Blame It on the Bass (17 page)

He laughed at her flippant suggestion. “I think the director may kill me if I did that. Still, it has merit. Sure as shit worked for us.”

Sonja studied him, unsure what to say.

He tapped his thumb against his fork as he flicked his gaze around the air to his right, his expression contemplative. “What do
you
think is the best way to show sexual tension between two people who’ve already had sex once on the screen?”

“Make one of them announce it was a mistake,” Sonja answered. “And that it can’t happen again.”

“While the other undresses them with their eyes?”

She nodded. “Definitely. And make sure they are constantly forced into situations where their bodies are brushing together.”

“And every time that happens one of them closes their eyes and sucks in a ragged breath.”

“It’s an action thriller movie, yes?”

“Yep.”

“In that case, you’ve got to have the hero somehow restrained and the heroine—are they the same actors from the first movie?”

Corbin nodded.

“Perfect. I loved the screenplay for
Dead Even
, by the way. Anyway, have her need to straddle him for some reason, maybe to release his wrists, but she can’t, and they are forced to face each other for a heartbeat or so, her astride his lap, her breasts almost at his mouth level, their stares locked.”

“And the audience can
see
all he wants to do is take her nipple, so tantalizingly close to his lips, into his mouth and suck on it,” Corbin said, picking up on her train of thought, “but just as he moves closer, they are interrupted and she has to slide off him. Close up shot of her thighs…slick with sweat, of course, sliding against his, cut to another close up of her parted lips…”

“Ooh, cut to another close up of his hitching belly just there,” Sonja interjected. “He should be bare-chested, of course. Stripped from the waist up.”

“Of course.”

“And as she finally straightens to go…go, I don’t know, hide in the room, cut to a shot of his face, his eyes closed, his nostrils flaring.”

“I can see that. I can see that.” Corbin tapped at his fork again, his omelet forgotten. “And then later in that scene, when he’s freed himself, he can use the same restrains…cuffs? Rope?”

“Oh, please make them cuffs.”

“Done. The same cuffs it is.”

Sonja closed her eyes, the scene unfolding in her mind in vivid detail. “Bingo. There’s a money shot right there. He’s pressed to her, hips to hips, belly to belly, cuffing her wrists behind her back. Her nipples are poking at her shirt—white would be perfect, and damp with sweat and clinging to her body like a second skin—and his chest, still bare, brushes against them. They both suck in a breath at the same time…”

“And the camera pans back to reveal someone watching them,” Corbin murmured, watching her.

Sonja stared at him for a moment. Her pulse thumped fast in her throat. Her pussy contracted. An image flashed through her head: Corbin binding her wrists at the small of her back, his hips and belly pressed to hers, his chest caressing her nipples, as Levi stood and watched.

Oh boy.

“And that someone is Huntley’s boss, the President of the United States,” he burst out, breaking the tension crackling in the air between them, his arms thrown wide, his grin even wider. “And the end credits roll.
Boom!
”

Sonja laughed. “Boom.”

Corbin winked. “I’m all about the boom. You’ve read
Occasional
.”

They spent the rest of the morning talking shop. Writing, scene setting, showing not telling. The power of the visual metaphor, reoccurring motifs, symbolism. They had an in-depth discussion about the cult-classic film
Blue Velvet
and a movie-line quote-off that Corbin won with an enthusiastic self-congratulatory cheering.

When their waiter deposited lunch menus in front of them and asked if they wanted to see a wine list, Sonja blinked. “Holy shit,” she said, louder than she’d intended when she looked at her watch. “We’ve been here for over three hours.”

Corbin dropped his stare to his own watch
.
“Well, I guess Levi is on the plane by now.”

Sonja didn’t miss the anguish cutting the calm statement. Nor the way his jaw bunched. Or the way his shoulders slumped. For a second. Just a second. And then he smiled at her, that sexy, orgasm-inducing smile of his, and opened the lunch menu before him. “So, what are we ordering?”

Chapter Nine

Who knew two weeks, or a fortnight, as Sonja called it, could go by so quickly and yet so slowly.

Corbin relaxed back in his seat, threaded his fingers behind his head and stared with blank melancholy out his office window. Two weeks of breakfast with Sonja every morning, each meal at a different café in a different suburb all over Sydney, each café stimulating a different topic of discussion.

Two weeks of afternoons spent at his laptop, intensifying the sexual tension between the Chris Huntley hero of
Dead Even 2
and his duplicitous heroine. Sexual tension he was becoming more and more familiar with, given he was growing more and more…attracted to Sonja Stone.

Two weeks of evenings spent Skyping with Levi, where they discussed little, their every word weighted with unspoken want as they avoided any topic but the most neutral.

A fast fortnight of laughter, good food, stimulating conversation and stimulating glimpses of Sonja’s boobs. Who would have thought two full curves of flesh could cause such a stirring sensation in his groin? A dragging fortnight of yearning for Levi to come home. To hold him, undress him. Kiss him. Make love to him. Love him. Talk to him.

Christ, he wanted Levi to talk to him.

To open up and tell him how he was feeling. They’d rediscovered each other sexually—in the two days between Corbin finding Levi and Sonja together in the karaoke bar and Levi flying to Seattle they’d fucked more than Corbin believed possible—but sex didn’t a healthy relationship make. Not without communication beyond the mutual agreement of a safe word. The closest they’d come to being with each other again like they had before Isabella’s death was the date night with Sonja at Mizuku.

That night…

The beginning of the quickest and slowest fortnight in recorded history, during which Corbin had worked on
Dead Even 2
with close to frenzied zeal before finally finishing the damn thing and emailing it off to Nigel McQueen.

Which he’d just done that very second.

So what did he do now?

Normally, he would celebrate with Levi. But with his partner still checking out Nick Blackthorne’s possible replacement in Seattle, he was now…adrift.

Glancing at his watch, he calculated the time.

His mind raced, thinking…thinking. Levi was going to Skype in a few hours, and he’d only seen Sonja but a few hours ago. If he called her now, asked her over for a celebratory drink, would she come? She enjoyed being with him, he knew that, but it was always out in public, never in his and Levi’s apartment. He suspected she didn’t trust being completely alone with him. Or perhaps, she didn’t trust herself?

Sexual tension and all that, as it were.

He scrubbed at the back of his scalp with his fingers, staring out his window.

His heart thumped faster. His cock throbbed.

“Fuck it,” he muttered, snatching up his cell and dialing her number. “I finally finished the fucker,” he said when she answered. “Want to celebrate with me?”

“Hello to you too, Hollywood.” She laughed. The sound was a throaty caress he was beginning to hear in his dreams threaded through Levi’s groans and murmured commands. “And congrats. Think McQueen is going to like what you’ve done?”

He laughed. “He better. It’s about as carnal and horny as I can make it without having them actually fuck.”

“Love it when you talk dirty.”

He grinned. In his jeans, his cock pulsed again. “I usually pop a bottle of Moët at this point and Levi and I get a little drunk together. Want to come over and take his place?”

The second the question left him, he cringed. Damn it, that didn’t sound the way it was meant to.

Sonja, however, just chuckled. “I’ll do the Moët. Everything else on your celebration list will have to be taken care of by your own hand.”

Heat flooded Corbin’s face. He shifted on his seat—a very expensive Hayworth Zody that for some reason was suddenly very uncomfortable to sit in. “Deal,” he said, forcing his voice to sound steady.

Why was he unsettled? Sonja had said no to his and Levi’s invitation. He’d accepted that. Besides, he
was
gay. The whole Sonja thing was strictly a Levi-Sonja-Corbin thing, not a Corbin-Sonja thing.

“See you in an hour, Cor.”

A tight ribbon of heat unfurled through his gut and into his groin at her parting farewell. He placed his cell on his desk beside his laptop, tapped his thumb on its thin edge and closed his eyes.

He was hung up on the concept of sexual tension, that was all. Two weeks of Levi’s absence, plus fourteen days of focusing on nothing but how two people could lust after each other without succumbing to it was messing with not just his head, but with his body too.

Sonja would come over, they’d drink a toast, maybe eat some peanuts—did he have any in the cupboard?—possibly order a pizza for an early supper, and then she’d return to her place and he’d Skype with Levi. Maybe, if Levi was receptive, Corbin would try and talk to him about Isabella. If nothing else, they had to decide when they were going to turn her nursery back into a guest room.

His chest clenched with tight grief and empty longing at the thought.

Letting out a sigh, he pushed himself to his feet and walked from his office. Wandered the apartment. Stopped and watched the yachts and motorboats moving on the harbour beyond the glass doors of his living room. Straightened the poster for
Nick Blackthorne Live In Berlin
hanging in the hallway.

He stopped at the closed door beside Levi’s studio.

He studied it.

It was a pale pink, unlike all the other doors in the apartment, with a tiny spray of delicate blue and lilac daisies painted at the bottom, rising up to the knob in a whimsical chain.

He touched a finger to a pale-blue petal. Nervous about the imminent arrival of their daughter, Levi had painted the flowers one night. Corbin had found him at three in the morning, squatting naked in front of the door, a paint brush in hand, one clenched in his teeth, his beard flecked with pink and blue and lilac splatters of paint. He’d been so intent on his artwork he hadn’t noticed Corbin was there,

Corbin had watched him for a long moment, loving him. Loving him so much his heart ached.

And then Levi had turned to face him. Had smiled. “Hey, lover. I couldn’t sleep. Do you like it?”

Corbin knew he’d meant the door. Levi had known Corbin meant everything when he’d said he did.

They’d made love in the silver moonlight streaming through the large windows of their apartment, Corbin kissing every drop of paint flecking Levi’s body, paying particular attention to the pink drops on his incredible cock.

It had been the last time they’d pleasured each other before Isabella’s death. Levi had flown to San Francisco the next morning, chasing a replacement for Blackthorne who’d turned out to be, in Noah Holden’s words, a bum steer. Isabella had died a few days later.

Corbin traced the flowers. Remembered the way Levi had looked while painting them. How happy his smile had been. How full of life and joy and nervous wonder.

He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead to the door. Isabella’s door.

Would life be that simple again?

A lifetime later, someone knocked on the front door of the apartment.

He straightened, rubbing at the numb patch on his forehead. Shit, how long had he stood there like that?

Dragging his fingers through his hair, he walked to the main entry door and opened it.

Sonja grinned at him. “You’ve got a red spot on your forehead.”

He pulled a face. “Think I just walked into a time warp.”

“Okay, obscure statement number one of the day. Did you open the Moët already?”

“Nope. Not even.” He stepped aside, waving her in with a bow. “M’lady.”

She laughed. “That was the worst Sean Connery accent ever.”

“Damn it, I was going for Hugh Jackman.”

“In that case, your Hugh Jackman makes a very good Sean Connery.”

He chuckled. “Get your ass inside, Ms. Stone. I feel the need for some celebrating.”

With a quick skip, she crossed the threshold.

He followed her as she walked through the apartment, surprised at how many times he found his gaze lingering on her butt. She wore tight faded-black jeans, tight enough for him to notice the distinct lack of a panty line.

A faint stirring of heat tingled in his groin, possibly at the idea of her wearing a thong, possibly at the subtle way her hips swayed as she walked. Confident. Almost cocky. Unabashed. In fact, everything about Sonja fit that description. He could see why Levi was drawn to her. There was an infectious energy about her.