1
When Maria’s hazy brown eyes blinked back open after her orgasm, Peter held her gaze for another dozen thrusts. Then, braced on his forearms, fingers tangled in her hair, he pushed deep one last time and groaned into her mouth.
Rolling them to their sides, he held her tightly as they both recovered.
Despite the steady hum of the hotel room’s AC unit, her forehead was damp, her disheveled blond hair darkened with sweat at the roots. Which was only fair, since their energetic fucking had his own skin slick and his chest heaving. After a minute, he mustered the energy to dispose of the condom, but that was all he could manage before crawling back to her and tangling their legs together once more.
His thoughts took even longer to gather, probably because she’d blown his damn mind. Then again, that had been true from the second he’d entered a Hollywood sauna earlier that evening, accompanied by some of his former castmates, and seen her lounging full-length along a cedar bench, her ample breasts and lush hips barely contained by her damp red bikini.
Crimson. A power color for a powerful woman.
Once his companions had left, she’d crooked her finger, and he’d come to her. No questions asked. No hesitation. He hadn’tbalked at renting a new hotel room instead of going to hers either. If a woman like her wanted him, he didn’t intend to quibble with his good fortune. And as long as she was willing to stay in his arms, he’d keep her there.
Soft as velvet beneath his fingertips, the salty skin at the crook of her neck throbbed with her pulse and smelled herbal and musky. Like rosemary. Like sex. Like sex withhim. He couldn’t get enough.
Unfortunately, once her breathing slowed, she nudged him aside with a gentle push, and he reluctantly let her go. Raising her arms and pointing her toes, she stretched her lengthy limbs on top of the rumpled white sheets, entirely naked and entirely unembarrassed by that nakedness.
Like him, she was fat, with a rounded belly and a soft chin. Like him, she was strong too, those endless legs of hers curvy and muscled, her biceps evident when she’d opened the heavy sauna door for him on their way out. He already knew she packed a figurative punch, and he suspected she’d pack a literal one too.
With all that softness and strength, all that confidence, Maria Unknown-Last-Name was the sexiest woman he’d ever met. Bar none.
And now that they’d fucked—stupendously—it was past time he learned more about her than her first name. Even though he was possibly the worst conversationalist in LA.
So when she sauntered back from the white-tiled bathroom and knelt on the edge of the mattress, her stare bold as it swept his sprawled body, he sat up, propped himself against the headboard, and finally put together enough functional brain cells for intelligible speech.
“You’re . . . European, right?” The smile felt odd on his face. Unfamiliar. But he was trying, and hopefully she wouldn’t noticehis awkwardness. “I’m not great with accents, despite the best efforts of various dialect coaches.”
Her tousled waves glowed like a nimbus in the golden light of the bedside lamp, and he had to catch his breath all over again.
“Swedish.” It was a brisk response. Unadorned by extraneous... anything.
He’d like to believe her brevity stemmed from a laconic nature, or Scandinavian custom, or discomfort with English. But he knew better.
It was him. It was always him.
“Okay,” he said, then stalled out, his synapses refusing to fire. “Uh...”
Dammit. After fifteen years in Hollywood, he should be better at this. He wasn’t a naive twenty-one-year-old fresh out of college anymore, and he’d grasped long ago how the industry worked. Talent alone wouldn’t get him the roles he wanted, the roles he deserved.
Good luck played a part. So did good timing. But connections with power players and influencers, the ability to schmooze—those would almost definitely score him better, higher-profile jobs. Which was why his inability to generate genial small talk, even when it would goose his career prospects, was unfortunate.
Playing the lovelorn or bumbling best friend, the comic relief, the unnamed murder victim, the character whose entire arc revolved around his weight, had grown old more than a decade ago, and he needed more. A role that would challenge him and stretch his acting skills. Professional recognition. A steady income. The sort of success even his father couldn’t deny.
Tomorrow, maybe he’d earn that role, that recognition, that income, that success.
Tonight, he wanted to earn more time with Maria, so he was going to have to find the right words and soon. Because she’d already glanced once toward the door, and he wouldn’t forgive himself if he let her leave so quickly, with no way to keep in contact.
Clearing his throat, he tried again. “Is that why you were at the sauna? Because you’re Scandinavian?”
Weren’t Swedes into saunas? Or was that Finns? Shit, he didn’t remember.
“Yes, exactly.” Her wide mouth curved in a smile, and an immediate surge of triumph swelled in his chest. “I was curious what a faux-Swedish sauna in Hollywood would look like.”
“Itiskind of an odd business to plant in the middle of sunny, palm-studded LA.” His shoulders loosened as he let out a slow, relieved breath. Finally,finallyhe was gaining some conversational traction. “Were you impressed? Disappointed?”
She considered the question for a moment. “Both, I’d say? The sauna itself was lovely, although we don’t use cedar much in Sweden. More aspen or alder or spruce. And, of course, we’re usually naked, at least in private saunas.”
Just as she was naked now, her breasts round and heavy and gorgeous, those plush thighs slightly parted. Not wide enough so he could see between them, sadly.