Jake snorted a laugh. Jonathan might move like Jagger but he crashed and burned like Billy Idol.
In the booth Jonathan said, “Oh she doesn’t look happy does she?”
“No, she does not. You’re getting me into big trouble,” said the announcer.
“I don’t think he’s going to shift anytime soon.” Jake said, as Jonathan started talking to a fan who’d called in. Jonathan nattered away, but kept looking over his shoulder at Rielle as if to say, “Aren’t I just outrageous. You have to love me”.
“Maybe we should give him something to watch,” she said. She moved to his side.
“What?” He turned to look at her, expectation making him lose the nonchalance, making his senses fizz.
“How about this?” She put her hand up to his face, stretched up and kissed him.
Her lips were soft and warm, and plugged straight into the centre of his body where his fever for her had its power socket. When she pulled back, he said thickly, “I don’t think that was enough,” and she kissed him again, her hands around his neck and her hips pressed against him.
If that first kiss was about sticking it to Jonathan, the second one was tougher glue. It wasn’t playful, made for showing off—it was hungry, fired from lust. Not something you could walk away from. Jake wasn’t walking, he was sticking. He folded his arms around Rielle, spreading his fingers across her back and took
that kiss from fever to full blown disease.
Rielle had itched to touch Jake since she’d seen him in the hotel foyer looking all sex-god in slightly dressier clothes than he wore on the set. He had an effortless charm about him, rocking boy next door with calendar hunk and unaware of the effect that blending ‘what you see is what you get’ and drop-dead gorgeous had. Sitting beside him in the back of the car had made her twitchy with wanting him. But he’d seemed so unaffected, so self-contained and in control, she’d been afraid to brush against him for fear of annoying him.
Jonathan’s show-boating had been enough of a catalyst to galvanise her to act. But she’d half expected Jake to laugh her off, push her away, and she was ready to pretend she was just playing around to get at Jonathan to save face. But when he opened his mouth to hers and bit her lip gently, she knew she didn’t need to pretend anything. He was there in this, with her all the way.
“Wanna get out of here?” he murmured, his voice so lust drugged it was like a throaty purr.
She dragged her thumb across his bottom lip to wipe off purple lipstick.
He said, “What, not my colour?” and gave a throaty chuckle.
“Let’s go.” She took his hand, looking back at Jonathan who wore an expression of bewilderment, and the announcer who was making frantic waving gestures to try to get her to stay. She flipped them off and dragged Jake past the open mouthed program manager and a blushing receptionist.
In the empty elevator, Jake said, “We probably shouldn’t.” He was such a boy scout. But then he put a hand behind her neck and drew her against him. He ran his other hand over her hip and onto the bare skin at her waist, all the while staring into her eyes. Tying her in complicated, useless knots.
She heard herself whisper, “Please,” and realised she was virtually begging him to kiss her again, but she didn’t care so long as she could have his touch. His mouth was impossibly close to hers, the scent of him, fresh woodchips and cinnamon, filling her head. When the lift touched ground, and the doors pinged open, Jake brushed her lips with feather light finesse, all tease. But he reached forward, poking the close-door button, all command, not waiting for it to take effect, clamping down on her mouth possessively.
In the building foyer, Ross Rowland, waiting for Jonathan said, “Whoa,” as the lift doors closed on Jake and Rielle.
A courier standing beside him said, “That who I think it is?”
“Yep,” said Ross, “but she’s kissing the wrong guy.”
Jonathan didn’t need to be told. He arrived in the foyer with a head of steam and blazed past Ross, charging for the street and a waiting hire car.
Ross caught up to him as he heard the driver say, “Not yours mate.”
Jonathan said, “I think Rielle is on with Reedy.”
“Yep,” said Ross, “I reckon she is.”
“How do you know?” Jonathan snapped. But Ross didn’t have to give his eye witness account. Rielle and Jake came clattering out the door and onto the street, holding hands and laughing.
Jake helped Rielle into the back of the limo, said “Fellas,” gave Jonathan and Ross a salute and slid in beside her.
Jonathan looked at Ross. “Fuck.”
He wasn’t talking about their missing ride.
In the back of the hire car, Rielle’s breath was coming fast. She had wild eyes.