The Boy Toy - Nicola Marsh Page 0,40
raked over her, and she felt it like a physical touch, as if he’d caressed every inch of exposed skin. “A g-good old-fashioned booty call?”
Looked like she wasn’t the only nervous one, and in response she took his hand and led him to the bedroom, anticipation thrumming through her veins.
“Technically, it’s our second date, but hey, booty call works for me too,” she murmured, letting out a little squeal as he nipped at her neck and palmed her ass.
She wanted this. Wanted him.
All afternoon.
* * *
* * *
As Rory lay flat on his back, his hands behind his head, staring at Samira’s bland beige ceiling, he wished he could de-stress with mind-blowing sex all the time.
If hanging out with the housing commission kids in the morning hadn’t been difficult enough, getting a phone call from his agent with the news he’d now be up against one of the biggest reality TV hosts for the Renegades gig had really put him in a shitty mood.
Samira’s text had been a godsend, and he’d hightailed it to her apartment. He’d expected to sit around, chatting, having a few laughs. He’d hoped for the sex later. To his surprise, she’d skipped the chatter and gone straight for the good stuff. Could she be any more perfect?
“Here you go.” She padded back into the bedroom holding two glasses of water, incredibly sexy in a large blue T-shirt with USA emblazoned on the front, which skimmed her upper thighs. “Screaming your name is thirsty work, so I really needed this.”
He laughed, more relaxed than he’d been since . . . he had been here on Saturday morning. He shouldn’t get used to this. It wouldn’t last. But for now he’d enjoy it.
“You’re good for my ego,” he said, scooting up into a sitting position and accepting the glass of water she held out to him. “And I hate to pick you up on a technicality, but I think you were moaning my name rather than screaming.”
“I’ll save that for the next round.” She smiled and clinked glasses as she slid back into bed beside him. “If only all Monday afternoons could be this good.”
“You didn’t have any patients booked in today?”
She shook her head. “I had a busy morning but blocked out the afternoon to catch up on paperwork.”
“How’s that working out for you?”
She ogled his chest in blatant appreciation. “Freaking great.”
He chuckled, loving the banter between them.
“How was your morning?”
He gulped the water, draining the glass, giving himself time to compose an answer. While he couldn’t tell her the whole truth about why the speech therapy program was so important to him, he could give her a snippet or two.
“I hang out with some kids at the housing commission flats in Carlton sometimes. They have tough lives, and it’s good for them to have a mentor.”
Her eyebrows rose, her eyes glittering with admiration. “That’s pretty cool.”
He shrugged, like it meant little, when nothing could be further from the truth; helping those kids master their speech meant everything to him. “I was lucky enough to have a privileged upbringing, so it’s good to give something back. That’s why I want to nail the upcoming audition too, so I can help fund some programs for them.”
She eyed him like he was too good to be true, and increasingly uncomfortable under her obvious admiration, he changed the subject. “I also got a call that turned my morning to crap.”
“What happened?”
“You know how my agent referred me for dialect coaching for the big role I’m up for? Well, Benedict Dixon is up for it too.”
She screwed up her nose. “He sounds familiar.”
“He’s hosted a couple of big reality shows.”
“Ah . . . so he’s got the edge on you?”
“Shit yeah.” Rory sighed. “But I need this role, and I’ll do anything I can to score it.”
“Things going okay with Pia?”
He nodded, glad they weren’t discussing him. Pia had assured him about client confidentiality, but they were cousins and he’d wondered. “She’s great. But a million things can go wrong on the day, and I might screw up the audition.”
Namely, by his nerves getting the better of him and turning him into a stuttering mess.
“For what it’s worth, I have full confidence in you,” she said, leaning over to brush a kiss across his lips. “You are amazing.”
Feeling ten feet tall with this woman, he said, “Pity I can’t audition my prowess.”
“Yeah, pity,” she murmured, trailing a fingernail from his sternum to his belly button. “Speaking about prowess . .