Sweet Cheeks Read Online Free Page B

straightening up. Our eyes hold, his head nodding ever so subtly as he rubs his hands over his jaw line.
    “I can think of a few options.”
    “Drop it,” I huff. “You’re crazy. Discussion is over.” I bend back over, effectively dismissing the topic at hand.
    But he doesn’t move. Just stands there and watches me. And I hate every second of it. But I don’t look up, don’t say a word.
    Discussion is over.

 
    “D o you know how much I want you?” My hands are braced on either side of her. Her nipples are hard and pressed to my chest. The cool silk of the sheets slide over my ass as I grind between the heat of her thighs.
    “Show me.” Tessa’s eyes flutter closed as her lips meet mine. My dick hardens. It’s impossible to ignore the memories of last night—her kiss, her moans, her nails—when this was real between us. Skin to skin. Without the merkin or the glycerin spray for sweat. Void of the heat of the set lights or eyes of the crew watching us. Or rather, watching her , because she’s definitely a visual orgasm.
    It’s Saylor. She needs your help.
    My next line falters on my lips. The words I know by heart escaping me as the text I received earlier distracts me once again. Tessa’s body stiffens beneath mine, her face twists in annoyance, and I know there’s no way we can smooth over my missed line.
    “ Shit . Sorry.” I sit back on my haunches and go to scrub my hands over my face but stop myself before smearing the makeup artist’s hour-long job creating my two-day-old black eye and stitched-up cut on my cheek. Instead, I scrunch up my nose as I look down at Tessa. Beautiful, sexy Tessa who is sneering at me from behind her dark lashes and thick stage makeup. Pissed because I can’t get my shit straight today, my concentration continually hijacked.
    But it’s not like I don’t know my lines. I’m sure the director thinks I was out late partying and not studying the script for today’s fifteen-plus-hour marathon shoot. Just what I need—him to get pissy and do a million retakes until it’s perfected, which will result in one of Tessa’s well-publicized starlet tantrums.
    The criticism I deserve. The tantrum I don’t.
    The irony is Tessa knows exactly where I was. On top of her. Beneath her. In her . All night long.
    And if she throws a tantrum then what happened between us last night will come out somehow. She runs at the mouth when angry and that won’t bode well since I’m trying to keep a low public profile. Because even though this is a closed set, someone will talk. Talk leads to tabloids. Tabloids lead to snooping. And in my current situation, snooping leads to disaster.
    And as much as I’m taking the fall for all of the other shit going on—the tabloid accusations of cheating—I’d rather keep them to just that: accusations, instead of verified facts.
    Besides I fucked up. The thing with Tessa wasn’t on the agenda. We were running our lines for today. This sex scene . . . and one thing led to another.
    Not that I’m complaining because Tessa Gravestone equals spank-bank material for most men.
    But when I look down at her where she lies on the bed, perfect tits uncovered and on display—because her theory is if she bought them, then people should see them—I just sigh and shake my head. Another apology on my lips.
    And as much as I’d like to convince myself it was the great sex with her last night and wanting to do it again right now that has me forgetting my lines like a first year SAG card holder, it’s not .
    It’s not the stress of keeping what happened with her under wraps or what’s going on in the tabloids with Jenna or anything else.
    It’s fucking Ryder. I don’t talk to the guy for over eight months and then all of a sudden we talk twice in one week. But it wasn’t plans we made to meet up when I finally head home for the first time in forever that have me screwing up my lines. It was his damn text.
    His simple request. The mention of the one