Anyone But the Superstar (Anyone But You #3)

Chapter 18

18

LIZ

‘We really have to stop meeting like this.’

Sitting cross-legged on the foot of the bed, sketch book on my lap, I watch Felix wake up to the glorious sight of Mike Hunt inches from his face.

‘Meow.’ Mike’s wrinkled face retracts a few inches. ‘ Meow .’ He sits on his haunches, like he’s disappointed in Felix’s reaction.

Felix stretches out on his back, eyes closed. ‘Just be glad I didn’t scream.’

Mike tilts his head as if processing what Felix said.

This is followed by a grumble/growl that honestly could’ve come from either of them. Though I’m guessing it was Felix’s stomach.

We did skip dinner last night, after all.

Eyes still closed, Felix reaches a hand toward Mike, and color me surprised when Mike closes the last remaining inch of distance by touching his nose to it and Felix doesn’t flinch.

I turn the page in my sketch book and attack the clean sheet.

‘Anne?’ Felix’s sleep-filled voice stills my pencil .

My middle name, familiar since I assumed it last year, hits me differently the morning after our night together.

It’s just a name.

Shucking off the guilt, I resume my sketch, wanting to capture the soft morning light bathing Felix – and Mike – in its glow. ‘Don’t move.’

‘You taking advantage of my body again?’ There’s a smile in his voice.

Not looking up from my quick line sketching, I smile back. ‘The cat’s out of the bag so to speak—’ Felix snorts ‘—so I thought I’d make the most of a live model.’

‘I hate to break it to you, but this live model isn’t going to be alive much longer if he doesn’t get something to eat.’ As if to prove his point, his stomach emits another loud growl.

Frowning at the thought of losing my model, I think of the box of Bisquick I saw in the pantry. ‘I could make pancakes.’

‘No.’ His answer is so violent, Mike takes offense and leaps off the bed.

‘Well, then.’ I feign hurt feelings. ‘See if I ever cook for you again.’

The war of emotions cascading over his face is so easy to read, I can’t contain my laughter. ‘Don’t worry, I promise never to cook for you again. How’s that?’

Returning my smile, he pushes himself to a seated position and throws back the covers. ‘ I’ll make pancakes.’

I hold out my pencil, measuring his proportions.

His body really is beautiful. Even without the blue, ruffled apron of my imagination.

Especially without it.

‘Stay there a sec,’ he says as he leaves the room, his well-defined muscles twitching and stretching as he walks.

I figure he’s gone to get dressed but when he gets back, he’s holding a yogurt cup and a spoon in one hand and an apple in the other.

‘Here.’ He places the yogurt next to me, then takes a standing position at the foot of the bed before taking a large bite out of his apple. ‘Have at it.’ He turns his shoulders and poses, the only thing moving his jaw.

‘I thought you wanted pancakes?’

Still looking off to the side, he swallows his bite. ‘I will, but this will tide us over until you answer your muse’s call—’ he flexes his pecs ‘—and I can get to the store.’ He gives me side-eye. ‘ Someone used all the eggs last night.’

Heat rises in my cheeks, and I dip my chin back to my sketch pad. I don’t even heckle him about calling himself my muse.

Hard to heckle when it’s true.

Time ticks by, enough for him to finish his apple as my pencil flies over the parchment, the varying shhhh sounds familiar and calming.

What isn’t as calming is the tall, muscular man in front of me, yet I find myself just as comfortable today – showing him the side of myself my ‘father’ deemed worthless – as I was in bed with him last night.

I continue making quick glances, ensuring my lines are correct, my eyes fighting to linger longer over his body, wanting to do more than catalogue proportions and shadows. Especially when a certain part of him starts moving.

Rising , if you will.

I’ve taken a lot of art classes. Mostly in secret to keep Stanley Moore from giving me a hard time. And I’ve drawn a lot of nude models. Even male models whose bodies may have involuntarily reacted to being stared at. I’ve always remained professional. I’ve never been disrespectful.

Today, I shift in my seat, my legs wanting to uncross and press together. Wanting to soothe the damp ache growing beneath my sketch pad.

When I find myself re-tracing the lines of his hard-on more than once, I decide to call it quits and get the poor man something to eat.

Closing my sketch book, I uncurl my legs. ‘Just give me a sec to get dressed and I’ll come with you.’ I slide to the edge of the bed, stopped from standing when Felix bends over and kisses my forehead.

‘No, you stay.’ He pops back up, his dick bouncing. ‘Artists shouldn’t waste inspiration.’ His tone is more self-satisfied than I’d like, but as I’m going to need to change my panties before getting dressed, I stay quiet.

He steps into the bathroom and tosses the apple core, re-entering the room cock first.

‘You sure?’ Managing to keep my eyes above his shoulders, I take in his well-known features. ‘What if someone recognizes you?’ Even with bed hair and scruff, Felix looks every inch the leading man right now.

Thinking of inches, my eyes drop to his hard-on, and I can’t help but note that our positions are very much like the ones last night when I put his cock in my mouth.

I lick my lips.

‘Ah.’ Felix, not looking as lustful as I feel, holds up a finger before leaving the room again.

The man is hungry, Liz. Just let him eat, then you can jump his bone.

He comes back mid-pep talk, this time with his cowboy hat in hand. ‘I have this as a disguise, remember?’ Felix dons the Stetson I bought him.

Yeah. Felix is just going to have to starve .

Standing, I push down my panties and yank off my shirt. ‘I’m really glad you finished that apple.’

Felix’s Adam’s apple bobs. ‘And why’s that?’

Plucking his hat off his head by the crown, I drop it on my own.

‘Because you’re gonna need your energy.’

A slow, delicious smile curls up the sides of his scruffy face, his dark eyes twinkling.

I tip the brim of the hat. ‘This cowgirl needs a ride.’

His hard-on rises higher.

And then, in one smooth move, he jumps past me, turning as he falls, landing cock up on the mattress. Hands behind his head, wearing nothing but a smug smile, he waggles his eyebrows. ‘Ride ’em, cowgirl.’

Straddling him, I grab his dick with both hands, squeezing as I pump.

He groans. ‘You’re my favorite lone rider.’

Laughing, I continue teasing him with one hand while bringing the other to the ache between my legs. I’m so wet and very ready. ‘Condom?’

He stills. ‘Shit.’

I stop my ministrations and press my palms down flat on his abs. ‘Seriously?’

His eyes close, his mouth pursed in disappointment. ‘Yesterday’s was the only one I had on me. My emergency wallet condom.’ He peeks at me with one eye. ‘The only other condoms I have are the?—’

‘Nope.’ I cross my arms under my breasts. ‘Don’t even think about it.’ Like I want any numbing cream mishaps on the day I finally meet my sister.

‘Yeah.’ Felix’s sigh is forlorn. ‘Didn’t think so. ’

Sighing back at him, I move to dismount, but stop when his hands grab hold of my thighs.

‘Oh no you don’t.’

‘Hey.’ I settle back on top of him. ‘I hate to break it to you, but I’m not riding bareback. Even if we both declared ourselves clean and good to go.’ I pause, thinking that over. ‘Which I am by the way.’

Felix lifts his hands. ‘Me too. Studio physical says so.’

‘Good.’ I nod, pleased that the answers to the question we each should’ve asked each other last night are favorable. ‘Even so—’ I press a hand to my chest ‘ —I’m not on birth control.’

He opens his mouth but I cut him off by slicing my hands across the air. ‘And the pull-out method is not a legitimate form of birth control.’

Felix rolls his eyes. ‘I know that.’ Using his considerable strength, he slides me up and over his dick, stopping only when my ass rests on his chest and his chin is a few inches away from my clit. ‘What I was going to say before I was so rudely interrupted, is that there’s more than one way to ride a horse.’

He sticks his tongue out, moving it in a way I should find perverted and mood killing, and yet somehow makes me laugh.

I’m not a virgin, or a prude. But I’ve never sat on a guy’s face before. It always seemed… impolite. And I was nothing if not polite in all my past relationships.

‘Please?’ Felix begs like a kid at a candy store, dissolving all the arguments I may have tried to make. But honestly, when a man like Felix Jones asks you to ride his face – you ride his face.

Reading the answer in my expression, Felix flashes a wicked smile and slaps my ass. ‘Giddy-up, then.’

Biting my lip, I hold off on moving so I can assess the least awkward way forward, when Felix, having lost patience, moves me himself. He has me lifted up and him shifting down in seconds. Until his mouth gets what it wants.

Me.

His tongue slides around and over my clit, the heat from his mouth compounding my desire.

While his tongue works, his hands snake up my body, caressing my breasts, tweaking my nipples.

It feels good. So good. And yet, as good as it feels, and as comfortable as I am with Felix, I can’t help but brace my weight on my knees, worried I might crush him. The effort taking a concentration that pushes any future orgasm further and further out of reach.

But then his tongue, vertical and deft, is inside me. His scruff teases my sensitive skin as he moves his head back and forth.

In a position where I’m supposed to be riding him, I feel like I’m being devoured.

I love it.

His mouth closes over my clit and sucks.

‘Whoa.’ I sway forward, my fingers grabbing fistfuls of his hair.

Felix’s laugh is smothered, and by the time I realize he’s laughing at my unintended horseback riding pun, I’m too interested in his mouth service to care.

I stop holding myself up. Stop holding myself back. And I let go.

Felix

‘What in the name of Marlon-fucking-Brando is going on?’

My blissful, post-sex feelings evaporate in H.E.B.’s dairy section as nearby customers turn toward Jack’s sharp tone booming from my phone.

Switching my phone to the eardrum Jack didn’t burst, I whisper back. ‘Stop shouting.’ I peek out from under my hat, relieved to see everyone already back to their grocery shopping. ‘I’m in public.’

I place a carton of Happy Eggs into my shopping cart, making a mental note to have my personal shopper switch over to the organic, small-farm brand when I get back to Los Angeles. Expensive, but worth it.

Lost in produce thoughts, it takes a second to register Jack’s ongoing lecture now that he’s speaking at a lower volume.

‘…emotional support animal? When the fuck did you need an emotional support animal and why the hell is it a cat? You hate cats.’

Sighing, I grab the milk on the next shelf. ‘Who called you?’

The answering silence has me checking to see if the call dropped.

‘Who?’ Jack’s voice isn’t loud, but it’s definitely not as calm as before. ‘The who should’ve been you.’

I’ve seen Jack lose his shit before, which is what usually happens after he sounds as dark and menacing as he does right now, but he’s never lost his shit on me. Even after Camilla showed her true colors.

‘ Especially as I’m over here in LA spending all my time fighting with one set of lawyers, collaborating with another all while still trying to handle incoming contracts and scripts from various producers and you don’t even call to tell me that you have a cat and a fucking roommate!’

The last makes me blanche.

How did Jack find out about Anne? A sick feeling twists in my stomach when my first thought is that Anne sold information to the press.

No . She wouldn’t do that. She’s not Camilla.

Shouldering my phone, I maneuver the cart around the corner into a lesser trafficked aisle lined with paper plates and garbage bags. ‘Who told you about Anne?’

‘Again—’ I can practically hear him rolling his eyes ‘—it should’ve been you. But thankfully, your mother filled me in when I went to see her this morning.’

Relief, then guilt, hits me. ‘ M?e .’

‘Dude.’ Jack sounds drained, making me feel like the worst kind of friend. ‘What the hell is going on?’

‘I can explain.’ I act interested in unscented garbage bags as a woman pushing a cart with a toddler in it passes by. ‘Just not right now.’

Jack scoffs.

‘No, really.’ I lower my voice. ‘I’ll call you as soon as I’m done grocery shopping.’

‘ Grocery shopping! ’

The women’s head whips toward Jack’s voice.

I hang up, pocketing my phone. ‘Ma’am.’ I lower my head and infuse as much Southern boy charm into the word as possible.

It seems to work, as when I peek under my brim, she’s smiling back before being immediately distracted by her kid grabbing a box of plastic forks and shaking it like a rattle.

Not wasting time, I move my cowboy boots at a fast clip to the self-checkout line where I make quick work of scanning and bagging before heading to my car.

My phone never stops buzzing in my pocket.

Groceries loaded and air conditioning blasting, I use Bluetooth to accept Jack’s next call .

‘Explain.’

And, as promised, I do. I tell my friend and manager everything that’s happened from the moment he left me in the condo lobby up until this morning’s grocery run. I leave out the part about us sleeping together, but I can tell from Jack’s tone that he knows exactly what I’ve left out.

The conversation takes a while. Because with each moment I recount since he left, Jack follows with twenty questions.

Questions about my sanity. Questions about Anne. Questions I don’t have answers for.

‘Let me get this straight.’ Anne, palms pressed down on the kitchen countertop, stares wide-eyed at me from her seat on the other side of the island. ‘You want to leave my brother’s cat, the cat who attacked your director’s ass before skinny-dipping in NASA’s pool, home, alone , in someone else’s condo?’

My hair, no doubt smashed awkwardly from wearing a cowboy hat earlier when I went to the store, falls forward as I slice strawberries on the cutting board. ‘You got a better idea?’

The ten-minute ride home felt oppressive after Jack’s call, and yet, entering the condo to Anne practicing yoga while Mike played on his back with a strip of curled drawing paper, eased the heavy weight of apprehension from my shoulders.

The yoga pants may have helped.

Anne, looking far less pleased than she had in downward dog when I arrived back with all the ingredients to make pancakes – from scratch – and fruit salad, shakes her head at me in disbelief. ‘I’m telling you—’ she points at Mike sunbathing innocently in front of the living-room windows ‘—that demon nearly crumbled the Bellagio in Vegas with nothing more than a blow job shot and a penis candle.’

I nearly slice my finger off.

Anne leans forward, her narrowed eyes eerily similar to Mike’s before he pounces. ‘You do not want to leave that pussy to his own devices.’

Finishing with the strawberries, I toss them in the bowl with the grapes I plucked off the vine and grab an orange. ‘You sound like Mrs Slocombe from Are You Being Served? when you say pussy.’

If I needed any more proof for how gone I am over Anne, the semi that sprouts just from peeling an orange would do it. I wonder if all citrus fruits will get me hard in the future now that I associate the smell with Anne and sex.

‘OMG.’ Anne’s arms and jaw drop.

I look down, wondering if she noticed my hard-on.

‘You know the television show Are You Being Served? ?’

Stepping closer to the island, I shrug. ‘Unfortunately.’ I manage to make a few small digs in the peel before remembering a citrus hack I saw on a cooking show once.

‘What do you mean unfortunately ?’ Anne snags a grape from the bowl between us.

Bracing my thumbs at the rounded top of the orange half, and my fingers along the sliced edge, I turn the orange inside out, the halved, segmented pieces falling into the bowl.

‘Cool.’ Anne nods appreciatively.

I smile at the compliment, embarrassed by how much her praise affects me.

Shaking her head, Anne regroups. ‘Anyway, Are You Being Served? was like, the best show.’

Out of all the interesting tidbits I’ve accumulated about Anne, which according to Jack aren’t near enough, her familiarity with an obscure and dated British comedy show may be the most intriguing yet.

Well, beside her love of drawing pornographic images of me .

I grab the other orange half. ‘My mother watched TV after work to improve her English. And since we couldn’t afford cable at the time, television meant the local PBS station which aired a whole lot of older British sitcoms.’ Dropping the rest of the orange pieces in the bowl, I toss the orange peel and reach for the pineapple and watermelon chunks that I bought pre-sliced at the store. ‘What’s your excuse?’

‘Our chef was British.’ Anne shrugs, her eyes fixated on my hands. ‘Always had the TV on in the kitchen.’

I stand corrected. That is the most intriguing bit of information yet.

Forcing myself not to react, seeing as Anne has yet to realize what she just gave away, I select a few chunks of fruit from each container to cut into smaller pieces. ‘Your chef was British?’

Anne frowns at the bowl as I mix the fruit like my mom taught me – with my hands. ‘Yeah.’

I’m not sure if it was the nonchalant tone of my question or how wet and sticky my hands are from fruit juice, but Anne appears successfully distracted.

‘Did your family always have a chef?’ I toss the fruit with more fanfare than required.

She nods. ‘Mmhmm.’

The plan works too well as I become the one more distracted when, her eyes still on my hands, Anne slowly licks her lips.

By the time her tongue travels from one corner of her mouth to the other, my dick is close to knocking on the lower cabinets.

Switching tactics to alleviate the ah, tension , I stop tossing the fruit and shake my hands off over the bowl. ‘That explains it, then. ’

Anne blinks out of her stare when I turn on the faucet and wash my hands. ‘Explains what?’

I dry my hands on the tea towel. ‘Why you can’t cook.’ When she just frowns, I make a show of rolling my eyes before throwing the towel at her. ‘An English chef.’

‘Hey.’ She catches it, laughing. ‘I take major offense to that on Curtis’ behalf.’ Stealing another grape, she pops it into her mouth and then points at me accusingly. ‘I dare you to try and make Yorkshire pudding better than old Curt.’ She settles back in the stool and crosses her arms. ‘He was a right legend.’

She says the last with an English accent. A perfectly posh one, which I know from experience is hard to slip into and not sound like a caricature. Unless you’ve had a dialect coach or spent a good deal of time in the affluent areas in London.

Neither of which makes sense. She doesn’t make sense.

Jack’s questions replay in my ear. And for the first time, I ask my own.

Why would someone who grew up with a personal chef need a free place to stay? And why would an artist, who has no interest in Hollywood, take an unpaid internship as a storyboarder?

With no answers to be had, or fruit to toss to distract her, I give the pancake batter I made one last whisk before scooping it onto the hot griddle pan.

‘Meow.’ Having enough sun, Mike reaches his front paws up Anne’s stool and stretches.

‘Hey, buddy.’ Anne picks him up under his arms like a child and settles him on her lap. ‘Wanna treat?’

I eye the cat and his increasing rolls over the island. ‘Isn’t he getting too many treats lately?’

‘Oh, be quiet.’ Anne waves away my words and selects a small slice of strawberry .

Mike laps it into his mouth before motor-boating Anne in thanks.

Selecting a piece of pineapple for herself, Anne pops it in her mouth, moving it to the side like a chipmunk. ‘Back to the matter at hand.’

‘Hmmm?’ Distracted by suddenly wanting to be Mike Hunt, I refocus on flipping my pancakes.

‘The astronaut dinner.’ Pausing to chew her fruit, Anne uses both hands to scratch Mike’s neck, still stuck between her breasts. ‘I can think of only one way to deal with Mike while we’re at dinner.’

She sighs, but the glint in her eyes belies her reluctance.

I’m both apprehensive and intrigued.

As I always am with Anne.

I turn off the griddle and grab the spatula. ‘And what’s that?’

‘We use the lie you so kindly made on my behalf about my being your emotional support animal sitter.’

I nearly drop the pancakes.

‘That way, no one gets the wrong idea about us, and best of all,’ Anne raises the chubby feline’s front paw, ‘Mike Hunt can come.’