And despite his reservations, he touched her too. With as close as they got on set, it seemed normal to rest his hand on her hip when she reached past him to steal a fry, or to trail his fingers down her arm while she whispered anecdotes to him about the songs, her lips achingly close to his ear, sending tingles across his scalp.
He already knew the feel of her mouth under his. But those kisses had been choreographed, controlled, and scrutinized by others. He wanted to know how she tasted.
As Lily treated them all to a wild interpretation of a Shakira song, Jasmine found her way to his side once again.
“I’m going to go back to the hotel,” she told him, pitching her voice low.
“I’ll go with you.” The words came without forethought. He knew how it would look if they left together, but he didn’t give a shit. As much fun as he was having with the rest of the cast, he didn’t want to be there without her.
“Okay,” she said softly.
They made their farewells, delivering the expected goodbye kiss on every cheek. When Peter exclaimed, “Leaving so soon?” Ashton blamed it on his allergies, even though his nose had stopped running sometime during the night.
Outside, he and Jasmine caught a taxi back to the hotel. They rode in silence, walked through the lobby in silence, and when they stepped into the elevator, Jasmine pushed the button for her floor and turned to him, blocking the control panel. The doors whooshed shut.
In a quiet voice, she asked, “Do you want to come to my room?”
Ashton searched her face, her eyes, the way she held herself. He knew this woman’s mannerisms, her body language and nonverbal cues. He knew exactly what she was asking.
And he wanted it too.
“Yes,” he said.
The elevator doors pinged open on her floor.
Chapter 22
Jasmine’s fingers trembled as she removed the key card from her purse and unlocked her hotel room door. She didn’t turn to look at Ashton as she opened it and entered the room, trusting—hoping—that he would follow her.
He did.
The second the door clicked shut behind them, he pressed her up against the wall and brought his mouth down on hers.
Jasmine dropped everything. Her arms banded around his neck, and she arched her body flush against his. His body was a revelation, all hard muscles and the thick, solid length of his cock pressing into her abdomen.
She knew his touch, his scent, the feel of his lips against hers. But this was different. This time was for real.
When his tongue slid against her lips, she opened for him with a moan. Finally they would do this right.
Their tongues touched, tasted, caressed. His kiss was stronger, more audacious, than when he was Victor. And she relished in it.
As many times as they had done this before, this was all new. They weren’t Carmen and Victor now. They were just Jasmine and—
“Ashton,” she whispered against his mouth.
He pressed his lips to the curve of her neck and made a questioning noise in the back of his throat.
“Touch me. Please.”
He did.
His hands slid down her back in an unerring path, molding over her sides, her hips, stopping at her butt to give it a squeeze, then traveling down to the backs of her thighs. He lifted her like he had when they’d filmed episode four. The move had thrilled her then and it thrilled her now. Still kissing, he carried her to the table where they had once shared wine and pizza and set her down on top. Then he pressed his pelvis to hers and the feel of him against her made her desperate to touch him.
“Off,” she pleaded, tugging at his T-shirt. “Take this off.”
He released her for just a moment to reach back, fisting his hand in the material and yanking the whole thing over his head. In the dreamy ambient light of New York City filtering in through the windows—they hadn’t even thought to turn on the lamp—she trailed her gaze and her fingers over the angles and planes of his muscled form. When she’d seen him on the treadmill in the fitness center, she’d wanted to touch him. And now she could.
But Ashton wasn’t content to just sit back and be touched. He leaned into her, capturing her mouth again with fervor.
Then he surprised her by murmuring against her lips, “This is not kissing practice.”
“No,” she agreed, tangling her tongue with his, just to prove it