Shit, he hadn’t felt this relaxed in years. Maybe ever.
Maria had wrung him dry. And after he’d made her come the fourth time, she’d seemed pretty damn exhausted too, her long, generous thighs quivering, those gorgeous brown eyes heavy-lidded. But they’d both slept, and he still had an hour or two before he needed to get ready for his audition, so he’d be more than delighted for her to wring him out again.
Already grinning in anticipation, he rolled onto his back and looked to the other side of the bed, where he found—
Nothing. No one.
He sat up abruptly, the easy laxness of his body gone in a split second.
The door to the bathroom stood open, and the space was dark and empty.
Her purse was gone from the nightstand.
Her clothing, once strewn across the thick carpet, had disappeared too.
If it weren’t for the two used condoms in the bedside trash can and the smell of sex in the sheets, he’d have wondered whether he’d dreamed the past twelve hours.
Throwing off the bedcovers, he lurched to his feet and prowled around the room, hunting for the inevitable pad of hotel stationery inside the top desk drawer.
It was blank.
Another minute of searching, and he knew. There was no number scrawled on a sticky note. Not even a quick goodbye on the back of a receipt.
She’d left without a word, and fuck knew he remembered whatthatfelt like. Four years might have passed since Anne had left him exactly the same way, but some memories didn’t fade over time.
The irony was bitter as lemon pith. He could barely remember the sound of his mother’s voice most days, but he could re-create the exact moment he’d realized his fiancée was gone for good, down to the unlaced sneaker on his right foot and the dust motes dancing in the sunlight as his world collapsed around him.
He should have known Maria would leave too. Goddammit, he should haveknown.
In the sauna, they’d been too busy making out to swap personal information, and that was partially on him. But in the hotel lobby, when he’d handed over his driver’s license so she could text a friend with his full name for safety’s sake, she hadn’t bothered to share her own surname. And when he’d attempted to talk with her after the first time they fucked, she’d kept her answers frustratingly brief and vague.
He’d blamed that on his own lack of social skills. In retrospect, though, she’d deliberately withheld any identifying information.And after their second bout of sex, he hadn’t been able to gather his thoughts sufficiently for further conversation. Which—again, in retrospect—she’d clearly counted on.
He’d wanted to fuck her again this morning. Wanted to learn more about her, because even after such limited contact, he could tell she wasn’t just spectacularly confident and sexy as hell, but also sharp-witted and funny. He’d hoped to find out over a room-service breakfast together how long she planned to stay in LA and whether she might move to the area.
Instinctively, he’dlikedher. Connected with her to a foolish degree, even knowing next to nothing about her.
So, yeah. Maybe it was stupid to feel used after a blazing-hot night of no-strings sex with an irresistible stranger, but he did. Used, discarded, and angry.
It didn’t matter. They’d had a good time together, and she was gone. He’d never see her again. Now he needed to calm the hell down and channel all that turbulent emotion into his performance later that morning.
In his entire acting career, he’d never had an audition this important for a project this high-profile. The role of Cyprian onGods of the Gates—a show that was already a worldwide hit, even though the first season hadn’t finished airing yet—could transform him from a character actor into something else. Something more.
A leading man.
Best of all, the role was meaty. Cyprian’s story encompassed survival and grief, anger and fear and lust, as well as a reluctant, burgeoning romantic connection with Cassia, a shield-maiden and the sole other Viking who’d survived being shipwrecked by Neptune.
Why the showrunners had decided to move the story from ancient Rome to medieval Europe but kept all the Roman gods and goddesses, he couldn’t say, and he didn’t care. Muddled mythologybe damned: As Cyprian, he could—for once—be a love interest and a goddamnhero.
But only if he performed to the satisfaction of the casting director and showrunners, as well as the other execs and creatives who’d be evaluating him today, and only if he had good chemistry with the actors they were considering for the role of Cassia.
He was one of maybe two or three men still in contention to play Cyprian. In this final audition, he’d have to prove himself and outshine his competition.
And he would. Because, in the end, Maria and her decision to leave him behind without a second glance didn’t matter. Not as much as his career.
If he ever saw her again—and he wouldn’t—he’d thank her for reminding him of that.
Apparently the casting director had a certain physical type in mind for Cyprian. Peter and the other two men were all white, all tall, all burly dudes with some extra heft to them, and they were all sitting in the same chilly, impersonal waiting area outside a conference room full of decision-makers.