Part 16 (2/2)

I tried to counter his yelling by keeping my voice calm. ”I did no such thing. Trip, I swear. Those are my personal notes from years ago, and I didn't even use them for that first book. I only pulled them back out to write our story for you. It's the one that they wanted, but I didn't do it. Just read the book. You'll see I'm not lying.”

He ignored my rationalization, his ire too far gone to listen to reason. ”And this! What the h.e.l.l is this? A washed-up actor? Is that where you see me headed?”

He had my memoir notes and my ”Last Act” notes all jumbled together, thinking I was writing a tell-all about his past and making dim predictions about his future.

I ignored my anxiety at seeing how he'd messed up my ”filing system.” There had been order to my chaos, and Trip had just lumped all my pages into one, dis...o...b..bulated stack. ”That is for a fictional novel that has nothing to do with you!”

Something changed in his expression and I knew my words were finally getting through. His shoulders deflated as he swiped a hand through his hair, staring off across the patio. He wanted to believe me; I could tell that he did. I wasn't a liar. Trip knew that. He knew I wasn't like them. He couldn't help but get his defenses up about something like this. He was surrounded by users and sellouts.

But G.o.ddammit, I wasn't one of them.

Maybe I should have told him about being asked to write that first book, but since I never actually did it, I didn't think it was important enough to mention. It's not like I was specifically trying to keep that information a secret from him.

Besides, I got the impression that something else was going on. Trip was being moody and accusatory, both of which were definitely not features of his normal personality. He was all stressed out, and I knew it wasn't just because of my ma.n.u.script.

So, why the temper tantrum?

”What's going on here, Trip? This is about more than just some diary pa.s.sages.”

He met my eyes for a quick second, opened his mouth to speak, but then must have thought better of it. Instead, he stormed into the house and I followed him. The conversation wasn't over.

I was getting ready to ask him about his abandoned explanation when he growled and slammed the papers onto a side chair of the living room. ”G.o.ddammit! I need a drink.”

I watched him head for the bar and brace his hands along the edge, eyeing up the rainbow of bottles along the mirrored wall.

Oh no. No, no, no.

As riled as I was feeling, I still knew I had to stop this. Our fight took a backseat to the more immediate situation that had just presented itself.

I wanted to beg him not to do it. I wanted to sit him in a chair and talk him down from the ledge. But he'd started pacing around the room like a caged animal, hands clenched in fists at his hips, in his hair, against the bar. Talking wasn't going to do it right then.

I intercepted him mid-pacing, halting him in his tracks with my hands at his shoulders, jogging him out of his stupor. He'd been in such a state that his eyes met mine in confusion, his expression glazed over momentarily. It was like I was awakening a sleepwalker as I dropped my towel, grasped his hands, and placed them on my b.r.e.a.s.t.s, trying to jog him out of his trance.

It worked.

His eyes suddenly turned dark and his lip curled into a leer.

I clashed my lips to his, kissing him hard, fisting his s.h.i.+rt in my hands, pulling him toward me and ramming my tongue in his mouth. Trip took the bait and grabbed me around the waist, pulling me to him fiercely, sliding a hand down to grip my a.s.s, pressing my body into intimate contact with his, bending me backwards from the force of his kiss. Feeding off me. Taking.

My heart was beating a crazy rhythm, my body melting from his eagerness. I suddenly forgot about trying to create a diversion and just got caught up in the electric jolts that were invading my entire length, making me dizzy, the room spinning. His impatient lips tasted sweet, as always, his sugary warmth consuming me. The heat of us sharing the same gasping breaths, the power of his hunger overtaking mine. There was no tenderness there; there was no reason for it. There was only want. There was only need. There was only now.

Oooh. Angry s.e.x.

He abruptly spun me around and pushed me away, forcing my body to bend over the back of the couch, holding me fixed there with a hand at my spine. I snuck a look at him over my shoulder as I hooked my thumbs into my bikini bottoms, ripping them down my legs quickly, hearing Trip groan.

The preliminaries were over as he released his hand from my back, tearing at his fly, the both of us standing there with our clothes around our ankles. He grabbed a fistful of wet hair at my nape, knotted his fingers in the ma.s.s and tugged, forcing my head back. His other hand was at my backside, positioning a certain body part against me. He leaned over my back and hissed into my ear, ”You want this? You want me to f.u.c.k you hard?”

Well, Jesus. h.e.l.l yeah, I wanted it. How freaking hot was he? I could only nod my head in answer.

He let go of my hair and grabbed my hips, driving full-length into me as we both screamed. He slammed into me hard and fast, grunting on every thrust; once, twice, maybe only a dozen times before he lost it, growling and cursing as he came, pouring himself out in me, forcing every last ounce to spill inside, before slumping across my back, shuddering and exhausted, breathless and spent.

We were both ravaged animals, panting heavily, coming down. Trip gave a quick rub to the back of my head, soothing the spot where he'd practically ripped out my hair.

”You okay?”

”I'm great!” I said, elated and overcome. Who knew a quickie could be so satisfying?

He put his forehead against my shoulder blade, and I could feel his heaving breath against my bare skin. ”I wasn't going to do it, you know. I wasn't going to take a drink. It's important that you know that. I've been here before. I would have talked myself down.”

”Coulda told me that before slamming me over the sofa. Ow. My ribs hurt.”

Trip pulled his pants back up and I managed to wrap a towel around me before sliding onto the couch, where he joined me, curling up against my side. We were both invertebrates, melting into one another as I played my fingers through his hair. I thought about the fight we'd just had and wondered what was going on. We definitely had to straighten some stuff out.

But it was hard to concentrate on anything more than getting my breathing back to normal while I reveled in the delicious afterglow, his limbs tangled up with mine.

That is, until the question that had been bothering me for weeks made its way out of my mouth. ”Why do you even keep it in the house?”

He didn't even wait a beat before answering resolutely, ”To test myself. Like Sam Malone. Remember Cheers? Reformed alcoholic relief-pitcher-turned-bar-owner? That's me. If I know I can fight it in the privacy of my own home, when it's right there for the taking at any time, I know I can fight it anywhere.”

We lay there for a moment, settling into one another as I mulled over his logic. Trip's heartbeat was still pounding rapidly, the sound a nostalgic melody against my ear.

Out of nowhere, he sighed, ”I'm sorry.”

”Huh?”

”I'm sorry for raising my voice, for accusing you like that.”

I was grateful for the apology. But it still didn't explain his outburst. ”Thank you. I appreciate that. But Trip, why would you just come out like gangbusters and blast me like that? Even when I explained myself, you refused to believe me.”

”I know. I guess I just got caught up in my own head about it.”

I was all too familiar with that scenario. I think I've proven beyond all reasonable doubt that I am Queen of the Mind-Splooge. ”I'm really sorry if it looked as though I were writing some tell-all about your life. I hope you know that I'd never do that. Even the 'biography' I was working on for you was more of just a sweet story about how we'd met; a memoir from my point of view. It's not a retelling of every sordid detail about your life.”

”I only scanned the pages long enough to see that it was about me.”

”I kinda figured that out on my own.”

He sighed and repositioned himself more comfortably on the couch, my body wedged in tightly along his side. I ran a hand up his bare chest as he tangled a strand of my hair around his fingers, the both of us lost in thought.

Finally, he asked, ”Is it any good?”

His question made me chuckle. ”Well, it's not finished yet, but I'd like to think so, yes.”

It suddenly occurred to me that Trip had no idea whether or not I could actually write. Yes, he'd read the article I'd written about him, but that was hardly a valid example of my work. I'd written entire novels since then.

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