Over-Exposed (Perspectives Book 2) Read online

  “You’re joking. Nobody recognized you?”

  A dimpled grin split the scruff. “Those heinous glasses with the beard and the baseball cap work like an invisibility cloak.”

  Her eyes involuntarily flicked over his chest and arms. “And how did you cloak the rest of you?”

  He ignored her question, but those dimples deepened. “Go get comfortable, it’s almost ready.”

  After closing her bedroom door, Natalie fell backward on her bed and stared at the slow-turning ceiling fan as she toed off her shoes.

  Sam Danmore risked life and limb to make dinner for her.

  She tried to sell herself on the idea that he was just another horny guy doing whatever he thought might get him laid, but her self wasn’t buying it. There were easier, less potentially-dangerous and career-ending ways for one of the world’s sexiest men to get laid.

  After removing the “ugly-ass suit” she’d worn all day, it felt great to slide into a t-shirt and a soft pair of lounge pants which she knew did very nice things for her kickboxing-toned behind. It was the same sort of outfit she put on after work every other day, she rationalized, when she felt her nipples perk up in the hopes of being invited to a party.

  Yeah, maybe a pity party, she mentally amended when Sam hardly glanced in her direction. “Your wine’s over there,” he said, scooping spaghetti onto plates.

  She took only a small sip, lest the pity party get out of hand.

  The man could cook. He told her his grandmother had taught him how to make her special meatballs and sauce, back when he was a little kid. Natalie recalled that he was very close to his Italian-on-his-mother’s-side family. Of course, she didn’t let on that she knew anything about him. The teenager who had once read every word ever printed about Sam Danmore, the heartthrob, was far removed from the woman now eating spaghetti and meatballs with Sam Danmore, the missing person.

  As she twirled another forkful of spaghetti in the mouthwatering sauce, she mused, “You seem different from how you were-- I mean, how you are, you know, in the media.”

  He grunted and finished his glass of wine. “That’s because who I am in the media isn’t who I am.” Reaching for the bottle and topping off her glass before refilling his own, he explained, “It’s Hollywood. They call it Tinseltown, but it’s Plastic Town. It’s all fake. My PR team created the persona of Sam Danmore the man-whore.”

  “So they make up stories about you with different women and all that?”

  “That too, but I mean they literally fed the term ‘man-whore’ to the media.”

  “But you’ve been fighting against that moniker for years!” she argued, forgetting to pretend she knew next to nothing about him.

  He waved his fork like a magician’s wand and affected a mystical tone, “All part of the illusion, my dear.”

  “The underage girls, the sex tape, the hookers... None of it was true. Is that what you’re saying?”

  His thick dark lashes lowered as he studied her a moment. “You’re surprisingly well-versed in my tawdry backstory.”

  “I used to be a fan.”

  “‘Used to be,’” he repeated with a glint of humor in his eyes.

  “I got over it,” she grinned.

  “Smart lady,” he grinned back -- and that grin flipped so many of her switches, her inner Danmore-loving teenager busted out of her cage and hung up all of her posters again.

  She took a deep drink of the wine and hoped her voice wouldn’t crack under the sudden attack of nerves. “Doesn’t it bother you?”

  “What? That you’re no longer a fan?”

  Her chuckle was more a goddamn giggle. “That people believe things about you -- unflattering things -- that aren’t true.”

  “It does, yeah. But it’s my own fault.” He speared a chunk of meatball and Natalie felt her panties grow damp from watching those lips close around the meat before the empty fork slid out.

  “How can you say that?” She hoped he didn’t notice how her voice caught in her throat.

  Sam drained his wine glass and considered her question as he refilled it. His sigh told her he’d made a decision and his eyes told her that decision was to trust her. “Because one of the nasty stories about me was actually true.”

  She nodded, flattered and somehow energized by his trust. “Oh well, c’mon. I think everyone’s done something stupid they regret.”

  “There’s stupid and there’s fucking stupid,” he chuckled and shook his head in disgust. “It was back when things were just starting to happen for me. I got invited to a big Hollywood party at a producer’s house and there were these twins... They said they were twenty. They weren’t. They weren’t even eighteen.”

  He went on to tell her how the slutty little bitches (as she mentally labeled them) had gotten him drunk and fucked him senseless in his hotel room. Turned out, it wasn’t the first time they’d flirted and flashed their way into a party to fuck a celebrity, but it was the first time they thought to record it for money and fame.

  His management team had gone crazy trying to put out the fires. But it soon became clear that “Sam Danmore, the twenty-one year-old bad-boy” was much more popular with the masses than “Sam Danmore, handsome young movie star.” His PR firm let the story marinate in the media and set out to build his bad reputation.

  “I was a kid. It was all new and exciting. What the hell did I know? By the time I was old enough and smart enough to give a shit, the mountain they’d built of my imagined transgressions was too big to tear down.”

  “Sounds like you need new management.”

  “Ah, counselor, you wouldn’t believe the ties that bind me.”

  Her mouth went dry as she imagined him bound. Focus, Nat! “They’re your representatives. Their job is to support your career. It’s terrible you can’t trust any of them.”

  “I trust Mitch. He’s been with me since the beginning.”

  “But he let them damage your reputation beyond repair.”

  “He told me not to let them. Idiot kid that I was, I ignored his advice.”

  She took a sip of wine and studied him over her glass. “They did a good job. I, for one, was convinced you were the guy they made you out to be.”

  Regret crossed his face before one corner of his mouth quirked up. “And now?”

  “Jury’s still out,” she said in a flat tone, but her eyes teased.

  As they cleared the table, Natalie thanked him again for the dinner.

  Sam shrugged. “It doesn’t make up for disrupting your life and putting you at risk of paparazzi hell, but I’m glad you enjoyed it.”

  She filled the sink with soapy water to cover the dirty dishes. “I’d gotten used to hating you.”

  “I noticed.”

  “You haven’t done much to improve my opinion. Not until recently, anyway.”

  “Acting like a douche is a hard habit to break, but I’m working on it. No more innuendos and flirting and all that bullshit.” He gently pushed her away from the sink to let her know he intended to wash the dishes. “You’re a nice person, Natalie, and I’m sorry for being the disrespectful bastard you expected me to be. It’s been a long time since I’ve met anyone real.”

  At that moment, Natalie realized two things. One, that Sam Danmore was actually a good guy, and two, that he was probably going to break her heart. Again.

  Chapter Eight

  ANOTHER WEEK PASSED and Sam had kept his word. He hadn’t said anything at all flirtatious to Natalie, nor had she caught him so much as glancing at her body when he thought she wasn’t looking.

  Dammit.

  She was really putting it out there, too.

  They had gone down to the condo’s workout room. It was late morning, so no one else was there, but Sam kept his hat pulled low just in case someone walked in. He didn’t need the phony beard anymore -- his own dark scruff shadowed his jaw and deepened the shadows of his dimples. It also made a sexy frame for his sexy mouth.

  He used free weights, rather than the ma
chines, lean muscles bunching and flexing with the exertions. As his grey t-shirt darkened with sweat, it molded to his chest and abs. His sweatpants dampened and clung so sinfully, Natalie had to stop staring before he caught her and realized how wet his workout was making her.

  The treadmill was positioned at his one o’clock, so she got on and jogged for twenty minutes, working up a nice glow and enjoying the feel of her smallish tits bouncing with the movement. She had worn only a sports bra and spandex shorts which showed off the hard work she put into her body (and she didn’t even try to convince herself she wore them for any other reason). Fat lot of good it did her. They were surrounded by mirrors, but Sam kept his eyes to himself as he concentrated on his training routine, lost in thought.

  Fucking exhibitionist streak. There was something very wrong with her. That chat-wanking site she had heard about was starting to sound appealing.

  When they returned to Natalie’s condo, she had stood in front of the open refrigerator, chugging water while her sweat dried in the chilled air. By this point she was so desperate for Sam’s eyes on her, her tightened nipples ached as much from her need as the cold. He never even looked up from the salad he was making for their lunch... respectful bastard had no idea she was dying just a few feet away.

  He did pick up on her stress, though, and brought it up while she was working from home later that afternoon. “Hey, Nat? Do you ever meditate?”

  “God, no,” she laughed. “I could never concentrate on nothing like that.”

  “You should give it a shot. I can feel your tension from here.”

  My tension. Not “our” tension or “the sexual tension.” It’s my tension.

  Then he had somehow convinced her to lie back on the sofa so he could talk her through a guided meditation. All right, he convinced her by saying, “Lie down on the sofa and I’ll talk you through a guided meditation.”

  Nice role-reversal. Now you’re lusting after him and he’s treating you like his granny.

  Natalie had tried to relax. She really did. She certainly focused on his sexy voice as it described her various muscle groups relaxing. The problem was that a few of the muscle groups he didn’t mention by name became very un-relaxed the longer he spoke.

  So the guided meditation was a bust.

  “I’m sorry, Sam. Thanks for trying.” She blinked her eyes open and sat up.

  “Oh, I’m not giving up. You need this and I owe you. I mean, obviously you hate your job, but it didn’t help your stress level at all having a fugitive douche-bag actor to contend with.”

  “I don’t hate my job.”

  “Yeah you do. Maybe you just don’t know it, yet.” He thought a moment. “Have you ever heard of Reiki?”

  “That’s like a metaphysical thing, right?”

  “It’s more of an energetic thing.” He told her about what his Reiki instructor called “life force energy,” and that when it is low we’re more likely be stressed out or get sick, and when it’s high, we’re happier and healthier.

  “You realize that sounds like all kinds of new-agey frou-frou bullshit.”

  Sam laughed his sexy laugh (which made Natalie want to make him roar a sexy roar). “I thought so too, at first, but it’s an ancient practice. I’ll show you how it works. Hold still.” He rubbed his hands together then hovered them over the bare skin of her thigh. She held her breath, thankful she had put on shorts after her post-workout shower. “Do you feel that?”

  “Um, no. You’re not touching me, yet.”

  “And I’m not going to. That’s not how Reiki works,” he added. “I’m only going to hold my hands a few inches above your skin like this. Do you feel my heat now?”

  Was he kidding?

  Well, now that she thought about it... “Yeah, I guess I do.”

  “Right. That’s my energy you’re feeling.”

  “Isn’t that just physics?”

  “Energy is physics.”

  “I see. So, if I let you energetically heat my thigh, I’ll relax?” she asked, voice thick with skepticism.

  “No,” he chuckled. “I’d run my hands over all of you like that -- not touching though, don’t worry.”

  Don’t worry, he says. She almost snorted.

  Ancient practice or fluffy bullshit, Natalie knew there existed no possible reality in which she could relax while Sam Danmore put his hand-heat all over her. “I’ll give it a shot.”

  Sam suggested she might do better on a flatter surface, so he unfolded one of the blankets from his makeshift bed and spread it over the area rug. Then Natalie lay back on the blanket and closed her eyes, surrounded by his scent. The room was quiet, but for his occasional murmurs to check on her. She definitely felt his heat moving slowly over her skin, everywhere from her face to her toes. This Reiki thing might be valid after all, but not when her Sam-warmed skin itched to push up into his hands.

  “Maybe I’m just wound too tight,” she offered when it was clear the Reiki wasn’t working for her.

  Poor Sam. She felt kind of guilty, he was so set on finding a way for her to meditate.

  “No. I can do this.” He tapped a fingertip on his lips as he thought. “I’ve been to a dozen workshops over the years, learned all kinds of meditation techniques. I know there’s at least one that will work for you...”

  She saw it on his face the moment it occurred to him. He lit up and shut down all within a fraction of a second. “What?”

  “Nothing,” he laughed. “With what you already think of me, it’s not even worth mentioning.”

  “Are you blushing? My god, you are. Now you have to tell me.” If she’d had any inkling what he was about to say, she would never have pushed the issue.

  He wiped a hand down his face. “Fine,” he said. “But you’re gonna laugh.”

  “Tell me, anyway.”

  “It’s called Orgasmic Meditation.”

  She laughed. “Seriously, tell me.”

  “I just did. Was that a snort?”

  “Sorry. You’re serious? That’s a thing people do?” She tried hard not to snicker. Okay, not that hard. She probably could’ve tried harder.

  “Told you you’d laugh.”

  “Tell me about it. How does it work?”

  His gorgeous eyes crinkled at her. “Why? So you can laugh more?”

  “Maybe I’ll want to try it.”

  “Mm... I don’t see that happening.”

  “I think you’re making it up.”

  He stared at her a moment, then accepted the challenge. “All right. OM is a two-person meditation technique in which one partner uses the pad of an index finger to stroke the upper left quadrant of the other partner’s clit for fifteen-minutes.”

  Natalie’s breath caught in her throat. His explanation was so straightforward, she knew he had to be serious. “You’re joking.”

  “Nope. I took a workshop in San Francisco a couple years ago.”

  “In which you diddled some chick for fifteen minutes? That’s pretty one-sided. Did you switch and let her jack you off after that?”

  “It’s not as one-sided as it sounds.” He told her he’d attended the workshop with a group of lesbians, and that he was partnered with a woman in her late forties who had no idea who he was. “It’s a platonic practice. I booked with that particular group of women intentionally, so it wouldn’t end up all over the internet.”

  He claimed that Orgasmic Meditation was equally powerful for both partners, and said the objective wasn’t necessarily orgasm, it was to achieve mindful focus and to feel what’s happening in the moment. The mechanics and the steps involved sounded almost clinical, including the fact that the partner on the receiving end would be naked from the waist down, while the other partner remained fully-dressed. Since he’d stressed that it was platonic, Natalie assumed there would be a blanket covering everything.

  She was so very wrong.

  Sam explained how the partner doing the stroking kept a close and careful eye on how everything was progressing. While the
practice itself sounded clinical, the language he used to describe it was anything but.

  “Before touching, the stroker looks at the pussy he or she is about to stroke, describing the color and texture, any feelings they have while looking at it.”

  “You sure you’re not making this up?” Her voice was whispery, squeezing through her tight throat as it was.

  “I’m not trying to talk you into anything. Just throwing it out there.”

  Her pussy pounded in anticipation and she imagined she might even come if he continued to talk about it. She didn’t fool herself that it would be meditative in any way, but the prospect of having Sam’s eyes on her like that was too enticing for her inner-exhibitionist to turn down.

  “Sure. I’ll try it.”

  “You will?”

  He sounded as surprised as she felt.

  Chapter Nine

  THIRTY-THREE MINUTES later, Natalie closed her bedroom door and flopped back on the bed to process what she had just experienced.

  After she had agreed to try OM, Sam pulled the cushions off the couch and covered them with a blanket. Apparently, the “nest” they sat in was an important element of the practice. Then he looked up at her from where he was kneeling and said, “Time to lose the pants, Nat.”

  With as casual an air as she could muster, she untied her lounge pants and let them drop to the floor. As soon as she stepped out of them, Sam folded them and set them on the arm of the sofa. She hoped he didn’t see her hands shake as she hooked her thumbs in the sides of her thong and slid it down her legs before dropping it on top of the folded pants.

  She was relieved when Sam averted his eyes, adjusting pillows on the floor and directing her where to sit and how to lean so she’d be most comfortable. That relief was short-lived, however. Once her bare ass was positioned as instructed, her beautiful movie star houseguest sat to her side with one leg draped over one of hers, effectively holding her open.

  Usually an OM partner would wear a rubber glove and use lube, but since Natalie didn’t have those things Sam covered his finger in plastic wrap and dipped it in some olive oil he’d poured into a paper cup. Okay, not real sexy.