Power Play (21 page)

She thought he would plant kisses up and down her torso. Lick at her sides like a cat. But instead he bit her torso—not hard, but tantalizing enough to induce delirium. Small gasps tumbled from deep inside her, coming faster and faster as he tilted her back, unbuttoning the top button of her jeans and pulling down the fly so he could nip lower on her belly. Monica writhed beneath his touch, her hands leaving his shoulders to grip his hips, hard. When he reached a hand down the front of her panties to part her and explore with his fingers, Monica heard a roaring rush in her head, so loud it drowned out the sounds of her own pleasured screams as she climaxed, digging her nails into the sides of his legs, bucking with pleasure.

She came to slowly, looking at him dazedly. “You” was all she could say, dragging his mouth to hers.

Wide-eyed, moaning into her mouth, Eric lifted her up high so there was no contact between them save his hands on her waist, allowing Monica to hurriedly shimmy out of her pants and panties and kick them free. Monica eagerly settled back down on him, her fingers flying as she opened his shirt. She ran her hands over his heated skin in amazement, licked at his nipples that tasted faintly of sweat. She moved to press her chest against his, reveling in the contrast of hard and soft, but Eric gently held her off for a moment so he could free himself of his shirt. Neither of them seemed able to tear their eyes from the other now.
No secrets,
Monica thought.
No hiding.
The denim of his jeans beneath her naked thighs felt rough; she wanted him free of them, to feel him fully naked beneath her. Desperation making her almost clumsy, she began fumbling with the zipper of his jeans.

“Hold on,” Eric said hoarsely, reaching into his back pocket and pulling out a condom.

“Please tell me you haven't been carrying that around since high school,” Monica said.

They laughed together, the comfortable laughter of friends who have now become lovers. Monica crawled off him a moment so Eric could free himself of the remainder of his clothing. He was naked now, completely unselfconscious. Monica reached out to caress his erection, and Eric's head fell back with a groan.

“Don't,” he begged. “I'm about to explode as it is.”

A ripple of delight ran through Monica. She was thrilled she could prompt such a reaction. She watched hungrily as he put on protection and then pulled her back atop him, holding her hips high.

“We're gonna do this slow,” he murmured sexily.

Monica held her breath as he lowered her onto him—but not all the way. She looked at him in surprise.

“Slow,” he commanded.

Monica nodded, closing her eyes, letting him control the rhythm. It was making her crazy—riding him, but not fully, not deeply. But gradually, as her skin grew slicker with sweat, as she wrapped herself around him and squeezed harder and harder, that began to change. Up she rose, and then Eric pulled her back down, hard, driving into her fully.

Monica gasped, lightning crashing in her head as she, of her own volition, began pumping wildly atop him, setting the pace. Eric threw his head back again, the corded muscles of his throat betraying the self-control she knew he was exercising. Every time she rose up and slammed herself back down on him to take him inside, she felt a bit more of her consciousness being punched away. She wanted burning oblivion. She rode him harder and harder until finally, her body rose up one final time in furor and a second climax ripped through her seconds before Eric's own. Eric shuddered beneath her, his release feeding hers as they shared a relaxation of muscle and mind. Panting, Monica rested her fevered forehead against his, waiting for her breath to return to normal. She might not have said the words she'd longed to say, but her dream had come true.

FIFTEEN

They'd moved to the bed. She'd asked him to spend the night, and he'd agreed, and now they were lying there, entwined, silent but close. Monica was afraid to talk and break the spell. Eventually, though, his silence began to alarm her.

“You okay?” she asked, smoothing back some hair from his face.

Eric nodded. “Yeah, I'm just, you know . . .”

No, she didn't know. “What?” she made herself ask gently.

Eric was quiet a long time. “I'm kind of confused.”

“Why?”

“Because I—my history with women . . .” He shook his head. “I'm not explaining this very well.”

“Want me to explain it for you?” Monica offered.

Eric looked guarded. “Sure.”

“You've never had sex that meant anything to you before. And what we just shared meant something. You fantasized about me for years, but the woman you fantasized about was just that: a fantasy. Now you know me and want me—the real me—and it scares you.” She searched his face. “Am I right?”

Eric rolled on his back with a sigh, looking up at the ceiling. “Yes. But it's more than that. It's the expectations that go with what just happened.”

Monica rested her chin on his shoulder. “What do you mean?”

Eric turned his head to look at her. “You want to define this as a ‘relationship' now, right?” There was distress in his eyes.

“I guess,” Monica said cautiously, afraid of saying the wrong thing.

Eric scrubbed his hands over his face. “I do care about you—the real you,” he admitted. “But I don't know if I can be what you want me to be. I don't know how to
do
that.”

“What is ‘that'? Be a real boyfriend? Have you ever tried?”

“No, because it's never interested me.” He rolled toward her, running a finger up and down her shoulder. “Can we just keep this simple for now?”

“What does
simple
mean? Just have sex and tell ourselves we're just getting off on each other?”

Eric drew back, stung. “No, of course not. Just take it one day at a time, without any expectations or preconceived notions of where we want it to go.”

“Because you're afraid of where it will go,” Monica said tersely. “Because you want an easy out in case you want to dump me.”

“No.”
Eric gripped her shoulders tightly. “Tell me: Do
you
know where you want it to go?”

Monica hesitated. Did she know? She wasn't imagining herself walking down the aisle with him or moving in with him. She was simply imagining them having what they had now, maintaining the new emotional connection that existed between them, with wonderful sex thrown into the mix as well.

“No,” she said quietly.

“Well, there you go, then.”

“It's not that simple, Eric,” she insisted.

Eric's jaw set. “It has to be. Simple is what I do, Monica. Simple and uncomplicated.”

“Forever?”

“I don't know,” he said with a deep exhalation of frustration. “See, this is what I'm talking about. I'm feeling pinned down here, and I don't like it.”

Monica blinked. “Okay, let me make sure I'm getting this straight: we're going to have a real relationship, but we're not going to call it that, because you can't handle that definition.”

“I guess,” Eric murmured, looking uncomfortable.

“So you think having a real relationship, not calling it that to ourselves, but acting to the outside world like we're having a real relationship, is simple and uncomplicated?” Monica asked.

“I don't know,” Eric snapped.

“And what happens if it gets more and more intense?”

“I can't think about that right now. That's where the ‘take it day by day' comes in.”

Monica thought. “Okay,” she eventually capitulated. “If that's what you need to do, then okay.”

Even as her mouth was forming the words, she wondered if she was now compromising herself personally, just as she did professionally. Why should he get to set the terms? Wasn't she entitled to at least
some
expectations? She could tell this was the real Eric: he wasn't just handing her a line of bull; laissez-faire
was
all he could handle right now. He'd admitted he cared. For someone who'd spent his entire life doing nothing more than bagging babes until they bored him and he moved on, this was progress. Monica sensed that if she pushed him, he'd bolt, and she didn't want that.
Patience,
she told herself and settled back peacefully in his arms.

 

“I don't appreciate this torture.”

Monica ignored Monty's comment as she walked with him slowly around the Pond in Central Park. As usual, she'd found him holed up in his apartment, growling at the TV in his musty bedroom. Barking like a drill sergeant, she instructed him to get dressed because she was taking him out. Monty issued his standard protest, but it stemmed more from tradition than any genuine resistance. She could tell he was glad to see her.

It was a lovely Sunday, the sun dappling the swaying leaves on the trees as well as glinting magically off the water. The episode of
W and F
featuring Monty had aired recently.

“Did you watch yourself on my show this week?”

Monty gave a pained shake of the head. “Awful. A rote, wooden performance, just as they demanded of me. I hope to God no one I know watched it.”

“I bet you liked the nice, fat check you got for one minute's work, though.”

Monty just grunted.

She'd come to the conclusion that Eric was right: it was time to show some backbone. She decided to broach the topic of Monty's disdain for what she did.

“I know you probably don't mean to,” she said, “but it hurts me when you put down daytime. It's how I make my living.”

Monty said nothing.

“You say it's compromising my talent, yet when I came to you to fill in—”

“That was for one day,” Monty interrupted sharply. “There's a difference between compromising for one day and compromising for a decade.”

“I'm not sure I agree,” Monica said bravely. She took a deep breath. “And I also think you owe me an apology for your behavior on the set that day.”

Monty seemed to get very still despite their strolling the lake. This was probably the first time in all these years that she'd ever challenged him. Maybe
challenge
was too strong a word; perhaps
disagreed
was better. The first time she'd ever disagreed with him. How sad was that?

“I saved this for you,” was Monty's response. He reached into the pocket of his coat, pulling out the print edition of
Back Stage
. “I think you should audition. You'd be perfect for it. You could keep your day job and display your true talent at night.”

Monica took the paper and unfolded it. Circled was a casting call for a new play opening on Broadway written by one of England's top playwrights. The producers were looking for “tall, blonde women between the ages of thirty and thirty-five, capable of doing an impeccable, upper-class British accent. Agented submissions only, please.” Monica could do a British accent in her sleep. In fact, she was adept at a multitude of accents: Irish, Scottish, Cockney, Australian, French, American South, New England Yankee . . . mimicry was a gift she'd had since she was a small child.

Monica swallowed. “Thank you for thinking of me.”

“Auditions are on Friday.”

“Yes, I see that.”

“Promise me you'll go.”

She wanted to but found she couldn't. Her life wasn't that simple anymore. Her job was demanding, and now that she was in a whatever-you-wanted-to-call-it with Eric, she had even less time to play with. Excuses, excuses. What if she auditioned and didn't make the cut? She appreciated Monty's belief in her, but after ten years of not having to audition, she feared she'd be rusty. Still, this could be her chance to prove the depth of her talent. She thanked Monty again, folded the paper, and continued at a snail's pace with him around the Pond. Later, she thought she heard him say, “And I'm sorry,” under his breath as she was leaving his apartment, but she couldn't be sure.

 

“Balls to the lot of them.”

The vehemence in Gloria's voice did nothing to assuage Monica's pain as she lay with her head in the older woman's lap, winding down from a crying jag. Despite her trepidation, she'd decided to audition for the play. She'd aced the upper-crust British accent the producers desired. When she was called back to read two days later, she half allowed herself the thought that she might get the part.

The ensuing two days, spent waiting for her agent, Renee, to call with news, were torturous. The minute the phone rang and she heard the deliberately measured tone of Renee's voice, she knew she'd been rejected. “They thought you were great, Monica,” Renee assured her, before adding after a slight hesitation, “but they didn't want to cast a soap actress. They were afraid the production wouldn't be taken seriously.”

Monica's first reaction was fury. Why couldn't she be seen simply as an actress, not a “soap actress”? If she had the chops, what did it matter? Jesus Christ, it wasn't like she'd been earning a living doing porno films for the past ten years!

Her anger was short-lived. She segued quickly into despair and self-doubt, followed by utter devastation. She sucked. She shouldn't have tried to stretch herself. She would always and forever be Monica Geary from
W and F
. The soap opera actress. She knew there were worse brushes to be tarred with. But it still hurt.

Her first impulse was to call Eric. But as she dialed his number, she realized she needed to talk to someone who could understand her anguish. And so she sought out Gloria.

“You have to understand,” Gloria said, stroking Monica's hair as they sat together on the couch in Gloria's flower-filled living room. “Not only is the industry competitive, but they like to put actors in nice, tidy boxes where they're easily definable. So this one is labeled a character actress, and that one is branded the kooky best friend, and this one over here is Mr. Action-Adventure. Try to do something different, and the powers that be—idiots that they are—become spooked. ‘What if I can't sell this person in this new role?' is all they can think. They're terrified of risk.”