drives into me. Taylor was right. He does know what he’s doing. I’m clawing his back, arching into him, to no avail. He pounds into me without breaking a sweat, lowered eyes taking in my expression as he idly plays with my clit. He’s unhurried, so in control, and he was right about this, too—I like it when he’s calling the shots.
“I’m going to need you to rub your sweet little clit while I suck on these perfect breasts. Can you handle that?”
My fingers are shaking when I trail them down to my center.
“Just like that, baby. Yeah. Show me how good you feel.”
I moan, trembling as the sensation threatens to overwhelm me. Taylor is grinning when he leans over me, taking a nipple into his mouth. He flicks his tongue over my sensitive skin, timing the motion with each thrust of his hips. I break first, screaming my pleasure into the side of his neck. He lasts a minute longer before he follows me over the edge. I let out a quiet laugh when he slumps against me.
“I take it back,” I breathe. “You are good at everything. Bastard.”
I wear Taylor’s shirt long after he leaves.
It’s the heather gray one with a faded blue basketball on the front. The sleeves have been cut clean off and the hem is fraying, but it smells like Taylor.
I have already decided he’s never getting it back.
My laptop screen is aglow with his script. I sink down into my pillows, propping my computer against my knees. He’s called his screenplay Begin Again, a title that has me cracking a smile. That’s us summed up. This is take two, our chance to rewrite the story we were meant to tell.
But my smile falls the further down I read. My slackened jaw keeps my lips cracked open, the furrow between my brow deepening with each page I turn. Taylor has crafted a love story spanning decades and miscommunications and mistakes. He’s created a happily ever after his characters had to fight tooth and nail to earn. I love every single word.
Hours go by as I read and write, write and read. I fill the margins with red, circling the dialogue I love and crossing out the excess. I tell him which scenes make me blush, which ones have me in tears. I tell him to tighten up his descriptions and focus on showing, rather than telling.
And when I finally close his tab, the truth is so obvious. Taylor is such a good writer because he loves to write. I can feel his sincerity through the screen—how he’s chosen every word with care. Never once has he demonstrated this level of passion when speaking about becoming an agent. Has he even mentioned his supposed career of choice lately? I try to remember the last time he talked about his dreams and draw a blank.
But he doesn’t need to say it out loud for me to know. He wants to be a screenwriter. I’m as sure of it as I was when I had the realization myself. I was watching Pride and Prejudice when it clicked—that I wanted to create stories that made me feel the way that film did.
I write a quick email to Taylor, attaching the version of his screenplay with my notes. Knowing it’ll be the first thing he sees in the morning brings a new smile to my face. He might have asked me to teach him about writing, but I’m the one who’s learned something new.
I don’t feel the way he does. Not anymore.
The thought would have once terrified me. But it brings me a strange sense of peace as I burrow under my covers. I haven’t opened my screenwriting software in weeks. That document I started a month ago still consists of a single uninspired sentence. And I feel…relieved.
I know without a shadow of a doubt I’m not winning that trip to Italy. It’s better that way—I’m no longer the one who needs it.
I send one last email.
And then I let myself sleep.